Prologue
The little village of Roster, Scottish Highlands, Winter 1518…
Edith stared at the coins in her hand, the cold metal biting against her bare palm. Snowflakes collected between the folds in her clothes, pausing a moment, as though deliberating their egress, before melting into the fabric. She clasped her fingers around the coins and sucked in a fortifying breath, before turning towards Keelin, her sister, who was wandering nearby with her tongue stuck out to taste the falling snow.
It was unusual for the Macrae girls to roam the villages under their father’s lairdship alone, but times were anything but ordinary back at the keep. Their father, a most agreeable laird by the name of Noah, had been called out to the nearby village of Roster to mediate a quarrel between the local crofting guilds. He had encouraged his daughters to take a walk, but stay nearby, hoping that a change of scenery would allow anxious Edith a moment’s reprieve from her own thoughts.
Unbeknownst to her father, Edith had other ideas, formed long before their carriage had set off out of Wick. Most other young women would not have dared to orchestrate such a plot behind their father’s back, but for as long as Edith could remember, the odds had been in her favour.
“Come now, Keelin,” she cried over her shoulder. Tucking an errant strand of dark hair back beneath her cloak, she forced a smile to conceal her nerves. “I think I ken the way from here.”
Edith pointed to a small croft in the distance. A lazy ribbon of smoke rose from its rounded chimney, beckoning Edith forward like a curled finger. Their father had gone into a longhouse near the village square, close to where they had left the carriage. The trek to the little croft would take ten minutes, if the young women were lucky. It stood at the edge of a field on the outskirts of Roster, rising alone from the barren earth. Behind the fields, mountains shrouded by mist reached up to the heavens, at the base of which Edith could discern an unmoving grey loch.
“And ye’re certain this is the place?” Keelin asked, skipping towards her sister. She thrust her arm through Edith’s, clutching her close as the wind intensified. “Seems a right wee naething by me eye, Ettie.”
“Have I ever been wrong about these things?” Edith asked, keeping her eyes on the horizon. Her voice was barely audible above the howling of the wind, yet such clement weather had not been felt for weeks. Edith could not recall the last time the snow had abated enough for travel. “The clan has kent of this place for years. I have heard tales about her since I was a wee lass.”
“Yet ye cannae bring yerself to speak her name. A Cailleach is what she is…” Keelin murmured, encouraging Edith to pick up their pace. “I think these tales are all rubbish, piuthar. There is nae one in the world with magic enough to heal our Ma.” She averted her gaze to Edith’s closed fist. “I say we take yer wee pittance and buy her something braw instead. I saw a bakehouse by the crofters’ longhouse.”
“Any excuse to fill yer belly,” Edith joked. She gave the coins in her hand another squeeze, steeling her courage. “I am one-and-twenty, Keelin. It will nae be long until Faither seeks tae wed me off. If I dinnae act a fool now, when shall I ever get the chance again? Ye will have tae forgive me fer wanting to believe in a wee bit of magic for once.”
“Ye can consider yerself forgiven once we get out of this blasted cold.” Keelin groaned, shielding her eyes from the snow. “Let’s make haste before Faither finds out where we’ve gone, or before our bones turn to ice inside us.”
Having arrived at the edge of the village, the sisters came face to face with a low wooden fence. Edith bunched up her skirts and began mounting it before Keelin could complain, hoisting one leg over the top and climbing over the other side. She landed on the other side with a little hop, crossing her arms over her chest as she waited for her sister to follow.
For her part, Keelin cursed under her breath and picked up her skirts as well. She clambered over the fence, perching herself on top for a moment while Edith waited. Her cheeks were nipped red beneath her thick wool shawl, her golden hair beating against the sides of her face in the wind.
“I cannae hardly see me hand in front of me, Edith. I cannae— Ach!”
Upon landing on the other side, Keelin’s ankle twisted beneath her. With a cry, the younger Macrae sister went tumbling forward, colliding into Edith. The women fell into a heap on the ground, kicking up snow as they tried to right themselves. Edith gasped. The coins she had been holding had flown out of her hand, buried into the snow beneath them.
“Naeeee!” Edith cried, clambering immediately to her knees. She grappled for her sister’s arm, pulling her upright. “Keelin, are ye all right?”
“Dinnae bother with me!” Keelin pushed Edith out of the way and began raking back the snow around them, working furiously. “We’ve lost all our money!”
Edith couldn’t help but laugh. She began searching with Keelin, peeling back the snow until the white gave way to black. Her fingers burned as she scoured the ground, searching for the missing coins.
