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ON A HIGHLAND SHORE
Prologue
Lammas Night
at the edge of the world
August, 1254
The sky was still blue this
August evening, the gray sides of the towering mountain peaks of western Scotland
were still lit by the sun, but the long day was at last ending. To the east
the light was fading in the deep glens and forests, the wind sighing through
the branches, lifting drops of water from the tumbling streams onto nearby ferns,
where they would linger through the short summer night. The sun moved ever
downward in the west, changing the sea from blue to molten silver, and the cobalt
of the offshore islands to a muted gray. Waves hurried to claim the shingle,
lacy white foam flying from their crests to join with the descending evening.
The young girl who hurried up the headland saw none
of it; she saw only the old woman ahead of her moving steadily away, and she
increased her speed anxiously. Seals lifted their heads from the water and
shore birds dipped down to get a closer look at the two figures below. But
the young girl did not look.
She wanted to see the future.
She was a beautiful child,
with long bones and glossy dark hair that waved around her oval face and framed
her blue eyes and even features. But it was her determination that one saw,
the glint of steel showing in those lovely eyes, usually hidden under a layer
of courtesy and training, but now, unwatched except by the creatures of sea
and air, her jaw was set and her gaze unfaltering.
She thought of herself as Scottish,
but in truth her blood was mixed. She’d been formed by fiery Picts, ancient Caledonians and ferocious Norsemen on her father’s
side, triumphant Normans and passionate Celts on her mother’s. She knew of
their intermingled histories, had heard the stories of the old days and the
battles for dominance, of foes who had come from the south and from the sea,
of courageous people who had held the Romans at bay and fought off the Vikings.
But all that was in the past, and she gave it little thought. It was what was
to come that interested her now and only the old woman could help her to see
it.
She’d seen much already this
evening, had watched as the rituals of Lammas Night, the first of the harvest
festivals, were carried out, the storing of the seed corn and the ceremonial
lighting of the bonfire that lit the sky. She’d watched the clanspeople
her father led devour the Lammas feast and had tasted the Mass Loaf, made from
the first flour ground after the harvest. And after the meal, when many of
the others were worse for drink, or lost in the wonderful music, she’d watched
her father clasp the hand of his latest mistress and slide from the hall. And
her mother’s eyes darken as she saw the same.
She’d seen her younger brother
Rignor let an innocent servant take the blame for
the cup he’d spilled and no one chide him for it, though both her parents had
seen the incident. But why should she expect otherwise when she’d seen the
same scene repeated all of his life? She’d seen Dagmar, from the next village,
only a few years older, but much wiser in the ways of the flesh, rearrange her
skirts and flash a smile to the man she’d just entertained in the gardens.
She’d watched the priest bless
the harvest and pray over the seeds that would be stored during the long winter.
And, standing at the priest’s side, enthralled, she’d watched while the old
woman read palms and predicted the future, her tone solemn and accent foreign,
hinting at a past that was intriguing. The priest had frowned, but he’d listened
as intently as the others. The woman had predicted a good harvest for this
year, and a new child for her parents - hardly surprising considering her mother’s
swollen middle. But she’d told the girl nothing.
The girl already knew much
of what lay ahead for her. She was the oldest child of the laird of Somerstrath and she knew her duty. She’d been betrothed to
Lachlan Ross since early childhood and knew that eventually she would leave
Somerstrath and live her life as his wife. But she
wanted to know more than that, so she followed the old woman up this headland
that faced the west.
There the woman paused, at
the edge of the world, looking across the water, holding the golden star she
wore around her neck between her long bony fingers. She turned when the child
joined her. “You’ve come for a reading?”
The girl thrust her hand forward.
“Please, if ye would, madam.”
The woman’s expression softened.
She was not surprised that the girl had followed her. Now there was no hope
for it but to warn her. Margaret’s life would not be peaceful. She, like her
country, would be gravely tested. Scotland would survive, despite the
forces that would threaten it. And Margaret MacDonald would come of age in
the midst of it all. How to tell an innocent what she would face? The old
woman took the girl’s hand, studying her palm for so long that the child shifted
her weight impatiently.
“You are well named,” the old
woman said.
Margaret smiled, not sure what
that meant, and the woman laughed gently.
“Look,” she said, holding Margaret’s
palm between them. “This is your heart line and this your
life line.” She looked into the girl’s eyes. “You will face dragons.”
Margaret’s smile was strained
now. Dragons, she thought.
“You don’t believe me,” the
woman said, leaning back and giving the girl an appraising look. “Do you know
who St. Margaret was?”
“Oh, aye,” Margaret said.
“She was King Malcolm’s wife. I’m named after her. She wasn’t a saint then,
but . . .” She stopped as the woman shook her head.
“Not her, child. The first
St. Margaret. Do you know her story?”
“No.”
“Ah. Well, you should. St.
Margaret was a beautiful young girl, not unlike you. She lived in Antioch,
a long way from Scotland.”
“Is that where ye’re
from, Antioch?”
The woman’s gaze grew distant.
“No, child, but closer to Antioch than to here.
Someday perhaps you’ll hear my story, but not today. I will tell you of my
life when next we meet. For we shall meet again.”
She smiled, her gaze now sharp. “As St. Margaret grew older all
admired her beauty and she caught the eye of a Roman prefect, who wanted to
marry her. When she refused, he threw her into a dungeon and left her to die.
But she did not die.”
“What happened?”
“The devil came to her, offering
her freedom for her soul.”
“But she dinna take it,” Margaret
said.
“No, of course
not. The devil was so incensed that he turned himself into a dragon
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and ate her alive.”
“Then how did she not die?”
The woman’s smile widened.
“She did what every self-respecting saint does, Margaret of Somerstrath.
She held up the cross of Christ and the dragon spat her out and died himself.”
Margaret slumped, disappointed.
She was quite sure no Roman prefect would seek her hand in marriage, that no
dragon would threaten her.
“Look,” said the woman, tracing
a finger down the girl’s lifeline. “See this break? You’ll be torn from your
home and you’ll face dragons. If you choose the right partner, you’ll slay
them together. And together find the love of legends.”
“And if I dinna choose the
right partner? What then?”
“You’ll perish.”
Margaret fought against the
sudden chill that claimed her and forced herself to
look into the woman’s eyes. “I dinna believe any of that.”
The woman laughed, the sound
chilling Margaret even more.
“We do not choose what God
sends us, child, any more than we choose our own name. Margaret you are, and
Margaret you will be, and your life will be formed by that. You will face dragons.
You need to prepare yourself for it.” She started away, her progress surprisingly
rapid for one so aged.
Margaret watched for a moment,
torn between disappointment and curiosity, then ran
after her. “But how will I ken the right partner? How will I ken it’s him?”
The old woman stopped. “You
will know him. He will be unlike any other man you’ve known. He will be golden.
He will bring life after death.”
“But how will I ken?”
“Listen. There is a voice within
each of us. Listen to it.”
“What will happen to me?”
“Before you leave this earth,
Margaret MacDonald, you will see the birth of a people formed from many peoples,
made of steel and fire and magic and mist, a people who will travel the world
and change it forever.”
“But how . . . ?”
“I can tell ye
nothing more. Go home, child. The darkness is coming.”
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