Prologue
Clyde Munro was not the kind of boy to surrender easily. Even at a tender age, he was as strong as many older boys, and could wield a wooden sword well enough to beat most of them into submission. He was sturdily built and strong for his age, and he already regarded himself as the laird of Rosnablane Castle, even at the tender age of seven.
His father, of course, was the real laird, but he was a weak character and did not do much in the way of managing his land and taking care of his tenants. That was done by his very capable estate manager, Jimmy McMahon, and Clyde loved to go out on the occasional ride with the older man, making the acquaintance of all the common people who would soon come to love him.
Clyde preferred the company of the dirty, cheeky village boys, and the sons of servants, with whom he could wrestle, roll in the mud, and play skittles, to the spoiled sons of lairds. Everyone could see that he was going to be a man’s man, as tough and unyielding as an armor plate, and just as protective.
If Clyde had one weakness, it was his mother, whom he adored. She was his guardian, his playmate, and the center of his life. He loved her completely. One day, when he was only five years old, he asked her to marry him when he grew up. She laughed, then took him onto her lap and tenderly explained why sons could not marry their mothers.
“But when you are a grown man,” she explained, “you will meet a beautiful lady and marry her. Then she will be your wife, and you will have children of your own. And I promise that you will love them as much as I love you.”
“And will they call me Da?” he asked innocently, his green eyes alight with wonder.
“Indeed they will,” his mother replied, kissing his forehead and smiling.
Now that he was seven years old, Clyde could see that Lady May Munro, the person who was the foundation of his world and his reason for living, was slipping away from him. He did not entirely understand what death meant, but he knew that he would not see his mother again for a long time, and it would be in a place called heaven, where all the good people went when they died.
Now he was sitting by her bedside, watching a dreadful fever consume her. Her flushed face was shining with sweat, and she was moaning with pain and mumbling incoherently. Clyde was puzzled; this was not the Mammy he knew. The healer tipped some evil-smelling brew into her mouth, but she spluttered and spat it out, so Clyde went around the bed and took the cup from the woman’s hands, then put it to May’s lips.
“Drink it, Mammy,” he said in his firmest, sternest voice. “It will make you better.”
May looked at Clyde and managed a tiny smile, then the healer propped up her head while Clyde tipped the medicine into his mother’s mouth in tiny drops so that she could swallow it more easily. It took a while, but eventually, the cup was drained, and May laid her head back on the pillow again.
She took Clyde’s hand in her own, and he noticed how damp and hot it was compared to his. His mother’s eyes were filled with tears, and he wondered if he had done something to upset her.
“Don’t cry, Mammy,” he said softly. “I am sorry for breaking the vase that Da gave you. I will not be so clumsy again.”
“Oh, my little darling,” May said sadly. “You have done nothing to upset me. I can always get another vase, but I cannot ever get a more loving and caring son as you. I am crying because I will be leaving you soon. Not because I want to, but because God is calling me to come to him.”
“To heaven?” Clyde asked.
“Yes, my love,” she whispered, kissing his hand. “I will see you there, but not for a very long time. First, you must grow up and become a big, strong man. Then you must take a wife and have children. You must watch them grow up and have children of their own. Then you can come and see me.”
“But Mammy, that will be a very long time,” he protested.
“I know, Clyde,” she said sadly, “but I can do nothing about that. In time you will understand. I promise.”
Then her eyes fluttered closed, and she was asleep. Clyde sat by her bed for a long time, watching her, but she did not wake up again.
Two days later, he was at her bedside again with his father, Donald Munro, as May drew her last breath and left them forever.
“Has she gone to heaven now, Da?” Clyde asked.
“Aye, Son,” Donald said hoarsely. “She is at peace with God and the angels. She is healthy and well again and looking down on us with perfect love.” He was trying to smile through his tears, but they were raining down his face unchecked, and he could not stop them. Clyde put his arms around his father’s waist and burst into tears, and in another moment, so did Donald.
Clyde sat silently through the funeral Mass, too sad to even murmur his prayers or wipe away the tears that were running unchecked down his cheeks. He could not bear the thought of his beloved mother lying in a wooden box, unable to move.
As well as his sadness, Clyde was filled with anger. How could she leave him, her only child, alone like this? He still had his father, of course, but he did not have her tenderness, and he had never told Clyde he loved him. Mammy had no right to leave him alone like this. Who would love him now?
Now, as he watched the coffin being lowered into the grave, he had to be held back from jumping in with it, because he simply could not bear the thought of his mother trapped under the earth in the silent darkness. That was when his heart shattered.
1
Cora Henderson was trembling with fear as she awaited the arrival of the troops returning from the battlefield. She knew within herself that it had ended badly, and something deep in her heart told her that her father, Laird Malcolm Henderson, was not coming back alive. The English had been their enemy since time immemorial, but recently they had increased their forays onto Henderson land. The tenant farmers had been harassed, robbed, and some even murdered. It had to stop.
Now, however, Cora had other things to worry about. The soldiers were trooping in, some unharmed, some limping, and some walking with the aid of their fellows. Then, after all of them had safely entered the castle precincts, a cart rumbled in, pulled very slowly by two tired horses, carrying a grim cargo. This was the wagon that bore the bodies of the slain, and Cora knew without looking that her father was one of them.
As she moved forward to meet the captain of the Guard, Samuel McGillvary, she took a long look at his grim face. “Did he suffer?” she asked bluntly.
