Page 1 of Rebellion's Fire

Prologue

Summer 1145

The flames ofthe campfire crackled, drawing the boy reluctantly closer.

Recently, he had been wary of fire because it nearly always brought the visions with such force that he couldn’t hide his trance. And a noble boy already handicapped by waking dreams, an irrational fear of horses, and a dislike of fighting, should not betray any more weaknesses.

But tonight, he was under the stars, with only his brother and Findlaech for company, both asleep. And they knew anyway. The pull was irresistible.

He sat up, wrapped still in the blanket like a big, curling caterpillar, and gazed directly into the terrible, tempting beauty of the flames. They leapt and died, chattering and mercurial as they enfolded him, fascinated him, telling their stories in quick, flashing glimpses that almost hurt. Everything that had ever been, everything that would be. If only he was quick enough to see. Which he wasn’t.

The flames would not be still, and he could only stare, trying to focus, until without warning the fire blazed, consuming him. Not just him, but the whole country. People ran from burning houses, crops flamed in the fields, swords clashed and horses screamed, andhewas there, riding one of those huge, wild horses, wielding one of those massive swords with bloody effect. And men were following him—his father’s men.

He rode free of the battle. The scorched country around him was not his own, not Ross. And then, in the way of most dreams, the landscape changed and he was home, galloping towards the hall at Brecka. A man strode out of the doorway, and his heart soared because he knew who the man was. The earl, his father.

But the figure was misty, so unclear he was afraid the dream was fading too soon. Through the haze, he saw a different hall, close to the sea, and a woman was there. The fire, or perhaps the sun, blinded him. He could not see her face, yet somehow, she stood in the center, the tree behind her stretching into the mists of past and future. And for him, the man on the horse, it didn’t matter that her face was hidden, for his happiness was so profound. And for his people, as for him, so…necessary.

He threw himself off the horse to reach her, a wild, joyful anticipation flooding his heart.

Only hands were pulling him back, grasping his shoulders as the dream faded into the flames. Someone was dragging him back from the fire, away from his visions. His brother’s worried face peered into his, frightened and anxious as he held his head between his hands, claiming his attention.

For a moment, the boy was furious, as the strands of the dream faded behind his eyes. Faded but didn’t vanish, as in reality he recognized the huge, vital importance of what he had just seen.

He grasped his brother’s wrists, anchoring himself in the present. “If he strode out of the hall,” he said in wonder, “he must first have walked in. Malcolm mac Aed, Malcolm MacHeth, will live.”

Chapter One

Spring 1156

MacHeth.

All day, the sharp east wind had seemed to hiss that strange name as it sped past Christian’s ears—reminding her that in this country, the elements themselves, the very ground she stood on, belonged tohim, Malcolm MacHeth, more properly Malcolm mac Aed, the one-time Earl of Ross. Imprisoning him far south in Roxburgh didn’t change that. And she still harbored the suspicion that every man, woman, and child in Ross, especially the turbulent sons of Malcolm MacHeth, knew that her husband was here to take at least some of it from him.

Christian lifted her face into the wind, letting it blow her hair and veil out behind her in a long stream. With one hand, she held on to the embroidered linen mask that covered the left side of her face and closed her eyes because, just for a moment, she didn’t want to see the land William had come to take. She couldn’t quite rid herself of the idea that she was betraying someone or something, that a hundred unseen eyes watched her with accusation.

But, already glimpsed, the view seemed to cling to the backs of her eyelids. Rugged, wooded slopes rose up under a lowering gray sky, with vast swathes of moorland between. Shallow valleys disappeared into the distant mist, and, half-hidden among them, winked the faint sparkle of silver-gray water, hinting at lochs and rivers and hillside streams.

So far, the journey north from Perth, though arduous, had been surprisingly uneventful, any hopeful bandits presumably being dissuaded from attack by the size and quality of Sir William’s armed force. Inverness had seemed to be a peaceful town, and entering the territory that was once the earldom of Ross had been accomplished without opposition.

She was going home. Home to Tirebeck, to the land and the hall of her father, where she’d lived the first three years of her life.

In light of that wonder, anything seemed possible. William wanted to be an earl, now that the King of Scots had dangled the possibility before him. Christian wanted peace. It wasn’t inconceivable that here in Ross, they could grasp both.

Opening her eyes, she walked back down the hill toward her people, resisting the wind that tried to hurry her on in an undignified scamper. The camp, hidden from most of the country by a ring of hills, was mostly packed up and ready to move on. Apart from the women’s tent.

Some of Christian’s escort—left to guard her and the baggage while her husband took his main company to ambush the recalcitrant MacHeths—stood in clumps, grumbling together, quite unaware of her approach.

“If there’s one thing more stupid than not actuallyhidingfrom the MacHeths, it’s chasing them through their own country,” one complained. “Trust me, this will end badly for all of us.”

Henry snorted. “Well, just remember, when it does you’re here to protect the lady, not your own arse.”

“If you ask me, Lanson only brought her to get her killed.”

Henry, catching sight of Christian just a little too late, kicked his underling roughly, and the soldier, inclined at first to protest at such treatment, followed his significant gaze and blanched. Christian smiled serenely and walked on.

So, she’d become the butt of soldiers’ jests and gossip. Most of her didn’t care.

Besides, she was fairly sure her pessimistic soldiers were wrong twice over. William had no intention of letting her die, or, at least, not yet. Nor, whatever else he might be, was he a fool in war. Christian would happily have wagered everything she owned on her husband’s ability to defeat and capture any number of wild outlaws. In fact, she already had. And while William baited the trap, she was content, for now, to hide here among the hills.

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