AD 959
The funeral procession slowly made its way down from the manor house on the cliff to the shore of the loch. The body of the dead man was borne on a bier by four stout men of the household. Behind, the mourners walked, dressed solemnly, their heads down. Last came the priest, his prayer book clutched in his right hand, his elderly legs treading uncertainly on the steep rocky path.
From high above them on the side of one of the mountains that rose up from the loch, on the north side behind the house and the great forest, two shepherds leaned on their crooks and watched the procession. But their eyes were not focussed on the dead man, nor on the silent mourners, nor the stumbling priest, but rather on the woman who walked directly behind the bier.
She was wearing a long fine dress of dark blue that swathed her like a robe. Her head was not bowed but looked proudly straight ahead, so that the morning sun shone on her white face, a face of youth and beauty that struggled to hold back the tears that dared to stain it. Her long hair, black as midnight, fell about her shoulders. Beneath the blue dress her swollen belly could clearly be discerned.
–Aye, there she goes,†said the first shepherd, the older of the two. –The Raven’s Claw. She still can’t resist being the centre of attention, even at a funeral.â€
–Show some respect, Calum,†said the second. –The woman just lost her husband. And her so young, and with child, ’tis a tragedy no matter how high-born you are.â€
–That it is, Duncan,†replied Calum, –but I’ve no fear for her. The laird’s lands come to her now, and with a face like hers, she’ll not struggle to find a new husband.â€
–Aye, but if any lass could survive without a man, I reckon it’d be her,†said Duncan. –They don’t call her the Raven’s Claw for nothing. Hair as dark as a raven’s wing, mind as sharp as a raven’s claw, so they said of her when she first came here. She’s as smart as any Scots man, I’ll wager. She could run the laird’s lands alone, if she wanted.â€
–A lass as laird? I’ll believe it when I see it. She should go back to Fife. This is our land, Duncan, Highlanders’ land. We have been here since before the Scots, before the Norsemen, before even the Roman legions. Let the Scots, with their kings, their nobles and their taxes keep to the Lowlands. Let them make their Scot-land there. The Highlands should be for us, the free people of old.â€
–The day will come when we shall all be Scots, I think,†mused Duncan, but Calum merely snorted.
The procession had reached the shore of the loch, and the grave was being dug by the men who had carried the bier. –’Tis a strange place for a laird to be buried,†observed Calum.
–It’s what he wanted, so they say,†said Duncan. –He used to spend a lot of time down by the loch. He loved to walk about his lands.â€
–They found his body on the edge of the forest, didn’t they?â€
–Aye. Not a mark on him, so I heard. His heart failed and he fell where he stood.â€
The two men paused in silence for a moment as the body was laid into the grave and the priest began to recite the prayers for the man’s soul. –He was a good man, the laird, wasn’t he?†Duncan said at last.
–That he was, as fair a laird as you’re likely to find. He always respected us common folk. There was always something strange about him, though. Both of them.â€
–What do you mean?â€
–I don’t know. I’ve seen many lairds come and go in these glens in my time, but this one was different. Just a feeling I got, that was all. I can’t explain it better. But her, there’s few like her in the whole of Britain, I reckon. If she does go, we’ll not see the like of her again in our lifetimes. It’s not just her education, her languages and her highfalutin words, you know. She understands everything. Everything. I remember the first time I spoke with her. I was just tending my flock down there on the lower slopes. Two minutes speaking with her, and she knew me better than I know myself. The Lord above has blessed her with strange gifts.â€
–And cursed her with sorrow, it would seem,†Duncan replied.
–Aye, well, no doubt He has His plan. Perhaps death is the one thing none of us can ever understand, not even her.â€
Down below, the funeral party was beginning to disperse and return to the house. The woman had not moved, and continued to stand over the mound of earth that now covered her husband’s body. –This place seems so small for one with such talents,†said Duncan. –Maybe she will leave. But will even the coasts of Fife and her father’s lands be enough for her?â€
–Perhaps she’ll return to England,†suggested Calum. –She spent much of her childhood there. That’s where she got her education, so I heard. She’s as much English as she is Scots. Her mother was English, I think. After all, Rowena, ’tis a Saxon name.â€
–Well, whatever happens to her, the world has not heard the last of the Raven’s Claw, I reckon,†said Duncan, and the two men turned away to re-gather their straying sheep on the mountainside.
On the shore of the loch, Rowena, daughter of Malcolm of Fife, still stood motionless over the grave of her husband. The other mourners had long since departed, but she remained, unwilling to leave behind the man she had loved. Her rational mind told her it was foolish, that Donald was gone, that what now lay beneath the earth was just an empty shell, but still she could not move. The tears that she had fought so hard to hold back in public now ran freely down her face.
