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skin of his calf. He disliked the bitter mountain wind and the perpetual dampness that seemed only to grow as their small group proceeded north. Most of his life, he had spent in the Lowlands near and around Ayr. Until now, the farthest he had ever ventured north was Strathaven. That trip had also been miserable and cold and had ended any compulsion to travel north again. Only a missive from the king offering Cyric a chance to gain the one coveted thing that had eluded him throughout his life could have persuaded him otherwise.
    One of the two Highlanders traveling with him waved a finger at the small gash on Cyric’s leg. “Do you need to stop?” he asked without any effort to hide his mockery.
    Cyric fought back a haughty snicker and said through gritted teeth, “I do not.”
    He knew both men held little respect for him. Few Highlanders did and Cyric was fully aware as to why. He was a Highlander by blood but disagreed with many of their customs, preferring the comfort his upbringing had allowed. Cold was not something to be endured but averted with solid walls, a roof, and a decent fire. Pain was not to be sought but avoided. The few times he had encountered any northern clansmen had only confirmed that his father’s people had little in common with him and this trip was proving to be no different.
    “How much farther?” Cyric inquired, and then quickly prepared himself for the scorn he knew the question would bring.
    The first time he had asked the distance to Schellden lands his face must have conveyed every emotion he was feeling about the length of their journey, and none of them were good. He was unused to traveling such distances and in uncomfortable conditions, so he thought it natural to stop often and address minor injuries or just rest from being on horseback for so many hours at a time. The two Highlanders who were assigned to be his guides had made clear their opinions—all derisive. If they had been people of importance, their stinging judgments might have carried some influence, but as they were merely soldiers, Cyric held their estimation of little value.
    “We could have been there today,” answered the taller and darker haired of the two guides.
    Glimpsing the man’s accompanying sneer, Cyric once again wished the escorts traveling with him belonged to the Schellden clan. Then they would be forced to respect him. And it was attaining that very elusive quality that had compelled Cyric to agree to travel north. It certainly was not the desire to be a laird, even if the Schellden clan was as large and powerful as it was purported to be. He had spent enough time in the company of his maternal grandfather to know just how burdensome the position was with petty decisions. But when Robert I’s message came with the possibility of becoming chieftain of his very own family line, Cyric had quickly agreed. It might be the one way—the only way—to get his father to acknowledge him as a man.
    “You didn’t answer my question,” Cyric finally countered.
    The younger of the two men was about to unleash an insulting Gaelic retort when his comrade kicked him in the shin with a warning. Then with the same dead expression the leader had maintained during the length of their trip, he turned to Cyric and said, “Tomorrow. By midafternoon if you are able to wake up and leave early .” He nudged his horse’s hind flanks and was soon out of speaking distance. To Cyric’s relief, his friend immediately followed.
    Cyric didn’t even know their names. He had asked once and the response he received had been less than friendly. What neither man realized was that while Cyric rarely spoke in Gaelic, he did understand it. His mother was the daughter of a laird from a wealthy clan and as her only son, he had access to the best instruction his grandfather could offer, which included languages. And since his father was a Highlander, Gaelic was one of those he had been forced to endure learning.
    Cyric had planned to