The Lady of the Loch

THE LADY OF THE LOCH ELENA COLLINS For G, Liam, Maddie, Cait, (remembering our trip to the Highlands.) CONTENTS King Robert de Brus’ family tree Ravenscraig Castle Scottish Gaelic Vocabulary Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Epilogue Author’s Note More from Elena Collins About the Author About Boldwood Books Acknowledgments KING ROBERT DE BRUS’ FAMILY TREE Pronouncing Scottish Gaelic: Sealgair, Cam’s horse, meaning ‘hunter’, is roughly pronounced Shall-eh-garr. Eaun, Hendrie and Maidlin’s son, is roughly pronounced Yoo-ihn. Allaidh, ‘wild one’, is roughly pronounced All-i. Réidh ri Dia, ‘Rest in Peace’, is roughly pronounced Ray-eh ree Jee-ah. Glossary Scotia. Scotland north of the Forth, from the eleventh century. Queynte. A coarse obsolete English word meaning vagina. Gie it laldy. Give it your best shot. PROLOGUE RAVENSCRAIG CASTLE, SCOTLAND. 1307 My Scotland is untamed, wild, a warrior who knows no fear. The rugged landscape of mountains and mists, climbing firs and clambering heather, shows no mercy to the unready stranger who ventures too far across the border. The endless lochs run deep with secrets. My Scotland is heroic and stout-hearted, sharp as the kiss of a Highland champion with strong ale on his breath, wild as the flash of a lassie’s eyes when she spurns the advance of an enemy soldier. Aye, and I’d know all about that. Scotland is the blood in my veins, the dense forests and snow-clad mountains. The home of the proud stag, his antlers held high, and the wild boar running free. Starved of my homeland, I fade away. If ye deny a flower water, it will shrivel and perish, even a thistle, such as I. Aye, I am not your conventional flower: there is more to me than a blossom that pleases the eye. My prickle-sharp tongue has oft brought me a beating and oft saved me from danger. I had no father to tame my spirit and my mother 1 BIRMINGHAM, ENGLAND. THE PRESENT DAY Zoe’s feet pounded rhythmically against the canal path, her breath leaving a speech bubble of vapour in the autumn air. She ran past the Gas Street Basin crammed with narrowboats, a few pubs and cafés on either side, before jogging along Broad Street, Brindley Place, past the aquarium. She’d already covered three kilometres – she’d intended to do her normal four-kilometre run, but the cold air was clearing her head and the path was quiet, so she decided to keep going. It was after three o’clock: the light would be good for at least another hour. She’d go on to St Vincent Street and head up the Birmingham and Fazeley Canal. She was warm enough in Lycra, a beanie covering her dark curls, loping steadily along the towpath past the pretty moored boats flanked by grass and bushes, her feet crunching gold and russet leaves. Another jogger was going in the other direction, a man probably her own age, thirty, perhaps younger. He paid her no attention; she noticed that he was handsome and then immediately forgot about him. Her thoughts moved to plans