Chapter 2
Argyll, Scotland, 1646
The branches of the old rowan barely bore his weight as he
scaled them, and yet the wind in the leaves made more of a
rustle than MacColla. It was a moonless night and he felt
his way, clinging closer to the trunk as the branches grew
thinner and more fibrous with his ascent. Just as the treetop
began to stoop with the burden, he saw the roof materialize
from the darkness.
It was a ruinous old structure nestled among the trees, a
stout, near-windowless tower house, despite its grand title of
Inveraray Castle. During the day, wooden steps bypassed the
ground floor to lead to the entrance via the great hall on the
second story. As such, invited guests wouldn’t have to en-
dure the unsightly cellars and vaulted kitchen, and the unin-
vited would be denied entry when the staircase was retracted
at night.
MacColla’s laugh was low and quiet. He would, most
assuredly, be considered among the uninvited, and yet the
fools must’ve thought some removable steps to be adequate
security, for there were no guardsmen to be seen.
There were no suitable windows to climb to from the
ground, leaving the roofas the second best access point.
He studied it from his perch. A dormer bearing a single
door was the only thing that interrupted the silhouette of
the sharp peak. A low stone parapet flanked a thin walkway
along the roof’s edge, presumably to prevent guardsmen
from falling the five stories to their death. Faint starlight
shimmered in small patches all around, captured by the
night’s dew.
Ah, and wet too, MacColla thought with a smirk. ’T-
weren’t simple enough to begin with.
It was no matter. He’d risk life and limb without a
thought to get to his Jean.
He heaved his weight. Perhaps it was a good thing after
all that Campbell’s lair was in want of windows. As it was,
he’d be lucky if none heard the tremendous creak the old
tree’s bones moaned into the night.
MacColla leapt, hurtling his massive body through the
air, crashing along the side ofthe roofand sliding down to
land with an ungraceful thump on the narrow walkway.
He stood and drew his dirk from his belt. Speed and
agility had been paramount, and he’d left his claymore be-
hind. Brushing the leaves from his tartan, MacColla curled
his toes and adjusted to the feel ofthe slate tiles, cold and
damp under his bare feet.
He trained his eyes into the darkness, making sense of
the terrain in the distance. The castle was nestled in Glen
Aray, and the landscape was an almost impermeable black,
punctuated only by the faint glimmer of Loch Fyne, a
ghostly shade ofdark silver in the far distance. He knew
that squalid little huts clung to its banks in what constituted
the village of Inveraray.
Certain now that nobody had heard his landing, Mac-
Colla made his way to the low entry cut into the dormer.
“Och,” he muttered, jiggling the locked door, “’twouldn’t
be that easy.”
MacColla leaned on the stone railing and looked over
the edge ofthe parapet. “I’ll not be going down, I see.” The
nearest windows were a row ofthin arrow slits over one
story below.
He walked along the side of the ledge to where it ended,
and looked around to the front of the tower. A small balcony
was nestled in its triangular upper story. MacColla looked
at the slick roofbehind him, then again to the front ofthe
building. Stones stepped inelegantly up to shape its peak.
“Nothing for it, then,” he grumbled and, biting his dirk
between his teeth, scaled the stacked and tapering blocks
ofgranite until he was level with the small opening. Grip-
ping the protruding stones between his thighs, he strained
to reach the balcony. He grasped a crude stone banister in his
hand and dropped, quickly grabbing on with his other hand
as his body swung out. Heaving himself up and through
such a tight space was awkward, and MacColla had to
shimmy on his belly until he landed in a pitch-black upper
chamber.
He forced himself to pause, despite his eagerness to
rampage Campbell’s so-called castle. She was close now.
He could feel her presence, enduring God-knows-what at
the hands ofhis enemy.
Just as his father had. His father who’d been held cap-
tive by this same man for so many years, in just such a
tower, trussed like a savage. Campbell, who dared take an-
other from Clan MacDonald prisoner.
MacColla hissed low in his throat at the thought of Jean.
Frail, without guile, and lovely as the dawn, with shining
black hair and a shy cast to her eye.
Lovely Jean. His sister.
