The Falcon Laird (Book2)
The Swan Laird (Book3)
About Susan King
Susan King is the bestselling, award-winning author of (so far) 28 historical novels and novellas, a hefty nonfiction history, and dozens of magazine and web articles on education and the craft of writing. Her books, including mainstream historicals Lady Macbeth: A Novel and Queen Hereafter: A Novel of Margaret of Scotland, have been published by Penguin, Random House, HarperCollins, Kensington, ePublishingWorks, and Dragonblade. Praised for historical accuracy, lyrical writing, and storytelling quality, she is a USA Today bestselling author with numerous awards, nominations, and career achievement awards as well as starred reviews from Publisher’s Weekly, Booklist, and Library Journal. Most of her books are set in Scotland ranging from the 11th to the 19th centuries.
Susan is a former university lecturer in art history, a private school teacher, and a founding member of one of the longest-running author blogs, “Word Wenches” (wordwenches.com). She holds a Bachelor’s in studio art and English literature, a Master’s in art history, and completed most of her Ph.D./ABD in medieval art history. Raised in Upstate New York, she lives in Maryland with her husband and three sons in an ever-growing family.
Website – www.susanfraserking.com
Midnight Tempest
Mary Wine
Chapter One
Scottish Highlands 1537
“A storm is brewing.”
Laird Errol Keithhad been laughing. Sitting on the high ground with a fine supper in front of him, he’d been in good spirits.
But Errol turned his head and looked down the aisle to the head table. Aodh had spoken and stood there silently. The man looked as ancient as the towering trees clustered together in the center of the forest.
His skin hung in deep folds around his face. He wore a sheep hide, complete with woolly curls across his back like their ancestors had, and a wide leather belt in the Danelaw fashion.
The old man was known for his gift of seeing the future. The hall slowly grew silent. Failing to heed one of the old man’s prophecies was guaranteed to end badly.
“A storm is brewing off the shore.” Aodh pointed with a gnarled finger to the side of the hall. “In the crucible of evil, it’s suckling strength from the breasts of those who have perished in the icy grip of the ocean. When the veil is thinnest on Midsummer’s Eve, past sins will reach across into our world to claim justice.”
Silence reigned in the hall.
“If there are any who seek justice, let them come forth,” Errol declared. He looked around those clustered in the hall, buteveryone had their attention on Aodh. A fair number of them weren’t even daring to draw breath.
“Brigitta is stirring.” Aodh pointed at Errol. “Yer bloodline owes her a debt. Her mortal flesh is gone, yet her restless spirit remains. On Midsummer’s Eve, she will come for her groom.” He looked to Errol’s right where his son Diarmuid sat. “Only a mortal wife will save ye from Brigitta’s allure.”
All around the hall eyes widened. People made the sign of the cross over themselves. Errol kept his hands on the tabletop, refusing to show weakness in front of his men.
But inside he went cold. His very blood was chained to the ghost inhabiting the Maiden’s Tower inside the oldest part of Keith castle. An innocent girl who had been treated unjustly; many would go so far as to say cruelly.
His grandfather had imprisoned the girl on their wedding night rather than allow the union to smooth over the rivalry between their families. Now Brigitta’s spirit inhabited the Maiden’s Tower whenever the wind howled. The girl was long dead, but she was not resting peacefully.
“It’s fine and warm, Aodh, the tables are full.” Diarmuid spoke up. “Let us leave the talk of storms for after the summer, eh? Eat and drink yer fill.”
Several retainers scooted down the long benches they sat on to make room for the old man.
Aodh didn’t take the seat. He pointed at Diarmuid. “Yer fate is tangled in the net of treachery woven by yer bloodline. When the wind howls and the moon is covered, ye shall dance with Brigitta. The innocent must be paid the debt they are owed.”
*
Long after hisfather retired to bed, Diarmuid ventured up onto the walls. The night was fine and warm. His shirt was stilluntied at the collar. Across the yard stood the oldest tower of the stronghold.
The Maiden’s Tower.
It was square and three stories high. Nearing a century old, it was said by the villagers that it sat on top of a stone circle made by the druids.
That might be nothing but a winter’s tale. Cleverly crafted in front of the hearth, when the days were short and dark, and there was little to fill one’s belly with save for ale.
