Castle Sween, Lands of Knap, Argyll,
Scotland—summer, ad 1370
‘Sorcha, come and sit with me a while.’
Sorcha glanced over at her mother’s companion for permission before approaching her bed. Anna nodded, so Sorcha climbed up on the high rope-strung mattress, having a care not to sit too close. Her mother had been ill and failing for years, but the last few weeks had brought a sunken and grey look to her face. From Anna’s grim expression and her mother’s glassy, weak gaze, Sorcha understood that Erca MacNeill had little time left living on this earth.
Sliding a bit closer and reaching out to touch her mother’s hand, Sorcha found it difficult to speak. Her throat tightened and clogged with tears as she understood this might be their last conversation. With a slight movement of her eyes, her mother dismissed Anna and soon the silence was disturbed only by the sound of laboured breathing.
‘Honour,’ her mother whispered before coughing. When she regained her breath, she struggled to say two more words, two words Sorcha knew would follow. ‘Loyalty. Courage.’ More rough, deep coughing that produced blood filled the chamber. Even when she tried to hush her mother from trying to speak, the woman shook her head and forced herself to continue.
‘Mother, I pray you, do not speak,’ she urged, as she leaned closer. Careful not to press against her mother’s frail body, Sorcha felt the tears tracking down her own cheeks.
‘Honour. Loyalty. Courage, Sorcha,’ her mother whispered, tugging her hand to bring her closer still. ‘Women know it. Women live it.’
‘Aye, Mother.’ She nodded and promised, hoping it would quiet her mother’s spirit and struggles. ‘I will live it. As you taught me.’
‘You father has none. He follows a path that will lead to our destruction and your death.’
Her mother’s gaze cleared then and Sorcha saw a strength there she’d not seen in years. Her father made certain his wife was obedient and biddable, if not with harsh words and commands, then with his fists and other punishments. Yet just now Sorcha recognised something in her mother’s eyes that had been long gone—defiance.
‘Mother, you should rest now,’ Sorcha began. The tight squeezing of her hand stopped her.
‘I will not go to my death without protecting you, Sorcha. I will not allow him to sell you into a life of suffering and pain and destroy the rest. Not as I was. Not for gold. Not for power. Nor for this castle. I will not.’
The words admitted things that her mother had never spoken of between them. Everyone knew the laird was a rough man, with little tenderness or mercy within him. Everyone whispered behind their hands that he beat
