Prologue
Ormond Castle near Avoch on the “Black Isle”
Southwest coast of the Moray Firth
Scottish Highlands
Bhaltair Douglas ran as fast as he could out of the castle gates and to the village; his legs were pumping as his chest burned.
He could hear the people of his village. They were running out of their cottages, calling to one another and screaming:
Fire!
It was chaos as the bright orange flames of the fire lit up the night sky.
One of the thatched roofed cottages was burning, the dried thatch of the roof crackling and popping sinisterly as the flames shot through the roof and raced along the top of the cottage, igniting every bit of the dried thatch in its wake as if it was kindling.
Dark smoke was billowing all along the dirt path to the village, making it hard to breathe and see the closer he got to the little cottage.
He only knew he had to get his brother out of that cottage. He knew he was in there; he had seen him go in.
“Fill every bucket ye can lay yer hands on with water!” he shouted urgently to the others that had also hurried to the cottage.
One of the villagers standing closest to him shielded his face from the heat and flying embers as he turned toward Bhaltair. “’Tis tae late, M’Laird!”
Bhaltair spun toward the older man. “Nay!” he roared. “Ailbeart is in there!”
The older man turned back to the burning cottage with his mouth open and dread on his face as he looked at it, totally engulfed in flames. “I am sorry,” he said in a rough voice. “He’s gone. ’Tis Sherine and David’s cottage. If they were in there, they are a’ gaene, tae.”
Bhaltair looked around desperately, trying to think.
He held his arm up to shield his eyes from the smoke blowing about and the embers whirling in an eerie bright orange within the blackness.
He looked up above the burning roof and watched as the embers were carried away by the winds, blowing off the firth.
“Get water on the roof o’ that cottage tae the right side!”
The man just stood there looking at him in confusion.
Bhaltair gave him a shove. “Dae it, or else that cottage roof will catch fire tae. Look at the embers flyin’ in the air.
The wind will carry the fire tae the nearby cottage!
” he yelled to him as a whoosh of flames shot through the roof with a frightening roar.
They could hear the sudden boom as a beam crashed down to the floor inside the cottage.
Bhaltair turned from the cottage back to the older man. “Quickly, lad! Get the others tae use the water on that other roof! I am gaeing in after my brother,” he shouted to him.
“Ye cannae be thinkin’ o’ daein’ that! Ye’ll die right along with yer brother, Ailbeart! What will yer da dae with nay heir? Ye cannae risk it, M’Laird Bhaltair. Ye are his heir noo!”
Bhaltair gritted his teeth as he shouted back to the man, “Ailbeart is my father’s heir and yer next laird, nae me! I hae tae get in there and pull him oot!” He shook the man’s hand off his arm and shoved him towards the other villagers with the buckets.
Bhaltair spun around, looking left and right at the villagers racing to the well with buckets.
He spotted a man coming away from the well with a full bucket of water.
“Ye there, give me that bucket o’ water!
” He quickly grabbed the bucket and doused his hair and clothing, ignoring the villagers’ shocked stares.
Then, he spun back to the burning cottage. Taking several breaths and clenching his jaw, he pulled his wet shirt over his face, ducked his head, and ran into the burning cottage.
Inside, he could only see smoke and a red haze from the flames. He ducked low, keeping his wet shirt over his mouth and nose. He looked towards the hearth where most of the fire was burning. It had scorched up the wall and jumped to the roof. He looked quickly around through the acrid black smoke.
He wrinkled his nose; even through the damp tunic he held to his face, he knew that smell. He looked around frantically, screaming his brother’s name over and over.
He saw the burning bed.
And he saw what had to be his brother.
He was in bed with that woman.
Several jugs of whiskey lay on the floor beside the bed; some toppled over onto the floor, burning along with the rushes.
Bhaltair knew the woman’s husband was away visiting relatives. He also understood why she had wanted to stay behind; his brother was sleeping with her. The two of them both had a strong craving for whiskey, which led them to other things.
Bhaltair put his arm up and grabbed at the nearest figure on the bed. He recognized his brother’s hair, but that was all. He knew he was dead.
So was the woman.
The flames had engulfed the bed. The smell came from there.
He pulled what was left of his brother out of the cottage and collapsed on the ground, still holding his shirt over his mouth and nose.
Several villagers ran to him, gathering around.
The older man he had spoken to earlier knelt beside him as he quickly took his thin tunic off and draped it over Ailbeart.
“He’s dead, M’Laird,” he said quietly.
Bhaltair just nodded as he stared.
“David’s wife, Sherine? Is she…?”
“Dead,” Bhaltair said in a throaty voice.
He coughed raggedly and then tried to swallow.
His throat burned. “My brother must have tried tae gae in there tae save her, but he couldnae,” he said in a raw, painful voice.
“He lost his life tryin’ tae get her oot.
” He bent over and coughed again and again.
It felt like his chest and throat were on fire.
He did not realize he was crying until he reached up to wipe the sooty smoke from his eyelids.
Ailbeart, his father and mother’s firstborn—the son who could do no wrong—was dead.
His older brother was a hero. He had saved his father in the last battle against the MacMoirs of Beauly Keep at the southern end of the firth.
A warrior had struck his father’s leg with a sword, and Ailbeart had boasted that it was he that had run his sword through the MacMoir and killed him, saving their father’s life.
Bhaltair had been on that battlefield as well. He knew it was not the truth. He had watched as one of their own Douglas warriors saved their father. But that Douglas warrior had lost his life in the battle.
His father’s leg was gone, and with it, his strength, confidence, and masculinity it seemed. He had fallen into despair that no one could bring him back from. Thus he had been turning his lairdship over to Ailbeart.
Bhaltair knew what his brother was.
He had tried to talk to him about his drinking and other habits. His brother had furiously pushed him away.
Bhaltair held his head in his hands as he sat there in the dirt, staring at his brother’s body. The tears came as he shouted his brother’s name to the heavens with all the pain and rage within him; for he knew he had not tried hard enough to stop his brother.
This is my fault.
He had heard the shouts. He looked out from where he had been rushing on the battlements and instantly knew what cottage was on fire.
He also knew his brother had gone to visit that woman again; to drink with her and then bed her. Afterward, he would fall asleep in a drunken stupor as usual.
But of course, he could not tell his parents the truth about their firstborn son. No, that truth lay buried in the ashes.