


Scottish Highlands, 6.5 miles west of Inverness, 11 April 1488
"Deliver me from those who love me," Robert Mackenzie muttered to himself.
He discarded the prayer-like request a moment later because there was no one to address it. God would not understand such a wish. Worse, Satan might misunderstand it.
With a final, needlessly vigorous knot, he secured his belongings to his horse's saddle. Satisfied by the strap's solidity—a must for the long riding days awaiting them—he made one last mental stock of his bundle's content. Clothes? Good. Cotun padded armour and shield? Check. Freshly baked bannocks, cheese, and ale? Aye. And, of most import, his weapons? All there.
What else did a man need to join a rebellion?
His best friend and foster brother, Thomas Macrae, stood by his own mount with arms folded over his chest. "You cannot ignore them much longer, Robbie."
Vexed by the failure of his I'm-too-busy-to-look pretence, he grunted. "I know."
"They have been waiting there for awhile," his dark-haired companion added.
Without glancing, he knew to whom Thomas referred. Mist combined with dawn's pale light to shroud the keep's entrance and distort those standing there to wraiths.
Still, even in the darkest of nights, Robert would have identified those two men.
"God's bones," he mumbled, discarding the vague sense of being caught avoiding a conflict. "Why can't we just head to war in peace? After last evening's feast for our departure, I assumed we could leave quietly this morn."
Thomas shook his head. "They just want to bid you one last farewell. You are lucky to have kith and kin who love you enough to do so."
Comfort warmed Robert's soul. Out of habit, he did not allow it to transform into a smile. "I'm aware of it. But let it never be known."

















.jpg)