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ON
A HIGHLAND SHORE
by Kathleen Givens
ISBN:
1416509917
(this link opens a new browser window)
1263...
On Scotland’s western shore, the village of Somerstrath prepares for the joyous wedding of Margaret MacDonald, the laird’s daughter. But a dark storm of bloodshed and betrayal is closing in, as a merciless band of Vikings roams the seas. Margaret is determined to hold her clan together and to locate her abducted younger brother. Can she trust the noblemen from King Alexander’s court, who insist that only by adhering to a betrothal conceived for political gain will she find safety? Or should she trust an imposing half-Irish, half-Norse warrior? Gannon MacMagnus alone offers her hope of reuniting her family and vanquishing the barbarous Norsemen. In whom should Margaret entrust the fate of the rugged, magnificent land she calls home?
REVIEWS
"Breathtaking and absorbing. The characters were magnificent and well-drawn, the story pulled me in with the first word and held me to the very last. Kathleen Givens has written an adventure, a romance, a historical of epic proportions." -Award winning and acclaimed Marsha Canham author of PRIDE OF LIONS
"A grand novel-memorable and transporting." - Joan Johnston, NYT and USA Today Bestseller
"The Scottish Highlands have rarely been more inviting . . ." - Dallas Morning News
A STARRED REVIEW FROM LIBRARY JOURNAL:
"With unparalleled skill and an exquisite sense of time and place, Rita
Award winner Givens (The Destiny) spins a violent, realistic tale of love,
loyalty, and betrayal, breathing life into characters both real and
fictional and vividly portraying the turbulence and intricate political
machinations of 13th-century Scotland."
"Powerful . . . full-bodied" SAYS FORUMS AMERICA:
"The characters are well-placed within their time, being neither out of
synch with customs nor caricatures of what modern conventional wisdom would
make of them. This is an author who knows how to create sympathetic,
believable and fascinating characters who experience the perils and joys of
their era." -Lynne Perednia, Books at
ForumsAmerica.com
"GRAND AND SWEEPING ADVENTURE" Givens brings the rugged, beautiful historic Highlands to life in a grand and sweeping adventure romance that describes the Norse influence on Scotland. Readers can look forward to more books in her new series about the MacGannon clan. - Kathe Robin, RT Bookclub Magazine
PROLOGUE
Lammas Night at the edge of the world
August, 1254
The sky was still blue this August evening, the gray sides of the towering
mountain peaks of western Scotland were still lit by the sun, but the long day
was at last ending. To the east the light was fading in the deep glens and
forests, the wind sighing through the branches, lifting drops of water from the
tumbling streams onto nearby ferns, where they would linger through the short
summer night. The sun moved ever downward in the west, changing the sea from
blue to molten silver, and the cobalt of the offshore islands to a muted gray.
Waves hurried to claim the shingle, lacy white foam flying from their crests to
join with the descending evening.
The young girl who hurried up the headland saw none of it; she saw only the old
woman ahead of her moving steadily away, and she increased her speed anxiously.
Seals lifted their heads from the water and shore birds dipped down to get a
closer look at the two figures below. But the young girl did not look.
She wanted to see the future.
She was a beautiful child, with long bones and glossy dark hair that waved
around her oval face and framed her blue eyes and even features. But it was her
determination that one saw, the glint of steel showing in those lovely eyes,
usually hidden under a layer of courtesy and training, but now, unwatched except
by the creatures of sea and air, her jaw was set and her gaze unfaltering.
She thought of herself as Scottish, but in truth her blood was mixed. She’d been
formed by fiery Picts, ancient Caledonians and ferocious Norsemen on her
father’s side, triumphant Normans and passionate Celts on her mother’s. She knew
of their intermingled histories, had heard the stories of the old days and the
battles for dominance, of foes who had come from the south and from the sea, of
courageous people who had held the Romans at bay and fought off the Vikings. But
all that was in the past, and she gave it little thought. It was what was to
come that interested her now and only the old woman could help her to see it.
She’d seen much already this evening, had watched as the rituals of Lammas
Night, the first of the harvest festivals, were carried out, the storing of the
seed corn and the ceremonial lighting of the bonfire that lit the sky. She’d
watched the clanspeople her father led devour the Lammas feast and had tasted
the Mass Loaf, made from the first flour ground after the harvest. And after the
meal, when many of the others were worse for drink, or lost in the wonderful
music, she’d watched her father clasp the hand of his latest mistress and slide
from the hall. And her mother’s eyes darken as she saw the same.
She’d seen her younger brother Rignor let an innocent servant take the blame for
the cup he’d spilled and no one chide him for it, though both her parents had
seen the incident. But why should she expect otherwise when she’d seen the same
scene repeated all of his life? She’d seen Dagmar, from the next village, only a
few years older, but much wiser in the ways of the flesh, rearrange her skirts
and flash a smile to the man she’d just entertained in the gardens.
