Chapter I: Because of a Woman

The years passed swiftly as I grew to manhood, the gawky gaunt form of the youth exchanged for the hard body of the man. And peace came slowly to the Highlands. One by one, representatives from the surrounding clans came to the village of our chieftain, Duncan MacDougall, suing for peace at any price. And a price they paid. The clans of Mackenzie and MacLeod humbled themselves before Duncan, though the truce with MacLeod was fragile and soon to be broken again. Even a fair daughter of the Norse appeared one day, seeking an end to the conflict between us. The thrashing we gave to their fleet in my sixteenth year taught them a lesson they were not quick to forget.
I left the sword in its hiding place near the Devil's Tor, hidden from all eyes except my own, and those were fastened upon it on a daily basis. The spell the blade had cast on that long-ago misty morn still held me fast in its grasp. But its use was for the future. For now—I took down my father's sword from it's place over the door and learned its use, feinting in mock sword-bouts with the young men of the village. Regardless the training, peace had come to the glens, to the small village I called my home. And despite the ferocity of highland winter, the despair of a crop that failed, despite all these life was good, the best my people had known in long years. And deep within us was the knowledge, the certitude that such an idyll could not last.
The people to the south, the English, were stirring—no one knew which way their swords might be pointed next. And our brothers, the clansmen between us and Comyn, were equally unpredictable. Yet when war came, it was unexpected, coming upon us like the lightning-bolt of of the clear sky of summer.
It all began because of a woman.
I was on the village green when the news came, a heavy wooden sword in my hand, fashioned by the smithy to approximate the weight of a clansman's blade. I held it back toward my head, parrying a sharp blow. Recovering, I gave ground, looking across into the laughing eyes of Finbar MacDougall, a boyhood friend and second cousin of mine.
“Ewan!” He called cheerfully. “You are slipping.”
I heard girlish laughter from the side of the green and flushed red-hot, knowing from whence it came. When he came toward me again I advanced to meet him, taking the sword in both hands and swinging it round in an arc—just like I would have handled the longsword of yore. I heard a smash and then a crack as wood slapped against wood, beating down his guard. Finbar's eyes opened wide, his mock sword snapping in twain. Before he could react, I had shoved the wooden tip against his throat. My eyes locked with his down the length of the sword, a smile of triumph crossing my face. “Surrender, my enemy?”
Finbar laughed, nodding carelessly. I shoved the wooden sword back into my belt, slapping him on the back. “Who did you say was slipping, my friend?”
His only reply was an ironic shake of the head, as we turned and walked together to the edge of the green, where a small group of the village girls had gathered.
All at once I stopped, my ears pricking up at the sound. I grasped Finbar by the shoulder, hissing, “Listen!”
The hoofbeats of a horse thundered down the dusty summer road toward us, a lone rider reining up before the green. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my uncle, a look of worry on his face, coming toward us.
The rider dismounted, offering a sweaty hand to my uncle, the head man of the village. It was to him that any message must be given.
I pressed closer to hear whatever news had brought this stranger to our hamlet, and feeling movement at my side, I looked to find Finbar doing the same.
“. . .Duncan is calling the clansmen together to Dunstaffnage,” I heard the messenger say. “We sail for Jura at the end of the month.”
“Jura? Is that not the isle of Angus MacLean and his clans?” My uncle asked.
“Yea,” the messenger nodded. “We march against the MacLeans, with the hopes of taking Lagg.”
“Why? It has been years since the war.”
“A matter with Duncan's son Ewan. Apparently the young fool fell in love during a visit to Jura—with the daughter of Angus. She was denied him and he has succeeded in stirring up his father to avenge the insult.”
“Madness,” my uncle whispered. “The clansmen of Angus MacLean must number nigh a thousand men on Jura alone.”
I could see from the look in the messenger's eye that he agreed with my uncle's assessment, but declaring so was impolitic. “It is the wish of Duncan,” he replied stolidly. “Shall I tell him you wish to remain in your fields?”
Fire flashed red-hot across my uncle's visage. “Nay, we will be there. Every man that can carry a sword will be there—to avenge ourselves upon the Clan MacLean.”