Page 2 of The Falcon Laird
The ancient golden disk, no larger than the child’s palm, was decorated with golden wire twisted in a graceful interlace design, surrounding a central garnet. Michaelmas looked up. “You are giving this to me?” she whispered in awe.
“Keep it safe,” Christian said. “The women of my mother’s family have always been the keepers of the legend. This is all we have of the treasure hidden somewhere in Kilglassie.” She slipped it over her daughter’s head. “Wear it and protect it. The English may have heard that Kilglassie contains a secret that is important to Scotland. But they will never find it.”
“But I am not a hereditary keeper,” Michaelmas said. “Moira’s lads say that I am a changeling, just a child of the fair folk.”
“Those lads! You came to us as a beautiful little orphan.” Christian sighed. “True, we never learned who your parentswere. But I know your mother must have been lovely and kind to have such a daughter. The nuns said you were born on Saint Michael’s feast day in September, so they gave you that name. It brings you angelic protection. Remember the angels are always with you.”
“May the angels be with you, too,Màthair, when you leave here,” Michaelmas said.
“Christian!” Thomas called. “Will you wait for the English to arrive? We must go. Hug the wee lass for us all, and come ahead!”
Tucking the pendant under the neck of her daughter’s gown, Christian hugged and kissed her. “Keep our secrets safe,milis,” she whispered, and walked with the girl toward Moira.
Embracing her tall friend, thanking her, Christian turned away, tears pooling as she ran toward Thomas. Her cousin boosted her into the saddle of a ready horse and turned to mount his own charger. Settling sideways, Christian picked up the reins.
“Ready? Good.” Thomas smiled. “Lady Christian MacGillan of Kilglassie,” he said, “who burns her own castle, kisses her child, and now rides as an outlaw to join her fugitive king. You have courage and beauty, my lady. Forgive my impatience.”
“Thomas Bruce, you have a silver tongue and more beauty than I have. I do not feel courageous at all.” She watched dark smoke curl upward. “I feel frightened.”
Thomas urged his horse forward. “Once the English retreat from Scotland, we will all have peace.”
“I crave peace more than you know,” she replied as she guided her horse beside his. “I was wed for eight years to an English knight, with an English garrison in my castle. Never again,” she said vehemently. “The Sassenachs take our castles, our lands, and murder our people in the name of their king. It must end—with freedom for the Scots. There is no other way.”
“Robert will succeed with the support of the Scots. But many do homage to Edward, with good reason.”
“To protect their homes and families, and maintain what peace we can muster. I understand. All I had was Kilglassie, and King Edward allowed me to keep it if I paid homage to him for the lands and allowed a garrison inside with my English husband.”
“You were very young then,” he reminded her.
“Just fifteen when I was forced to sign an oath of fealty and marry a Sassenach knight. To be fair, we all thought the marriage would keep me safe.”
“Sir Henry Faulkener was called a decent man.”
“And I am called his murderer now.”
“Nonsense. You had no hand in his death.”
“Not directly.” She glanced back to see Michaelmas standing with Moira, watching them depart. Anguish tugged at her breast. She turned away.
“Your husband took in an orphaned babe,” Thomas said. “The act of a good man.”
“He was good to others.” She urged her horse forward.
So much was gone and changed—her husband, her castle, now her child in another’s care. The English had even taken her father’s castle in the western Highlands, killing her parents years ago. Kilglassie had belonged to her mother’s people—descended from Celtic royalty, her mother had always proudly claimed—to come down to her. The old castle had been guardian to an even older legend.
And she had turned it into a ruin, destroying its heritage.
September, 1306. The Highlands.
The stone chapelin a sunlit, shallow glen, was filled with screams; its steps were doused in blood. Shivering, Christianlay hidden behind a stand of nearby trees, helplessly watching. Only moments ago, Elizabeth—Bruce’s queen—and their young daughter Marjorie, along with Robert Bruce’s sisters and a young Scottish noblewoman, had been hauled from the chapel by English soldiers. The Scottish knights who had tried to protect them had been slain or captured.
In the weeks since Christian had joined the queen at Kildrummy, she had come to know those men and women well. Today they had been riding north, intending to escape to the Orkneys, when they had stopped to pray at this Highland chapel. English soldiers had ambushed them outside the chapel, outnumbering the Scottish knights who had fought so valiantly.
Now, breathing in tight little gasps, Christian watched, lying on her belly among the autumn leaves. She prayed as she hid. The only reason she had not been taken was that she had stepped away from the chapel for a walk, stiff from long hours on horseback. Hearing the screams, she had hidden, horrified.
Trembling, she rose to her feet and ran, leaping over fallen birch branches, skimming over the leaves, her feet pounding a rhythm. Too late she heard horses closing in behind her, hoofbeats muffled by the leafy carpet.
“Stop!” English soldiers called out. There were four of them. She ran on. But suddenly they were close—an arm swathed in chain mail reached out, only to miss her as she darted sideways. The man spurred his horse, trapping her between two horses. Someone grabbed her plaid and wrenched upwards, but she twisted and fell, scrambling to her feet, caught.