“I’ve found one!” Keelin shouted in celebration, holding the glinting coin aloft over her head. “How many did ye have in all?”
“Three shillings,” Edith replied. She pressed her lips together as she continued her search. If they didn’t retrieve the coins, and soon, she wouldn’t have enough to visit the Cailleach’s home. Eventually, she felt something hard and pried it free. “I’ve got another,” she said, collecting it in her palm with the coin that Keelin had found.
Her hands were raw and cracked by the time the third coin appeared before her. With a sigh of relief, she turned to Keelin, pinching the missing coin between her thumb and forefinger. Fully prepared to gloat, she was instead struck dumb as another coin caught her eye, settled between a parted sheet of snow, much older than the others.
“Four?” Edith gasped. She snatched the coin off the ground and wiped it clean. “This isnae mine… We’ve found an extra pound. What was it doing buried here?”
Keelin bared all of her teeth in a grin. Holding out her hand, she giggled as Edith handed the coin over to her for inspection. “Dinnae ask me. Ye’re the one with all the braw luck.” With a groan, Keelin pushed herself into a stand, then tended a hand for Edith to take.
“Ye fell into me nae two minutes ago,” Edith reminded her. Keelin pulled her into a stand, and she quickly brushed herself off. “I would nae call that braw luck.”
“Och, I dinnae ken.” Keelin winked and flicked her coin in the air. “We found this, didnae we? Now we can take a trip to the bakehouse once ye’re done being tricked out of all yer money.”
Warm bread seemed a distant prospect as Edith arrived on the path leading up to the Cailleach’s croft. The road was narrow and blanketed white, the snow untouched. No one had come up or down the path for at least two days. The smell of smoke was rising from the house. Edith could see no livestock nearby, no fire from the short windows.
“Looks abandoned,” Keelin commented, still hanging off of her sister’s arm. She shivered not from the cold but from fear. “Edith, I dinnae like this. We should turn back now before it’s too late.”
Edith balled her hands into fists, shaking her head. “I have to see fer meself,” she whispered, snaking her arm free from Keelin’s grasp. “Ye stay here until I’m done,” Edith ordered, taking her sister by the shoulders. “I will nae be a minute.”
Her sister made an angry little noise but eventually retreated. Turning from the view of the village down below, Edith steadied her breath and began approaching the croft.
The main building was round and built of stone. Its thatched roof looked too thin to hold the snow which had accumulated upon it. Yet something about the building seemed comforting, like many of the things which had stood for time immemorial.
“A wee bit of magic,” Edith thought to herself.
The front of the croft was barred off by a fence and gate. With no one around to stop her, Edith picked up the latch and allowed herself in, closing the gate back behind her. The front door, before abstracted by the snowfall, came into view all at once. The curved door panes had been painted in red. An iron door-hanger hung proudly at the centre in the shape of a cross. Edith had heard the people of Wick, where her father seated, describe the crone’s door as a perfect match to the one before her.
Edith swore she saw the flicker of firelight on the other side, but the light was dimmed almost as soon as she spotted it. Approaching the door nervously, she held out a hand for the knocker once she arrived. Two thuds came in quick succession, after which followed a moment of harrowing silence.
The silence was broken by the sound of the door creaking slowly open.
“Hello?” Edith asked, taking a step nearer. “I have come seeking…” She wracked her brain, utterly unable to form a coherent sentence, despite the fact that she had imagined this moment for weeks. “Me Ma needs aid. I have heard that ye can help people like her—people like us. May I…” She paused to gulp. “May I please come in?”
She saw the Cailleach before she heard her. In the sliver of space between the open door and its frame, two shining eyes appeared. Edith forced herself to remain calm. She would not allow her fear to get the better of her now.
“I have money,” Edith said, closing the space between herself and the door.
Almost immediately the eyes disappeared, and the door swung open. Casting a final glance at Keelin, Edith picked up her skirts and crossed the threshold.
The warmth of a fire wreathed around her immediately, and so different was the air in the house from the cold outside that it took Edith’s breath away. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the darkness within. The snow had been blinding outside.
“Close the door, lass. Or have ye nae any manners?” came the crone’s voice. “Close it, then come over here where I can see ye…”
Edith nodded and turned to close the door. The house seemed larger on the inside than it had appeared outdoors. The air was pregnant with the smell of burning wood, lavender and dust, and something sweet that Edith couldn’t place. A brightly burning hearth was located in the middle of the room, and a threadbare armchair had been positioned before it, stacked with all manner of books.
