Girnigoe Castle, Wick
Northern Scotland
August 1388
A streak of fire brightened the night sky. Callum Sinclair finished his rounds of training for the day and walked toward the keep. He peered at the sky in wonder of the magnificent sight. The ball of fire sent a trail of dust in its wake and crossed the heavens. His clansmen and women knelt on the ground with their hands over their hearts. Prayers of salvation came in hushed tones. He reached the center of the mass of people who gazed above with wide and fearful eyes. Their woeful words tightened his chest because they considered the sight a sign of God’s wrath.
“Clansmen, don’t despair.”
“We’re doomed,” said a man nearby.
“Aye, God is angry. We will perish,” said another.
He suspected, as did his clansmen, the fireball brought forth a sign of disaster or change, or perhaps even the end of existence. Yet, someone had to keep his clansmen calm, else they’d rally and cause more disorder with their terror. His brother, the laird, should be amongst the people and needed to soothe their fears. The laird’s guidance and forbearance would allay the clansmen, but his brother was nowhere to be found.
Callum took the arm of a man and helped him to rise. “Fear not. The danger is far from us and we won’t be harmed. All rise and get off your knees. The fire is in the sky and cannot reach us here. We’re not in danger and are safe.”
“It will bring pestilence and death,” a woman said with despair. “We will sicken and die.”
He reached the woman and took her hand, and clasped it with solace. “It will not. Come, all, rise, and return to your homes. On the morrow, you will see, all shall be well. There is no danger.” His clansmen followed his advice. He stood and peered at the fireball, and hoped his words rang true.
For nights the brightness lent to his clan’s dismay, and many resigned it was a bad omen, a somber, smiteful sign of God’s displeasure. As much as he believed his words of reassurance, he reasoned a great change would come. Callum drew himself away from the spectacle and entered the great hall. A gathering crowded the inside, and his brother insisted to celebrate the foretelling of the calamity. Gavin, his brother and laird, seemed pleased at the appearance of the fireball. Callum didn’t know what to make of it. He wasn’t as superstitious as most within his clan, but something told him to heed the fireball’s warning.
On his way to the table where his comrades sat, he snatched a cup of ale from a passing serving lass, and took the open spot next to his cousin, Clive. He wanted to reprimand Gavin for not lessening the fears of their clansmen, but he held silent since it wasn’t his place to rebuke his laird.
Gavin called quiet to those in the hall when he stood and lifted his hand. He spilled a good bit of ale down the front of his tunic but disregarded it. “We shall raise our cups. The great fire brings change, my friends. We rejoice and shall receive God’s will, whatever it brings. Let us join cups in acceptance and forbearance.”
Cheers from those inside the hall rose, and cups clinked.
Why his brother looked pointedly at him when he made his speech, Callum wasn’t sure. He nudged his cousin’s shoulder and called to Clive. “What’s gotten into him?”
Clive diverted his attention from their comrades, Keith Sutherland and Grady Mackay, neighbors from allied clans, and chuckled. He slapped the table with his massive palm and bellowed. “He’s sotted. Pay him no mind.”
Keith shook his blondish locks and chortled. “Aye, he’s taken to his cup early this morn and hasn’t let up since. I doubt he’ll make it to his bed on his own this night.”
Grady smirked and joined in, “That’s the fifth toast he’s made since I got here.”
He regarded his comrades, Keith light and forbearing, and Grady dark and menacing. Both had been his friends since they’d begun their warrior training. Now that they’d grown, his comrades visited often, and their keep was more a home than their own. His comrades traveled with him for three years in their pursuit of wealth in protecting lords and religious figures across the channel.
Their employment enriched them, not only with wealth but also with maturity. They returned with enough coins to weigh down their horses. Neither Keith nor Grady had cause to call them home. How he wished he had no responsibilities, but alas, he wasn’t as free. On his return from their sojourn, he decided it was best to put youthful pursuits behind him.
“Gavin should be concerned for our clansmen, not here, carousing with his brethren. When did James Douglas arrive?” Callum nodded in gesture to another comrade across the hall. He hadn’t heard James visited, but he’d been on the training field since sunup. Their comrade from the south rarely came this far north. There must be a good reason he traveled the great distance.
“He’s asked your brother to supply him with a handful of men. James means to raid England’s border again,” Keith said with a grimace.
