Facing Aillig, the leader of the marauders drew a sword that she instantly recognized as her father’s. The moonlight revealed bloodstains on the once gleaming steel. Her gaze riveted to his hands, also caked with dried blood. They had murdered her father and brother! She was certain of it. And she was equally certain that he would kill Aillig.
Her stomach lurched and the world began to spin.
In a flash, Aillig grabbed his dirk and lunged. Just as quickly, the intruder brought down his sword. Aillig cried out. His body contorted. Hot liquid splashed her face. In shock and horror, Davina realized it was Aillig’s blood. He dropped to the ground with a groan and then lay perfectly still.
It had all happened in the blink of an eye. Was life truly extinguished so easily?
She wanted to cry out, but she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t move. Sheer terror clutched her in its icy grasp, paralyzing her body and silencing her scream.
She squeezed her eyes shut but nothing could blot out the vicious vision of violence. She squeezed them tighter still, sending her fervent supplication to her mother in heaven, certain that she would convince God to send his angels to rescue her.
But when Davina opened her eyes, no angel had appeared.
Instead, the man with the black eyes stood before her. Stepping over Aillig’s body, he ordered his men to search the keep for booty. He then eyed Davina with a lecherous leer that sent chills down her spine.
Would he kill her… or worse? Davina was yet years from coming into womanhood, but she innately understood her danger—but she had no defense. Desperately, Davina fought to keep her wits about her. Something shiny drew her gaze to the ground.
It was Aillig’s dirk lying in a pool of blood only a few feet from where she stood. As he came toward her, she slowly backed herself toward the spot where the knife lay. With her heart pummeling her breastbone, Davina prepared to make her stand.
The moment he reached for her, she ducked to the ground, and scooped up the dirk. With all her might, she stabbed it deep into his foot. He froze with surprise and then let loose a primal howl. Seizing her chance, Davina grabbed her skirts in both fists and ran as fast as her legs could carry her!
Davina’s first instinct was to seek the safety of the keep, but then she remembered the other men. Were they inside? She turned instead to the stables. She must hide. And quickly!
Davina clambered up to the loft above and burrowed deep into the hay. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she pulled herself into a tight ball, and prayed she would not be discovered. The hay was musty and itchy but it would also provide warmth. The night had grown bitter, but it was more terror than cold that made her teeth chatter and her body quiver with uncontrollable tremors. Would he give up the chase or would he come looking for her?
A sound from below her made her heart jolt. Somebody had entered the barn. Pressing her face to the floorboards, she peered through the cracks but could see nothing.
The creak of wood, as if protesting beneath someone’s weight, sent a shiver of terror down her spine. He had not given up. She was certain he’d come to kill her. They’d already killed everyone else. Davina bit her fist to suppress the sob that rose into her throat. Why hadn’t she pulled up the ladder? Her heart pounded with panic. She had no weapon. She’d left Aillig’s dirk in the marauder’s foot.
Suddenly, she remembered the pitchfork. Sure enough, it stood in the corner leaning against the wall where Ewan had left it. Davina scrambled on all fours toward it. Arming herself with the three-pronged weapon, Davina waited until the top of his head appeared. Sucking in a great breath, she charged, shrieking like a banshee, with prongs aimed at his face.
He dodged her attack, but fell from the ladder, landing with a thud. The loft was at least eight feet up. Almost afraid to breathe, Davina peered over the edge. He lay crumpled on the ground below with his leg bent at an unnatural angle. Was he dead?
He shifted and groaned, proof that he was very much alive.
“You will pay for that, you little bitch!” he growled, attempting to stand.
Grunting and using the wall for support, he managed to pull himself upright, his face ashen and his chest heaving with his efforts. In terror, Davina threw down the pitchfork and grabbed the ladder, whimpering in her desperation to pull it up into the loft, but he made no further attempt to climb. Instead, he turned toward the door, dragging his injured right leg behind.
