THE ROYAL DECREE
Highlands, 1231
By the Grace of God, and by the will of His Majesty, Alexaner II, King of Scots, tae all those who shall see or hear these letters, greetings be upon ye.
Ken that the endless strife between our loyal Highland subjects and the Norse lords of the Western Isles has long grieved the Crown most deeply. Fer too many seasons, the shores of Scotland have run red with the blood of both Gael and Norseman, and the Crown can no longer see fit tae suffer such chaos tae persist within the realm it governs.
Therefore, let it be known, by Royal Command—and under pain of forfeiture of lands, titles, and the breath of life itself, the Crown hereby decrees the establishment of what shall be known as The Laird’s Pact.
Five Norse jarls who hold dominion over the Western Isles have been selected and are herein commanded tae take fer themselves as wives, daughters of our most loyal Highland chieftains. These unions shall bind both peoples through thesacred bonds of clan, marriage and kinship—transforming generations of bloodshed into everlasting peace fer the sake of all who inhabit Scotland.
The second such union shall unite Magnus Haraldson, Jarl and Laird of the Isle of Barra, tae Lady Ada MacTavish, daughter of Laird Conall MacTavish. This marriage shall take precedence over any prior betrothal agreements made, which are hereby declared null and void by the Crown’s sovereign authority. Any refusal tae comply with this most sacred decree shall be considered an act of treason against the Crown, and any person who defies this command shall face swift and immediate consequences without right tae trial.
The remaining three unions brought forth by The Laird’s Pact shall be announced in due course, with each union serving as another binding thread in the tapestry of peace the Crown is determined tae weave across the Kingdom.
This is the will of His Majesty.
Given under his hand and seal at Edinburgh Castle, Scotland, this fifteenth day of March, in the Year of our Lord twelve-hundred-and-thirty-one.
Rex Scotorum
Alexander II, King of Scots
CHAPTER ONE
Spring 1230, Arisaig Bay
One year earlier…
"Trade cloaks with me."
The woman at the wool stall stared, her weathered hands stilling over the rough fabric she'd been folding. Ada kept her hood drawn low, painfully aware of the two men pushing through the festival crowd somewhere behind her.
Smoke from roasting meat hung thick in the spring air, mixing with the salt wind that blew in from Arisaig Bay, and her empty stomach twisted with a hunger she couldn't afford to acknowledge. She felt her strength leaving her.
Not now.
Not when freedom was measured in moments.
"I dinnae ken ye," the woman said slowly, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.
"Please." Ada's fingers found the clasp of her own cloak. Good wool, lined with silk, worth more than anything this woman likely owned in her entire life. "Mine fer yers. A fair trade."
The woman's gaze dropped to Ada's cloak, lingering on the quality of the fabric, the fine stitching along the hem. Then her eyes lifted back to Ada's face, half-hidden beneath the hood. Her expression shifted, something like recognition flickering there.
"Have ye been here before, lass?"
"Nay." The word came too quickly. Ada forced herself to breathe slowly, to keep her voice steady. "Never."
But the woman was already looking past her shoulder, toward the wooden post at the edge of the green where festival notices hung. Ada didn't need to turn around. She'd seen the sketch nailed there when she'd first entered the village—inked lines forming her own face, crude but unmistakable, and beneath it a price that made her worth more captured than free.
Her father's doing. His gold. His hunters.
Her stomach dropped like a stone into dark water.
"I must go," Ada said quickly. "Goodnight and thank ye fer yer time."
She moved too fast, too sharply, and nearly collided with a man carrying wooden barrels stacked high in his arms. He stumbled, cursed under his breath, something foul in Gaelic that made nearby listeners glance over.
