Once Malcolm was fostered at Rossie, everything would change. He did not know what he would do when he was left at Dunkelden with naught but his flea of a sister, who shadowed him almost everywhere and drove him away this very day withher pestering, and his mother, who would coddle him and watch over him like a babe and want to know his every move.
He kicked a stone. How would he practice his bow? Who knew when he could get away to go fishing again? Now he could spy a trout and pierce it with a single draw of an arrow. His hard won skills would grow slow if he were stuck to the sides and shadows of his womenfolk.
Soon he was running, Atholl at his heels, as he played a war game and wove and spun and leapt his way home through stands of larch and pine, running faster and dodging as if they were each his enemies coming at him with lance and sword, shield and mace. His feet were quick, he knew, but not as quick as his brother’s. He swore to himself he would practice his footwork. When Malcolm came home at Yuletide, Lyall vowed he would be the faster.
With his free hand outstretched, he moved swiftly toward an old and infamous yew tree, his fingers grazing the ancient wood as he passed. Some said the old tree with its huge, clawing roots had been planted by Druids to mark a sacred well. He did not know of sacred wells, but he knew as surely as the sun rose each morn, that if he passed by the yew and touched its trunk, he would catch as many fish as he needed, which always pleased his mother. And served to irritate his older brother, who couldn’t catch any fish at all. His brother could spend from dawn to dusk at the stream or at the loch and would come up with nothing. Malcolm accepted his inability, though it frustrated him, especially when fish seemed to land in Lyall’s hands. Malcolm swore that if a stream full of leaping salmon were swimming right toward him he would come up with empty hands.
Their sister Mairi said the best way for Malcolm to catch a fish was for someone to throw one at him.
Lyall proudly patted his day’s work—a sack full of fat, speckled river trout, but froze when he heard the sudden loud crack of a branch behind him. Atholl barked. Nerves suddenly raw, Lyall’s heart beat loudly in his ears.
“Ach!” Came a worried cry. And a familiar voice.
He turned slowly, angrily, and planted his hands on his hips and looked up.
His sister’s feet and plump legs dangled from the huge yew tree above him.
“Mairi! “ He shouted at her. She was sitting on a high branch but he could not see her face. “When will you cease following me? Come Atholl.” He started to stomp away.
“Lyall! Wait! “ She swung down lower, holding the branch by her hands as she hung from the tree. “Stop! Please!“
He heard the panic in her voice.
“Stop, Lyall!”
Was she crying? He moved back to her, concerned. “What is it?”
Her face was pale and she was truly frightened. He reached up and lifted her down.
“Malcolm told me to hide here. To wait for you.” She clung to him, clutching his tunic in her tight fists and burying her face against his chest. “Oh, Lyall. They are attacking Dunkelden.”
“What?”
“Look there!” She pointed into the air, where above the tall trees a dark cloud of smoke billowed into the blue sky.
“Who?”
“I do not know, but they say Papa was a traitor and those men hung the traitor’s flag on the gates. They said that he died a traitor’s death and he betrayed the king.”
“Our father was no traitor,” he said fiercely. “Where’s Malcolm? And Mother?”
“Malcolm took me out through the back caves and made me swear to wait here in the tree for you. He went back to get mama. But, Lyall, that was a long, long time ago.” She began to sob.
“There, Mairi. Stop crying. We need to be brave.”
“I’m afraid.”
“Come,” he said easily, but feeling as frightened as she. Heknew his father would be shamed if his youngest son showed fear to his sister, who he was so recently sworn to protect and not scare witless. He took a deep breath. “Stay close. I am here to protect you. That’s why Malcolm brought you here to wait for me.” He took her hand and moved more stealthily through the woods, his dog at his side. He wanted to run, he wanted to see what was happening, he wanted to try to help his brother, but sense told him to protect his sister and move cautiously. Glancing down at her, he took some bit of comfort in the fact that she had stopped crying.
Dunkelden was of motte and bailey construction, the bailey serving as the heart of the timber castle. For protection, a water ditch and spiked-wood curtain palisade encircled its raised motte, and the deep woods of Dunkelden surrounded the rear half and stood some distance away to the east and south. The back two caves had been dug at his father’s command and led out toward the east with the escape plan that one could run the few yards of open land into good cover within the dense woodland forest, which was how Malcolm had escaped with their sister.
Their father had made them practice the route repeatedly. Once, when Malcolm had asked why they needed escape caves if they were all under protection of the king, his father told them he took no pledge of protection or fealty for granted. He said that to trust was a gift you could give, one which you might not receive in return and only a fool, a dead fool, would believe otherwise. “Be aware. You must be prepared to save your own neck, my sons, and not to depend upon someone else to save it for you.”
Those words held even more meaning now that their father was gone. Why and who would do this? Who would falsely accuse their father--a great and loyal friend of the king--of betraying him, a man he loved as a brother? Lyall moved onward, his heart pounding in his chest and sweat beading on his brow,acutely aware Malcolm had not returned with their mother. Not a good sign.
Although still some distance away, as they neared the edges for the forest, he would stop, every few feet and listen sharply. But he did not hear the chaos he expected, and only once did he hear the distant thunder of horses. He turned to his sister. “Stay here. You sit. Atholl will stay with you.” He knelt down in front of her and took her small hands in his. “Do not be afraid. I will come back. Do not follow me. Do not move. You stay here. You must swear to me.” He untied the sack of fish and let it drop to the ground.
“I swear on my eyes,” she said solemnly, and he knew not then the irony in her words.