Had he finally given up? Relief washed over her in a warm wave—until the bolt slammed down on the door. He’d locked her in! Wondering his intent, Davina peered out through the cracks of the barn but he’d disappeared. What now? Was she a prisoner? Did he intend to hold her for ransom?
A moment later, he returned with a lit torch, flung the door open, and tossed it inside.
“Nae!” Davina screamed as his true intent became clear.
Hastily lowering the ladder, she scrambled down and rushed toward the torch in an attempt to stomp out the fire, but the stable floor was littered with straw. It was ready fodder for the flames and the door was bolted closed. In her desperation to douse the flames, Davina performed a frantic dance on the torch but only succeeded in catching her skirt hem on fire. She tore at the burning fabric with a shriek, only to spawn a second fire.
Two horses and the milk cow were inside the barn with her. Sensing danger, they began snorting and kicking their stalls. But there was no escape for any of them. Davina once more ran for the door, screaming and crying and pounding in vain. Smoke filled her nostrils and choked her lungs as the fire continued to grow and consume everything in its path. The horses reared and the cow bellowed in fear, but there was nothing she could do for them. Her only hope was to save herself.
Once more, she reached for the pitchfork. The last stall, the one where she had hoped to keep her new pony, had a rotten board that had yet to be replaced. Shoving the pitchfork into the crack, she pried with all her might but the wood refused to give.
On the second try, she was finally rewarded with the sound of splitting wood, but the second board proved much more obdurate. Throwing herself down into the muck, Davina kicked the boards with all the force she could command. The second board cracked and then broke. Davina pulled it away. The opening was narrow but, fortunately, she was small. Coughing and choking, she squeezed sideways through the opening and ran for the river, the only place safe from the raging fire.
From her new hiding place along the river, Davina watched the columns of smoke and fire reach for the sky. Every sound sent her heart racing with terror. She prayed that they believed her dead.
After a while, all had gone silent but she still cowered under a rowboat. When she finally closed her eyes, sleep eluded her. Elspeth’s screams still echoed in her ears. Had she been killed in her bed? Or something even worse? Davina wondered if she’d ever be able to sleep again.
Two days and two nights passed before Davina dared to venture out of her hiding place. Cold, thirst, and hunger drove her to overcome her fears. Just before dawn, she crept toward the castle, careful to conceal herself behind brush and boulders and anything else that provided cover.
Most of the horror of that night had been cloaked in darkness. She could only imagine what daylight would reveal. As the shadows of night began to fade, the totality of her desolation unfolded. What was once a proud tower of gray sandstone had been reduced to rubble, and nothing remained of the stables but a few charred timbers. The bailey that was usually filled with the sound and smells of livestock was eerily quiet. There was not a sign of life anywhere. Only death and destruction.
Armed with her pitchfork, Davina walked the ruins, feeling numb with grief and disbelief. They were all dead. Her father. Her brother. And Aillig, who had been murdered before her very eyes.
Why had these strangers come here and done this? She couldn’t begin to comprehend this kind of evil that would willfully and wantonly destroy everything she’d ever known… and everyone she loved. She was hungry, homeless, helpless, and very much alone.
>
Chapter Four
January 1, 1141
After leaving Castle Kilmuir, Fitz Duncan led his men on a steady southward trek, inspecting castles and conscripting soldiers as they traversed the Highlands toward Carlisle. They rode hard and rested little, covering many miles in brutal temperatures and snow so deep that it sometimes reached the horses’ chests. Fitz Duncan always rode at the front, leading his men, with his captains by his side.
Domnall learned quickly that though nobly bred, his father was a hard man who was accustomed to the privations of a soldier’s life. It was also evident from the swift and efficient manner in which his commands were carried out, that Fitz Duncan’s men regarded him with awe and respect.
When they’d arrived at Nethy Bridge, where they made temporary camp, the constable received Fitz Duncan with open arms. Treating him as the most honored of guests, he even vacated his own chambers to accommodate him in comfort. Was it out of reverence or fear? Perhaps a bit of both.
