Prologue
Dunnottar Castle,
Kingdom of Scotland
1134 A.D.
“Alexander! Mo mhac! Ye must come!” There was no mistaking the urgency in her voice or the apprehension in her eyes. His mother was afraid.
Her gaze darted around the room as if searching for something. “Morag!” she called out to his nurse maid. “It is time. Where is the pack?”
The maid scurried from the shadows bearing a large satchel. Satchels signified journeys. Were they going somewhere?
“What is wrong, Máthair?” Alexander asked.
“No time for questions. Come quickly,” she hissed, her hand closing tightly around his as she pulled him briskly toward the back stairs. It was twilight and eerily dark as they stumbled down the narrow, stone steps. He wondered why they’d used the servant’s entrance and why they didn’t carry a lantern.
They emerged in the courtyard where a groom stood with two saddled horses beside a man he didn’t recognize clad in black robes.
Were they finally returning home to Fettercairn? He hated Castle Dunnottar and didn’t like his stern uncle who’d brought them here. There were no other children to play with in this place. Only silent and somber servants who scurried around like frightened mice. For weeks, Alex had stared out his window at the lonely landscape and the vast, gray ocean. His uncle had insisted they were there for their protection, but Alexander felt like a prisoner confined in this isolated, clifftop fortress.
He missed his home in the Grampian foothills. Fettercairn wasn’t a cold, stone fortress surrounded by endless angry seas. It was a village unto itself, bustling with people. His home overlooked a river filled with salmon and was surrounded by woodlands teeming with wild game. He’d already learned how to build a rabbit snare, and had a falcon of his very own. His father had promised to teach him to hunt stag and boar as soon as he was big enough, but his father had gone away.
“Alexander, this is Faither Gregor,” his mother said. “Ye must go with him.”
Fear gripped him, sending a pulse of pure panic through his veins. He should have relished the idea of going away, but his instincts told him something was very, very wrong.
“I’m going alone, Máthair?”
“Aye. Tis for yer safety,” she insisted.
“I dinna understand. Why canna we go together? Why canna I stay with ye? Please, Máthair!”
“Ye canna stay with me!” she said.
“But I dinna want to go!” he cried out and pulled out of her grasp. “Why do I have to leave?”
“Please, Alexander,” she pleaded. “Yer faither has been taken away and the same men who did this deed will surely come looking for ye.”
“Who?” he asked. “Who has taken Faither?”
“I dinna ken.” She averted her face with a sniff.
“W-will they kill him?” he asked, fighting the quaver in his voice. At four years old, he didn’t quite comprehend death. He only understood that they buried dead people in the cold, dark ground. He wanted his father to live and come home. He wanted them all to go home.
“Ye ask questions I have no answer for, mo chridhe. All I ken is that ye are also in danger and I canna protect ye.”
Alexander’s eyes burned. He tried to hold back, but scalding tears began leaking down his face. He shut his eyes but the flood still would not be dammed.
She gripped his shoulders and gave him a firm shake that nearly made his teeth rattle. He’d never seen her look so fierce. “No more of that, my lad. Ye are from warrior stock. Ye must be brave.”
“When will I see ye again?” he asked.
“When it is safe, I will send for ye. Until then, no one must ken where ye are… or who ye are.” Her grip tightened painfully on his shoulders. “Do ye understand me?”
“Aye, Máthair,” he replied in a choked whisper.
“Good.” She reached inside her cloak and withdrew a silver mounted sgian-dubh. “Take this. It was yer grandfather’s.”
Alexander fingered the leather sheath and then gingerly withdrew the blade and squinted at the inscription. Veritatem, Virtutem, Vindictae. He recognized that it was written in Latin but at four years old, had only just begun his lessons. “What does it mean?”
“Truth, valor, vengeance,” she replied. “’Tis the ancient motto of the seven mormaers.” She looked to the priest. “Faither Gregor will teach ye how to use it.”
The priest inclined his head. “Dinna fear, my lady. The lad will be safe with me.”
“As God is our witness, I hold ye to yer word, Faither.” She then knelt and took Alex’s face in both of her cold hands. Her gaze softened as she kissed his tear-dampened cheeks.
Unable to hold back, Alexander threw both of his arms around her neck. She pulled him into her bosom where she held him tight, her own body now racked with quiet sobs. After a long moment, she withdrew, pulled his woolen plaid tightly around him, and nodded to the priest.