“Aye, James intends to show the king we won’t bow to the English king, with or without his approval. Robert won’t heed the past wrongs and allows the English to roam our lands at will. If the king doesn’t show force against King Richard, they’ll try to overtake us again,” Grady said.
Clive grunted and nodded, and his red waves covered his eyes. “There’s word the warden is aware of James’s plans, and he means to thwart him. The Percy brothers foil Scotland’s raids daily. James is a hothead and wants to take Sir Percy and his brother on. I doubt it will end well.” He scoffed. “I’m glad the skirmish will take place far from here. We have enough worries what with the sighting in the sky.”
Gavin overheard their conversation and leaned close. “I agreed to help James and selected five of our seasoned soldiers to join him. You should go, Callum. It might do you good to get away from our holding. Perhaps you should replace Keith since he appears not to want to go.”
Keith Sutherland grumbled. “Aye, I’d rather face my enemy than go on a skirmish with James Douglas, even if I agree we should show the king we don’t fear the English.”
Callum frowned at the request. “I shouldn’t leave. Our soldiers need a leader, and I’ve only begun to train them. They’re just coming around to my methods.”
“They’ll be here when you return,” Gavin said. “When I allowed you to take over the soldier’s training, I didn’t mean that you should shirk your other duties to your clan.”
He suppressed the urge to refuse him, but nodded. Lately, the peace and unexcited routine wore on him, which was why he’d requested a more challenging role within the clan’s militia. The adventurous years of travel with his comrades were much more exciting than mundane clan life. With his return, he had to accept his duty, especially being the laird’s brother.
Callum’s gaze meandered about the room, and his eyes fell on his wife. “I shouldn’t leave Lydia. She has acted strangely these past months, since my return. I have yet to figure out why.”
He wasn’t pleased with his wife’s lack of care, but he’d looked after himself for years and didn’t need a wife to ensure his wellbeing. They’d only been married five years and three of those, he’d been absent. Their relations strained. Callum hadn’t wanted to wed Lydia, but to please his dying father, he agreed. The woman rarely spoke to him, and when in his presence, she acted as if he wasn’t there.
Though she was attractive with her long reddish-blonde hair and winsome blue eyes, Callum found her to be cold and unfeeling. He thought to petition Father Fitch for an annulment, but Lydia came to his bed to consummate their union. Little good it did now, for she hadn’t slept with him since. The only thing good to come of their one night together was their daughter Dela, his sweet, bonny lass who Callum adored. At least Lydia had given him a daughter before she turned her cold heart toward him.
Gavin grimaced with a glare. “Your wife will also be here when you return. I’ll look after your family while you’re gone as I did before. Worry not for them.”
Clive settled back and held his cup, but didn’t drink. “Mayhap she needs a wee bit of time to accept you, or get over her ire at your prior absence. Women’s hearts are not easily given or kept.”
Gavin’s expression turned from jovial to stern. “One of us should go with our clansmen to support James’s endeavor. I cannot go since I’m the laird. Besides, your wife should get used to your absence if you mean to lead our soldiers.” He turned to their cousin. “You might be right, Clive, for a woman’s heart grows fonder when she misses her husband.” Gavin’s laughter turned raucous.
Callum doubted she would miss him for one moment, but Gavin was right. If he led the soldiers, he had to gain their trust and set an example. His absence was assured with the sentry he intended to impose, and he’d be out and about their lands nightly. Their land needed protection, especially against their most hated enemy, the Mackenzies. He’d assure its guard and sentry. The younger soldiers needed guidance on the missions, and he wanted to make certain the lads kept to their vigilance.
“I command you to go with our men and represent Clan Sinclair in this scuffle. Do you refuse my order?” Gavin’s slurred words alluded that he wouldn’t last another hour at the celebration.
“Nay, I won’t refuse you. I’ll go.”
Keith smiled widely. “You’re a good comrade, Callum, to take my place. I need to return home soon anyhow. My da’s been asking for my support. I mean to put him off for a wee bit longer. But I should find out what he wants.”
Callum nodded to his comrade. Keith shirked his responsibilities, much like Gavin had, until his brother was forced to accept the position of their clan’s laird when their father died. He wondered if Keith’s father ailed too, and Laird Sutherland needed his son’s return for obvious reasons.
