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Castle Diabaig, The Highlands, October 1356

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Craggy mountains that seemed infinite in their ascent to the sky tore through the land like the back of a massive sleeping dragon. Two inland lochs lay beneath them in placid harmony. A little further to the south was Loch Torridon, an idyllic spot right by the Inner Seas off the west coast of Scotland and called the Minch.

On a clear autumn day such as this, some of Diabaig’s inhabitants imagined that they could see as far as the Isle of Lewis to the west. This was, of course, not true. The island was many leagues away and marked the boundary of the British Isles before the crashing waves of the Atlantic Ocean claimed the horizon as their own.

Loch Torridon added to the serene beauty of the landscape, softening it in ways that only a person from the Highlands could understand. Despite being a marine loch, it was sheltered and bounded on all sides by the land. However, to the west, there was an opening, which led out to the sea that could be rough and unforgiving in the winter.

It was like a separate land, seductive and beautiful and shrouded in mystique. High above were blue skies on which fluffy white clouds paused in their journeys, telling a story of the rains that would soon come. It would not be long until the grassy undulations would be covered in a hoary mantle when the temperatures dropped.

On a small islet in the loch, a castle reared up like a jagged tooth in the water. It was the home of Laird Alastair of the Clan Macleod of Wallis. The name of Wallis was what distinguished them from the Macleod’s of Lewis and of Harris. Whereas their namesakes ruled far greater lands and boasted larger castles, these cousins of the family were known for their ferocity in battle and their fiery red hair.

Another thing that defined them was their herds of cattle. For some reason, the combination of the soil in this part of Scotland, in a perfect arrangement with the proximity of the sea, provided for some of the finest bovine specimens in the country. Up and above the castle, on the hills, these great horned, shaggy beasts stood indolently, grazing on the lush green grass with hearty rips.

“Look!” Brice Macleod let his gaze sweep over the land of his ancestors. In the distance, he could see a group of horsemen approaching. “Ye are right, my love. It appears we are to have visitors.”

The woman standing next to him squinted. She was blonde of hair, tall and strong. She was beautiful but not in the classic sense. Instead of girlish sweetness, she exuded the power of a Nordic shield maiden. And it was true. Instead of sewing like her younger sister, this woman preferred the sword and shield to the needle and thread.

“Who do ye think it is?” asked Skye of her husband.

“I dinnae ken,” said Brice. He was tall and powerful and strong and athletic of build. He was the eldest son of the laird of the clan and the next in line to the title.

“It could be yer brother and mine returning home from the war with the English.” There was a gleam of hope in Skye’s blue eyes.

“Already?” Brice furrowed his brow.

“Why de ye look so concerned, husband?”

“It dinnae bode well if it is them.”

“Why do ye say that?” Skye did not return her scrutiny to the fifteen-odd horsemen that presently entered the village or burgh, riding in the direction of the castle.

Brice turned to look at his wife. He could see the concern etched onto her features. “Because if they beat the English in France, my brother, Doogle, and yer brothers would still be there. Their early return would speak of defeat.”

Skye arched her eyebrows. She understood the logic in her husband’s words. “We better get to the castle. Whoever it is will definitely seek out an audience with yer father.”

“Aye, lassie. Ye are right. Let’s go.” He grinned at her as a thought came to mind. “Last one down the hill does the other’s bidding for a week,” shouted Brice, starting his decent with a run.

“And I ken what it is ye will have me do should ye win,” cried Skye after him. She chuckled as she picked up her plaid from around her long legs and followed him.

“I wager ye are looking forward to it.” Brice already had a head start. He loved this game. It was something he had always played with his two younger brothers when they were lads.

The two of them raced down the hill in the direction of the village. It was a typical medieval settlement with a church, a blacksmith’s workshop, and a tavern. The buildings were largely made of stone, and some on the outskirts of wattle and daub. And the main thoroughfare was stone-paved. It was something Brice’s father had commissioned to make transport easier. Before the betterment, the road had turned into a muddy quagmire when it rained, and that was a lot in the Highlands.

“It’s not fair. Ye had a head start,” shouted Skye, trying to catch up.

Her husband laughed. “Ye say that because I am winning.”

“I say it because ye cheated. It’s always the same with ye, Brice Macleod.”

