Her father had died before she could say his name, leaving their
estate in the keeping of guardians until Michael came of age. Now it
was completely lost, their legacy ruined. Now she lived with her
mother and aging aunt in the fading cottage that had once belonged to
the chief steward, all that remained of the family property. It was
neither beautiful nor poetic; but it was warm, and for the time at
least, safe from the hungry eyes of soldiers. The dangers to a young
girl in an occupied land need hardly be detailed.
And there were other dangers as well.
On this morning, as on many others, she walked slowly down the narrow,
winding path to the gravesite of her clan. Bordered by scrub oak and
maple, alone in its silent dell, it was a place removed from time,
hallowed, and to her, sacred. For here, among the stones of four
hundred years of Stuart knights, lay the body of her beloved, her
soul. Her brother. Brushing back a long lock of raven hair, she
stepped furtively towards the mound of earth that was like an iron
door between them.
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