The Scottish Highlands – 1281
“Soldiers! God in heaven, English soldiers!”
A cry of tenor shattered the silence of the idyllic summer day in the Highland meadow. Men hastily retrieved weapons. Women who had moments earlier been enjoying a bit of gossip scurried in search of children playing in the tall grass.
With a call to arms, the leader of the clan leapt upon his horse, drawing his sword. The horse reared up, then dropped to its knees, a knife embedded in its chest. As its rider fell, two English soldiers jumped on him and crushed his skull with a mallet.
A woman screamed and tried to escape, but her voice was abruptly stilled. When a younger woman rushed to her aid, she found herself surrounded by men whose eyes glittered with bloodlust.
Throughout the afternoon, the leaden skies reverberated with the clang of sword against armor, and the sound of terrified cries. By the time the sun had made its arc to the western sky, the grass of the Highland meadow was stained red with the blood of its people. Men, women, children, even infants at the breast, had been slaughtered.
Fortified by their successful attack, the soldiers turned their mounts toward home.
An eerie calm settled over the scene of carnage as an aged monk emerged from the woods. Walking among the dead, he began to administer the Last Rites.
When a movement caught his eye, he turned and studied the body of a lad, then shook his head, convinced that it had been merely the breeze rippling the boy’s clothes. Surely no one could have survived such a bloody massacre. Much to his surprise, the lad moved again. The monk hurried over, knelt, and touched a hand to his shoulder.
The boy lifted his head and peered at him through a haze of pain. His face had been split from temple to jaw by a blow from a sword.
“Praise God. You’re alive, then? Here, lad.” The monk pressed a square of linen to the boy’s wound. “This will stem the flow of blood.”
When the lad was assured that this was indeed a peaceful man of God, he rolled aside, revealing a depression in the ground in which were hidden twin boys, about six years, and a girl of three or four. All were bloody and dazed, but alive.
Recovering from his surprise, the monk helped them to sit, then removed a flask of spirits from his waist and held it to their lips. They drank greedily. All, that is, save the eldest, who refused nourishment as he stared through glazed eyes at the scene of carnage.
“Who are your people?” the monk asked.
“We are from the Clan Campbell,” the twins answered in unison. “Our father, Modric, was leader.”
“But how did you survive such a brutal attack?”
“Dillon,” the little girl said proudly, pointing to her beloved older brother. “He shielded us with his body.”
The monk studied the silent lad with interest. Heroism in one so young was a rare and precious thing.
“Did any of your clan manage to escape?”
The oldest stared around bleakly, then shook his head, overwhelmed by the fact that he and his brothers and sister were all that remained of an entire clan.
“Then you shall come with me to the monastery,” the monk said. “There we will offer thanks to God for your deliverance from the English swords.” As he began herding the children toward the distant spires, he said softly, “My name is Father Anselm. You will be safe with me. The monks will see to your future. And you, lass. What is your name?”
“Flame,” the little girl said proudly.
He cleared his throat. A most un-Christian name. “You will be sent to the nearby abbey, Flame, where the good sisters will educate you in the ways of a lady.”
He had gone some distance when he realized that the older lad was not with them. He returned to find the lad kneeling beside a man and woman. The man, like all the others, had been savaged nearly beyond recognition. The woman, her clothes torn from her, had been brutalized by the soldiers before death had mercifully claimed her.
“Come, lad. We will return on the morrow to bury the dead,” the priest said softly.
Still the boy continued to kneel, his eyes narrowed, his face expressionless.
“You must forget what you see here, lad,” the monk said.
“Nay.” For the first time, the boy broke his silence. His fists clenched at his sides. “I shall never forget.”
The monk was surprised by the hard, merciless look in the eyes of one so young. He had seen that look before. But only in the eyes of seasoned warriors.
“When I am old enough,” the boy added through gritted teeth, “I swear on the souls of my father and mother that I will avenge this deed. The English who did this thing will one day answer to Dillon Campbell.”