She glanced to the right, where the voice had come from. An archway blocked her path, over which hung a collection of dried plants. Through it, she could see what appeared to be a small kitchen. A figure was walking back and forth, and whatever they were doing was making an ungodly amount of noise. Taking an instinctive step back, Edith froze as the figure stepped into the main room.
“Dinnae seem so surprised, love. I would be a poor Cailleach indeed if I didnae provide me visitors with tea.”
She had spoken her title with venom. The woman was nothing like Edith had thought her to be. She was old—how old, Edith couldn’t determine. Her hair was grey in parts and white in others, trailing over her shoulder in a long, thick braid. Her eyes were small, perhaps blue, beneath the heavy curtain of her eyelids. White skin, freckled with age spots, appeared at the edges of her thick, dark green smock.
As a girl, Edith had pictured a hag like in the fairy tales when she had heard tales of Roster’s Cailleach: leathery skin, claws for fingers, feathers and bones adorning her hair, her skin frosted over with magical ice…
“Ye are the woman I’m looking fer?” Edith asked now, needing to make sure. She watched as the crone carried a wooden tray of tea to a nearby table. She was perpetually hunched over, but nothing about her was threatening except her low, rasping voice. “I cannae stay long, I’m afraid. But I am in dire need of yer help.”
The Cailleach paused, hovering over the tea set. She seemed to contemplate Edith’s words for a moment, giving her a sideways glance. Eventually, she returned to making her tea, preparing two cups despite Edith’s protestations.
“Ye’ve really done it now, Edith,” the Macrae girl thought to herself. “Dinnae anger the Cailleach, or else she will lock ye up and eat ye, like the stories say.”
A little laugh erupted from the old woman’s throat. Edith flushed, wondering what had caused it. For a second, she wondered whether the crone had heard her thoughts. But such magic was impossible. The aid she had come seeking for her mother, while some called it magic, could have been nothing more than well-practised herbalism and luck.
The thought convinced Edith to stay. When the Cailleach offered her a cup of amber-coloured tea, she took it. Giving it a whiff, Edith recognised the smell of rosehip and blackcurrants. Lacking a decent place to sit, she remained standing while the old woman moved to the armchair before the hearth. She quickly cleared away her books, then gestured for Edith to come and kneel by the fire.
“I kent ye would come,” the Cailleach said, looking down at Edith from her seat. The armchair dwarfed her, making the woman appear even smaller than she was.
“Ye kent because ye are a seer, like the stories tell?” Edith asked, leaning forward.
The old woman laughed, dancing the wrinkles on her face. “Perhaps… Or perhaps I saw ye walk up from the village.” She grinned and took a sip of her tea. “Such a nasty tumble ye took over the fence. Is that sister of yers always so full of trouble?”
Edith’s eyes widened. How did she know that Keelin was her sister? If the crone had been watching, then she had likely seen some similarity between the girls. Despite the fact that Edith had dark hair and Keelin’s was fair, their faces bore striking similarities. Both had inherited the cornflower blue eyes of their mother. Both had long faces with pointed chins and full lips.
“She can be a handful at times, but I would nae have done anything interesting in me life without her,” Edith admitted tentatively. She stared down into her drink and took a quick sip. The tea tasted earthy and tart, coating the back of her tongue. “Grateful though I am fer yer hospitality, I really cannae stay overlong. Ye see—“
“Ye see,” the Cailleach interrupted, “time is of the essence. Ye have come fer yer maither, have ye nae?” She craned her neck forward, sizing Edith up with her beady little eyes. “Ye have come all this way hoping that I might have something to cure her.”
“I…” Edith’s hands trembled around her teacup. “Aye. That is why I have come.”
“The kind laird’s daughter.” The woman smiled, but there was no benevolence in her expression. “So far from home. Even here we have heard about the lady’s illness. What has it been now, bairn? Three years? Four?”
“Six,” Edith rasped. She pressed her eyes shut and forced her hands to still. “Six years.”
Everyone in Caithness knew about the mysterious illness of Lady Macrae. Over the course of a fortnight, her health had collapsed, leaving the once beautiful and vibrant woman a shell of her former self. The lady could barely speak, barely move. An army of healers and physicians, some of them even Beatons, had come to Wick hoping to cure her and seal their celebrity. Nothing had worked., no tonics, no treatments, no amount of rest. Only a miracle could restore her.
As though reading her mind, the Cailleach nodded. She set aside her cup of tea and reached out her hands. Edith hesitated for a moment. She opened her now sweating palm and deposited three shillings into the crone’s crooked hand.
