Dìlseachd - A Stolen Crown [Excerpt only] | NOW A PUBLISHED NOVEL

Prologue: Crimson Dawn

THE sun rose over the sloping Highlands, tainting reddish-gold the swathes of fog that lay in the valleys. The bittersweet smell of salt rolled in on the chill morning breeze, and one could hear faintly amidst the silvery birdsong the distant murmur of the sea. Emerald hills glowed in the warm light, and when the war host crested the rise, the northern horizon twinkled like dazzling gold as the sun glanced off the rippling waves.

Douglas McCurragh inhaled the tangy air, relishing his first sight of the sea. It was odd how peaceful the scene was. For he knew, with a heaviness in his chest, that this tranquillity would soon be shattered with the clash of steel upon steel and the cries of dying men.

It had only been a few hours since their scouts had brought word of Danish warships in sight of this beach. Only a few months since they had known of the threat—of the burnings and the carnage of animals, fields, and human beings that the Danes left in the bloody wake they called victory.

It would be cowardly to stand back and wait until the Danes came to them. Divided, they would fall, clan by clan. Mere pride and self-assurance would do nothing against the Danish numbers. Unified, though, they stood a chance against the raiders from the sea; thus the sending out of the Cran Tara, the king's call to a war hosting, the like of which had not been seen since the days of their forefathers. That was why the Scots were here now, assembled on horse and foot to defend their country, their homes, and their families.

But Douglas had no wife and children of his own. He was only a few moons past sixteen years, scarcely of age to fight in a war, though he had been trained well. As young as he was, he did not feel a special passion for his country as the men beside him did, even if he would one day be king of Scotland when his father went beyond the sunset.

No, he would fight only to protect his sister, whom he loved more than anyone else in the world.

The wind whipped his brown hair into his eyes as the Scots descended the hill. Ahead of him, he could see the company of horsemen trotting ahead of his own band of foot soldiers. He shut his eyes tightly for a moment, not wanting to be distracted from his purpose as they marched. But the remembrance of his sister was more poignant in the early hours of this dawn, which perhaps would be his last.

A bouncing lass with springy red curls and a smattering of freckles across her small face, she was the only one who could always make him smile, no matter how tired he felt after training. Despite her eight short years, she had already attained a realistic view of the world, and her thoughts and comments on the happenings of Scotland often astonished him. He wondered now what she would tell him at this moment...probably to be courageous, and make her and their father proud.

Douglas smiled, and then it faded away as the memory of their parting came unbidden to his mind.

"Keep yerself safe, Fiona, and donnae forget the footwork I taught ye." He grinned, trying to make light of the seriousness of it all. He kissed her on her forehead. "And keep yerself free until I get back. I must make sure tha' yer future husband is acceptable," he added with a wink.

They laughed, the merry sound ringing off the cobblestones of the castle courtyard.

"I donnae think I'll be wed yet, brother," she returned, still giggling. "I'm only eight."

He stuck out his tongue teasingly. "Jist to be sure." Then his face sobered as he turned to their father and stood, head bowed, as King Daibhidh repeated the ancient blessing:

"May the road rise to meet ye and may the wind be always at yer back."

Fiona added, "And may the road bring ye back safely to us; but till then, keep yerself safe, my brother."