PROLOGUE
Pluscarden, Elgin, Scotland 1712
The branches whipped against their cloaks while moonlight streamed through the overhanging trees. The smell of the impending snowstorm was strong in the wind, as though it too was chasing them.
The rider ahead of the small group looked back to see if her companions were still following. Finn rode between his parents. At eleven years old he could hold his own, keeping a tight rein on the spirited Arabian thoroughbred. His heart thundered in tandem with his horse's frantic gallop. His face jerked from left to right to avoid being whipped by low hanging boughs, but he knew from the stings and moisture he felt on his face, that they had already drawn blood. The freezing cold would numb the scrapes and welts soon. It didn't matter. His wounds would heal by the time they reached their destination. After all, he was a Cynn Cruor.
Finn looked back. His father took the rear guard. He too glanced back from whence they came, making sure they weren't being followed. Finn faced front again. It was a good thing his mother had tied her brown tresses and placed them underneath the cowl of her cloak. At their breakneck speed, her hair could become entangled in the branches, whip her off her horse and snap her neck just like Absalom of the Bible.
Finn closed his eyes for a moment as he forced the morbid thought away. How could things have changed so drastically in a matter of hours? Earlier that evening they had been having a wonderful post-Christmas supper. He had gone up to his room in the manor as his mother bade him to get a good night's sleep. His head had barely touched the pillow when his father entered his room to rouse him from bed.
“It's time,” his father had said, his mouth in a grim line.
Finn and his family had prepared for this day for as long as he could remember, it had become second nature to plan what to bring and what to leave behind. But now that the day had arrived, he experienced a momentary sense of panic. His mind closed and he didn't know what to do.
“Qualtrough!”
Finn's head snapped at his father. His mother's worried eyes looked at him in a moment of compassion before that emotion disappeared and she nodded to him. Finn reddened with shame. His father strode to him and knelt down to his height. The understanding and sadness he saw in his father's gaze made his own eyes smart.
“Dinnae feel bad that you lost yer heid for a moment,” his father said, his mouth quirking into a slight smile. “It happens to all of us. Never for one moment feel you are not worthy of the Cynn Cruor name.”
Finn swallowed.
“Aye Da.”
“Let's go. Mam's waiting with the horses.” His father straightened and checked the bags Finn held. “We need to get to the abbey as soon as possible.”
As though his memories had the ability to conjure it, the huge and shadowy facade of the abbey came into view buffeted against the black gray sky. Before their horses even reached the stone fence which separated the Abbey from the outside world, its huge wooden gates were thrown open. Their horses sped through before several monks pushed the gates back and bolted them.
Finn climbed down from his stallion and numbly gave the reins to one of the monks who stood waiting.
“Come Finn and warm yerself.” His mother's soft voice was a balm to his fear, her breath puffing around her like a mystic veil. She fished out a cloth from underneath her cloak to gingerly wipe away the blood trickling down Finn's cheeks. He looked up at her. She was smiling, but behind the smile he saw something he didn't want to accept.