The woman counted them wordlessly: clink, clink, clink. Satisfied, she rose from her seat and bid Edith to remain kneeling with a flick of her wrist. The woman hurried into her hidden kitchen, and a similar cacophony to the one she had produced earlier rang out. Edith’s heart began beating hard in her chest, didn’t cease thumping until ten minutes later, when the crone returned with three small vials.
The first contained a black powder, the same consistency as sand. The second held a collection of herbs, the likes of which Edith had never seen. The third was empty.
“What am I tae dae with these?” Edith asked, looking between the vials and the woman. The Cailleach thrust the first two into her arms. Quick as lighting, she reached forward with something sharp. Edith gave a cry out of shock, darting backwards. “What are ye doing?!”
A small blade appeared in the old woman’s hand. In the other, she held a lock of Edith’s dark hair. With a delighted little hum, the crone retreated back into her kitchen. Edith bundled the vials in one arm, and reached for her chopped hair with her free hand.
“A little parting gift, from ye tae me and back again,” said the Cailleach when she returned. Her hand travelled in the air, settling on Edith’s chin. Pinching it between her thumb and forefinger, she contemplated the young woman’s face. “Such a canny thing… And yer name… Have ye any idea what yer name means, Edith?”
She was almost certain that she hadn’t revealed her name as of yet. Again, she decided that the crone’s knowledge was entirely reasonable. If she knew of Laird Macrae, it stood to reason that she should have heard the names of his daughters. The stealing of her hair was a truth less easy to swallow. Edith had heard tales of hags using blood and bile and all sorts in their brews. Was it possible that the Cailleach intended to do the same? She remained silent, preferring not to know the answer.
“It means blessed,” said the old woman. A smile spread across her face. “And yer blood is blessed. Born under a lucky star, ye were. Surely ye must have kent it. Such strange things have happened to ye, have they nae?” The woman laughed. Edith was unsure of what she was speaking. It was almost as though the crone was looking right through her. “Stranger things will happen yet. There is another, born under a similar and yet different star. The path of that one… Och…” The lady clamped a hand over her heart. “He walks a path paved with misery where yers is paved with delight. Should ye meet… But aye, ye must meet. Aye, that’s it. Indelible.”
“I dinnae see what any of this has to dae with me Ma, or me hair.” Edith furrowed her brow, eyes darting towards the door. If she was quick enough, she may have been able to make it. The Cailleach was old, clearly demented. While there was no telling what more she could do to Edith, she needed to discover what she could about her mother’s cure first. “What have ye given me?”
“In those, ye mean?” She pointed towards the vials. “The first is a tonic to be dissolved into yer maither’s water. She has too much light in her. It eclipses all else, and in the absence she withers away. The black will clear that out. There is nae remedy that can stop time however, bairn. The cure will last a year, maybe a wee bit more, if our Morrígan permits it.” Nodding, she released Edith’s chin at last. “The herbs are naething special—merely a blend tae help restore the lady’s health. Take them tae the Beaton in Wick. He will provide more should the store deplete.”
“All right,” Edith said, taking a step back. “Then I will—“
“And of the rest I have given ye? Are ye nae curious of the truth?” The Cailleach scowled, as though she couldn’t understand Edith’s actions. “Dinnae ye care fer the truth? All things are a balance, lass. Yer maither, fer example, has fallen out of balance with life. A little death, too much death.” She suckled on her lower lip, pacing back and forth.
Edith saw her chance to leave and took it, proceeding to the door in three long strides. A hand came out of nowhere, pressing the door shut.
“Och, Edith. Poor, sweet Edith…” the Cailleach whined, averting her eyes to the ground. She whipped her head up, and blinked. “Heed these words, bairn. Yer mother’s illness was a black mark on the otherwise spotless canvas of yer life, but fall she had tae, in order tae bring ye tae me and avert a greater disaster. Ignore a blessing and it shall vanish.” She rose her voice to a shout: “Dinnae let it vanish! See with yer heart what ye cannae see with yer eyes!”
Edith started. She wanted to run, feeling sick, but there was truth to the old woman’s words. Her good luck had been a buttress against the worst of life. The clement weather that day, the coin in the snow, were but drops in a pool of other auspices.
“It isnae luck, but chance,” Edith argued weakly, her heart pounding.
Her rebuttal amused the Cailleach endlessly. She laughed into Edith’s face, slipping a hand down and curling it around the doorhandle. If Edith wanted to escape, she needed to play the crone’s games and listen to whatever mad premonition the woman wanted to voice.
