She bit her lower lip again. “He never meant to kill your wife—”
“I’m sure his remorse was deep, that he has prostrated himself on his knees to God daily since the event.”
His dry sarcasm was biting.
“I still say that it was not intended,” she protested, “and since you are so obviously appalled by me, I can’t think what you hope to accomplish here! Did you think to soil his virginal bride? Dear sir, you’re so sadly mistaken. There’s nothing you can do, short of murder—”
“Ah, but,” he interrupted, “we have not yet discarded that as an option, I must tell you in all fair warning.”
“You don’t want to kill me!” she accused him.
“No,” he admitted flatly, those impenetrable blue eyes never wavering from hers. “But that will not stop me from doing so. Let’s go back upstairs, shall we?”
“Why don’t you just finish it here? Go ahead. Prove your brutality. Do it now. Throw me over the parapet!”
“Alas, I dare not. I might hit someone below.”
She tugged afresh at her hair, as frightened by his coldness as his heat, and not at all reassured by his dry humor. “Please …”
He suddenly released her hair. “Get upstairs.”
She walked in front of him, then turned on him again. “I’m telling you, this will mean nothing at all to Kinsey.”
“Indeed? Well, good, then. God knows, there is nothing wrong with enjoying vengeance. I see that you are so anxious to get to it that you have already discarded half your clothing.”
Her cheeks reddened. “Sir, you might remember that my clothing is in dishabille due to your less than gentle touch!”
“Ah, but that was hours ago—last night, as a matter of fact. You had no time for repair?”
“I was busy with important work,” she told him.
“So I see,” he replied, surveying the tied clothing and bed sheets that had supplied what should have been her escape route. Then he stared at her again, touching the garment that cloaked her shoulders. Your father’s mantle?” he asked politely. Then his eyes narrowed darkly. “Or Kinsey’s?”
She didn’t know why she answered with the truth so quickly, but she did. “My father’s.”
His eyes stayed hard on her. She started to walk again, then spun around, anger and despair welling within her. “I will not walk ahead of you like a lamb to slaughter!” she exclaimed, and, slamming both hands hard against his chest, she tried to push by him. She made it to his left side before she was dragged back. His fingers tangled in her hair again. Tears stung her eyes. Step by step, she was dragged inexorably toward the tower room.
And there stood Jay. “Thank God!” he muttered, and the way he now looked at her, she thought that she had lost a friend for certain. He was furious with her for trying to escape.
Yet what did they expect? As they had come against her in Darrow’s place for vengeance, so they must realize that it was equally a matter of honor for her to refuse to accept the fate they intended for her as well.
Yet Jay was furious. She had made a fool of him.
“Arryn! I tell you, she did not leave by the door! I just discovered her absence when the servants came with the bath—”
“She departed by the window, Jay,” Arryn said, and she felt his gaze. “Not suspecting her capable of such idiocy, I discovered her quite by accident.”
“Idiocy!” she protested, fighting his tangled hold upon her hair again “Not idiocy, but sheer desperation. It is my duty, sir, to escape you!”
“She is very eager to return to Darrow, so it seems,” Arryn said.
He had come from behind her, placed his hands upon her hips, and thrust her forward into the middle of the tower room.
Gaston was there with several strapping young lads. He had brought the old, deep, Norse-carved hip tub from the kitchen. Water steamed from it while a kettle bubbled above the fire. Fresh towels had been laid out on the tapestried chair by the side of the hearth. A deep, thick, brown bear pelt lay on the floor by the tub and before the fire.
It was a charming domestic scene.
To make it all the more comfortable, new linens were being hastily arranged upon the large bed, with its carved oak head-and footboards.
Gaston met her eyes with sorrow. She realized that he had come here, seen her escape attempt, and had tried to keep quiet the fact that she had been absent from the room. But Jay had burst in behind him, and when Gaston could not pretend that she was still within the room, he had hastily tried to repair the damage she had done, hoping that by doing so, he might help soothe the temper of some savage beast.