Brice laughed again. By now, they had entered the village. The people there shouted encouragement to the laird’s son and his wife. They had seen this spectacle many times before. They loved the beautiful Skye and her man. But even more so had they grown fond of the couple’s five-year-old son and three-year-old daughter.

“Ye will stop for a kiss,” said Skye with deep gasps. She stopped running and waited for her husband to turn around.

It did not take long for Brice to slowly turn and face his wife. The breath hitched in his throat. It amazed him that she always had such a hypnotic effect on him. The sight of her blue eyes twinkling at him had the power to make him fall in love with her all over again.

They’d known each other since they were children. They had shared their first kiss when he was fourteen and she twelve. Skye was the only woman Brice had ever loved. It was as if God himself had forged their union in the heavens.

“Are ye going to kiss me or not?” Skye ran her tongue over her lips.

“Aye, lassie. I will kiss ye.” He strode toward her and took her in his arms.

Time seemed to stand still as he pressed his lips against hers. Skye tasted as sweet and fresh as the water running in the burns nearby. It was common knowledge in the Highlands that the water there was the best in the world.

“Now, that is what I call cheating, wife.”

“Really?”

“Aye! Ye ken that I cannae resist a beautiful woman begging for a kiss,” said Brice, pulling slightly away.

“A woman?”

He chuckled and planted another kiss on her lips. “Not just any woman. Only ye, Skye.”

She mewed contently. It was precisely what she wanted to hear. “I have no doubts that ye ken what would’ve happened to ye had ye not qualified yer remark.”

“Aye, lassie. Ye would’ve stuck it to me with yer sword.”

Skye nodded. “My Da gave it to me to use on unruly husbands.”

“I ken.” Brice smiled when a memory came to mind. “I’d rather ye spearing me with your sword than yer da kicking me in the bawsack like the night we first lay together,” said Brice, referring to the time he and Skye had first made love by the loch.

Skye’s father, Mungo, had found them and nearly killed Brice in the process. But Brice had held his own well, earning the right to marry the great warrior’s daughter with his blessing.

“It was the evening during the feast when we announced our betrothal in the Great Hall,” said Skye with dreamy eyes.

It was one of the happiest days of her life. Their marriage and the births of their two children were the only other two events that rivaled it. Her love for her husband would last forever.

“Speaking of that, I suggest we go to the Great Hall. The riders have surely already made it to yer father.”

Brice nodded. “Aye. We best get a move on. I am dying to ken what it is that those men have to say.”

They started walking again, but this time they held hands. They crossed the stone bridge that led to the castle on the small island in the middle of the loch. It was ideally situated for protection purposes. The only way to reach it was by using the bridge or by boat.

The structure itself was relatively simple compared to some of the castles in France and England. It was a square edifice with crenelated battlements on all sides. At the front, there was a single tower containing the gatehouse. It comprised the openings used for spewing hot oil on any would-be attacker. There was one other tower a little further down. It was a recent addition for defensive purposes, and it also provided more living space for the soldiers.

The guards holding vigil greeted the laird’s son and his wife. “Yer brothers have returned,” announced one of them.

“What say ye, Hamish?” asked Brice with a scowl.

“Alick and Bruce have returned from France,” said the man who addressed them before.

“Aye, they did not seem all that happy, if I may say so,” added the other sentry.

Skye and Brice exchanged an uneasy look. “Did they say anything?” asked Skye.

The two guards shook their heads. “No, all they wanted to ken was whether the laird was in residence,” said one of them.

“And Doogle? He was with them?” asked Brice.

The two men exchanged glances.

“Come on, out with it,” ordered Brice, feeling a cold shiver slide down his spine.

“No, yer brother was not with them.”

Brice pulled on Skye’s hand and guided her through the portcullis to the inner courtyard. Already, the men that had accompanied Alick and Bruce tethered the horses.

“Were ye in France with my brothers?” asked Skye, beating her husband to it.

“Aye, we were,” answered one of the riders. He looked haggard and was covered in dirt.

“What of my brother, Doogle?” asked Brice.

“Ye best speak to Alick and Bruce.” The clansman looked around at his fellows nervously. All of them shared the same expression of worry and exhaustion on their faces. “They are with yer father in the Great Hall.”

“Come on, Skye; we won’t find out anything here. Father will know what happened.” Brice marched into the keep with Skye following closely in his wake.

