Once a month Dun Bhuird held a gathering day for clansfolk. A month never passed without some quarrel or another needing to be settled.

She would sit at the high table, like a wee bird—a yellowhammer mayhap—squashed betwixt a pair of plump capercaillie—Abelard and Magnus. Every month, the folks she helped to judge were also taking her measure. That said, she had allowed no doubts to cross her mind, believing in an innate facility to judge fairly all the matters laid before her, confident of seeing both sides of a story.

That afternoon dragged slowly, so numbingly boring it was a wonder she didn’t nod off to sleep. She found it difficult to remember her father sitting still, listening to all these wee bits of quarrels. Who had let his cattle stray and had it claimed by another? But then, perhaps like her, he had decided a pinch of tedium was a small price to pay for the respect it gained.

“The signal beacons are afire!”

Kathryn came to herself with an untoward gasp of breath, heart pumping faster than a cricket could sing. Domestic matters could go hang in the face of the young lad’s shouts as he raced into the hall. Excitement shimmered off the silhouette he made against the bright stream of afternoon sunlight pouring through the open doors.

Like a little linty, the lad ducked under a housecarl’s outstretched arm and rushed to the high board in a blur of plaid, shouting, “A band of men hae just entered the foot o’ the glen! A whole army I’ve nae doubt, for the watch tells me the sun o’er the tap of the Bienn is glinting aff their spears.”

With a snarl, the housecarl leapt after the lad, gripping him by the scruff of the neck. Seems she wasn’t the only one fed up by the monotony.

Kathryn jumped from the raised platform at the end of the hall with Magnus one step behind her, limping on his shortened leg. “Leave the lad be,” she said, motioning the housecarl back to the door. “Save your breath to send word for all our clansfolk to come inside the palisade.”

She cast a rueful eye over the two men who had recently been arguing over the ownership of a cow, an argument they had wanted her to settle. “Run quick now, fetch your families. It may well be naught, but better they be safe than sorry.”

The men took to their heels, the beast they’d been quarrelling over forgotten. When it came to the crux, it was their own families’ wellbeing they had fought over, and it was her duty to ensure they were able to do that. She was barely aware of their swift departure. An unsought picture of half-ripened fields of grain, both oats and barley, trampled underfoot pushed to the fore of more urgent matters. She sniffed up the unwanted emotion the vision evoked. A man would not feel so, and that was part of her problem. She needed to learn to stay cold. Had to think like a man, prevent her emotions frae being captured by a notion of her folk left without the traditional staples like oat bannocks and ale.

She shrugged the feeling off as Magnus touched her shoulder; she had more things of moment to attend to without burdening her mind with worries about the destruction of her beautiful glen. Abelard had already departed to take care of his particular responsibilities. Should there be a siege, feeding everyone would fall on the seneschal’s shoulders.

Magnus had more immediate concerns on his mind. “I’ll send out a blast of the horn. That should alert in anyone in nae position to see the beacons.”

“I’ll meet you outside. I must get out of this kirtle and into something that shows I’m confident enough to stand by our men.” Magnus simply looked down from his greater height and nodded, no doubt cognisant of the drift of her mind.

She watched him limp into the sunlight as fast as his bad leg allowed. Watched him take down the ancient horn hanging from a peg near the door as he passed. Kathryn couldn’t remember the last time it had been sounded. Most neighbouring clans had known Erik the Bear was far too throng to dare tangle with him in battle. It was the Norsemen from Caithness and the Southerners whom he scared and sent packing with their tails between their legs.

No matter that her father was dead and her husband reluctant to take his place by her side. That made her responsible for the safety of every man woman and child and everything the Comlyn clan had guarded across the years.

Restless, Gavyn spurred his steed to the rear of the column. His nephew Rob’s eyes sparked with excitement as Gavyn’s grey mount pawed the air, snorting, after being halted by a hard tug on the reins. Battle-trained, Cloud could turn in a circle nae bigger than a silver Norman shilling and do a deal of damage with iron-hard hooves on the downward pivot.