She ruefully smiled her thanks to him, then quickly lowered her eyes. She didn’t want the invaders seeing any exchange between them. He was her friend, trying to help her. It was a pity that he could not.
Gaston was quick to spring to action. “Ah, sir, ah, my lady! The bath awaits, and all is fresh and clean. And there is a large flagon of ale here, sir, with two of the castle’s finest silver cups. I shall pour for you.”
He offered ale first to Kyra; she took it gladly, draining the cup before he had turned to Arryn. Arryn didn’t notice.
Gaston quickly gave her more ale. Again she thanked him with her eyes. She would never give up the hope of escape, but it seemed to dim. Drink was all that was left.
“Shall I serve you, sir?” Gaston asked. “Help you to remove your mail—”
“The lady will help me,” Arryn said.
“The lady will not!” she protested, then felt his eyes. She wanted to scream, but she found herself smiling sweetly instead. “The lady could not possibly give you the assistance you require. Why, the weight of your mail—”
“I’m sure you’ll manage very well. Gaston, leave us.”
Jay had hovered at the door. “I’ll remain on guard.”
“It will not be necessary. Gaston, if you please …”
“Ah, but Lady Kyra is right! The weight of your mail—”
“Gaston. Get out.”
The Briton had done his best to defend his lady; he had lost. “Aye, sir,” he said softly. He looked at Kyra, apology in his eyes.
She lifted her chin, trying to show him that she would be all right.
He left the room. Her friend was gone. She was not going to be all right.
Jay looked in on them a minute longer. “Good night,” he said simply.
Then he, too, quietly departed and closed the door.
And she was alone with the man who had sworn vengeance against her.
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Author’s Note
I believe I was a very lucky child. Of course, I didn’t think so as I was growing up; few children realize what they had at the time. As an adult, however, I’ve learned what can happen in the world, and so I know just how lucky I was.
I had loving parents.
Not rich ones, but loving ones. I remember wishing once that my last name might have been Astor, Vanderbilt, or Carnegie, but in fact, I now know that I wouldn’t trade my name for any other in the world, not for any other reason than that it was my father’s. I adored him; he was my first hero. He was tall and very handsome, quite bald by the time I knew him, a look-alike for Mr. Clean—for those of you who remember that dashing, animated character. He had the most wonderful blue eyes, and a knack for telling a story, so much so that to this day, I’m not always sure just what was—and wasn’t—true.
He was a Scotsman—an American, of course, but his heritage was Scottish, and he fit it well, a tall, powerful man with the remnants of dark, wavy hair and Celtic blue eyes. He gave me my grandfather’s sporan, all kinds of tales, and a love for the sound of bagpipes.
We tend to turn people into saints once they’ve died, to forget anything bad, remember only what was good. I know that he wasn’t a saint. I know that at one time he had led a very wild life. But I know as well that he was a man who encouraged me in every hope and dream I ever had, who could be stern, who taught me, and
who loved me. He tried to show my sister and me both the evil and the goodness in the world, and to learn to judge between. Naturally, we fought. I was very angry at him at times. I’m sure I caused a great amount of what hair he’d had left at my birth to fall out of his head. All that is part of being a parent, and being a child. He’s been gone a very long time now, but it’s strange—sometimes I can still hear his voice, see the flash of his smile, hear the sound of his laughter. I wish I might have known him as an adult—he died right before my twenty-first birthday. Sometimes, I see him in his grandchildren, and I’m glad, and I wish that he might have known them. But I do believe in God, and an afterlife, so I believe that he does see them, and that he watches out for them. I wish that they might have known him, but again, perhaps they do, for he lives in my memory, and I like to believe I have acquired his gift for storytelling.
I am blessed to still have my mother. She has been helping me in all kinds of ways as long as I can remember. I owe her so much. She remarried years after my father’s death, a Mr. Bill Sherman, and to him, equally, I am grateful, for he has unfailingly helped me in all kinds of situations, and he has been the world’s best stepparent.
This book is partially for my mom and Bill—my mother was born in Dublin, but her father’s name was Johnston, which is, of course, a Scottish clan name, too.