Moments later, the two of them strode into the Great Hall. It was where feasts took place, and the laird received visitants or supplicants. It was the most impressive chamber in the castle. It was a large rectangular room that was three times as long as it was wide. The ceiling arched up, culminating in vaulted wooden beams that arced from the thick stone walls on the sides. On one side of the hall, enormous mullioned windows with beautifully decorated frames lined the flanks. On the other, magnificent wall tapestries bedecked the stone.

In the center wall, opposite the windows, there was a large fireplace with an elaborate overmantle with stone carvings, depicting the clan’s coat of arms. The sigil consisted of a red background with a white animal on it – a wolf, the fearsome beast that still roamed the Highlands in free abandon. The chamber, though slightly frugal compared to English and French taste, was magnificent. Various tapestries hung on the walls. Off and on and in between, banners hung loosely from the ceiling, showing off the clan’s crest.

In the far reaches of the chamber, there was a dais where the laird, his wife, and chief advisors sat. On it, stood a large teak table upon which heavily wrought silver candelabras reared. Above it hung a chandelier that the Scots called a hart-horn. It was made of deer antler.

By the entrance, there was a minstrel’s gallery for the musicians during a banquet. A huge fireplace in which a man could stand stood in the center and provided light and warmth. Along the walls and on a ledge, hundreds of candles cast their light when it was dark. Everything in the great room denoted the clan’s rise to fortune in the past one hundred and fifty years. They had played pivotal roles in the shaping of the history of Scotland, and their efforts could be seen in everything around the homestead.

Up some steps that led up to a wooden gallery that lined the upper echelons of the hall was the entrance to the solar, the principle sleeping accommodation for the laird and lady. Other chambers where the rest of the family slept could be found nearby.

“Son, it is good that ye are here,” announced Alastair, peering down at his son and daughter-in-law as they walked up the entire length of the hall.

Lady Mary, Brice’s mother, looked down at her son from her position on the quasi-throne situated on the plinth. She sat next to her husband. Their chairs stood before the large dining table. Flanking them were two burly, stoic clansmen. Also in the Great Hall were Mungo and Murtagh, the laird’s trusty advisors. The moment they had heard that members of the clan had reached the burgh, they had ceased what they were doing and had attended to their laird and dearest friend who was more of a brother to them than anything else.

Mary was still a magnificent woman. She was close to fifty summers old. Yet, her demeanor and countenance did not betray her advancing years. She was still slim, refusing to succumb to the travails many a woman suffered from birthing three healthy sons. Her skin was soft and seductively pale like the snow on the mountain peaks in the winter. The structure of her face was flawless. The only imperfection, if one could call it such, was a small hollow on her chin.

She had brown doe-like eyes that effused sweetness and strong will. Her hair, like her husband’s, was auburn, albeit less fiery red than his mane of fine curls. If there was any clue that she was a mother of three and a woman of certain maturity, then it was a slight web of wrinkles around her eyes that spoke of much laughter and love in her life.

Mary wore a silk chequered arisad. This was a plaid that reached from the neck to the heels and was tied on her breast with a buckle of heavy silver. The ornate clasp with a large gemstone in the center denoted her rank. The plaid, being pleated all around, was held in place below the breast with a belt of leather covered in places with plaques of silver and gems. Under it, a man’s vest made of silk with gold lace and plate buttons with fine stones covered her slender but firm physique.

Rounding off her appearance was a headdress of fine linen kerchief attached straight and tight about the head, hanging down the back taper-wise. A large wisp of her red hair hung down her cheeks above the breast with the lower end tied with a knot of ribbons.

“Alick, Bruce,” cried Skye, running to her stepbrothers. She embraced each one of them in turn.

“Good to see that ye both are well. But what of Doogle?” asked Brice, clasping the two other men’s hands.

“We dinnae ken, Brice,” said Alick. The color on his face appeared to curdle into a pasty white with the words.

“What do ye mean, ‘ye dinnae ken’?” Mungo growled, stepping off of the plinth.

He took a few large steps in his stepson’s direction. The man was like a mountain on the move. His dark hair was streaked with gray, and he had a deep scar across his face.

“Da, we lost him after the Battle of Poitiers,” said Alick, taking a step back in the face of his stepfather’s angry countenance.

