Captured Heart

by Heather McCollum

  Cold and exhaustion weighed heavy on her as she let the blue light dissolve on her fingertips. She blinked against the darkness and squelched the sob that sat in the back of her throat. Wait, was that...? A flicker of firelight crept along the wall of the steep steps.

  “She’s down here?”

  “Aye, she’s in the dungeon,” the priest replied.

  “Help!” Meg called.

  “Meg?” Donald! Thank the good Lord Father Daughtry hadn’t left her there to rot.

  “I’m down here.”

  “Why are ye in the dungeon?” Donald jumped down the steps into the pit.

  “I heard the cat. Donald, Bess Tammin locked me in here.”

  Donald grabbed the large ring from the shadows where it must have been hanging. Apparently, he was familiar with the dungeon. He turned the key and the door swung open.

  “She said that she wouldn’t let me start a war and something about not losing Peter, too,” Meg said as he threw his own wrap around her shoulders. “I think she is working with someone else.”

  Donald’s face was grim. “Are ye hurt?”

  “Just cold. A bit thirsty.”

  “Let’s get ye upstairs,” he said and went up the steep steps ahead of her. “Father?”

  “Here,” Father Daughtry said. “I think someone else is coming down. I heard—”

  The priest’s words were cut off with a gasp. Meg stepped up quickly out of the dungeon pit. Donald grunted at the same time someone lit an oil lamp. Her heart hammered so hard she couldn’t draw breath.

  Girshmel pulled his sword from Donald’s chest and the warrior slumped to the floor, his own weapon clattering against the stones. “Good to see ye again, milady,” he said with a mocking smirk.

  Chapter Fourteen

  4 July 1518—Comfrey: green, leafy plants, yellow to pink flowers in summer. The best comfrey has a hollow root stalk. Boil root in water or wine to heal inward pains, wounds, and bleeding. Restrains the spitting of blood. Roots applied externally will heal fresh wounds, scrapes, and broken bones. Use against gout and swelling, intestinal maladies, the cough, and boils. Smash the whole plant and use hot mash to apply externally as a poultice.

  Found along maze-like paths near sources of water, mountain streams. Do not get lost searching, using a map is key.

  “Holy God, save us!” Father Daughtry prayed where he slouched against the wall as if he’d been pushed. Another man stood next to him, sword before him.

  “Forgive me, Father,” Girshmel said, turned, and stabbed his already bloody sword into the priest’s stomach. “For I have sinned.”

  Father Daughtry let out a gasping shrill cry and doubled over, his hands clutching his cross.

  A third person stepped into the light of the second man’s lantern.

  “Gwyneth?” Meg asked weakly, unable to tear her eyes very long from the massacre wetting the floor before her.

  The other woman tsked. “Always in harm’s way. Ye found a way out of the other accidents I planned, but not this time.”

  Meg watched the pools of blood growing about the men. They would die in the matter of minutes if she didn’t heal them. She took a small step toward Donald and Father Daughtry while the two men watched Gwyneth. Luckily, Donald and Father Daughtry were within reach of one another, but she had never tried to heal two at once. Was that even possible?

  “And Simon, let Gilbert know that I’ve risked much to bring her here. I expect recompense,” Gwyneth said. She sneered at Meg. “Don’t worry, m’lady. I’ll console Caden when ye’re gone. He was going to be mine, but then ye and yer bloody sweetness came along.”

  Simon? That’s where she’d seen him before. He’d come with Gilbert to the wedding feast.

  Meg refocused on Donald and Father Daughtry. Now or never. She pulled her magic from her core, readying it, imagining what the first thrust may have done to poor Donald’s chest muscles and what the second may have done to Father Daughtry’s stomach and intestines. Before the brutes could stop her, Meg hurled herself into an act of sobbing. She covered Donald’s body and slid her hand under Father Daughtry’s chest.

  Upon contact her magic was able to find the torn flesh, the ripped muscle, the shattered rib in Donald, and the sliced intestines in the priest. The blade had just missed Donald’s beating heart, but the vessels bringing blood to it were damaged. Meg pushed a pulse of magic into Donald, imagining the tissue back together, the vessels mended, the blood replenished. Then she imagined strong, intact intestinal walls and muscle in Father Daughtry. She wailed bitterly as she hid her hands under each victim and cringed at the sticky blood. Had they already lost too much?

