I’m sorry, m’lord, but I wis instructed tae relinquish this only tae a Templar. Is that so? Calder bent to remove the prized object resting upon the man’s chest piece-the soldier’s sword raising quickly to kiss Calder’s throat. Only the Templar can be trusted tae guard my keep. The soldier forced his eyes open against the fever. Tell him we may need a chirurgeon as well. The Black Douglas? Calder turned to his men. In whit battle did ye receive yer wounds? Ye’ll speak tae no one ’til ye’ve dealt wi’ me. William Calder stood over the soldier, joined by two more of his clan. A long sword lay by his side, its blade smeared in blood.Ī silver casket, the size of a small melon, hung from his unshaven neck by a gold chain. His battle dress, composed of chain mail, was stained crimson along the left quadrant of his stomach. His face was pale and unshaven, his blue-gray eyes glassy with fever. The young man had been left on a grassy knoll. The tall ship had been in port since dawn, its crew exchanging silver pieces for wool and cod.Ĭalder’s daughter, Helen, joined him on the lookout. Looking to the south, he could just make out the single-sheeted Spanish galley. William Calder, second Thane of Cawdor, stood on an outcropping of rock just beyond the point where the boiling North Sea met the mouth of the River Ness.

The deep blue waters of the Moray Firth crashed violently against the jagged shoreline below.

The Loch by Steve Alten