Riding with them on a tiny pony the McArthur had procured from one of the isles in the northwest rode Nhaimeth—a wee dwarf of a man with the heart of a lion. For Nhaimeth, Dun Bhuird really was home. Few folk, Kathryn included, were aware that Nhaimeth was a Comlyn, the discarded son of Erik the Bear, who hadn’t been able to stand looking at him. Gavyn presumed that Comlyn had thought the ill-formed bairn would never survive his mother’s death; but in that, as well as many other matters, the Bear had been mistaken. Nhaimeth had clung to life, and throughout that short life had hated his father with a will that would not break.

This would be the wee Fool’s first return to Dun Bhuird since he’d left at Astrid Comlyn’s side—another of his half-sisters, the more beautiful of the two it was said. To Gavyn’s mind, Astrid must have been wondrous fair, for Kathryn had taken his breath the first time he looked upon her. He was unable to give the comparison fair measure though, for Astrid was already dead before Gavyn first came to Cragenlaw.

“Do you recognise where we are Nhaimeth?”

“Aye, part of the forest is thinning out. We’ll soon be marching into the long glen and in nae time at all we’ll reach Dun Bhuird.” Nhaimeth’s expression was not one of unmitigated joy at the thought. When Gavyn looked down from Cloud’s back to quirk an eyebrow at the wee fool, Nhaimeth added, “I never thought to ever gang back there. Never had any notion to return.” His lips took on a wry slant, and his eyes twinkled as he informed Gavyn. “Rob’s excited about getting away frae Cragenlaw, not being under the McArthur’s thumb.”

“And where he goes so do you? Ah well, you’re an unusual pair but it seems to work.”

“We’ve gone through a lot together; however, we’re more, we’re a trio.” He laughed at that. “Our Jamie hates to be left out.”

Thinking the little man had finished, Gavyn was about to turn away when he saw Nhaimeth’s face grow serious, showing signs of his age for once, for he had at least four or five years more than Rob. “Naebody at Dun Bhuird kens about me, my true heritage. The other lads will say naught. I hope I can trust ye to keep my secret.”

“I will,” he promised, and Gavyn was a man of his word, which he sometimes thought was a pity. News that Nhaimeth was the true Comlyn heir would soon have distracted attention away from his and Kathryn’s reunion. Now all he had to rely on to do the same was the rich cargo in the wagons, each of which took four oxen to pull. It was a prize that had been hard won by him and his mercenaries while fighting in France. Now the gold and silver was hid in strong, ironbound chests, out of sight.

But then mayhap the dogs would capture their curiosity. Between each wagon, huntsmen from France controlled the ugly French mastiffs as well as huge hounds, unlike any he had seen in Scotland, that would run down a scent until they could run no more. Hunting or fighting, Gavyn had swiftly envisioned a place for them at Bienn á Bhuird. The mastiffs were a fearsome sight, and the hounds’ baying was a sound to frighten the dead, or at least a man on the run. Both breeds would be a deterrent behind the wooden palisade until he had the masons build a curtain wall.

Suddenly the trees closed in. A small snake of cold ran down Gavyn’s spine. Dark and forbidding, the forest appeared bereft of animals or men, empty, safe. He’d learned not to put too much trust in appearances. It behoved every one of his men to be vigilant. With forests came cateran—men beyond the law. The loaded wagons were an irresistible temptation to men with naught but a shield and a sword to their name and with a fancy to line their pockets.

Sidling Cloud closer to the pony, Gavyn spoke quietly to Nhaimeth on a subject that had been troubling him since leaving Cragenlaw. “How are you feeling, wee man, now that we’re nearing the mountains around Bienn á Bhuird?”

“I’m fine about it.” Nhaimeth nodded, as if to add weight to his words. “I’m of the persuasion that thinking o’er much on what’s ahead of ye, can turn it into a mountain it might kill ye to climb instead of a field ye can plough through.”

Gavyn chuckled, as Rob butted in, “But Dun Bhuird is on a mountain.”

With a grin, Nhaimeth told him, “Trust you to pick holes in my assertion, lad.”

Few would have imagined the two as close friends, Nhaimeth being been born a dwarf with a hump on his back and Rob a fair way to becoming as large as his father.

Had Erik the Bear, always a hard man, lived, Gavyn—a landless lord—would never have dared cast his eyes at Kathryn, the daughter of a man callous enough to cast Nhaimeth away at birth. Although now, to all appearances, the Bear had been more wise than cruel, and everyone party to the secret agreed that for Nhaimeth to try claiming what was his by right of succession could be the death of him.