  Cruel hands yanked her back, breaking the contact. The healing had weakened Meg and she yielded as Simon pulled her.

  “None of that, milady,” Simon said as he shoved her against the rock wall. “Dear Gwen’s told us about yer talented hands and yer witchcraft. I won’t have ye fixing Girshmel’s handy work.”

  Meg’s eyes stayed on Donald’s prone position. She’d been able to fix the worst of the damage, but he’d lost so much blood. The same with Father Daughtry. She needed to touch them again, imagine their veins filled with the life-giving fluid.

  “Shhh!” Girshmel held a stumpy finger to his overly wet lips. “Someone’s coming down here. Didn’t ye shut the door?” he hissed at Simon and moved silently up the dark corridor.

  Meg opened her mouth to shout a warning, but Simon crouched in front of her and slapped his palm over it. “Not a word or they die,” he seethed. The sting of the slap needled her lips and cheek. She fought to bring in enough air through her nose. The man’s filthy hand smelled of horses and dung.

  “Meg?” Jonet called over the clicking of her boots. “Meg, is that ye down there?”

  Meg willed her to go back but the clicking got louder.

  “I found Peter’s kitten by the door and I thought I heard ye crying. Meg?”

  A gasp, boots flailing against rock. “Not a word, lassie, or ye’ll end up dead, too,” Girshmel said. He dragged her back down toward Meg.

  Jonet’s eyes were round above Girshmel’s hand. When she saw Simon there was recognition in her eyes and they narrowed. Jonet’s foot snapped up and back, kicking Girshmel’s knee. He grunted and lost his grip on her mouth as she bit down.

  “Bitch!” he yelled and grabbed at Jonet’s flailing arms. She hit him in the nose and blood gushed from it.

  Meg used her magic to quickly assess Simon’s physical flaws. He was all muscle and sinewy strength, but there was bruising all around his ribs on the right side. She jammed her elbow into the sensitive area, and Simon doubled over with a groan. Jonet ran toward the door, but Meg ran for Donald. She reached him just as Girshmel scooped up Jonet. Meg poured her healing thoughts into her fallen friend, fixing the small breaks that remained and replenishing the blood that had drained from his wound. Her hand skimmed Father Daughtry and she sent a blasting pulse of magic with the image of blood-filled veins.

  Simon yanked Meg to him roughly. Girshmel laughed and wiped the blood from his nose across his arm. “This one has spirit,” he said and grabbed a fistful of Jonet’s hair. “Be careful, lassie, or I may take a liking to ye.” He bent closer to her and licked from her jaw line to her ear. “And the lasses don’t always survive that,” he chuckled.

  Fear engulfed Jonet’s face and she pinched her eyes shut.

  “Tie her over here with Meg,” Simon instructed. “Until we figure out what to do with her.”

  Meg knew the two fallen men must be rousing, but if either one moved, they’d be stabbed again. Stay still! “Donald and the good Father are dying,” she said. “Please let me help them.”

  “And have the warrior fighting for ye? Or worse, warning the Macbains that ye’re missing?” Simon said. “Nay, he can bleed to death and so can the priest. God can take care of him now.”

  “Where are you taking me?” Meg asked.

  “We’re taking ye both now,” Girshmel added.

&n
bsp; “Leave her,” Meg said. “I’m the one you’re supposed to take, aren’t I?”

  “Aye, but I like her,” Girshmel said.

  “Muc! Pig!” Jonet spit on the stone floor.

  Girshmel laughed softly and sheathed his sword.

  “Where are you taking us?” Meg was determined to give as much information to Donald as she could.

  “Yer father would like to take a walk with ye, up that mountain,” Simon answered.

  “Gwyneth told you,” Meg said, her eyes flicking to the floor, but both men continued to hold their prone poses.

  “Aye, my sweet Gwen hears everything.” Simon chuckled.

  Could Gwen have heard she was pregnant? Meg prayed the news hadn’t spread that fast. “Colin Macleod is my father,” she said, using the little strength she had left to sit up defiantly.

  Simon laughed. “Ye keep saying that as if that will help ye. I’d start calling Boswell Papa in hopes he doesn’t just burn ye for witchcraft himself.”

