Prologue
The squalling cry of a baby drew the two men to the cottage. The child bawled with the natural injustice of being born to the world on a cold night and could be heard from the road. Both men dismounted, one more eagerly than the other, and strode the three distinct steps to the front door.
The first, masked in a hooded cloak that stretched to the floor, reached for the handle.
His companion placed an arresting hand upon his arm.
"Are you certain of this, my laird?" the companion whispered. The title in particular was kept to an almost silent hush.
"Let go, Gregory," was the man's only response. "I would see the child, at least."
His concern rejected, the companion stepped back. He placed himself at the man's right shoulder, his own hood swinging left and right. A protector and defender of his leader.
Neither man waited to be permitted entry to the cottage. Firstly, because the laird owned the land upon which it stood. Secondly, because they knew that those within would be too preoccupied with the mother and baby inside.
They simply opened the door and stepped through.
The cottage was like any other that had dotted the lane they had travelled. Each had been unique in its level of wear but their structures rarely differed. As if a single crafter, once upon a time, had built each as familiar markers of distance along the road, sporadically spaced and ideally tranquil in their loneliness.
This particular little house was limited in its ageing damage. The fire in the hearth gave a warm glow to the space. Tendrils of light lingered upon a scuffed but perfectly clean floor and well-worn but sturdy furniture. The walls were free of cobwebs, with bronze and copper pans hanging from glistening hooks. A framed embroidery was set upon the chimney breast.
Toward the back of the single room, a bedding area was cast in shadow. Only the moonlight, streaking through the window upon the far wall, gave silvery outlines to the figure that lay there tired and spent.
The first man, a laird as addressed by his friend, took a step forward but was instantly accosted.
An eight-year-old boy, tall for his age and gangly with recent growth, barred his path. The broom in his hands was set against the stranger like a jousting pole, its blunt end aimed for his heart.
"Who're you?" the boy demanded in a high-pitched voice determined to be frightening.
The stranger reached to lower his hood. A pleasant face, aged with experience but not years, appeared. His grey-blue eyes were kind and generous to the aggressive child, and there was a soft smile upon his face.
"I am no danger to you, good lad," the man said. He spoke with the respect he might use to honor a knight of the realm. "I simply wish to see your new sibling. To wish them well."
The boy seemed uncertain of this, but a weak voice from the back of the room called out to him, beckoning him away.
"Elliott, let him pass. It is alright."
Though he had the strength to simply lift the boy out of his way, the laird waited for the child to stand down. He even nodded his thanks when he was permitted closer to the figure in the back.
His companion, Gregory, was less humoring. He kept his hood in place, refused to look at the boy, and moved to stand vigil beside the fireplace.
Moving slowly from firelight to moonlight, the laird brought himself to the side of the bed. Built on little more than a wooden platform in the far corner of the room, it was low and wide and occupied by a woman. Another female worked to one side, collecting damp sheets and blankets, and quickly excused herself to dispose of the remains of the birth.
Neither the woman nor the laird seemed to notice her exit.
"Elise," the laird said.
"Alasdair," she greeted in return.
Each stared at the other as if this was their first meeting. In truth, it was their last. And both were instinctively aware of it.
The momentary lull from the baby crying allowed them only so simple a meeting. As soon as each name had been spoken out loud, the baby wailed anew, drawing focus.
The bundle of blankets, secured beneath Elise's arm and snuggled against her side, shifted and wriggled. One pink and pudgy hand freed itself to shake at the world.
Alasdair swallowed, his eyes bright in the darkness. A hand reached out from beneath his cloak but paused in midair. His eyes shifted to the mother, uncertain.
"May I?"