She’d watched the priest bless the harvest and pray over the seeds that would be
stored during the long winter. And, standing at the priest’s side, enthralled,
she’d watched while the old woman read palms and predicted the future, her tone
solemn and accent foreign, hinting at a past that was intriguing. The priest had
frowned, but he’d listened as intently as the others. The woman had predicted a
good harvest for this year, and a new child for her parents - hardly surprising
considering her mother’s swollen middle. But she’d told the girl nothing.
The girl already knew much of what lay ahead for her. She was the oldest child
of the laird of Somerstrath and she knew her duty. She’d been betrothed to
Lachlan Ross since early childhood and knew that eventually she would leave
Somerstrath and live her life as his wife. But she wanted to know more than
that, so she followed the old woman up this headland that faced the west.
There the woman paused, at the edge of the world, looking across the water,
holding the golden star she wore around her neck between her long bony fingers.
She turned when the child joined her. “You’ve come for a reading?”
The girl thrust her hand forward. “Please, if ye would, madam.”
The woman’s expression softened. She was not surprised that the girl had
followed her. Now there was no hope for it but to warn her. Margaret’s life
would not be peaceful. She, like her country, would be gravely tested. Scotland
would survive, despite the forces that would threaten it. And Margaret MacDonald
would come of age in the midst of it all. How to tell an innocent what she would
face? The old woman took the girl’s hand, studying her palm for so long that the
child shifted her weight impatiently.
“You are well named,” the old woman said.
Margaret smiled, not sure what that meant, and the woman laughed gently.
“Look,” she said, holding Margaret’s palm between them. “This is your heart line
and this your life line.” She looked into the girl’s eyes. “You will face
dragons.”
Margaret’s smile was strained now. Dragons, she thought.
“You don’t believe me,” the woman said, leaning back and giving the girl an
appraising look. “Do you know who St. Margaret was?”
“Oh, aye,” Margaret said. “She was King Malcolm’s wife. I’m named after her. She
wasn’t a saint then, but . . .” She stopped as the woman shook her head.
“Not her, child. The first St. Margaret. Do you know her story?”
“No.”
“Ah. Well, you should. St. Margaret was a beautiful young girl, not unlike you.
She lived in Antioch, a long way from Scotland.”
“Is that where ye’re from, Antioch?”
The woman’s gaze grew distant. “No, child, but closer to Antioch than to here.
Someday perhaps you’ll hear my story, but not today. I will tell you of my life
when next we meet. For we shall meet again.” She smiled, her gaze now sharp. “As
St. Margaret grew older all admired her beauty and she caught the eye of a Roman
prefect, who wanted to marry her. When she refused, he threw her into a dungeon
and left her to die. But she did not die.”
“What happened?”
“The devil came to her, offering her freedom for her soul.”
“But she dinna take it,” Margaret said.
“No, of course not. The devil was so incensed that he turned himself into a
dragon < and ate her alive.”
“Then how did she not die?”
The woman’s smile widened. “She did what every self-respecting saint does,
Margaret of Somerstrath. She held up the cross of Christ and the dragon spat her
out and died himself.”
Margaret slumped, disappointed. She was quite sure no Roman prefect would seek
her hand in marriage, that no dragon would threaten her.
“Look,” said the woman, tracing a finger down the girl’s lifeline. “See this
break? You’ll be torn from your home and you’ll face dragons. If you choose the
right partner, you’ll slay them together. And together find the love of
legends.”
“And if I dinna choose the right partner? What then?”
“You’ll perish.”
Margaret fought against the sudden chill that claimed her and forced herself to
look into the woman’s eyes. “I dinna believe any of that.”
The woman laughed, the sound chilling Margaret even more.
“We do not choose what God sends us, child, any more than we choose our own
name. Margaret you are, and Margaret you will be, and your life will be formed
by that. You will face dragons. You need to prepare yourself for it.” She
started away, her progress surprisingly rapid for one so aged.
Margaret watched for a moment, torn between disappointment and curiosity, then
ran after her. “But how will I ken the right partner? How will I ken it’s him?”
The old woman stopped. “You will know him. He will be unlike any other man
you’ve known. He will be golden. He will bring life after death.”
“But how will I ken?”
“Listen. There is a voice within each of us. Listen to it.”
“What will happen to me?”
“Before you leave this earth, Margaret MacDonald, you will see the birth of a
people formed from many peoples, made of steel and fire and magic and mist, a
people who will travel the world and change it forever.”
“But how . . . ?”
“I can tell ye nothing more. Go home, child. The darkness is coming.”
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