Domnall had no warm feelings for his sire, but he still couldn’t suppress a certain surge of pride to be Fitz Duncan’s son—even if he was regarded as a bastard. He could learn much from such a man. Yet, in three days of travel, Fitz Duncan had barely acknowledged Domnall, let alone spoken to him. He would have thought his presence had been forgotten altogether, were it not for a certain Guilbert Champernon, one of the rare Normans who spoke Gaelic, and one who appeared to have been put in charge of Domnall.
“Are ye a knight?” Domnall asked.
“Not yet,” Champernon answered. “I have five years left to serve as a squire.”
“I dinna understand,” Domnall said. “If a man can ride well and fight well, why canna he be a knight?”
“Because Knighthood is more than fighting. It requires strict discipline and much preparation. I began serving Fitz Duncan as a page at seven years and have already been ten years in training,” Champernon pronounced proudly.
His declaration hardly impressed Domnall. “Ten years and ye still havena mastered it?”
Champernon scowled. “You don’t understand how ’tis. Any man who wishes to become a knight must prove himself beyond mastering the arts of war. He must live by the code.”
“What code is this?” Domnall asked.
“The chivalric code,” Champernon replied with an exasperated huff. “’Tis the virtues that all knights live by. Do you know the Chanson de Roland?”
“Nae,” Domnall said. “Who is Roland?”
“Only one of the greatest knights of all time,” Champernon answered. “He set the standard to which all should aspire. You must read the poem.”
“I dinna like books,” Domnall replied with a scowl.
“If you wish to be a knight, you must do many things you may dislike,” Champernon replied. “You will start as a page, in which role you will fetch and carry and humbly do whatever menial task your lord requires of you. If you do well and please your lord, you will be promoted to squire when you are old enough.”
“What does a squire do?”
“A squire assists his knight in whatever capacity is needed, but he also trains to fight.”
“Then I’ll skip the page and become a squire,” Domnall said.
“It is not your choice to do so,” Champernon replied. “You must be at least fourteen to become a squire.”
“But that’s four years away!” Domnall said.
Champernon shrugged. “There is no shortcut.”
Nevertheless, Domnall vowed to find one. He was a Highlander, not a Norman, and refused to spend the next decade of his life in servitude. “’Tis nae the way of it in the Highlands,” Domnall said. “’Tis the worthiest man who rules the clan, regardless of his birth.”
“Are there no noble families?” Champernon asked.
“Aye, but a man must still prove himself or be replaced.”
“Replaced?” Champernon threw his head back with a laugh. “’Tis a kind way to phrase murder.”
Domnall flushed in the face of his companion’s mockery. “’Tis only the way of it when a weak man refuses to step aside for the good of the clan.”
“Or when a more ambitious man desires his place,” Champernon argued.
“What of ye?” Domnall asked. “What is yer ambition? Why do ye seek to become a knight?”
“As a younger son, ’tis my only recourse,” Champernon said.
Domnall realized then how precarious his own position was. Like Champernon, he had nothing to inherit and no desire to seek a living in the church. His only way path forward was to learn the ways of war. And whether he liked it or not, Fitz Duncan was the best man to teach him.
*
They spent Christmas Day at Cadzow Castle, the king’s favored hunting lodge, where Fitz Duncan gave the men leave to celebrate, but ’twas a far cry from the festivities that Domnall was accustomed to. Rather than pipers and feasting, the Normans spent hours in the castle chapel on their knees in prayer. The meal that followed was generous enough, and the wine flowed freely, but the levity and mirth of a Highland holiday were sorely lacking. The more Domnall learned of the Norman ways, the more he disliked them. He wished he was back at Black Isle at Castle Kilmuir where they would make merry well into the wee hours.