Rob didn’t have enough years under his belt to know when to leave well alone. “I can’t help but think that if I were in your shoes right now, I’d feel sick to my stomach.”

“Nae lad, you wouldn’t.” Nhaimeth shook his head and set the one bell left on the hat Astrid had made for him a-jingling. “I resigned myself to this being the only life I’m fit for on the day my half-sister, Astrid, made me her Fool.”

“Rob”—the name was a rebuke on Gavyn’s lips—“all Nhaimeth needs to know is that he may feel safe at Dun Bhuird as long as I’m alive.”

Gavyn never let the thought cross his mind that he might still be alive yet not laird of Dun Bhuird. Digging his spurs into Cloud’s flank he advanced up the line of mercenaries to re-join the mounted troops heading the column. The sun’s rays dappled the track as it opened wider. The path brightened as they reached the edge of the forest, the big grey breaking forth into the light splashing off Gavyn’s mail. Dark brown earth lifted with every thump of Cloud’s hooves, filling the air with the stench of things long dead. The column, too, gained speed, as if the stream of men, all of them, were being sucked into the sunlight, seeking relief from the green darkness.

A mere length from him, Gavyn’s lieutenants stepped out of the darkness, steeds abreast in a broad slash of chain mail off which the sun’s rays glanced brightly, hurting his eyes. He almost blamed the hauberks for the bright flash of light in the distance. And he might have, had another not burst to life high atop the mountain.

Riding up behind him, he heard Rob yell, “Look up yonder. Can you see on the rim? Someone has lit beacons.” Gavyn raised his eyes to the norwest and counted at least five smudges of flame and smoke. They hadn’t been lit in welcome.

Knowing that by the time she joined Magnus outside he would be wearing mail and helm, Kathryn determined she could do no less as she sped toward the Chieftain’s chamber. The door’s hinges caught on her hair as she flew past. Mayhap she would give the helm the by. She wanted nothing to restrict her aim.

Looking about her, she called out for Brodwyn. Her cousin could help Lhilidh to fasten her into her the mail shirt her father had had fashioned for Alexander. She might be family, but like Kathryn, Brodwyn had to be good for something other than a talent for nagging long and loud to get her own way.

So much for plans. Brodwyn, it seemed, was playing least in sight. It would just be like her to have found a corner to hide in. So Lhilidh would have to wait on Kathryn alone when she arrived, helping her with the laces and belts as fast as her young fingers could work. Lhilidh might be young, yet the lass knew how to put duty before any fears that troubled her thoughts.

The ram’s horn boomed through the air outside, its echo swelling into the high hall loud enough to shake its old walls, and that too was a reminder of Farquhar’s concerns about their defences. It took a strong man with lungs like an ox to blow a blast strong enough to echo around the mountains that held the green glen in their embrace.

Before the horn stopped echoing, Lhilidh was in the chieftain’s chamber, but her cousin was still nowhere to be seen. “Lhilidh, did you send someone to fetch Geala inside the palisade?”

“Aye, as soon as the horn blew. I sent two the young lads to carry her inside the walls.”

“Not up to the hall?”

“Nae, I thought she might be too heavy for them to carry up this far in a rush. They will nae want to miss out on the excitement.”

The young lass had a lot more sense in her head than was in her cousin’s whole body. “Did you see Brodwyn when you were in the hall?”

“Not a skerrick of her since we left her in your chamber.”

“That long?” Kathryn sighed, disappointed but not surprised. “Well, we have no time to wait for her, you’ll have to fetch me yon mail shirt, and be careful, it’s heavy.” In truth the tunic had been made for her brother Alexander. Very fine it was too, as had befitted the young prince of the Comlyns. Before he could wear it, though, her brother had died, been murdered defending a friend. No’ such a bad way to go, honourably. A hero, the Raven had told her the first time they had met, though she wasn’t certain what a man who had made his name as a mercenary knew of heroes.

A man named the Raven—a cunning, thieving bird if she ever she’d seen one. She would watch them fly out frae the cliffs and wonder what trophy they’d return with. It had hurt that he had ended up with Dun Bhuird and all it entailed, including her, then left it all behind without knowing the jewel he held.

