Chapter Text
Perthshire 1592
The wind was blowing from the east, carrying with it the roar of the nearby river Eden. More than a breeze, significant enough to require careful calculation. Marcus Kane stood on the bright green lawn of his family home, Castle Kane, and raised his longbow. He pulled back the arrow slowly until the string kissed the tip of his long nose and the slight curve of his thin lips. He closed one dark eye, looked with the other down the arrow at the tall, earthen butt. The wind had picked up a knot. He adjusted his position, took a long slow breath, then relaxed his grip on the string. The arrow flew in an arc towards the small wreath pinned at head height. It struck a fraction left of centre.
Marcus remained in position momentarily, adrenaline coursing through his body, and then he lowered the bow and smiled smugly at his friend, Sinclair. ‘What say you to that!’ he pronounced proudly.
‘Hmm, it is passable.’
‘Passable! That is 250 yards, and the wind was a factor.’
‘I will concede it was a valiant attempt, if not quite perfect,’ said Sinclair with a grin.
Marcus smacked his lips in mock annoyance. ‘Valiant attempt! If you had been standing there instead of the target, you’d be one-eyed now like old King Harold.’
‘You would not shoot at me.’
‘You are sorely tempting me.’
They stared into each other’s eyes, Marcus’s brown ones softly mocking, Sinclair’s green ones twinkling, and then they broke into laughter, ran back to the house arms around shoulders, jostling and play fighting.
Marcus Kane was twenty years old, the eldest son of Sir William Kane, Chieftain of Clan Kane, custodian of the family’s 13th century castle, which Marcus would one day inherit. He had two brothers and a sister, and the family was close and loyal.
Marcus was tall and lithe, straight in his bearing. Strong and quick, his body toned and muscled from growing up in this wild, Scottish playground, running and riding over the low moors, swimming in the brown, peaty river that bordered the estate. He had his father’s prominent nose, and thin lips he had a habit of sucking on, making him seem to be permanently thinking and calculating. From his mother he’d inherited an olive complexion along with her dark hair and deep brown eyes. He had a confidence that bordered on arrogance, some of it earned, but most of it emanating from being the favoured son of his father and adored by his mother. For the most part, he could do no wrong. He was expert with the bow and arrow as we have seen, and equally so with the sword, skills he loved to show off in tourneys and competitions amongst his friends.
His best of those friends, Sinclair, he’d known since childhood. The only son of a lesser nobleman he was a distant cousin of the Kanes, the connection loose but that didn’t matter. He was still kin and treated like one of the family. His hair was dark, like his cousin’s, but tightly curled instead of neatly waved. He was practical and straightforward, grounded some of Marcus’s more fanciful thoughts and ideas, pricked his tendency to pomposity by paying no regard to it and making him work for his rewards. In turn, Marcus was loyal and entertaining, a fun playmate and a loving friend.
The Kane estate covered some 5,000 acres on both sides of the river. It was farmed by tenants and there was hunting of deer and grouse up on the moors. The castle stood on a promontory above the left bank, and despite its name was more of a grand house than a castle. Bright, whitewashed walls and a slate roof made it stand out in the fertile green landscape that surrounded it. It appeared somewhat haphazard, as though it was four separate buildings put together by someone with the wrong instructions, a result of three centuries of Lords making their own mark on the structure.
The castle had numerous narrow windows on each side, making it easy for the family’s guards to look out for enemies, of which there were many. The Kanes were an argumentative clan, always had been. If there was a battle to be had with another clan or a neighbour, they would be found on the front lines. Their feuds, both large and petty, had increased in number lately, Sir William being a short-tempered man with little patience. His son did not favour him in that way, being more tolerant and pragmatic, although he could be swift to anger and didn’t suffer fools. He was loyal to the family, though, fought their battles when required, obeyed his father in most things.
The two young men burst through the heavy front door of the castle and into the grand hall, still laughing and teasing each other.
‘Marcus!’ Sir William’s deep voice bellowed from the gallery above, echoing around the stone walls. Marcus looked up, perceived his father looking over the wooden rail.
‘Yes, father?’
‘Stop horsing around and get dressed or we shall be late for church.’
To be late for church was a sin greater than any in the ten commandments in the eyes of Sir William, who considered himself to be the gatekeeper of religious piety in Perthshire, and Marcus parted from Sinclair and went through a door to the tower, and headed up the narrow stone steps to his bedroom on the fourth floor.
His valet was waiting inside and helped him strip off the simple shirt and stockings he had worn to practice his archery and into a clean, white shirt and the complicated confection that was his plaid. This comprised a long cloth of green, grey, and blue tartan that wrapped around his waist and over his shoulder and was fastened with a pin. Over that he put a black jacket even though it was summer and he would swelter in the heat of the church. The Kane clan had to look as smart as it was possible to be. Clean stockings and a pair of leather shoes completed his outfit.
‘Will I pass muster, Robertson?’ he said, turning in front of the young man.
‘Aye, sir. The ladies will notice ye today.’
‘I care nothing for that,’ replied Marcus, running his fingers through his thick waves, preening them into shape, admiring himself in the looking glass as he did so.
He returned to the hall when he was ready, joined Sinclair, his brothers, Fergus and Andrew, and his little sister Katherine, known as Kitty. He pulled on her long braid as he passed, and she turned and glared at him.
‘Marcus!’
‘What did I do?’ he said, feigning innocence.
‘You know what you did.’ She looked behind Marcus and a sly smile appeared fleetingly on her lips before it was replaced with a pout. ‘Mother, Marcus was pulling my hair again!’
Isabel Kane fixed Marcus with a look he knew well because he deployed it to his own advantage often. It was one of withering disappointment and made his blood run warm with guilt. ‘For heaven’s sake, Marcus, act your age. Leave your poor sister alone.’
‘Telltale,’ he mouthed to Kitty, evidently not quietly enough because his mother heard him.
‘That’s enough, Marcus,’ admonished Isabel.
Marcus and Kitty pulled faces at each other behind her back and then Sir William appeared, and everyone grew quiet and serious and stood tall and straight like the obedient soldiers they were in their father’s army. They followed him out of the castle and into the courtyard where two carriages were waiting. Sir William took the lead one along with his wife, his valet, and her lady in waiting. The four Kane siblings and Sinclair clambered into the smaller carriage, jostling each other for space.
The horses whinnied, and the carriage wheels turned on the cobbles, taking the Kane family to their weekly appointment with God and their neighbours, most of whom did not think Godly thoughts about them, and vice versa.