  “I think the man would burn his own kin for witchcraft,” Girshmel said solemnly and shivered.

  What kind of a devil made that giant quake? Meg breathed, trying to slow her rapidly pounding heart. “He did burn his kin,” she muttered, and sent a prayer to heaven for help. Not just for herself now, but for her newly forming babe.

  Simon looped the rope around Meg’s wrists. “Aye, I heard about yer mother being burned.” He tsked. “We’ll tie yer hands so ye aren’t tempted to use dark magic.”

  Dark magic? Never had she called upon the devil or demons or anything dark for aid. She was raised as a God-fearing, good Catholic woman. Although, Meg considered, these men didn’t know that. She glanced at Father Daughtry but barked out a loud laugh anyway. The noise echoed in the dark hall.

  Simon jumped back. “What the hell?”

  “I have other dark powers, too,” Meg boasted, her lips quirking in a sinister grin. “Ask Girshmel about my beast. Nickum of the Night will stalk you when you take us. He’ll follow without a sound. You won’t hear him until he leaps upon you, ripping open your throat.”

  “Shut yer mouth,” Girshmel ordered.

  “I thought ye shot the wolf at the loch,” Simon said.

  From Girshmel’s face, Meg could tell that Gilbert Davidson had passed along her message, and she laughed. “My wolf healed. He’s at full strength and he knows exactly who shot him.”

  “Stop talking,” Girshmel said.

  Meg just laughed. Jonet’s eyes widened like Meg had grown the devil’s own horns. Meg winked at her before turning back to the men.

  “I’ve already placed a spell on all of you,” Meg sang.

  “A spell?” Simon said and took a step back. “What type of spell?”

  “She’s lying,” Girshmel said and tied Jonet’s hands in front.

  “A sleeping spell.” Meg yawned loudly. “You will soon become very tired. So tired that you will drop right where you are standing.”

  Just as Meg had hoped, her own yawns had pulled them from all the people in the room. She hoped Donald and the priest could remain still if they were conscious.

  “You will all start to yawn and yawn, your jaws opening so wide they will crack and ache. Yawn after yawn after yawn.”

  Both Simon and Girshmel clenched their jaws.

  Meg could barely stop her own. “You will grow so exhausted that you’ll barely be able to breathe. Your arms will fall to your sides like you’ve lugged bricks all day, your legs like they are pulling granite on chains. Even your head is starting to weigh like a boulder upon your neck.”

  Simon’s shoulders slumped a little.

  “Yawn after yawn after—”

  “Shut yer mouth, witch!” Girshmel hissed in a loud whisper.

  “Is Boswell paying you enough to make up for dying under a witch’s spell?” Meg pushed.

  Girshmel threw a rag at Simon. “Gag the witch.”

  “That won’t stop the spell from working. Leave us here and you will survive.”

  Simon worked the rag into her mouth, which absorbed all the moisture instantly. She tried to quell her frantic heart. The men wrapped them in large wool blankets, hefted them over their shoulders. An eternity of stopping and running passed before Meg was lowered onto planks, perhaps in the back of a wagon.

  “I can’t breathe,” Jonet called next to Meg. “With that gag, Meg will die and Boswell will slice yer entrails from ye,” she said through the wool.

  Praise be to Jonet!

  “God’s teeth.” Simon’s muffled curse reached Meg as the wagon dipped under his weight. A foul-smelling hand yanked the gag down. She sucked in a gulp of the stagnant air. “If ye make a sound, the gag goes back.”

  Meg concentrated on the air that she needed until her light-headedness abated. She rested, letting the stillness replenish her energy. She’d given most of it to Donald and Father Daughtry and nearly the rest to her witch’s farce. The act had almost cost her life, but hopefully it was worth the risk. She might be able to save Jonet.

  After long minutes, Jonet rolled up against her. “Are ye sound?” she whispered through the folds of fabric.

  Meg waited. Should she risk answering? The men continued to talk in the wagon seat. They rumbled slowly along a path, probably out of the surrounding village.

  Meg rolled closer to let her know she was awake. “Feign sleep,” she whispered and hoped Jonet could hear her. She didn’t dare speak louder.

  “Sleep?” Jonet asked.

  Meg waited, but the men kept talking above them. “When we stop, be asleep. Don’t wake.”