Without knowing her.

For that first year, she had hated him with a vengeance, hated him enough to wish he might never return.

She was wiser now.

Lhilidh watched her with a round-eyed stare. A smile hovered about her lips. “I never thought to see you wear it, ma lady, it’s ugly but I won’t care about that if it protects ye from harm.” Excitement flickered across her expression, and suddenly Kathryn’s eighteen years felt like a century.

“I doubt it will ward off much but arrows,” she assented as she unfastened the girdle at her waist and let it fall. Dipping her chin she lifted her arms, swiftly twisting her long gold braid around her head with trembling fingers—not so much frightened as nervous she would let herself down. “We have to move quickly. Once I’m out of all my garments, you’ll need to bind all this hair out of my way.”

No sooner said than done. Lhilidh was as fast as she was pretty. Kathryn was aware of the lustful glances cast the lass’s way and had felt a need to protect her, more so now that the lass was almost family. She didn’t want to lose her to some man who would turn her into a slave and make sure he got her with child once a year. But how did you tell a fourteen-year-old that there was more to life, more of the world to see when she had never been brave enough to discover it for herself.

“These should hold it fine, ma lady.” Lhilidh murmured, laying out some fine bone pins before her fingers moved nimbly to loosen the lace at the neck of Kathryn’s kirtle.

The fine worsted slid off Kathryn’s shoulders. Swiftly, she opened her arms to capture the widened opening between both shoulders and elbows, before it revealed her breasts. Even covered by her shift, their pale fullness embarrassed her.

Her maid seemed not to notice. The first task accomplished, Lhilidh dragged both tunic and kirtle up and over Kathryn’s head.

The fine linen smelled of her rush to get ready, her excitement at the unknown ahead. Gavyn Farquhar. What if she never saw him again? She bit her lip to halt the tremble before it happened. How a man she didn’t want, had never wanted, could cause such a eruption of emotions she had no understanding of. He’d left her. Abandoned her without a moment’s hesitation. She should be happy.

Why wasn’t she?

Lhilidh stood before, her weighed down by the chain mail. It clinked as if dropped to the floor, a swift rebuke that brought her back to the present. She knew what she had in mind ran contrary to her father’s wishes for her, for any lass.

But if not her, who would save them? Not her absent husband, for sure.

Dun Bhuird and her clan needed a leader, and she was all they had to depend on.

Wearing a sheepskin tunic and breeches would make her sweat apace, but it mattered little. She was reminded once again that there was no one but Lhilidh to mind how she smelled, and if she survived long enough to pull the protective garments off, then Lhilidh would surely fill a tub with hot water where she could soak her dirt and sweat away.

But first—Kathryn drew her shoulders back and lifted her chin—she had to do her duty by the clan and her father, both.

The mail felt heavy on her shoulders, as did her responsibilities; however, it was only to be expected. What lay ahead was more terrible than just an hour or two spent doling out justice. And, no matter that Magnus had instructed her in the basics of swordsmanship with Alexander’s sword, she would never have the strength, the muscles in her arms, that Alexander had sported at age twelve. But she had always been the superior archer. Her breath left her lungs in a shuddering sigh at the thought.

She tore it out of her mind.

This is what was required if she wanted to earn the clan’s respect.

The fine strands of her hair tugged as Lhilidh twisted her braid round her scalp then slid the bone pins through the strands to hold it under the cap she would wear. Alexander’s helm was too large, and a cap was better than having the silver helm wobbling every time she turned her head.

Heart bumping inside her chest, Kathryn hung a quiver of arrows over one shoulder and took up the unstrung bow. With a glance toward the door to her chamber, she took a deep breath, smoothed a hand over her hip and went into the hall.

When she had gazed out over the glen this morning, it hadn’t been with the expectation of seeing marauders invading it that afternoon. With any luck, they would be naught but cateran. She’d never heard of any who were organised or didn’t cringe at the sight of true-blooded warriors wielding spear and axe, as her housecarls could. Dun Bhuird’s place, built on the high platform, made it easy to defend. How else had it survived all the enemies Erik the Bear managed to make? So far she’d thought she had none.

Aye, Kathryn Comlyn might be a woman, but she had to prove she was a warrior at heart.