PROLOGUE
Scottish Highlands, June 1431
Joan of Arc was dead. The English had burned her thrice over and raked the ash with spears to make a bold showing that she had not survived, and so that nobody could claim she had escaped by the grace of God, and thus preserve her mythos. After it was done, they dumped her ashes in the Seine, so that her bones could not be made into relics. Millions mourned her. Thousands took up arms in her name, and hundreds died for it, again, and again, and again.
And so, the wars of the continent raged on. England and France, Burgundy and Castille, the Emirates of Iberia, and the patchwork of German duchies that some called the Holy Roman Empire tore themselves and each other into pieces, put themselves back together, and then went at it again.
A constantly shifting patchwork of alliances kept the losers propped up, and held the winners back, and so what history would come to define as the Hundred Years’ War continued to grind down the populations of these nations, consuming their resources and their patriotism, disrupting their economies, devastating their farmlands, and violently paving the historical path toward the Age of Enlightenment.
Scotland had never been a world leader, never a top contender or a main combatant, but she was fierce, proud, and not a hundred years before, she had won her independence through brute force, strong leadership, and the sheer willpower of her people. Now, she endured a new era, one of finding her place in the scheme of global politics, governing her people without incurring the title of tyranny, and defending her hard-won borders.
At the center of the continental wars were the battles betwixt England and France, or more appropriately, the battles between the House of Lancaster, and the House of Valois, respectfully. Everyone around them was swept up in the colossal conflict, and Scotland was no different, and it was no surprise that she sided with the House of Valois, eager to keep England in a diminished state.
Scottish mercenaries sailed to France and found among that war-torn world steady work and a mutual hatred for the English. They swung their swords and thrust their pikes among the backdrop of burning churches, ruined villages, and boggy battlefields; and many fell.
It was that support for the French that saw a rise of English raids across the border into the Lowlands, and then in turn, Scottish raids into Northumbria. And so, while the nation of Scotland was not at war, the people of Scotland were. Mercenaries returned home with wounds inside and out, and young men rode the border with spears and swords in hand, dealing out death and meeting it with regularity.
It was a dark time, and a sad world, full of strife and suffering, violence and cruelty, but amidst all the doom and gloom brought on by royal ambition, there were still sparks of happiness. They were hidden away in the vast Highlands, untouched by the conflicts of the continent, spared from the roaming bands of soldiers and their veracious appetite for villagers’ cattle and grain.
One of these places was a particularly bright spark of late, for they were preparing festivities, and all the residents were elated. It had been some time since they last gathered in good cheer, and the premise of a party was exhilarating, especially with news from France drifting in piecemeal, darkening moods and dampening spirits, and so to bustle about, moving hogs and working looms with the thought of celebration driving them, the spark burned even brighter.
It was that bustle and hum of happy energy that the warrior looked down upon as he crested the last rise, his ragged highland hair whipping around in the rough wind, his brow furrowed as he squinted through the wind and the bouncing pale light. There were a few scattered scars across his cheeks, caused by the shattering of arrows on plate armor and the shrapnel of the shafts flying up in the fray of battle. His eyes were resting hawks, ready to fly from their perches at the drop of a pin.
He wore a fine tunic embroidered with a fleur-de-lis, which would have marked him out as a Frenchman were it not for his brooding Scottish smile, his flowing red hair, and his broad, solid build that was synonymous with Highlanders. His horse held a great sword on one side of the saddle, and a shield on the other side, battered and brutalized from combat, but he had no baggage train.
There was no wagon to carry crates of armor, or spoils of war. There was no escort, no entourage of compatriots that had stood beside him in the battle lines, and absolutely no grandeur to his return, but that was the way he had intended it. There was no need to make a splash. All he wanted to do was to return home and see his brother married.
He spurred his horse down the dirt track toward the village, and the keep standing above it, a fine, six-story tower with a small wall encompassing the base. He had seen many castles throughout Europe, and even England, that would put the small keep to shame, turn it into a symbol of backwater towns, an irrelevant place for an irrelevant Laird. But to the warrior, it brought only a bright smile, for he was almost home, and home was all he had wanted for a long time.
As he approached the village, he began to draw a few eyes, and then a few more, and soon enough there was a small throng of people in the main thoroughfare, bringing down their hoods and hats as they murmured to each other about his identity. Some recognized him immediately, others doubted it, his appearance undeniably changed by his violent travels, and so they bickered in hushed tones as his horse strolled into the center of them.
The warrior took note of an older woman, who had a black armband fastened upon her clothes, and a smaller child clutching close to one of her legs. The Scottish wind picked up once more as he drew to a halt, whipping the woman’s hood back up against her hair, and the crowd fell silent as he looked to her from horseback.
“For whom d’ye mourn?” the warrior asked, his eyes dark and piercing above his scarred cheeks.
“For me son,” she replied, and then lifting her chin with a bit of pride, she added, “and the lady Joan,” making a cross as she spoke. “God rest her soul.”
“God save ye,” the warrior replied, his voice solemn and his eyes suddenly sad. He reached into his coin purse, fastened close beneath his riding cloak, and fished forth a roughhewn coin of the French crown. He leaned down and handed her the coin, a hefty piece of metal that was worth more than what she could earn in a week at the looms.
“Bless ye, Laird,” the woman said, bowing her head low.
“It is him,” a villager muttered loud enough for the warrior to hear. “He’s back!”
“Bless ye for yer suffering,” he said beneath his breath as he sat upright once more in the saddle.
“The Laird’s brother has returned!” went up the cry, and many of the village folk began rejoicing, hugging one another, and waving their hands in the air in cheer.
“Welcome home,” the woman said, and he saw her son’s reflection in her eyes, another Scotsman who would take the low road back home, who fell in a foreign land for a fight not his own.
The warrior lifted his chin, looking ahead to the keep as the crowd cheered alongside him. There were banners waving in the strong breeze, but not from the wall. The stables were crowded. Guests had come for the wedding. No doubt there would be plenty of neighboring Lairds, little in their power but great in their expectation for hospitality. The keep would be packed, and the hall would be bustling.
“What did ye expect?” the warrior asked his horse, aptly named Gaisgeachd, for the bravery he’d showed in battle. “We knew it was a wedding.”
Man and horse advanced through the town, slowly leaving the host of happy villagers in their wake. The road to the keep was low and winding, sloping up from the market and the huts below to the small hill it sat atop. It would never stand up to any kind of siege weapon, that was not what it was truly for. It was more a symbol of stature, a sign for all the village folk to look up and say, “Och, that is the man that leads us.”
It had seen better days, the warrior noticed upon the approach. There were a few birds’ nests tucked about the stonework, and the remnants of last night’s rain clung in clumsy puddles all around the low wall. There were a few guards at the gate, leaning up against the support beams of the gatehouse, and they shuffled to attention as he approached, straightening themselves as much as possible and trying to quickly appear formidable.
“Halt there!” one of them barked, stepping forward, holding up his spear.