“Are they nae the same? Chance is the word fer the non-believer,” the Cailleach replied. “Ye must believe, blessed one. If ye dinnae, another will come tae swipe up the fortune that ye have failed tae protect. Aye…” The look in the woman’s eyes was far off as they darted back and forth in furious thought. “The words form on me tongue. Dinnae allow another tae steal the luck of yer star. If the fate-drinker should come begging, ye turn him away. If ye dinnae, seek nae other tae restore ye, or cursed fer all yer days ye will be.”
“What?” Edith shook her head, confused. “What are ye saying?”
“So little fun is there in saying the truth outright, but that is a consequence of youth, is it nae? Wanting more, wanting everything in the immediacy.” The woman’s faced blanched, and she took a step back, harrowed by visions that Edith could not see. “That desire will be yer downfall if it will nae be tempered. The fate-drinker is a man of these lands and yer paths will cross because they must. It’s meant tae be. Through a kiss, he will try tae steal the luck from ye tae fill the void in his heart, fer he is the unluckiest man on this earth. Ye cannae let him, lass, or ye yerself will inherit the doom that lives in his heart. Ye will exchange yer luck fer his. Only another kiss with him can return yer luck. But beware! If ye kiss another before then, the bond between ye and the fate-drinker will break … and yer good fortune will be gone forever!”
Transfixed by the strange woman’s ramblings, Edith could dae nothing but nod. The gesture appeared to satisfy the Cailleach, as she ripped open the door for Edith to step out.
Without looking behind her, Edith crossed out into the cold. When she turned back to look at the house, the light in the windows was gone. All that remained was the Cailleach’s strange premonition, and the swirling, sickening feeling in Edith’s gut that the old woman had been right.
Pushing down her rising scepticism, she turned back to the path where Keelin waited. The Cailleach was mad, but Edith would not test her luck until her mother was well again. If a kiss would be her undoing, then she had to avoid it with her life… How hard could that be?
Chapter One
Dornoch, Scottish Highlands, Winter 1519. One year later…
There were many things at which Braden Hamilton had succeeded, but every accomplishment of his had been fought for tooth and nail. Luck was not a lady that he knew, and any star under which he had been born was black as the night’s sky.
As he stood on the uppermost balcony of Castle Rósmire, Braden took a moment to observe the activity in the courtyard below. From beyond the wind-beaten walls of the keep, the old iron-monging burgh of Dornoch rose proudly from a patch of grey earth. The landscape would soon be draped in snow, two weeks were they from the first day of Yule.
“By that time, I can only hope some of the ill wrought upon me clan this last year will be forgotten tae the festivity and the fires,” Braden thought, unable to stir any real hope in his breast as he considered the future of his sept.
Rolling back his shoulders, he took a moment to breathe and reflect on all that had happened in the past twelve months. His life, another thing which had needed to be fought for, had almost been robbed from him at the hands of his power-hungry cousin, Irving. The Hamilton Beast, as he had come to be known in death, had tried to take what had been Braden’s by force: his title as clan chief, his home, his very name.
Having sought to impersonate Braden and marry his bride in his stead, Irving had found himself on the wrong side of the blade. The Leòideach Clan, a collection of Viking lairds from the island of Orkney, had not taken kindly to Irving’s attempt at duping them. Felled by the woman who had been offered to Braden as a wife, Irving had met his end far from home, where he belonged.
When news of Irving’s death had reached Braden’s ears—who at that time had been taken in and nursed back to health by the monks of a monastery on Orkney—he had known what had had to be done. The return of the rightful laird to Clan Hamilton, two weeks later, had helped put things to order, but Braden still felt the effect of Irving’s attempt at usurping him on their clan, having poisoned them with doubt.
Try as they might have to hide their lack of faith in their leader, the whispers had been plentiful, and they had reached Braden’s ears eventually.
“Can we trust a laird whose own blood dinnae have faith in him?” one had said.
“Braden was cursed from the day he watched his Da die—cursed to watch everything he touches burn tae ash,” had said another.
“Irving Hamilton was nae a hero, but he did what needed to be done. Could we say the same of his cousin, when the time comes? The pressure from enemy clans is rising by the day. Shall we forget MacLeod’s threats? Braden is more likely to drown than rise tae his challenge.”
There was nothing to be gained by tormenting himself with the opinions of those who did not believe in him. Braden may have been cursed, but he knew better than most that stubbornness always championed in the end.
