CHAPTER 1
He was a monster. My upbringing had taught me that such creatures should not suffer to live, and yet I loved him and lusted for him.
"Muira? Muira, where are you?" I heard a voice call.
I sighed and set down on the ground the small flower that was in my hand. There were hundreds like it around me for I sat in the midst of a thick patch of heather. The plants were a colorful sea of fragrance that wrapped around me and comforted me like a soft blanket.
"Muira!" came the voice.
"Coming, Mother!" I called back.
I stood and hurried down the steep hill to the small stone house at the edge of the village. A meager garden stood behind the stone walls, and there was a strong thatch roof atop its sturdy frame. A curl of gray smoke rose from the chimney and into the gray sky over the large village where I had been born and raised. There were dozens of similar cottages placed on terraces with a few larger ones nestled among them and along the road. A single road meandered between them, but there were countless paths to the outhouses, wells, and the far-flung fields of the hilly valley in which we all resided.
The village as a whole sat atop a large plateau over the green fields of the valley. The mountains above us were rocky and barren but for a few patches of grass, but the fields below were thick with the promise of a good harvest of wheat. Even as I stood there I beheld the small figures of people as they swept across the fields to gather the food before the autumn rains and frost ruined the year's crop.
Beyond the fields towered more tall mountains, and the opposite side of the valley still held its spots of wilderness. Thick forests of ancient trees climbed the gentle slopes and abutted the fields. The only break in the trees came from a spring that meandered down the mountain and cut through the thick forest on its way to the opposite end of the valley.
The only residences of any great consequence were the large church, and the grand stone castle a half mile from the village and up the steep, grassy slope. The church had a tall, peeked roof of thatch, and a simple bell rang and summoned us to mass. Each family attended and sat upon the thick, uncomfortable wooden benches, and the good father read us our fill of brimstone and fire. My family attended frequently, as did the others in the village, and our souls were thought to be safe from the devil's influence.
How wrong I was, and how closely was the sudden change to involve the castle and its inhabitants. The Laird of the castle, Laird Kynan Campbell, owned the village, the stone houses, and all the green, rocky fields. Shepherds tended his many flocks and farmers grew and harvested his crops. We paid him a tax to live on his land and be under his protection.
The lands of the Laird Campbell sat on one of the larger roads from England to my home of Scotland. The inn and taverns provided for travelers, and Laird Campbell demanded his bit of tribute from the merchants who plied their trade along the road. The trade made him wealthy, and the other Lairds outside the valley came and worshiped at his table.
I paused on the hill and looked down on the wide, rutted road that traveled through the village some two dozen yards from my family's home. A gilded carriage rolled its way through the village and onward past the castle to one of the far-flung provinces of Scotland. The weather was generally inhospitable, but even on sunny days the castle cast its shadow over the village. My father would say that the lairds of the castle would never let us forget who was master.
"Muira! Hurry or your food will be cold!" my mother shouted. She stood at the edge of the garden which stood at the bottom of the path on which I lingered.
My mother was scarcely thirty-five, but years of toil had left her hands wizened and her skin darkened by the sun. Though she was weathered, a hundred years couldn't dim the bright smile on her face nor the beautiful shine of her long tress
He was a monster. My upbringing had taught me that such creatures should not suffer to live, and yet I loved him and lusted for him.
"Muira? Muira, where are you?" I heard a voice call.
I sighed and set down on the ground the small flower that was in my hand. There were hundreds like it around me for I sat in the midst of a thick patch of heather. The plants were a colorful sea of fragrance that wrapped around me and comforted me like a soft blanket.
"Muira!" came the voice.
"Coming, Mother!" I called back.
I stood and hurried down the steep hill to the small stone house at the edge of the village. A meager garden stood behind the stone walls, and there was a strong thatch roof atop its sturdy frame. A curl of gray smoke rose from the chimney and into the gray sky over the large village where I had been born and raised. There were dozens of similar cottages placed on terraces with a few larger ones nestled among them and along the road. A single road meandered between them, but there were countless paths to the outhouses, wells, and the far-flung fields of the hilly valley in which we all resided.
The village as a whole sat atop a large plateau over the green fields of the valley. The mountains above us were rocky and barren but for a few patches of grass, but the fields below were thick with the promise of a good harvest of wheat. Even as I stood there I beheld the small figures of people as they swept across the fields to gather the food before the autumn rains and frost ruined the year's crop.
Beyond the fields towered more tall mountains, and the opposite side of the valley still held its spots of wilderness. Thick forests of ancient trees climbed the gentle slopes and abutted the fields. The only break in the trees came from a spring that meandered down the mountain and cut through the thick forest on its way to the opposite end of the valley.
The only residences of any great consequence were the large church, and the grand stone castle a half mile from the village and up the steep, grassy slope. The church had a tall, peeked roof of thatch, and a simple bell rang and summoned us to mass. Each family attended and sat upon the thick, uncomfortable wooden benches, and the good father read us our fill of brimstone and fire. My family attended frequently, as did the others in the village, and our souls were thought to be safe from the devil's influence.
How wrong I was, and how closely was the sudden change to involve the castle and its inhabitants. The Laird of the castle, Laird Kynan Campbell, owned the village, the stone houses, and all the green, rocky fields. Shepherds tended his many flocks and farmers grew and harvested his crops. We paid him a tax to live on his land and be under his protection.
The lands of the Laird Campbell sat on one of the larger roads from England to my home of Scotland. The inn and taverns provided for travelers, and Laird Campbell demanded his bit of tribute from the merchants who plied their trade along the road. The trade made him wealthy, and the other Lairds outside the valley came and worshiped at his table.
I paused on the hill and looked down on the wide, rutted road that traveled through the village some two dozen yards from my family's home. A gilded carriage rolled its way through the village and onward past the castle to one of the far-flung provinces of Scotland. The weather was generally inhospitable, but even on sunny days the castle cast its shadow over the village. My father would say that the lairds of the castle would never let us forget who was master.
"Muira! Hurry or your food will be cold!" my mother shouted. She stood at the edge of the garden which stood at the bottom of the path on which I lingered.
My mother was scarcely thirty-five, but years of toil had left her hands wizened and her skin darkened by the sun. Though she was weathered, a hundred years couldn't dim the bright smile on her face nor the beautiful shine of her long tress
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