  Simon stopped his banter abruptly and Meg bit into her lip. Had he heard? After a few moments the conversation picked up again.

  “Gilbert said that he and Boswell would be at the base of the mountain, after our men take care of Macbain and his troop,” Simon said. Meg’s ears strained to follow the voices through the muffling layers of wool wrapped so tight.

  Girshmel said something and chuckled maliciously.

  “Aye, they should be surprised.” Simon laughed. “As well as the rest of Druim when our soldiers attack.”

  Caden and the others were walking into an ambush and the Davidsons planned to storm Druim. Her heart pounded so hard she could barely hear any more words, but then the men fell silent. In the quiet, she prayed.

  Dearest Lord, watch Caden’s back. Warn him. Her thoughts turned inward to the small ball growing in her womb. And please take care of me, for our babe. She sent a quick prayer up that Donald and Father Daughtry were well and that Jonet would make it out of this alive. Then Meg cleared her mind and breathed, resting herself and regaining energy.

  The wagon jolted and creaked, dipped and climbed. She’d have bruises from slamming against the wooden side. At last they stopped.

  “Sleep,” Meg whispered.

  Someone lifted her roll out of the wagon and set her on her feet. Her captor grabbed the end and yanked, flipping Meg out onto the ground. She sucked in the freshness like it was life-giving water and blinked in the bright light that filtered through the bare branches of trees overhead.

  She pushed up onto her arms. They were in the forest, bare limbs reaching down like gray, gnarled fingers. Snow piled in drifts against trunks, muffling the world. Alone, far from Druim. A chill racked Meg’s body.

  Two horses stood tethered by one tree. “We go the rest of the way on horse,” Simon said.

  “Little lass, wake up.” Girshmel nudged Jonet with his boot.

  Jonet kept her eyes shut and breathed evenly.

  “Oh no, the spell has overtaken her,” Meg said.

  At the mention of the spell, Simon yawned, making Girshmel yawn and curse. The man’s hard eyes found Meg. “Wake her.”

  Meg shook her head, praying that she was doing the right thing denying these men. “I can’t. Once she falls asleep only time can wake her. A few days, perhaps.”

  “A few days?” Girshmel picked Jonet up roughly. He shouted in her face. “Wake, woman!”


  Jonet continued to breathe evenly. Meg cringed as Girshmel kissed her lips. Amazingly, Jonet remained languid in his arms.

  Simon laughed. “What difference if she’s awake or not if you are wanting to tup her.”

  “I prefer some spirit when I pump my way into a lass,” Girshmel said with a sneer. He began to carry her to one of the horses.

  “We haven’t the time to waste on carrying her. Leave her in the wagon. She’ll sleep the day away and ye can get her when ye come back down the mountain.”

  “Nay, I’m taking her,” Girshmel said and Meg’s stomach twisted. If they would just leave Jonet, she could run back to Druim.

  The sound of horses whipped Meg around. Three men she didn’t know pulled their mounts to a stop.

  “Bring the woman,” the man in front said, appraising Meg. “Boswell and Gilbert wait up near the caves.” His gaze rested on Jonet across Girshmel’s horse. “Who is that?”

  “My woman,” Girshmel said.

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “The witch put a sleeping spell on her,” Simon said and made the sign of the cross before him.

  Meg bared her teeth.

  “I’d burn ye myself if my chief didn’t want ye first,” he murmured.

  “Leave the sleeping one,” the leader called. “The Englishman grows impatient and she’ll slow us down.”

  Girshmel hesitated and cursed, but pulled Jonet off the horse and toppled her roughly into the back of the wagon. He threw the blanket on top of her. Girshmel climbed on his horse and reached down to grab Meg up in front of him. The smell of sweat and unwashed flesh assailed her, bringing on another bout of queasiness. Her stomach rumbled like far-off thunder.

  “What of Macbain and his men?” Simon called as they followed the others up the winding mountain path.

  “Dead,” the leader called back.

  The word hit Meg in the gut. Dead? Dead! The Macbain was dead! Her lungs contracted and she couldn’t pull in a breath of air. Her hands went to her mouth as unchecked tears pushed out of her eyes. She drew in a gasp and her stomach churned, surging upward.

  “Did ye hear that, little lady?” Girshmel said. “Yer big mighty man is dead.”