Page 1 of The Falcon Laird
Prologue
Galloway, Scotland
Summer, 1306
She stood ona green hill at dawn and watched her home burn. Thick charcoal clouds darkened the sky and acrid smoke stung her eyes, but Lady Christian refused to allow tears to form. Glancing down at her fair-haired daughter, she gently squeezed her hand.
“Màthair,” the child said. “Yourclàrsach—”
“My harp is safe,” Christian murmured in Gaelic. “I have hidden her away. As I will hide you, sweet girl.” She tightened her hold on the child’s fingers. “The English shall have nothing of value from Kilglassie Castle, neither people nor contents.”
She was the widow of an English knight, yet Lady Christian MacGillan had been declared a traitor and an outlaw by King Edward of England, who had dispossessed her of her Scottish lands. As if he had any claim to the land himself, she thought bitterly. Now her survival and her daughter’s safety depended on eluding the English soldiers who sought them.
No turning back now that she had set the castle’s interior ablaze. Setting torch to straw had taken all the courage she possessed—but she reminded herself that she had obeyed the orders of her king and cousin, Robert Bruce. She had no choice.
Her daughter glanced up. “What will become of the legend of Kilglassie?”
“The legend is safe.” Christian drew a sharp breath. Then, pushing back her thick, dark braid, she slipped her hand beneath the blue and purple plaid draped over her gown to touch the golden pendant on a leather cord around her neck. She traced the inlaid garnet surrounded by swirls of gold wire embedded in a small golden disc. The pendant was all that remained, now, of the castle’s legend.
At least she had been able to save her harp and a few other things. But the fire would surely destroy the ancient treasure, never yet found, that legend said lay hidden somewhere inside Kilglassie Castle. Gone forever, all of it.
Christian lifted her head to stare at the dark smoke. The burning of Kilglassie was an act of defiance against the English—a necessary one. When the English soldiers arrived, there would be no Scottish castle to take, and no prisoners to capture.
Yet Christian felt like a traitor more than a loyal Scottish rebel. The fire would consume more than this stronghold in central Galloway: it would also destroy an ancient legend that foretold hope for Scotland. And none of them could afford to lose that now.
Burning timbers crashed inside the thick walls, sending up hot, bright sparks. Kilglassie’s four towers were great belching chimneys now, blackened shells inside a curtain wall that enclosed only fire, smoke and ruined stone.
Set on a promontory overlooking a loch, the castle backed up to high, wild, forested slopes of Galloway in western Scotland. From those high crests, on a good, clear day, the hills of Ireland could be seen. On a bad day, the fires of the English armies sullied the sky with smoke.
“Christian!”
She glanced toward her cousin Thomas Bruce, who held the reins of two restive horses. He looked like a wild, proud prince,she thought, truly like the brother of a king. “We must hurry!” he called.
“Aye, Thomas.” She answered in northern English, the language that her husband had taught her. Sighing, she turned away from the dark clouds that spiraled upward.
“King Robert’s message was urgent,” Thomas continued. “Now that you too are outlawed like the rest of us, my brother wants you to meet him in Strathfillan, and travel with his queen and family to safety at Kildrummy Castle. My brother Neil will guard you there. Hurry.”
“Spare me another moment to speak to my daughter.”
“Quickly,” her cousin said. “We have all become renegades in the heather with my brother the king. The English look for us even now. There is no time.”
She nodded. Her life had been thrown into turmoil when Robert Bruce made his bold move to take the throne of Scotland. After stabbing his key rival within the sanctified confines of a church, he had arranged to be crowned King of Scots, a courageous and necessary act for the good of Scotland, she knew. But after a disastrous defeat at Methven when the English had routed the Scots, Robert Bruce had taken to the hills with only a few followers, and all who supported him had been declared outlaws by the English king.
A cousin of the Bruces through her maternal grandmother, Christian had sent what help she could from Kilglassie: men, arms, some coin. Like a stone dropped in a pool, her actions created ripples, for she had invited the considerable fury of King Edward of England. Not long ago, her English husband had died in battle, leaving her and her daughter with no protection.
Now her home was burning, but it had been her decision.
Tugging on her daughter’s hand, she walked toward her friend Moira, who waited. Bringing her child along would be too dangerous, so Moira and her husband had offered to keepMichaelmas safe until she returned. Soon Christian hoped to flee with her daughter into the western Highlands to her father’s people, though the English were infiltrating the north now too.
Looking at her adopted daughter—so close to her heart that she felt like her own—Christian smoothed the girl’s pale, silken hair. The child looked up, her light blue eyes more serious than nine years should allow.
“Mìcheal, listen now. Our friends Moira and Fergus will care for you,” Christian said in the Gaelic she and the girl often used between them, though English came easily to both as well. “I will send for you as soon as I can. You are safe,milis, sweet one.”
“Lady Christian,” Thomas urged.
“Mother,” Michaelmas said. “Cousin Thomas looks very angry. He will ride without you if you do not hurry.”
“The Bruce brothers, all five, are known for being brave and handsome and clever—but not for patience. Let him wait.” Christian took the pendant on its leather cord off to hand it to Michaelmas.