He vowed he’d die at the hands of one hundred Camp-
bells before allowing her to remain another day captive to
the brutish bastard. Word was, the Campbell wasn’t even in
residence, and if the blackguard was fool enough to aban-
don his precious prisoner, MacColla would avail himself
of the opportunity.
He stooped, walking the perimeter of the cramped attic
room, tracing his hand along the damp stone as he went,
shuffling a foot tentatively forward with each step to see
with his body what his eyes couldn’t make out in the dark.
The building would be in the old style—one-room
floors connected by a spiral staircase—and it would do no
good to announce his arrival by tumbling down the attic
steps. Campbell’s room would be on an upper floor, and
would likely be empty. But he’d need to tread with care as
he approached the lower floors. It was late, and MacColla
hoped either sleep or drink—or perhaps both—would make
easy work ofdispatching his enemy’s men.
MacColla wagered he’d find his sister in the cellars on
the ground floor. Rather, it was where he hoped he’d find
her. The guards wouldn’t want to spend much time in the
vaults beneath the castle, likely thick with rats, urine, and
damp. If they used Jean even now, it was above ground that
MacColla would find her, and he’d prefer finding his sister
bound and untouched than being used for sport in the cas-
tle hall.
He sensed the opening in front of him, even before his
toes slid over the lip ofthe first step. MacColla took his
dirk in his left hand and felt his way down the tight spiral
stairs that had been hacked crudely into the stone. He came
to a landing and, shifting his dirk back to his right hand,
gave himself a moment to let his eyes adjust to the fall of
light and shadow in what was a much larger space.
Every floor will look this way, he thought, easily imag-
ining the castle in his mind’s eye. One of the lower stories
would house whatever family Campbell chose to keep
close, below that would be a great hall, and the kitchen and
cellars would be on the ground level.
He scanned the room. A wardrobe, some chests, and a
desk emerged from the shadows. It was well appointed,
considering. This one would be the chief’s then. MacColla
spat in the direction of Campbell’s bed, a gray hulk faintly
illuminated by what was less a window than a rectangular
hole to the outside.
MacColla continued down, opening his senses wide.
Men were close, and he’d rather keep the benefit of surprise.
Eyes wide in the dark and nostrils flared, he was like a wild
hunting thing, taking the measure of the floor below
through pure instinct.
Distant snores. The quiet rumble oftwo men’s voices
speaking in a hush. Firelight licking at the bottom steps,
too weak to cut through the black shadows of the stairwell.
The charred bite of wood smoke in his sinuses, overlaid
with the sour tang of ale gone foul.
A voice jarred the relative calm. Much closer than the
others. A third man, then, sitting just out ofview ofthe
staircase. MacColla crept down and into the orange fire-
light of the landing. Two sat at their ease in chairs in front
of the fire, nursing their cups. The third sat on a small
stool, his back to MacColla.
MacColla slid behind him and, for one strange moment,
felt the rumble of the man’s low laugh reverberate through
his own chest as he slipped his hand around the Campbell’s
forehead, pulling him close to slit his throat.
The man’s death was silent, but the scrape of his stool
was not, and he soon had the attention of the other two
Campbell clansmen. The taller one raised a call of alarm,
but MacColla was unfazed.
He dropped their dead kin to the ground and stepped
over him to assume a ready posture. He’d let the first move
be theirs, as that was often when men made their fatal mis-
takes. Legs apart and knees bent, his arms held just up and
out from his sides, MacColla was a stalking animal poised
to pounce.
And the first to move was indeed the first to fall. The
taller of the two Campbell men leapt forward, slashing his
broadsword as he lunged toward MacColla. But MacColla
caught him easily, seizing the man’s sword arm with his
left hand, and impaling the Campbell with his dirk.
The hush in the room was palpable, with a few grunts,
heavy breathing, and the scrape of chairs the only things to
echo off the stark stone walls.
He could see that the second man would pose more of a
challenge, despite his much smaller size. The other Campbell
man was fast, faster than MacColla, whose six foot six
inches of brawn made him powerful but somewhat stiff
when it came to combat in close quarters.
The Campbell kinsman didn’t have a sword to hand so
he jabbed at MacColla with a small dagger pulled from his
boot. MacColla pulled back, but not fast enough to avoid
the bite of the blade at his chest. The pain focused him, and
he peeled his lips back into a snarl.