“Ye what?” Mungo growled again. By now, only a hand’s breadth separated his head from that of his stepson’s.

“It was a disaster, Da. The English were everywhere,” said Bruce, coming to his brother’s aid.

“The English were everywhere.” Mungo slapped the back of Bruce’s head. “How can ye ken where the Sassenachs were and not ken where yer fellow clansman was? Are the two of ye aff yer heids? Ye are oathbound to protect yer laird’s son with yer lives. Have I taught ye nothing?”

“Da, we…”

“Mungo, let them explain themselves,” Alastair said in an authoritative tone.

“Aye, my Laird,” said Mungo, moving away from his stepsons. He placed his hands on his hips and glowered at his lads.

The laird was a tower of a man. Although not as hefty in shape as either Murtagh or Mungo, he had a herculean physique that would put any Greek sculpture of a god to shame – not the boyish ones, but the ones of Poseidon or maybe even Zeus. His red hair, streaked with slivers of gray, was like a fire in its luminance. His face was chiseled and strong, but it also radiated immeasurable kindness. It had taken on the toll of age, but the lines found there were of happiness, quashing any contours of worry and sadness that might have settled had he not been so in love with life and the woman sitting next to him.

He sported a thick red beard with streaks of gray, matching the unruly tuft of curly hair on his head that appeared to be as large as a lion’s. A plaid about seven or eight yards long, which covered from the neck to the knees, except for the right arm, mostly enclosed his body. Beneath the plaid, he wore a waistcoat and a shirt to the same length as the drape of the plaid.

His long stockings were made of the same stuff as the plaid, and his shoes were called ‘brocks’. Like the other men in the hall, a large claymore hung from his waist. The laird peered down at Alick and Bruce with his piercing blue eyes. His mouth was a grim line. In his entirety, the man was like a king.

“Well, laddies – are ye going to enlighten yer laird?” encouraged Mungo with a growl.

“We were surrounded by the enemy – the men on the front line started to retreat. Doogle saw that the King of France was in trouble, so he made to help him. Bruce and I tried to follow, but the tide of retreating soldiers blocked our path.”

“We did not have a chance, my Laird. Yer son vanished in the melee,” added Bruce.

Alastair did not respond immediately.

Instead, Mungo was the first to speak. “Ye mean to tell me that ye made no attempt to find him?”

“Da, after we got away, we tried to find Doogle, but the Earl of Douglas ordered us to return home and spread the news of a French defeat. We couldn’t disobey.”

“It’s alright, Mungo. They were only following their superior’s orders,” said Alastair, raising a hand. “So, my laddie is either dead or alive in France?”

Bruce and Alick gulped. After a few heartbeats, they nodded.

“Aye, my Laird,” they said in unison.

Alastair got to his feet and started pacing up and down.

Lady Mary cleared her throat. “May I suggest Alick and Bruce get cleaned up? They look exhausted, husband.”

Alastair stopped his pacing. “Aye, Mary, ye are right.” He turned to look at the two men. “I dinnae blame ye. I ken how determined my son can be when he’s put something in his mind. Go and rest. We will speak later.”

“Thank ye, my Laird,” said Alick. The relief on his face was palpable.

“Ye will not be getting away that easy. While ye are washing and eating, ye will tell me everything that happened.” Mungo growled.

“And I will join ye, brother,” said Murtagh, stepping off of the platform. The equally heavyset man with grayish, black hair marched up to Mungo and slapped him on the back. “If we find out that either of them is craven, ye will need my help to toss them into the loch.”

Mungo nodded solemnly. “Only after I’ve chopped their wellies off.” He turned to face Alastair. “We have yer permission to leave, my Laird?” Usually, he would call him by his Christian name, but in situations like these, he preferred his friend’s formal title.

Alastair dipped his head. “Don’t be too hard on them. I ken yer sons, and they are no cowards. I am certain they did all they could given the circumstances.”

“We will see about that, my Laird.”

With those words, Mungo and Murtagh marched down the Great Hall with Alick and Bruce following closely in their wake.

“Doogle is not dead,” said Mary.

Alastair turned to look at his wife. “I hope ye are right, my love.”

Mary stroked his hand. “A mother can always feel when her children are in trouble.” She pleated her brow. “I somehow have the feeling that Doogle is in good hands.”