Spying an approaching cart in the distance, he turned from the view of Dornoch and his clan, returning inside where the fire was burning hottest.
The keep was thrumming with activity early that afternoon. Maids carrying coal scuttles were making their journeys through Castle Rósmire to ensure that Braden and his men would be safe from the rising cold. His counsellors had been called to the keep that day and would be arriving within an hour for their latest meeting. There was much that needed to be discussed before the snow fell, threats which would not wait for Yule time to come and go.
Slipping into the outside staircase, Braden hissed as the cold wreathed around him. He tightened his fur cloak around his shoulders, felt his cropped hair ruffle in the wind. It was but a short walk down the spiralling staircase to the floors below. Yet even the humblest path Braden walked had always been paved with trouble…
It was as though the heavens themselves had burst open atop him. A stream of frigid water cascaded from the window above, drenching him from head to toe, so powerful in its decent that it almost knocked the laird off the battlements. Braden gave a tremendous cry as his clothes were soaked through, chilling him to the bone immediately.
Ears ringing, he stopped and gazed upwards once his shock had passed. A maid was hanging out of a window, an empty pale of water in hand. From the smell of soap now seeping into his garments, Braden surmised the water had originated from his bath, taken mere hours before. The maid’s face flashed red when she noticed him, her mouth falling agape as she struggled to voice an apology.
“Heaven and earth! Melaird, forgive me! I-I hadnae any idea that ye were there,” she brayed, her face twisting with her shame. Her voice broke as she began to wipe, likely fearing some sort of punishment. “Och, please forgive me. Please!”
Braden raked a hand through his wet hair, shaking it out and waving her apologies off. He slipped out of his fur cloak, revealing his dampened coat and trews. The cold was gnawing at his skin, sticking to him and turning the water to ice.
“It’s all right, lass. Ye could nae see,” he urged, forcing himself to remain calm. He tried to say something else, but the woman was gone by the time he looked back up again.
Immediately shivering, he darted quickly back inside. Having reached the second storey of the keep, he changed course, headed not for his study down below but towards his sleeping chambers, where a warm hearth and a change of clothes awaited. The way was clear as he approached his chambers, and for that at least, Braden was glad. Upon reaching the door, however, he got the sense that something was awry within. He examined the handle closely, pressing his cold hand against it and finding it strangely warm.
“Someone is in here,” he thought. “But who…? Me attendants are elsewhere.”
His free hand snaked through the air and hovered above the dirk at his waist. Sucking in a steadying breath, he forced the door open with a vicious swing. It arced noiselessly on its hinges, revealing the lustre of the fire within. Braden shivered at the change in temperature, feeling his hackles rise as a shadow moved before the flames.
The next thing he heard was the sound of laughter. All things considered, much worse could have awaited him, as images of assassins lurking in the dark flashed in his mind’s eye.
“Look at the sight of ye,” cried Madden Kinnaird, placing his hands disapprovingly on his hips. “Three years away and I’ve come back to a keep turned on its head.” The handsome young man smiled, dropping his eyes. “Aye, but it’s braw to see ye, melaird.”
“Madden?” Braden murmured, promptly stepping inside. He closed the door behind him, dripping water over the threshold. “What are ye doing here? Why nae send word if ye had planned a return to the Highlands?”
“And ruin the surprise?” Madden laughed heartily, settling into the fur-lined chair before the fire. He swung one leg leisurely over the other, reaching for an apple from the low-standing table beside him. He took a bite, then gobbed: “Never mind surprises. I didnae want to draw any attention to the clan for nae braw reason. Last I recall, Irving used to intercept all yer messages. And he was nae champion of mine. Alas, it seems I need nae to have concerned meself with that. What is it they call him now. The Hamilton Beast? I heard whispers as I snuck through Dornoch… Och, Braden. What has happened?”
A chill ran down Braden’s spine at the mention of his cousin. While he had come to terms with Irving’s betrayal, the memory of his attack still caused his stomach to churn. He pressed his eyes shut, forcing away the memory of Irving’s blade, slicing through the skin below his rib. Pain ghosted beneath his heart, and he levelled his breathing. He would not allow himself to show any weakness while he was still so vulnerable.
Braden had never been the greatest fighter. He could wield a sword as well as any other clansmen, but there was nothing impressive about his technique. The real strength of his character took root in his trust, his kindness, his wit. Those qualities had eventually proved his downfall. Now he had nothing but regret, his heart filled with embers stoked by a need for vengeance, wanting to avenge himself, his honour.