But mainly, this book, this series, is for my father.
It is about the Graham clan, the first use of the name, and the Grahams who went down in history heroically, and not so heroically. In several instances, where little is known except vague dates and supposition, I have taken an author’s liberty to fill in the gaps. I’ve tried to be true to Scottish history, mainly in showing just how many intriguing peoples went into the creation of the nation. It is written with a great deal of love—I am as proud of my Scottish heritage as I am of my father. In future books, I’ll be introducing a Graham who was historically one of William Wallace’s best friends and staunchest supporters. (How Randall Wallace and Mel Gibson missed him, I’ll never know!) He perished in his support of the Scottish cause. And down the road a few centuries, I’ll be using a Graham known either as “Bonnie Dundee,” if you were on his side, or “Bloody Claverhouse,” if you were not! History, of course, is slanted towards the beliefs and opinions of those who write it!
Anyway, that’s for the future. Here, we come across the first man to have been a Graham, according to clan histories. He lived in a turbulent time. Like de Brus (the future Bruces), he arrived with King David in a Norman contingent. He married a Scottish heiress. That much we know. The rest is supposition. I have given my hero the title of laird before the Graham were actually so honored. Author’s liberty—to those Grahams and Scots who know that we were “Sirs” before “lairds”—please bear with me.
So once again, to my dad.
He died with little except the devoted love of those around him, and in that, he died a very rich man. Just as he left me with riches untold—his unwavering belief in me, in dreams that must be realized. He died before he could see that I did live a dream—to write, and to publish. He taught me as well to appreciate all gifts in life, and so, I have the good sense to be grateful every day of my life that I am able to do something I love so much for a living.
Here goes—this work is dedicated to his memory.
For my father, Ellsworth Derue “Dan” Graham.
With all my love.
Chronology
c6000BC:
Earliest peoples arrive from Europe (Stone Age): Some used stone axes to clear land.
c4500BC:
Second wave of immigrants arrive (New Stone Age or Neolithic). “Grooved ware,” simple forms of pottery, found. They left behind important remains, perhaps most notably, their tombs and cairns.
c3500BC:
Approximate date of the remarkable chambered tombs at Maes Howe, Orkney.
c3000BC:
Carbon dating of the village at Skara Brae, also Orkney, showing houses built of stone, built-in beds, straw mattresses, skin spreads, kitchen utensils of bone and wood, and other more sophisticated tools.
c2500BC:
“Beaker” people arrive; neolithic people who will eventually move into the Bronze Age. Bronze Age to last until approximately 700BC.
c700BC:
Iron Age begins—iron believed to have been brought by Hallstadt peoples from central Europe. Term “Celts” now applied to these people, from the Greek Keltoi; they were considered by the Greeks and Romans to be barbarians. Two types of Celtic language, P-Celtic, and Q-Celtic.
c600–100BC:
The earliest Celtic fortifications, including the broch, or large stone tower. Some offered fireplaces and freshwater wells. Crannogs, or island forts, were also built; these were structures often surrounded by spikes or walls of stakes. Souterrains were homes built into the earth, utilizing stone, some up to eighty feet long. The Celts become known for their warlike qualities as well as for their beautiful jewelry and colorful clothing; “trousers” are introduced by the Celts, perhaps learned from Middle-Eastern societies. A rich variety of colors are used (perhaps forerunner to tartan plaids) as well as long tunics, skirts, and cloaks to be held by the artistically wrought brooches.
55BC:
Julius Caesar invades southern Britain.
56BC:
Julius Caesar attacks again, but again, the assault does not reach Scotland.
43AD:
The Roman Plautius attacks; by the late 70s (AD), the Romans have come to Scottish land.
78–84AD:
The Roman Agricola, newly appointed governor, born a Gaul, plans to attack the Celts. Beginning in 80AD, he launches a two-pronged full-scale attack. There are no roads, and he doesn’t have time to build them as the Romans have done elsewhere in Britain. 30,000 Romans marched; they will be met by a like number of Caledonians. (Later to be called Picts for their custom of painting or tattooing their faces and bodies.) After the battle of Mons Graupius, the Roman historian Tacitus (son-in-law of Agricola) related that 10,000 Caledonians were killed, that they were defeated. However, the Romans retreat southward after orders to withdraw.
