“Aye, although I know nothing else. My father kept me hidden, so I would like to step out, perhaps attend festivals. I hear they are great fun.”

The poor girl had never had the freedom to do anything. Where Ella hadn’t been able to escape her father’s notice, Hannah hadn’t been able to escape her father’s denial of her existence.

“Do you believe in the legend of the horsemen?” Ella asked as they turned the tight corners, her fingers sliding along the rough granite wall. Hannah was two steps lower than her.

“I certainly did as a girl, with my whole heart. But now that Da has passed, I have room to consider.” In the light from a sconce, Ella saw her shrug, the movement somehow ethereal. She glanced back. “My brothers bleed just like other men.”

Coming to the bottom of the stairs, they stepped out under the archway into the great hall where rows of silent men stood. With so many inside, it was no wonder that the motionless air held the tang of sweat, horses, and woodsmoke.

Cain stood straight and tall before a throne-like chair by the unlit hearth with the crossed swords of his ancestors and the Sinclair family crest over the mantel. All three brothers stood to the side of him in order of birth, the four of them directly in front of the horsemen tapestry as if to remind everyone who they were.

Joshua held a huge sword and wore an ancient-looking helmet. Gideon held a set of balances, his sword strapped to his side, and Bàs… Bàs wore all black, including his kilt, a great horned helmet, and his human-skull mask. He held his lethal scythe by his side.

Cain wore the polished steel crown and held his bow over one shoulder and a massive sword in his hand. Fierce and royal, the sight made a shiver run through her.

Most of the gazes from around the room shifted to her as she entered. Did the Sinclair warriors hate her for killing their chief? Ella felt a tug on her sleeve and followed Hannah to the back of the crowd where a table held a plate of thick bacon, fragrant bread, and a small slice of butter stamped with the head of a horse.

“I, Gregory Sinclair, swear on my life to battle for and with the sons of Sinclair and pledge my allegiance to Cain Sinclair, fifth Earl of Caithness and chief of Clan Sinclair.” The man’s voice boomed out as if he wished for the angels in Heaven to hear him. He was bent on his knee before Cain. With his sword in his hand, Cain looked like he might lop off his head. It was as if the man holding the newborn foal last night had been replaced with a darker version, one devoid of softness of any kind. Which was the real Cain?