“If ye ken enough to call him that, then ye will ken that I have nae desire to speak of him,” Braden replied sullenly. He held up a hand when Madden tried to rise from his seat, gesturing to his wet clothes. “A moment.”
He clicked his tongue against his palate and slipped into the adjoining room, then proceeded to undress himself. He felt Madden watching him quietly in the silence. Braden made sure to turn away, not wanting to reveal the ugly scars that decorated his chest. He paused for a moment to observe himself in the looking glass.
He was much smaller in body than Irving had been. Though, in truth, Irving had been larger than any highlander that Braden had ever seen. Braden was strong but lithe, having always possessed more grace than brute strength. His hair, a light, reddish blonde colour the same shade of his father’s, had been cropped short after his brush with death. The eyes that stared back at him he scarcely recognised from before his fall.
“Good,” Braden thought. “Let that old laird lay on the strand where Irving left him tae die, and all his bad luck with him.”
Once he had procured some dry clothes, he returned to the fire where Madden was sitting. His friend looked up at him, having set his apple aside and leaned forward.
“Ye were always like a brother to me,” Braden said, clasping a hand on his shoulder. “I ken what ye will say. Ye wish ye had been here to aid me.”
“Aye,” Madden said, nodding. “Ye kent what I would say.”
“Let those things remain unspoken. We can only focus on the future, now. I am alive. The Clan is mostly whole. Irving is long buried.” Braden felt the whisper of a smile form on his lips. He had not made the same mistake as his cousin. He had watched Irving’s body burn with his own eyes, until nothing had remained of him but bone and ash on the pyre. “And me most trusted advisor is returned tae me,” he added.
Madden turned in his seat, his brown eyes wide with hope. “Ye intend to restore me tae me place at yer side? Ye dinnae curse me fer staying across the sea for so long?”
“Ye went on me own order sto appease the Frangachs and Sassenachs alike, the least we could dae after Flodden. I take it Uncle Hendrie was glad tae see the back of ye, after hosting ye so long in Paris,” Braden teased, clapping him on the back and stepping away. He extracted his family’s ancestral blade from its display case, slipping it into his sheath ahead of the council meeting. “Aye, I would be a mighty hypocrite tae refuse ye the title that sent ye there in the first place. What’s more…” Braden stared down at the blade, which glinted in the firelight before he thrust it into its sheath. “I cannae think of a better man to help turn the keep back on its head, can ye?”
Madden was not prone to bursts of great emotion, but Braden saw joy sweep across his face before being quickly extinguished. He nodded, sealing his return to Dornoch and to the Hamilton Clan as the laird’s personal guard, when Braden needed him most.
A knock rapped on the door, interrupting the two men. Braden called for the guest to enter, surprised to see a maid appear. She was the one who had earlier tipped the pale of water on top of him. She wrung her hands before her, fiddling with a cloth of some sort, clearly desperate to make amends, likely on the order of the head housekeeper.
All too quickly, Madden hopped out of his seat, focused on an entirely different task now that a pretty young woman had presented herself to them. Braden laughed under his breath, turning back to the display case to close it.
“What’s the meaning fer yer call, lass?” Madden asked, pausing in the doorway. Braden glanced over his shoulder, watching as the tall, well-built Highlander wrapped an arm around the small woman’s shoulders. “Has the laird been cruel with ye?”
The words were teasing. Braden was no stranger to the comforts only a woman could provide, but he never touched the maids at the keep, and Madden knew it. In fact, since his return from the dead, he had not partaken in bed sport of any kind, having not wanted to, even while the clanswomen down in the burgh had been all too eager to welcome him home with their loving ministrations.
“I only meant to…” the maid trailed off, looking up at Madden with big, round eyes. Her face was flushed pink. Madden had not lost his touch on the Continent. He had been a menace before his departure, forever engaging in some flirtation with the poor yet receptive lasses of the clan. The maid hummed out of nervousness then turned to Braden. “Melaird, pray accept me apologies fer tipping that water on yer head. I never thought—“
The maid’s apology was cut off by a burst of laughter from Madden. He hopped away from the maid. “That’s what happened tae ye?” he roared, wiping a tear from his eye. “Och, ye’ll have tae forgive me too, melaird.”
Braden shook his head, clicking the display case shut. He swallowed down his niggling pride and forced a smile. “Ye can take me apologies and head on down the stairs, lass. Tell Isabele not to punish ye on account of me poor luck,” he added to the maid, knowing that the castle’s housekeeper took no prisoners.