She felt the baby stir within her, the child that would never know its father, the last reminder of the brief joy that they had shared. They had been together less than two years. For those few months, it had seemed that their happiness would last forever. Now here she was, but twenty-three years old and a widow.
Instinctively, her right hand moved to feel an object concealed beneath her dress, beside her hip. It was a thin carved stick of wood. She clutched at it like a lifeline, as she thought of all that had happened.
Rowena knew many secrets, of the land and of the sky, of birds and beasts and of the ways of the human heart. But there were two great secrets that at that moment dominated her thought; two secrets that alone of everyone in the glen she knew.
Firstly, that Donald had been a wizard, as she was a witch. And secondly, that he had been murdered.
Like so many in the magical community, they had kept the truth about themselves hidden. It had been five centuries since the days of Merlin, and magic was considered by the general population of Britain as little more than legend, and few openly declared their powers for fear of being misunderstood or causing alarm. Persecution of magic folk was rare, and many by secrecy hoped to keep it that way.
The wizarding community in Britain was small, perhaps only two thousand across the island, but it was growing. It crossed tribal and national boundaries, as witches and wizards sought out those of their own kind for fellowship together, but it was also bitterly divided. It was split into numerous cliques and factions, each vying for power and pursuing their own agendas. Some wanted the community to declare itself openly and take power for themselves, whilst others wanted to withdraw completely into secrecy. Some favoured rights for magical beings, whilst others wanted to cull and contain them. And there were many other disputes besides.
For every viewpoint, there was a faction, and each group set themselves up in opposition to the others, and strife and violence were common. Donald was far from being the first innocent person to die.
Rowena did not know for sure which group had murdered Donald, or even why, but she had strong suspicions. When they had found his body down near the forest, she had at once recognised the signs of the ancient Killing Curse. She had had to listen in silence as those around her pondered how a man so young and strong could suddenly be struck down, whilst all the time the truth burned hot within her.
Her hand gripped at her concealed wand tightly. She could feel nothing but hatred for the men who had taken her love from her, and anger and the desire for revenge swelled in her heart.
But her head as always was master. Rowena understood, as she ever did. She understood that revenge was worthless, a brief all-consuming craving that in the end only brought greater misery. Revenge begat only revenge, rising in a never-ending spiral until none were left alive to continue the hatred. It was revenge, and the fear of revenge, that were consuming the wizarding community. Rowena knew what she had to do.
She looked down at the grave. –Donald,†she said haltingly. –Donald, I’m sorry. I should have known. I should have been able to save you. Everything I know, everything I can do, and I still couldn’t save you.†She swallowed hard and wiped the tears from her cheeks.
–Donald, this madness must end. This tearing apart of our community must stop, or it will destroy us. Witches and wizards must find a way to live alongside each other in peace. I cannot let our child grow up in a world of such fear and hopelessness.
–So, Donald, I make this vow upon your grave. I will not rest until a way can be found to bring our community together. I will do everything I can to make a world in which our child can live in peace and happiness. I will dedicate my life and my talents to ensuring that no one else in future will have to suffer as I have suffered. For I must believe that reason and understanding can make a better world. They are all I have to give.â€
Rowena knelt down at the head of the grave, in front of the simple wooden cross which had been fixed there. A seal bearing the emblem of Donald’s house had been hung upon it. Rowena unclasped a brooch that was attached to her dress, a brooch that bore another emblem, that of her father’s clan. She held the brooch to the cross, just below where the seal hung, and, taking out her wand, she tapped it against the brooch. It grew hot and embedded itself into the wood, fixing itself in place.
–The promise I have made will no doubt take me far from this place in time,†she said quietly, –so I leave this as a token. Wherever I am, my heart will always be here. I will return as often as I may, and I will bring our child, so that he or she may learn of you and the wonderful man you were. Farewell, for now, Donald, my love.â€
With great reluctance, Rowena rose to her feet and, once more concealing her wand, she slowly walked away from the loch, and returned to her house on top of the cliff.
Behind her, she left the grave, marked by the simple cross and the two symbols thereon: her own, a swooping bronze eagle set amid a field of blue, and Donald’s, a pair of great hogs standing as wardens on either side of a tall gate.
The Raven's Claw by Sonorus
Chapter Endnotes: I'm going to use the space through the chapters for various historical notes, etc. Scotland wasn't properly unified until the eleventh century. The Scots (who originally came from Ireland) settled first mainly in the Lowlands. The 'Highlanders' from this chapter are the remnants of those people the Romans called Picts.