PROLOGUE
“D’ye ken what I asked me mither t’other day, Isla?”
The blacksmith’s daughter looked up at her best friend, which gave her back a break from bending to pick up fallen branches in the forest.
“Nay, Pila. I cannae imagine ye doin’ such a strange thing, no’ when ye were always quick to avoid asking questions in the schoolroom all those years ago!”
Pila gave a shout of laughter. “Why would I have wanted to bring attention to meself like that, Isla, when ye ken I never had the answers!”
Isla spied another fallen branch and ran to drag it to the pile they were making.
“Sorry I teased ye, dearest Pila. Do tell me what ye asked yer mither.”
Pila spoke while tidying the pile of wood and making it fast with cord. “I asked her why we have a clan feud goin’ with the McTavishes all these many years, an’ ye ken what she told me?”
Isla was interested despite herself. There had always been a feud going on between the Dougal clan and the McTavish clan. It was as inevitable as the sun rising on the morrow. The McTavish clan must have sworn a fierce vengeance on them because not a single season went by without some skirmish or battle occurring on the two families’ borders.
Many years ago, the McGregors and McTavish also had a feud, but when two of them got married, things got quiet for a few decades. But it seems that Laird Bryson McGregor, their son, has lost his connection to his mother’s clan and now the McTavishes have turned their rage elsewhere.
“What did yer mither say, Pila?” Isla wanted to know. “Because whenever I ask my faither about it, he swears up a black storm.”
The two young women tied the kindling to the pack horse and began leading the animal up the hill, back to the castle bailey.
The castle’s bailey village was a makeshift affair, with most of the roofs made of wood and straw laid haphazardly over the beams. The reason for this was clear as the two girls’ path took them toward the blacksmith forge: the stone walls of every cottage were burnt black, and if anyone had looked sideways as they passed by, they would have seen the interiors of the cottages were destroyed too. Great wooden beams falling inward, flagstone floors covered in rain-drenched soot, and doors hanging on broken hinges. The only shelters worth mentioning were the few wooden huts scattered here and there as if they were waiting for the next burning torch to be thrust through the window.
“Mither told me that it was some brangle over the king in the South…or was it a king who was meant to reign in the South but ended up reigning in the North?”
Isla loved her friend dearly, but Pila had never been able to keep a straight story in her head or any facts related to the matter either.
“I’m sure it’s a good thing that each clan is loyal to whichever king takes their fancy, Pila,” Isla said in a firm voice, “but all we have ever kent since we were bairns is this incessant war. And…if there is a king in charge of us, I wish he would step up an’ sort out this bloody feud for us for once an’ for all! In all me life, I have never gone to visit a relative, never traveled further than the woods—not even when there was a fair at Inverness. We have never lived a normal life because of this war. It sickens me that the men who rule over us have been content to let this matter continue. They get to reap all the glories of killin’ one another while we poor womenfolk become widows an’ orphans!”
She finished speaking when they reached the smithy. Isla’s father was standing there, waiting for the two girls to bring him more wood for his furnace. He was a busy man—arrowheads, swords, and armor had to be made every day.
“Those are very stern opinions ye have there, Daughter,” Isla’s father said when he saw the two girls arriving.
Her father had been the blacksmith at Dougal Castle for many years and had a forge both inside and outside the castle walls because the McTavishes were always burning down the one outside the walls at least once or twice a year. He had never thought of moving away; he was part of the clan and must stay there for better or worse. Isla’s mother had died from the fever some years ago, leaving wee Isla to be brought up by the blacksmith. No new wife would be willing to come and live in such an unsettled place and to wed a man who was married to his work.
“Why should I no’ hate this stupid, petty war, Faither? It brings glory to no one but the ironmonger who sells us so much metal for weapons! What’s the point?”
The blacksmith was a humble man and always believed his daughter got her spirited ways because he had allowed her to run wild since she was a child.
“It’s no’ our right to ask for the reason, Daughter,” he said while poking the dead wood into the forge fire. “An’ why are ye complainin’? This war has made us rich beyond me expectations.”
“Faither!” Isla was outraged. “The forge outside the castle walls has been gutted an’ burnt at least a dozen times since I was auld enough to remember the raids happening. Those never-ending raids! An’ what about the battles that took the clan’s young men’s lives, leaving only a parcel of graybeards to rule over us? It’s unnatural for a laird to force his villagers to live under these conditions. Some things are worth more than gold, like love an’ friendship an’ safety…an’ the chance to experience more than just death an’ destruction happening around us all the time.”
Pila stood beside her friend, nodding her head vigorously and interjecting the occasional “aye.” Dougal Castle was full of young women of a ripe and ready age, champing at the bit for a wooing by some young lad who lived beyond the castle walls, but all they ever got by way of a visit was skirmishes and enemy forays.
“I’m tired o’ war, Faither,” Isla pleaded. “Please, can we move to Inverness and leave all this behind us?”
The blacksmith scoffed, “If you think I’m ready to leave being able to charge a warrior ten gold sovereigns for a paltry sword, Isla, you have windmills in yer head! Just think of how desirable all that money will make ye when the gentlemen come sniffin’ around to wed ye.”
Isla stamped her foot. “There are nay gentlemen, Faither! Not unless one come crawlin’ over yon hill!”
She looked at the horizon to emphasize the futility of waiting for anyone to cross over it and froze. “Look! I swear I saw a flash, a reflection of the light hittin’ something metal! What is it?”
Pila pivoted around immediately. The blacksmith put down his tongs and waited for the girls to confirm what was coming over the hills yonder. His eyes were weak after so many tiny metal sparks had flown into them over the years. There was a tense silence as the girls strained their eyes, but they were not the first to see the flashes approaching. A great cry came from the east-facing battlements, followed by a loud blast on a horn.
“To arms! To arms! The McTavishes are on the march! Leave the gates open until every bailey villager has come inside the walls!”