The Campbell pestered him with much hopping and a
few quick feints and stabs of his small blade.
“Enough.” MacColla slashed his dirk down and, stand-
ing so much taller, he easily caught the flesh at the man’s
collarbone.
The Campbell glanced at his bloodied shoulder and
panic replaced what had been arrogance just a moment be-
fore. Frantic now in what he knew was a fight for his life,
the man dashed to MacColla’s unguarded left side, but be-
fore he could strike, MacColla flexed his arm.
Sometimes, he thought, a man simply prefers his fists.
MacColla’s bicep was a thick mass of muscle, straining
like a rock against his linen shirt. He pulled back and
swung, clubbing away his enemy’s blade and striking him
squarely on the jaw.
The sharp, clipped sound of pain shattered the focused
quiet of the chamber, and MacColla’s grimace turned into a
smile. Flipping the dirk in his hand, he tucked the blade
close against his forearm and punched the side of the man’s
head, his broad fist landing with devastating force across the
Campbell’s temple and ear. Dead weight fell with a crash
that belied the man’s small stature.
MacColla was primed now. He descended the stairs and
came to the great hall. The snores he’d heard two stories up
echoed off the cold stone. A low fire flickered, mostly a few
angry embers casting amber light across the men strewn on
blankets in front of the hearth. The acrid smell of piss and
ale filled the room, and MacColla could tell he’d likely have
no need to blood his blade further while these half-wits slept
off their drink. In fact, he thought, looking toward the main
door with a smile, he fancied that once Jean was safe in his
charge, the two of them could even take the civilized way
out.
The steps connecting the great hall to the floor below
were wooden, rotted and bowed with age. MacColla tread
along the very outer edge, but it wasn’t enough to avoid the
complaining creak of old timber underfoot.
He paused and held his breath, then moved down in a
swift, final burst. If someone had heard him, he’d face
them head-on. Otherwise, he’d not tarry, wanting to get to
his sister as quickly as possible.
The kitchen had a low, vaulted ceiling and brick walls
covered in a decades-old veneer of oil and soot. An elderly
woman slept curled close to the hearth. A few coals re-
mained, smoldering amidst the thick blanket ofblack ash
that had been the cook fire.
Some sort of lumpy, beige stew congealed in a cast-iron
pot above it. Potatoes. MacColla scowled. His days in Ire-
land had cured him of the taste of potatoes forever. His
grandmother had railed against the foreign, dirty little
things. Swore up and down that a food not found in the
Bible wasn’t fit to be found on a good Christian table.
She’d relented only after they’d sprinkled the ugly lumps
with some holy water, and they’d been a staple with the
MacDonald clan in Ireland ever since.
MacColla worked his way through two narrow pantries
and a buttery before discovering the padlocked door. The
lock was a rusted old thing, and he wasted a few minutes
jiggling his dirk through the keyhole in an effort to spring
it. Growing impatient, he finally just drew his arm back and
sheared the hasp from the door with the butt ofhis weapon.
Jean cried out at the intrusion, and the sound near broke
his heart. His sister stood in the pitch-black of a dank
vaulted cellar, squinting and blinking her eyes rapidly to
adjust to what was merely the faint ambient light of the
kitchen.
Fury boiled in him.
“It’s me, lass. Alasdair.” He ran to her, lifting her easily
into his arms, and the sight of the filth that soaked the hem
of her dress made something in him snap. “Och, Jeannie...
bonny wee Jeannie.” Anguish tightened his voice as
he scanned her body for signs of misuse.
She broke then, and her tears came in a shuddering
rush. Jean tucked her face as tightly to him as possible,
nuzzling into the crook of his neck as if she could close
some fundamental breach between her life as she’d known
it and what she’d just endured. Despite her shuddering
body and staccato breaths, Jean’s sobs were nearly silent.
The sight of his sister, broken in his arms and hiding her
brave tears, hardened MacColla’s resolve to a white-hot
fury. The Campbell had disgraced his father, exiled his
family to Ireland, and besieged his Highlands in a wolfish
grab for power.
He’d once vowed to destroy the man. But now MacColla
found he’d a taste for the blood of all Campbells, and it
choked him like bile he needed to cleanse from his throat.
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