The day after Christmas, Domnall and Champernon were permitted to join Fitz Duncan and the castle constable, along with a select group of senior knights, on a boar hunt in the great oak forest surrounding the castle. Domnall had hunted birds and rabbits and other small game with his stepfather, Fergus, since he was a wee lad, but he’d never experienced the excitement of a boar hunt.
Domnall was still rubbing sleep from his eyes when he entered the great hall where the hunters had gathered. They broke their fast quickly, passing around baskets of hot bannocks and pitchers of cider. A pack of dogs circled the tables panting in excitement. Anticipation filled the air as the group of men and hounds departed the great hall bound for the armory to gather weapons for the hunt. In wonderment, Domnall stared at the massive display of spears, axes, javelins, and swords that covered the four walls.
Champernon handed him a long spear with wings jutting out from the base of the point. “’Tis designed for boar hunting,” he explained. “The shape of the head keeps the beast from running through the spear.”
“Through it?” Domnall asked.
“Aye. A wild pig is a mad beast. Even impaled on a spear, he’ll still try to kill you.”
“Have ye seen it?” Domnall asked.
“Aye,” Champernon replied grimly. “I’ve witnessed a number of men mauled by wild pigs. There’s no more aggressive game.”
Domnall digested that information with a hard swallow. He knew wild boars were fast and easily antagonized, but he’d not understood the full scope of the hazard. Domnall accepted the spear and tested its unfamiliar weight in his hand.
“’Tis unlikely you will need it,” Champernon said, “but you should carry it just in case. We hunt during breeding season. They will be easily provoked.”
Armed with knives, bows and boar spears, the group of hunters exited the keep, bound for the dog kennels. The air was chill and the first rays of the sun were just beginning to break through the lingering shadows of night.
The dogs’ excitement had now reached a fevered pitch. The pack was a mixture of breeds, all with muscular bodies and slobbering jowls. Although whimpering to be let loose from their leashes, the hunt master ignored their pleas. Instead, he called for the limers.
“The scent hounds,” Champernon answered Domnall’s inquiring look.
Two lads emerged from the kennels with a pair of smaller, snub-nosed dogs that immediately commenced circling with noses to the ground. Domnall could smell only mud and manure but the dogs seemed to detect something more.
“Now what?” Domnall asked.
“They will track the game,” Champernon answered. “Once they detect a scent, the hunt will commence. Come,” he said. “We must prepare the horses.”
Domnall accompan
ied the squires who were responsible for saddling their knight’s mounts for the hunt and then their own. By the time Domnall was mounted, the limers had returned, baying and frantically wagging their tails, and working the hunting hounds into a veritable frenzy.
With a nod of his head and then a blast of his horn, the master of the hunt commanded the hounds’ release. A canine chorus of howls erupted as the dogs raced from the bailey toward the forest.
Laughing and shouting, the hunters spurred their horses in a mad dash to catch up with the dogs. As Domnall expected, Fitz Duncan was at the head of the group. The pack soon splintered, the hounds now running in two different directions. Though he was lagging far behind on an inferior horse, Domnall continued to chase after his sire, clinging tightly to his galloping horse’s neck to avoid the low hanging boughs. Champernon was not so lucky, getting smashed in the face by a branch and swept from his mount. His fellow hunters demonstrated as little concern as his rider-less horse, leaving him behind as they continued the chase.
Domnall quickly lost sight of the other men, but the sound of baying dogs echoed through the woods. As he turned to follow the sound, something large and dark bolted out from the brush, spooking his horse. It reared in fear and Domnall hit the ground. The impact of his fall knocked both the wind out of his lungs and the spear from his hand. He was still gasping for breath as he discovered the dark blur that had nearly rammed into him was an enormous black boar with blood gushing from its side.
Keeping his eyes on the animal, he fumbled for his dirk and clambered backward toward the nearest tree, hoping to scale it for safety. But his movement must have caught the animal’s attention. The boar spun toward him and charged. Domnall’s heart leaped into his throat as he raised his knife to defend himself. His dirk, however, was no match against the boar’s long, razor-sharp tusks.
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