The noise within the hall rose when drink lifted the spirits of those who celebrated the fireball’s lengthy stay. Callum agreed to join his brethren on James’s mission, yet he wasn’t pleased about it. If his brother commanded him to support the knavish James, he couldn’t say nay. Since Gavin took over the clan, he had gained little in the way to win over their clansmen. Callum wanted to support him, and he had to ensure his clansmen noted his deference to his brother.
All would follow Gavin’s commands as their chieftain, regardless if they balked at his leadership. He and his brother couldn’t be more different. Gavin was light-haired, blue-eyed, lanky, and a foot shorter than he was. Callum bore the traits of his mother’s side with light-brown hair, almost black eyes, a muscular build, and height that surpassed most in his clan.
Their approach to clan matters differed too, and his brother cared not about the welfare of their clan’s people. Whereas Callum thought the clan’s laird should be concerned about housing, winter stores, and spring crops, and to ensure the people had enough food and clothing. Gavin paid little attention to such matters and neglected the important necessities.
He returned his attention to the hall, and considered discussing his view, yet again, with his brother on his return. Something had to be done or else their clansmen and women would despair and might even contest Gavin’s right to rule. Their family had always led the Sinclairs, and their legacy and chiefdom would continue if Callum had anything to say about it. As a lad, he’d looked up to his elder brother. But when they reached an age where their position mattered, he lost respect for Gavin. His brother acted with arrogance rather than the noble attitude a laird should bear.
Callum tilted his head to greet James Douglas who signaled to him. James and his followers made more noise than all the Sinclairs put-together. He was reputed to be as wily as his uncle, the renowned James Douglas, The Black, who fought with King Robert the Bruce for Scotland’s independence from England. Callum wished he’d existed in their time. To hold one’s sword in a battle of passion for their country’s freedom was better than the minor squabbles they took part in now. He’d be in the thick of the raid and might as well enjoy the adventure while it lasted. Lord knew there’d be enough strife to settle upon his return.
Across the hall, his grandmother sat near the hearth. Her eyes were closed, and she appeared to be asleep. How she slept in the noisy hall was beyond him. Callum reached her side and took her hand. She peered at him with her faded eyes and smiled.
“Oh, my lad, it’s you,” she said and reached to press her hand on his face.
“Aye, Mor, it’s me. You should retire. Do you wish me to escort you?” Callum continued to hold her hand and crouched beside her. His grandmother preferred to be called Mor, instead of the English version, Sarah. She was a spirited woman and connected to the land. Often, she spoke bizarre words, mostly about the spirits of the land and sky. He’d never berated her for it as his brother had.
Mor rose, pressed back the long gray locks of her hair, and nodded. “How you resemble your bonny mother. When I look at you, I see her.”
Callum guided her to the upper chambers, to the room she used when she stayed in the castle. He allowed her to hold his arm for support. “Sleep well, Mor.”
She stopped him from leaving when she spoke, “God sends his message. It is clear in the sky. There are great disturbances… Darkness… You must accept what is foretold. Can you do that, my lad?”
“You sound like our clansmen. Worry not, Mor, the light in the sky shall pass us by. I vow it won’t affect us.” He opened the door for her.
“Oh, but it shall. Nothing will be as it was. You, my dear lad, must be accepting.”
He nodded. “I am to leave on the morrow and I’m unsure when I’ll return. Be well.”
“The journey will change your life. Take heart, my lad, for it shall end your despair. ” Mor released his arm and closed the door before she would explain her peculiar words.
Callum dismissed her. As much as he cared for his grandmother, she was a wee bit strange. Still, he wouldn’t discount her words. Perhaps a great change would come.
He returned to the hall and rejoined his comrades. The rest of the night, he sipped his ale and watched with disapproval as his clan reveled and drank. His wife stood with several women whose laughter rose with each drink. He’d hoped Lydia approached so he might let her know he would leave, but she kept to the other side of the hall. Callum gave up his vigilance and ambled home to bed.
When he reached his cottage, he entered quietly so he wouldn’t awaken Dela. He sent the lass home that tended to his daughter, and covered his bairn with a warmer cover. Sleep didn’t come easy as he thought about his mission, his wife’s abhorrence, his brother’s neglect, and his grandmother’s odd behavior and peculiar words.
Callum rose early the next morning and readied to leave. He stood in his cottage and hefted his saddlebag over his shoulder. Lydia hadn’t returned during the night from the celebration. She must have stayed at the keep. As he considered her, she ambled through the door.
“You’re leaving again?” she said in astound.
