Chapter One
Invergarry, Scotland
Christmastide
The Year of Our Lord 1339
Elysande MacPherson walkedinto the great hall of the even greater MacPherson stronghold in Invergarry and smiled at the sight before her. With the help of her cousins, they had decorated the hall and just about everywhere else with mountain laurel, fir, and pine with cones attached, and holly branches. The flora was hung on walls and tables, over archways and mantels, and in vases on the tables. Everywhere she went, it smelled like the outdoors and baked goodness from the hall’s own kitchen. Delicious wassail warmed the bones and small, rectangular mince pies were handed out to everyone, all prepared with shredded beef, cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg. Later, they would feast on salmon pottage with carrots, parsnips, and an array of leafy vegetables, clootie dumplings, Christmas cakes, bread puddings and more.
It was Christmas Eve, the beginning of Christmastide for the next twelve days. The celebration was going well. No one had been killed…yet. In fact, everyone seemed to be enjoying the celebration. Even Elysande’s slippered foot tapped to the merry music played by her kin.
Her eyes found Cainnech MacPherson amidst the faces. She still considered her father the most handsome of all the men she’d ever seen. He was big and broad-shouldered in his belted plaid. He wore his hair shaved on the sides with the rest braided down his back. His eyes were like shards of sapphire in frost.
He was the only one scowling, staring across the hall at his enemy, Robbie Cameron, who had been invited by Elysande’s uncle, Torin, in the hopes of ending their kin’s feud.
Peace. It was the talk at every table inside the stronghold—which consisted of three main stone manor houses, several smaller cottages, a great hall with its own kitchen, a gatehouse, a church, several smiths, two tanners, a handful of carpenters and other tradesmen, a garden where much of the food was grown and a wall surrounding all of it.
Everyone had their own opinions on peace. Her father’s was that peace could only be achieved when his enemies were dead. She knew his past. She understood why he felt the way he did about many things. She appreciated the measures he went to in order to guarantee her safety, but her father—her dear, loving father was driving her mad. He was also driving all of her suitors away. All. Away.
She was ten and nine and not getting any younger. She wanted a husband and a family, but her father scared everyone away. No matter how far they traveled. He threw them all out and shot arrows at them from the wall. The few he did allow in, he eventually frightened into running, and that was the end of them.
Only Hugh had remained. Hugh Tanner, the son of her father’s friend, which meant that he wasn’t as hated as all the rest. She found him in the crowd. He was tall and handsome with light blond hair to his shoulders and a bit of sharpness to his nose. She’d resigned herself after her last suitor was tossed out of the stronghold on his arse that Hugh would likely be the man she married. She wasn’t in love with him, but that didn’t matter, did it?
His gaze found hers and she smiled, hoping he liked what she wore for the celebration—dark red skirts, a white kirtle and an embroidered, red overcoat and a wreath of mountain laurel in her hair.
But Hugh turned away and went back to listening to another man speak. From where she stood, Elysande couldn’t see the man but his voice was like satin across her ears. He spoke of a woman and how he admired her even over the male commanders he had known.
Curious to hear about such a woman, Elysande squeezed her way through the small crowd around him.
When she saw the storyteller, she stopped. He was quite handsome, heart-wrenchingly so. His hair was black and tied at his nape, though some stray strands escaped and fell around his face. His skin was the color of moonlight. He wore a short tunic, belted at the waist. He carried no weapon, as any guests not living at the stronghold were not permitted to bring weapons inside with them. Woolen hose and boots encased his calves and long, muscular thighs. She cleared her throat and blushed, admiring his raw virility. He must have a wife…or several lovers. Even if he didn’t, she had her father to get through.
She turned around to see if her father was watching, but she couldn’t see him when the crowd closed in, so she returned her attention to the stranger. Was he Cameron’s son? There were other welcomed guests attending. Elysande hoped he was one of those.
“I didna arrive until later in the year,” said the glorious stranger with pale green eyes wreathed in lush black lashes.
The closer Elysande came to him, the weaker her breath became.
“But as ’twas told to me, the Earl of Dunbar was away and, thinkin’ the castle would be an easy target, the English tried to take it. But the castle was under the command of the earl’s wife, Lady Agnes Randolf, Countess of Moray—or Black Agnes, as she is known because of her dark skin and hair. She had just a few men with her, but she pledged to defend the castle. When the English, led by the Lord of Salisbury, requested that she surrender, she sent him a bold reply that she would keep her house. After he had hurled boulders from catapults into the castle walls, Agnes sent oot her maids onto the ramparts with handkerchiefs to wipe the debris from the walls and sing ditties as they worked.”
Caught up in the tale, Elysande smiled and moved closer.
“Angered by her boldness,” he continued, feeding his audience more. “Salisbury rolled oot a huge batterin’ ram with a wooden roof to protect the men underneath. They pounded the doors, once, twice. The doors cracked and the people inside fled, terrified fer their lives. But Agnes was unmoved and ready fer such an attack. She ordered large boulders—ones that the English catapults provided—to be dropped down from the ramparts. They crashed into the wooden roof and killed many of the men beneath. The rest fled every which way.”
Some of his audience laughed and shook their heads in awe of Agnes Randolf’s cleverness.
“Winter passed and spring arrived,” he continued. “Salisbury knew that Dunbar’s winter food supply had to be gravely low. And ’twas. Agnes and her men wouldna have lasted another month. I know because ’tis when I arrived with Lord Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie with supplies. We entered the castle in two boats through a half-submerged tunnel below the castle.
“True to Agnes’ nature, she had fresh bread and wine sent out to Lord Salisbury, lettin’ him know they were strong and well fed.”
People around Elysande clapped. Indeed, she clapped, as well, loving the heroics of this woman, a woman like her mother.
“But the best of all,” the stranger told them with a furtive smile, “was when, in desperation, Salisbury had Agnes’ brother, the Earl of Moray, brought forth and threatened to kill him if she didna surrender. But Agnes pointed out that should her brother be killed, childless as he was, she would inherit the title and become the next earl. Finally, Salisbury retreated, knowin’ he couldna beat her. His men sang a ballad to her as they marched away.
‘She makes a stir in tower and trench,
That brawlin’, boisterous, Scottish wench;
Came I early, came I late.
