The Raven's Wish

The Raven's Wish

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Author's Cut
Edition

by

Susan King

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ISBN: 978-1-61417-058-7

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© 1995, 2011 by Susan King

Cover and eBook design by eBook Prep
www.ebookprep.com

Thank You
.

For my mother, Anne—

for Fraser ancestry, and for laughter and memories

Prologue

Bridles brack and wight horse lap,

And blades flain in the skies,

And wan and drousie was the blood

Gaed lapperin down the lays.

~"Katharine Jaffray"

Scotland, the Highlands, 1552

"That was the day of our greatest betrayal," the old
seanchaidh
said. Among the fifteen small faces upturned toward his, some of the children nodded solemnly. Their bright and dark heads gleamed in the low light of the peat fire.

"All our fine, brave Fraser men," he told the children, "rode together, that day of betrayal, to meet the MacDonalds. In faith they rode, with a full host of Grants and Macraes at their backs. The Fraser chief—the MacShimi, he was called, traditional for our chiefs—" he paused to nod to a boy with dark hair. The child nodded solemnly in return, already showing the dignity of a clan chief.

"The MacShimi, our own Hugh's father, supported the claim of a friend, a MacDonald, to the chieftainship of that clan. This MacDonald had fostered in the MacShimi's own house and was wed to his niece. But the MacDonalds refused to have him as their chief for having fostered with Frasers, and called him a
gallda,
a stranger, and sent them away.

"So the Frasers rode off in peace, having said their say. There were near four hundred of them, strong warriors with broad blades and sharp dirks, with swift arrows for their bows. They did not insist that the MacDonalds accept the
Gallda
as their rightful chief. They left in full trust."

A little boy grew restless at his feet, and the
seanchaidh
waited, smiling kindly, until the lad settled again.

"On this summer day, the Frasers rode home through the glen of Loch Lochy. And there, beside the shore of that long loch, they were ambushed by over five hundred MacDonalds. The summer afternoon grew so hot that, as they fought, the warriors threw off their heavy wool plaids and cast them down on the grassy banks of the loch. They fought on, Fraser and MacDonald alike, wearing only their long linen shirts.

"The sun blazed like the fires of hell, a heat such as comes only rarely to the Highlands. And though the Frasers were far outnumbered by the MacDonalds, they did not run, but stayed and fought. Half-clad, they were, and exhausted, struggling hand-to-hand along the boggy shore. By late afternoon, the muddy banks were scattered with hundreds of discarded plaids, and hundreds of bodies, discarded by their souls." The old man drew a breath and looked at his audience.

"The brave MacShimi was killed, and his eldest son, the young Master, with him. The MacDonald
Gallda
died, too, fighting beside our chief, loyal to his foster-father. And though they lost most of their own, the Frasers gave as much death with their claymores and dirks as they got. As much, and more."

The children waited breathlessly for the end, though they had heard the story many times. One or two fidgeted, but the rest sat transfixed, lulled by the hot crackle of the peat fire, and by the spell the
seanchaidh
wove with his nuanced voice.

"Nearly nine hundred men fought that day. Yet only five Frasers, and eight or nine MacDonalds, survived. And though the blood has been absorbed back into the earth, we will always remember what happened on the banks of Loch Lochy eight years ago today. We call it
Blar-na-Léine
, the Field of Shirts."

"
Blar-na-Léine
," the children repeated. The old man nodded.

"Indeed, little ones. But remember that mighty Clan Fraser is not reduced easily. Before that battle, eighty and more of the widowed Fraser women were already with child. And they all birthed fatherless sons, so our legend says."

The storyteller gazed at the children for a moment. "You were each born eight years ago, into a clan filled with sorrow, but gladdened by your births, every one."

"Every one," he said softly, reaching forward with a gentle hand to touch the small, bright head nearest his knee. The child's glossy locks were the color of flames and gold.

"But our clan has a secret, eh?" The boys smiled, and some of them nodded eagerly. "One of those widows birthed a little girl, our Elspeth here, and then died in her woman's battle, and went to heaven to join her brave warrior husband."