He set his saddlebag on the floor and took her hand. His wife’s blue eyes softened for a moment, and she raked her reddish-blonde locks that appeared tangled from the night of revelry. “Aye, I must and I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I’m to lead our men in the Douglas’s pursuit.”
Lydia appeared to want to say something, but she unclasped his hand and turned away. “I look forward to your return, but I must change and go to the hall. I’ll see to Dela now.” She hastened away.
He kissed Dela on her head, retrieved his bag, and left the cottage. On the way to the stable to ready his horse, he thought Lydia’s reply distant. She hadn’t wished him a safe return or a fond farewell. Callum needed to face the truth−the woman didn’t care for him. Many marriages were made amiable with less care than theirs. When he returned, he’d make certain they reached an understanding. The thought of taking a lover though didn’t sit right with him. He wanted to be a faithful husband, but he wasn’t about to spend his years tied to a woman who loathed sex or him.
The group of men rode out, and Callum didn’t speak much to his clansmen or to James’s men in the days it took to reach the border. He wasn’t close to the men his brother selected for the mission. They were seasoned Sinclair soldiers, who hadn’t attended his training sessions. The men were loyal to his brother and his chosen guardsmen.
They approached Redesdale, and the band of one-hundred men lay waste to the countryside and reached Brancepeth. Once at Newcastle, they encamped around the keep’s walls and prevented the English from taking the field. The constant skirmishes between their band of men and the Percy brothers, spurred James to challenge Sir Henry Percy to a duel.
James rode at Sir Percy, and the two clashed. His lance struck Sir Percy’s armor, and he fell from his horse. Before Percy gained his feet and retrieved his lance, James kicked him from behind and caused him to hit the dirt face-first. Percy rolled on to his back, and James snatched his enemy’s pennon and waved it in his face.
“I’ll keep this, Percy. Aye, and I will hoist it upon my tower where it shall be seen from afar by all.” James chortled, and many of the Scots shouted in support of his boastful declaration.
James’s followers taunted the Englishmen with snickers and bellows of hoots and hollers, and their bared arses exposed from across the expanse of the field.
Percy’s face reddened. “By God, you’ll never leave this land alive with my pennon.” He shouted a war cry, and the English army set their battalions. Before the Scots moved in to thwart their movement from the fort, bands of men rode through the gate.
The armies clashed and fought for hours. Many lay dead or injured. The raid wasn’t supposed to turn into a full-fledged battle. Callum continued to swing his sword at anyone who came within striking distance. All they’d wanted was to raid and irk the English, and to remind them they’d claimed independence.
Callum searched among the field for James Douglas, or his followers, but they were nowhere near. The fight waned and most were captured by the enemy, or they’d taken captives themselves. A call of retreat rose amongst the English, and the Scots celebrated the hard-fought victory, and hailed off to the woods to rejoice.
“Victory, finally,” he rasped out. Callum lowered his weapon and grated from the overzealous exertion. He was done in, exhausted, and longed to scabbard his sword.
Before he set off to find his comrades, he fell to his knees and tried to gain his breath. An excruciating blow struck his arm and again on his shoulder. The attackers encircled him. His eyes widened at his clansmen who stood around him. Each held their blades in a threatening manner. Were they determined to slay him? The question reverberated in his mind as he tried to figure out how best to thwart them.
Callum had to fight them off, but with his wounds, it was difficult. He struck one man, and turned to face another. As he turned about and used his sword to fend off their attack, he got in a good many strikes, and around him, his clansmen lay on the ground. From what he could tell, he’d killed at least two, the other three were wounded. Anger rode Callum, and he yanked a dagger from his boot. He crawled toward his clansmen and stuck the blade in the three remaining soldiers’ hearts. They wouldn’t live to try to murder him again.
Callum fell back on the ground and groaned at the pain that seared through his body. Blood warmed his arm and soaked his tunic. His thigh took a hit when it was slashed with his foe’s blade. Blood sullied his tartan. He forced himself to keep his eyes open so he might see who would end his life. No final blow came. The night progressed and the sky darkened. There was no sight of the great fireball above. It disappeared and left behind its destructive mien.
Moans from the injured decreased as most perished from their wounds. He wondered what took his maker long in coming for him. His wounds were as grave as those who lay near. Surely his turn would come soon. But he was impatient. Death was welcomed, and the torment of the pain and that of his life’s mistakes would abscond once he took his final breath.