He heard the scuttling of her feet, and then a door closed. Sighing, he returned his gaze to Madden, half expecting another round of teasing. His friend was staring after the door. He pointed towards it with its thumb.
“I dinnae recall that fair lass roaming these halls before me departure,” he said, shrugging. “Now, dinnae be getting the wrong ideas, melaird. I intend to be on me best behaviour, at least until I’ve settled in again.” He took on a rare contemplative air. “I saw carriages and riders coming through the burgh up tae the keep. Have I arrived in time fer a council meeting, or some such thing?”
“Ye have,” Braden replied, and gestured towards the door. As the men arrived in the hallway, he made certain to lock it behind him. “I’ve called the councilmen up before Yule. There is something on me mind which I wish to discuss with them.”
“Well, dinnae keep me waiting,” Madden said as they took up their walk. He stopped suddenly, putting a hand out to stop Braden from walking any further. Squinting, he observed Braden carefully in the light. “’Tis not like ye to be secretive. Has time changed ye, or is the topic of this meeting nae something of which ye wish to speak?”
With a drawn-out groan, Braden checked that the hallway was clear. He supposed the truth resided somewhere in the middle, and decided that speaking about the matter with Madden first might do something to help ease his apprehension.
“I have nae had a braw time, after having come back from Orkney. I ken what the clan thinks of me—ye will ken it soon enough, if ye didnae hear the gossiping in the burgh already. And I also ken that the opinion of our allies regarding me return differs greatly from that of our foes.”
“Ach, tis not so difficult tae imagine.” Madden nodded, dropping his voice low. “Tae some, ye must be a hero. Nae… A legend in the making: the man who eschewed his own death.”
“And to others,” Braden interjected, “I am the laird who could nae retrain control over his own clan. Who allowed his own flesh and blood to murder him, no matter whether he lived or died.” He shook his head, pushing the worst of his thoughts away. He glanced through a nearby window. Behind the glass, a light snowfall had begun. “I cannae wait fer time tae amend their opinions of me. I must act… Before Irving’s attempt on me life, I had planned tae take a wife.”
He smiled at the memory of Lady Adamina, the sister of the Viking Laird of Clan Leòideach. Though beautiful and spirited, Braden doubted they would have made a happy match in the end. Her heart had belonged to another, one of her brother’s advisors. She had managed to secure her own happy ending with him, even despite Irving’s interference.
Braden had put all other alliances on hold since his return, but the months were ticking ever forward. It was only a matter of time before someone else sought to make war with them, now that Irving was dead.
“This is what I wish to broach at the meeting,” Braden explained, feeling himself shrink under Madden’s anxious gaze. “Yule is fast approaching, and with it, I see a chance to rebuild the bridges between our clan here in Caithness and the lairds of the other highland seats.
“A long feast,” Braden continued. “Tae be held during Yule, during which time,” he held up a finger, “I may find meself securing a wife. The most powerful lairds that we ken must come, and they must see that I will nae be unseated again. This will nae be a time fer allies alone, but fer enemies too, that they might become something different.”
Madden furrowed his brow, having clearly picked up on Braden’s cautious tone. “And of these enemies,” he said warily, “are there none that will be refused an invitation? It is nae me place tae question ye, melaird. But some rivalries cannae—shouldnae—be fixed.”
Braden listened carefully, knowing exactly to whom Madden referred, but he could not agree. If he had any chance of restoring his clan’s faith in him, he needed to nip all threats in the bud before they could bloom with blood.
“If ye mean the young MacLeod laird…” Braden said. “Aye. I intend to have him be kent by us. He remembers our history. Too long have we existed in silence. He will come, we will meet, and hopefully we will forge a new future in peace.”
His friend’s face turned white, his lips pressed tightly together. Braden could see his own tortured memories reflected in Madden’s eyes. They had both only been children the last time a MacLeod clan chieftain had set foot on Hamilton soil. But they both remembered. How could they forget? The face of his father’s killer would likely haunt him forever.
When the last clan chieftain had died mere months after taking the life of Braden’s father, his son Lewis MacLeod had inherited the title. He and Braden had never met, but tensions were still alive from the times of their father’s feud, stoked by the memories of what had been lost, threatening to flame with every year that passed.
Silent threat that he was, Braden needed to see Lewis with his own eyes. Irving’s ploy had delayed their inevitable meeting by a year, but it could not be postponed forever. Forging such an unlikely alliance would help Braden’s cause massively.
And if he could not guarantee an alliance with Laird MacLeod, then he would make sure to smother a new war before it could begin…
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