122AD:
Hadrian arrives in Britain and orders the construction of his famous wall.
142AD:
Antoninus Pius arrives with fresh troops due to continual trouble in Scotland. The Antonine Wall is built, and garrisoned for the following twenty years.
150–200AD:
The Romans suffer setbacks. An epidemic kills much of the population, and Marcus Aurelius dies, to be followed by a succession of poor rulers.
c208AD:
Severus comes to Britain and attacks in Scotland, dealing some cruel blows, but his will be the last major Roman invasion. He dies in York in 211AD, and the Caledonians are then free from Roman intervention, though they will occasionally venture south to Roman holdings on raids.
350–400AD:
Saxon pirates raid from northwest Europe, forcing Picts southward over the wall. Fierce invaders arrive from Ireland: the Scotti, a word meaning raiders. Eventually, the country will take its name from these people.
c400AD:
St. Ninian, a British Celtic bishop, builds a monastery church at Whithorn. It is known as Candida Casa. His missionaries might have pushed north as far as the Orkney Islands; they were certainly responsible for bringing Christianity to much of the country.
c450AD:
The Romans abandon Britain altogether. Powerful Picts invade lower Britain, and the Romanized people ask for help from Jutes, Angles, and Saxons. Scotland then basically divided between four peoples; Picts, Britons, Angles, and the Scotti of Dalriada. “Clan” life begins—the word clann meaning “children” in Gaelic. Family groups are kin with the most important, possibly strongest, man becoming chief of his family and extended family. As generations go by, the clans grow larger, and more powerful.
500–700AD:
The Angles settle and form two kingdoms, Deira and Bernicia. Aethelf
rith, king from 593–617AD, wins a victory against the Scotia at Degsastan and severely crushes the Britons—who are left in a tight position between the Picts and Angles. He seizes the throne of King Edwin of Deira as well, causing bloodhed between the two kingdoms for the next fifty years, keeping the Angles busy and preventing warfare between them and their Pictish and Scottish neighbors. c500, Fergus MacErc and his brothers, Angus and Lorne, brought a fresh migration of Scotia from Ireland to Dalriada, and though the communities had been close (between Ireland and Scotland), they soon after began to pull away. By the late 500s, St. Columba came to Iona, creating a strong kingship there, and spreading Christianity even farther than St. Ninian had gone. In 685AD at Nechtansmere, the Angles are severely defeated by the Picts; their king Ecgfrith is slain, and his army is half slaughtered. This prevents Scotland from becoming part of England at an early date.
787AD:
The first Viking raid, according to the Anglo-Saxon chronicle. In 797, Lindisfarne is viciously attacked, and the monastery is destroyed. “From the Fury of the Northmen, deliver us, oh, Lord!” becomes a well-known cry.
843 AD:
Kenneth MacAlpian, son of a Scots king, who is also descended from Pictish kings through his maternal lineage, claims and wins the Pictish throne as well as his own. It is not an easy task as he sets forth to combine his two peoples into the country of Scotland. Soon after becoming king of the Picts and the Scotia, he moves his capital from Dunadd to Scone, and has the “Stone of Destiny” brought there, now known as the Stone of Scone. (And recently returned to Scotland.) The savage Viking raids become one focus that will help to unite the Picts and the Scots. Despite the raids and the battles, by the tenth century, many of the Vikings are settling in Scotland. The Norse kings rule the Orkneys through powerful jarls, and they maintain various other holdings in the country, many in the Hebrides. The Vikings will become a fifth main people to make up the Scottish whole. Kenneth is followed by a number of kings that are his descendants, but not necessarily immediate heirs, nor is the Pictish system of accepting the maternal line utilized. It appears that a powerful member of the family, supported by other powerful members, comes to the throne.
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