He lay with his eyes closed and listened to the men who roamed the dead for valuables. Callum held tightly to his sword. If he died, he wanted his weapons sent to the hereafter with him. It was rather a nostalgic notion, but he wasn’t about to part with the only thing that mattered to him. Someone shoved his foot. He moaned.
“Here, My Lord, this one is alive, but he’s Scots.”
Another man approached.
Callum kept hold of his sword, eager to kill the English should they try to take it from him.
The man crouched next to him. “Your wounds need attention.”
He shook his head. “Leave me be.”
“I can’t do that, my friend. All who make it through must be treated accordingly. I live by the code of honor, regardless of whether you are friend or foe.”
“But I’m the enemy. For God’s sake, just kill me and be done with it.”
The man grinned. “You Scots certainly don’t fear death. I won’t kill you because it would be dishonorable. Let’s get you to the healer’s tent.”
He took his blade away even though Callum tried to keep him from doing so. He’d weakened to the point he was as frail as a newborn bairn. Men nearby set a cover on the ground, but before they placed him on it, they removed his remaining weapons. He’d secured a mace slung over his shoulder, one dagger in his boot, the other dagger from his hand, and a short sword tucked in the belt at his waist. But they’d missed one, and he felt the bulkiness of it as he lay on his back.
The man whistled. “You are a fighter who likes to be prepared, I see.”
“I’ll have my weapons back. There’s no use in taking me to your healer. I will die. Bury me with my weapons, or leave me here to rot. I care not which.” Callum wanted to give in to the lure of the pain, but he wouldn’t let the English take him, not until he was assured his weapons would remain with him.
“You’ll not die this night, my friend. Get him to the healer and be hasty.”
Callum groaned as pain wracked him to an urgent state. “I’d rather die than be taken prisoner. Leave me here to die as God wills.”
“We will not take you as a prisoner. Rest easy. Lift him gently, lads. I’ve changed my mind, put him in my tent, and have the healer come at once.”
Another man took his legs and shifted him onto the cover. “Can we keep his weapons, My Lord? His sword is worth a good sum and well-made.”
The man shook his head. “I’m sure he’ll want his weapons back when he recovers.”
The men muttered ‘awws,’ lifted him, and trudged off. He was taken inside a tent and set on the ground. The inside was dark, but he noted the cots and a small fire. Several candles lit and sent shadows to the reaches within. Callum moaned when he tried to roll from the cover. He wanted to flee, but his wounds rendered his limbs useless.
“Keep still,” a woman’s voice came. “I’ll be but a moment.”
The leader appeared and spoke low with the healer across the tent.
Callum twisted his good arm behind him and tried to retrieve the six-inch dagger he’d strapped to his back beneath his tunic. He had to stop the pain and wouldn’t end up in enemy hands. The only thing that troubled him was his maker’s disownment. But if he ended his life, he’d take God’s judgment rather than let the English torture him. He held the blade at his heart. Just as he was about to thrust it, the dagger was plucked from his grip.
“You’re a resourceful man. I’ll give you that, Scot. You won’t die on my watch. Remain still or you’ll further injure yourself. The healer will tend to you soon.”
“Who are you?”
The man ignored his question. “You’ll owe me, Scot.”
“Highlander,” Callum grated out.
He laughed. “Ah, you’re a wily Highlander, even better. Your leader, James Douglas, perished on the battlefield this day. It’s shameful a scuffle led to this. Best you know, I only aid you because I like the notion of having a Scot being indebted to me.”
“Why would you…want me…indebted to you?”
“This discord by the border might aid me in the future. I intend to make friends with England’s enemies, for one day soon, it may matter. Besides, I admire your Scot’s spirit. And after a battle, it is best to be respectful of the injured and dead.”
Callum wasn’t sure how much longer he would remain coherent. Each second that passed intensified his pain and decreased his breath. It wouldn’t matter what the man wanted of him, because he wouldn’t make it to see the morrow. “You…didn’t tell me…your name.”
“I’m Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster, at your service. Worry not, my friend, my healer is good at what she does. You’ll be well in no time. There will be no more talk of death.”
He scoffed and muttered an expletive. “Why in bloody hell is an English nobleman saving the neck of a Scot?” But Callum wouldn’t get his question answered at that moment. If he survived, he might find out. He succumbed to the pain of his wounds and closed his eyes.