Prologue
Two weeks beforeIseabail’s sixteenth birthday, her mother woke her half an hour before midnight. Iseabail resented the hard shake on her shoulder. She’d fallen asleep a bare hour ago after an entire day spent helping sows birth their young. Delivering piglets wasn’t glamorous work, but they were a valuable commodity in Scotland and to her clan in particular. Baron Bain liked his ham.
“Ssst!” her mother hissed at her. “Get your paints. Now.”
She was bone tired and stumbled in the dark, but her logical side knew better than to argue with her mother when the woman was inthatmood. Her illogical side complained that her mother had been especially irritating for the last year or more, so she might as well complain because it vented her spleen.
“Where are we going?” she asked, her voice heavy with her grumbles. “And why bring paint? It’s too dark.”
“Isssy!” The word was either a diminutive of her name or a curse-like hiss. And it was punctuated with the heavy impact her of boots against her chest. The command was obvious. She was to put them on as fast as possible while her mother shook out a dark cloak made of sackcloth.
Sackcloth? She was supposed to put that on?
Iseabail started to pull off her night rail, but her mother shook her head. And when she reached for her plaid, the woman’s expression turned downright murderous. Iseabail frowned. Her only protection was her plaid. That’s what she’d been told from the day she was born. It was her identity as a Spalding daughter and the baron’s niece. It’s what kept her safe as she helped with livestock or when delivering bairns. Otherwise, who knew what would happen to a lass wandering the land?
She knew.
She’d tended to a few who’d run afoul of her uncle’s own men. But everyone here knew her identity and no strange men wandered their lands. Not if they wanted to live. So the danger came from the clan’s own workers—especially those who oversaw the market like greedy pigs—and it made no sense to hide her identity from them.
But her mother had her moods, and so Iseabail did as she was ordered. Soon she had her paints in a bag slung across her shoulder while the sackcloth rubbed irritatingly against her skin. Then her mother gestured her through the antechamber of their shared bedroom. Two attendant women lay there, both sleeping heavily in their cots.
Iseabail’s steps slowed. That was not a natural sleep. Especially Grandmother Bain. That woman would wake when a cat walked by. She turned wide-eyed to her mother who said nothing as she tugged Iseabail along.
The moment they crossed into the castle stairwell, her mother increased speed. Iseabail quieted her steps until even her heavy boots were silent. There were too many men sleeping about the castle for her to want to disturb anyone.
They made it all the way down and out a door to the kitchen garden. Mother grabbed leaves as she went, crushing them between her fingers. As they made it to the stable, she whisked the pulp down Iseabail’s forearm.
“What’s that for?” Iseabail whispered.
“Just in case.”
She wanted to ask, in case what? but there was no time as her mother began saddling her horse. Iseabail did so as well, whispering an apology to the poor thing for taking her out again without a proper sleep.
“Quickly!”
How were they getting past the sentry? Her clan had built up the wall around Spalding Castle until it was a towering thing that blocked out too much of the winter sun. Now it was a dark wall of blackness with only a few ways in or out. Her mother approached the door where one sentry sat bored and yawning.
“Wot’s—”
“Don’t be bellowing yer yap an’ wakin’ the dogs. There’s a babe come early. Let us by.”
“Whose bairn—”
“None o’ yer business. Now open up fer us.”
“I haven’t heard anything—”
“Ach, we just got back a few hours ago. Do ye think we’d be leaving again if it weren’t important? Now open the gate or I’ll be cursing you with the birth blood.” She peered through the darkness. “Otis, is it? Are ye that thick as to deny me?”
The man grumbled, but he was quick about opening the gate. It was the smallest opening of the keep, set for quiet comings and goings. Iseabail and her mother clomped through. Iseabail turned to say thanks—it never hurt to be polite to her uncle’s men—but she never got the chance. As soon as they were through, her mother pushed her horse to a fast trot. Iseabail kicked her horse to follow, and they were quickly down the path.
Thankfully, it was a full moon, and they could see well. Truthfully, Iseabail knew this road so well she could—and had—traveled it nearly asleep, but within an hour they were far enough out that the situation changed. An hour’s ride put them at the edge of clan territory. She’d only been out here a handful of times in her life and never at dark, but her mother did not slow their pace. Nor did the woman offer any explanations.
But something happened soon afterwards. It was past midnight now and the air was still. Quiet enough, at least, to hear a man’s cry, somewhere behind them. Perhaps there was the clatter of hooves behind them, coming fast, but it was hard to tell. Iseabail was too occupied by the sudden slap of her mother’s hand on the back of her horse.
Her mare burst forward, but it was late, the creature was tired, and they had already come a long way. They didn’t have enough speed.
Iseabail watched her mother looked behind them, her face shifting through fear, fury, resignation, and then finally a hard-jawed determination. She didn’t know what it meant. She didn’t understand anything that was happening, but she kept going even as her mother turned both their horses up a steep incline.
