Prelude
LETHAN VALLEY, SCOTTISH BORDERS
MIDSUMMER 1585
I traced the vaulted roof above me as I lay in bed, allowing the starlight to ease through the arrow-slit window and reveal the weft and pattern of the whinstone slabs.Stone is a good thing; it is solid, enduring.Stone never lets you down or betrays you like people do or promises one thing and delivers another like our Border weather does.You can rely on stone.
As the light increased, I could see the joins where the masons had cunningly fitted the great blocks together and I could even see the marks of the chisels where the masons had carved, following the grain of the rock to create tens of thousands of individual masterpieces that were connected together to form this Cardona Tower.
It was not time yet.I knew that.The stars told me the time by night, as the sun told me the time by day.It was not hard: it was just another skill that everybody had, like the awareness of danger or knowledge of the presence of a deer or a wolf.You learned these things in the Borderland, or you died.There was nothing else to it; all the lessons had to be learned and remembered.If you forgot, then your life was forfeit.Death was cheap in the old Border between Scotland and England, and life precarious.A man needed a woman and a woman needed a good man if she hoped to survive and a strong man if she strove to thrive.I was a Tweedie from the Lethan Valley; our aspirations rose above mere survival.Always.
I lay still, enjoying watching the light from the stars seeping into the chamber.I heard an owl hoot, soft through the night and the answering call of its mate.Male and female calling to each other, living creatures united in partnership although temporarily divided by distance.
That was the way of the world.Everybody needed a mate; every man needed a woman and every woman needed a man.I did not have mine yet although I thought I knew who he would be.I lay there, smiling, as I thought of him.My smile altered to a feeling of exasperation as I considered his faults.There was a lot of work to do before he was ready.I could mould him though.I must mould him if I wanted to survive along this savage frontier.
It was nearly time.I left my bedchamber and slipped off my nightclothes, so I stood naked by the window, allowing the air to caress the curves of my body.Lifting the wooden sneck that held my door shut, I slipped outside, glancing to right and left in case there were prying eyes.There were none; I had not expected any in my own home.The spiral turnpike stair was empty.I stepped out; enjoying the thrill of possible discovery more than I perhaps should even as my feet recoiled from the chill of the stone steps.
I reached the roof, where stone slabs protected the tower house from fire and the parapet offered sentries protection from any attacker.The night air was refreshing, with stars stretching into the unknown abyss of heaven.It was not full dark.It is never full dark in midsummer in Scotland, with the daylight fading only to a friendly grey that shaded the brilliance of the stars and cloaked the hills in mystery.They surrounded us on three sides, these hills, vague in the dim, with the opening of the Lethan Valley on the fourth, stretching north with the silver streak of the Lethan Water in the centre.
It was Midsummer's Eve.
It was my birthday.
I was twenty years old.
I spread my arms and legs, allowing the air full movement around my body, luxuriating in the kiss and caress, the feel of freedom, the knowledge that I was me and this was my time.Raising my face to the night, I opened my eyes and mouth as wide as I could to allow the spirit of my night to come home.And I waited for him to return.
It only happened at midnight on my birthday, Midsummer's Eve.In Scotland, there is a belief that people born at that time are special, that we have gifts denied to others.Well, I am here to tell you that we are not.I am most remarkably like every other woman in the land.I have two legs, two arms, one head, and all the other bits and pieces, bumps and appendages that I should have, all in the proper place and all the correct shape and size.Well, maybe I am slightly too ample around the hips, but I won't talk about that.There is nothing extraordinary about me in the slightest, except perhaps that I am as stubborn as the most obstinate of cattle, I have the occasional vision, and I can talk quite a lot.
I did not talk as midnight approached.I waited for the vision to descend.
I was in a shallow valley, with the wind whispering through coarse grass.Nearby there was a peel tower, slowly smouldering and sending wispy, acrid smoke to a bruised sky.I was lonely and scared, although there were many men around me.One man approached me; tall, lean, and scarred, he had a face that could chill the fear from a nightmare and eyes sharp and hard enough to bore through a granite cliff.
I backed away, feeling the fear surge through me, knowing that there was nowhere to run.I heard cruel laughter from the men around, rising above the crackle of flames and the lowing of reived cattle.
'Come here.'His voice was like death; cracked, harsh, with an accent from the West.
I did not come.I backed further away until whipcord arms stopped me, holding me tight.I was held and then pushed forward toward the scarred man.I tried to face him, to talk my way out of trouble but the words would not come.My tongue failed me when it was most needed.
'Come here,' the scarred man repeated.He stood with his legs apart, his thumbs hooked into his sword belt, and those devil eyes searing into my soul.
'I will not come,' I said.
He stepped towards me, slowly and with each footstep sinking into the springy grass.A gust of wind sent smoke from the fire around him, so he appeared to be emerging from the pits of hell.He let go of his belt and extended his hands toward me.They were long-fingered, with nails like talons, reaching out to grab me.I tried to pull backwards, to ease further away.
I was held again, surrounded by harsh laughter.
My nightmare was about to get worse.
The single shout broke the spell and we all looked to the west, where a lone rider had appeared on the hill crest.Silhouetted against the rising sun, I could not make out details.I only saw a tall, slender man on a horse with a banner in his hand.He stood there for a second with his horse prancing, its fore hooves raised and kicking at the air, and then he plunged down toward me, yelling something, although in my vision I could not make out the words.
'Robert!'I said and knew that all would be well.
It was the same vision every midsummer on the anniversary of my birth.It never varied in detail or time.I stood there, stark naked and now chilled as the image faded and the stars shone down in all their majesty.
'How had Robert known I was in danger?'I asked.'Why was he riding alone?'
The stars did not answer.I only knew that my vision would one day become reality.Being born on midnight of Midsummer's Day may well make me special but the gift of second sight was a curse I would be happy to pass along to somebody else.All the same, I knew that at some time in the future, Robert would save me from an unknown band of reivers.
