PROLOGUE
The words floated past Francis' ears, making him instantly alert. He understood both French and Gaelic. However, Gaelic excited him. It sounded magical and made him wonder why his parents had left their Scottish homeland. He ran a hand down his long, lean face and went to join the others.
“Maman?” he asked.
“Oui?” Lady Leona, countess of Annecy, raised a pale brow.
“Maman? Pourquoi restons-nous ici? Pourquoi ne retournons-nous pas avec Oncle Brodgar?” Why stay here? Why not return with Uncle Brodgar? It was a question that had plagued him all his childhood. At nineteen, it still did. No more so than now.
Uncle Brodgar excited his imagination. Big-shouldered, loud and funny, Uncle Brodgar was fascinating. He also spoke Gaelic. He was visiting from Scotland. Francis had been begging his parents for as long as he could remember if he could voyage to their homeland. It seemed all the more pertinent now, when he was a year or two shy of starting his own search for a wife.
“Porquoi?” he asked again, softly. Why?
His mother gave her answer. “Parce que nous possédons ces terres maintenant.” We own these lands now.
“Mais comment?” Francis wanted to know.
“C'est une longue histoire.”
Francis sighed. What did it matter, that it was a long story? He was quick and deft at his lessons, almost as appreciated there as he was on the practice ground, where Sir Anselm taught him sword skills. She should tell him!
Francis glanced up at his mother again, about to tell her something along those lines. She was already talking, making some important point to Uncle Brodgar and his moment passed.
“You have done well to extend those borders, Brodgar,” she said, raising a thin brow at the chieftain.
Brodgar chuckled. “Aye. As you can imagine, it took a fight. Old McAverly drives a hard bargain.”Uncle Brodgar looked like what he was, Francis thought, a chieftain from Scotland. He wore a tartan cloak in the green his mother said was the green of Dunkeld, her own family. That part of the description made no sense to Francis. He never had been to Scotland, and his mother's silence on the topic only added to his curiosity.
He knew a little of the family story. His mother was the granddaughter of the Count of Annecy. She and his father, Conn McNeil, had come to be the rulers here. Francis' father, Conn, looked little like the French nobles Francis had seen before.
The fact was a source of concern. Of all the youths his age – Gaston, Louis, Mathieu – Francis was the only one who looked like him. The only lean, red-haired, green-eyed youth at any gathering or joust in the estate courtyard. The girls noticed too.
His mind wandered to Millicent, a lady his father had suggested as a bride for him. With dark curls and big eyelids like his mother's, Lady Millicent was beautiful, poised and French. She stirred the young man's blood with her curvy figure and her red lips, but she was not as moved by him as he was by her. He knew she whispered disparagingly about him to her maid. Like the other youths, she called him “Redcap”.
Uncle Brodgar has the same sort of hair as Father. I reckon I look like him. Why can't we go back to Scotland?
It was useless asking his mother.
Now, Francis listened to a language he barely understood washing round his ears like the river against its banks – sweet, whispering, beguiling. He liked the sounds in it. He had to go back. The thought of finding a wife there appealed also. He imagined a woman with his mother's delicate, fair-haired beauty.
Francis made up his mind to ask his Father. His chance came later. His father was in his study, but the door was open and Francis cautiously approached his desk.
“Father?”
“Yes?” His father frowned. “What's the matter, son? Just let me finish reading this document...”
Francis watched his father scroll down a long parchment. It always impressed Francis that his father could read. All the others had fathers who employed stewards to do that for them.
“Very well,” he said after a few moments had passed. “All done. What's the matter, son?”
Francis frowned nervously. “Papa?”
“If you want to know if you and Mathieu can borrow Blade and Blaze tomorrow,” he said without looking up, “I'd say wait a day or two – they're still recovering after that last hunt.”
Blade and Blaze were his father's hunting horses. That wasn't what he wanted to ask.
“Papa? Would you and Mama let me go back with Uncle Brodgar? Back to Scotland, I mean?”
His father frowned. “Why, son?”
“Because, I want to go back. To see other people like me. It's important, Papa. And besides...” he trailed off, too shy to ask his father about the idea of finding a bride.
His father closed his eyes a moment. “Son...I know it's hard. But there just isn't anyone like you. There aren't that many French Scotsmen around.” He paused. “I know it's hard. All I can promise you is that one day, you'll see this horrible burden as a great gift. I know it. Standing out is a good thing. It means you get noticed. Which is no bad thing when looking for a wife!” He chuckled.
Francis grinned shyly. “Maybe...”
“Exactly,” his father persisted. “Do any of the youths get as much attention as you when you joust?”
“No, Papa.” he replied.
His father laughed. “Well, there you are. You see? Maybe they're just jealous.”
Francis shook his head mutely. Jealous? Of him?
“Well, think about it,” his father said solemnly. “People only try and break what they fear. And they fear what they don't understand. You'll always be different, Francis. And people will always try to break that. Don't let them.”
Francis sighed. He didn't really understand what his father said, but it made a comforting kind of sense.
“Maybe I'll believe you,” he said solemnly.
His father chuckled. “Good. I hope you do – I'd find it hard to stand up at court if I lied to my own son!”
They both chuckled.
“There,” his father said fondly. “So. You'll stay here and look for a wife, eh?”
Francis rolled his eyes. “I'll try, Father.”
“Good,” his father said. “You never know – you might be taking her to visit Scotland one day.”
Francis nodded. He could hope.