by R. L. Syme
The sheriff only leered at Elizabeth and grinned. “I’ve heard of your coming, lady. I trust you were safe, even with your company.”
“I am safe.” Elizabeth turned to the dungeon door and cringed visibly. “I’ve heard of my husband’s capture and impending doom. I wish to bargain for his life.”
“And what did you bring to bargain?”
Elizabeth straightened and lifted her chin. This was at least not the posture of a woman who planned to prostitute herself for her husband. For that much, Broc relaxed.
“I have a suit of armor made by Spanish monks in the 11th century for my lord’s father.”
The sheriff pulled a knife from his side pocket and began to pick his teeth. “Yes?”
“And enough gold and silver to fill three chests, but I’m sure I could get more.”
He kept picking his teeth, flicking pieces off the blade to toss at various courtiers. Each one looked disgusted at the act, but the smiled in return. He had these ones well-trained
“You’ll have to do better than that.”
“My lord is wise, as always.” Elizabeth turned to Broccin and a hint of sadness passed through her gaze. She was about to offer herself. Broc’s hand went immediately to the hilt of his sword, but before he could draw, ten long spears had come down around him. Each tip was so close to his neck, if he moved in any one direction, he would be a dead man.
All of his fighting fantasies included his getting the drop on the boys, not their being ready for him.
“I have as my captive, the leader of the renegade group of Highland warriors that have been falsely raiding and plundering in my husband’s good name.” Elizabeth sank into another curtsey. “As a token of my good fellowship, rather than having him killed upon capture, I offer him to you in exchange for my husband’s release and the clearing of his good name.”
Broc couldn’t breathe. If there hadn’t been twenty sharp edges within striking distance of his throat, he would have pushed forward and demanded she speak sense.
Beneath the spears, a boy snuck forward and twisted rope around Broc’s hands. Suddenly, the knot was so tight, he couldn’t move at all. The spears raised and one of the guards pulled his sword from its sheath, and tossed it forward.
The long weapon slid all the way through the circle of guards, almost to Elizabeth’s side, and she glanced back in her curtsey. Broc met her eyes and seethed, but her countenance did not change.
“They call themselves the Mac Ri Albannach.” Elizabeth over-pronounced the Gaelic like a true English, then returned to the refined, long tones of the court. “Sons of the Rightful King.”
Broc snorted. They did no such thing—they didn’t need to call themselves anything. But to the English, there was nothing more fearsome than an organized group of rebel warriors from the unknown mountains. He struggled against his bonds and one of the spears sliced into his shoulder.
The cut was deep and the hot, thick blood flowed down his back in double time.
“I hear tell there’s a real man behind this legendary Highlander who raids English strongholds and beheads shire magistrates.” The fat sheriff stood and walked around the table.
There was, Broc thought. And they had him in the dungeon. Or one of them—there were now more of the renegades than Edward had ever intended. And the sheriff was right, their legend grew.
“I had friends at Carslile.” The fat man spat from outside the circle of armed guards. “Friends who were killed by some band of rebels intent on savagery and filth.”
He pulled Elizabeth to her feet. “And yet you captured this man? How do you intend to prove it was him and not your husband who led these raids?”
“Ask them.”
The sheriff called out. “Bring the raider out.”
From the corner of the room, a man in chains was pushed forward. Broc’s heart sank. The man they’d assumed dead, Tearny MacDonnogh, was almost no better off than if they had indeed killed him. His once muscular frame was now emaciated, with skin hanging from his arms. He was bare to the waist and the scars of beatings reminded Broc of just how long it had been since they had been to Berwick.
“Is this the man who led you at Carslile?” the sheriff asked. “And is he leading the Mac Ri Albannach?”
Tearney’s greasy, matted hair swung around his face as he nodded. His eyes were half-closed and his mouth hung open, but he managed to make his affirmation known.
The sheriff cackled and threw Elizabeth to the ground. “I’ll be knighted for this for certain.”
With broad gestures, he pointed to Tearny and then the dungeon door. “Release both of them to her care, as we agreed. And take this one down to the bowels. I want the smithy to make him special chains with double-thick cast and no slack.”
He took his captain of the guard by the throat. “And by God, he had better be who she says he is, or it’s going to be your head on a silver plate instead of mine.”
“He’s the man, my lord.” The captain scratched at his throat where the fat hands had gripped him. “He bears the marks from Lord Markson’s double-bladed Arabian weapon. I saw the scars on his arm.”
Broc swallowed. He did bear such a scar, and he had been the one to kill the perverted English lord in the battle of Carslile, but only because the man had nearly killed Andrew and was about to disembowel him when Broc discovered and beheaded the man.
He was outnumbered, his weapon lost to him, bound, and soon to be imprisoned. Fighting back now would only mean Andrew’s certain continued imprisonment and possible death. At least if he kept quiet like a captive, he could know Andrew was free. Even if it meant he would rot in the dungeon himself.
His only consolation was that, at this moment, they had not found his well-hidden purse. As the guards wrestled him down the dark stairs, Broc counted each one, then counted the steps to his cell. He would find a way to escape this place, and he would get home to his wife.
Only then would he think about Elizabeth’s betrayal and how he would repay her for her lies.
***
The bowels of the Berwick dungeon were as dark as Broc expected. Saved, no doubt, for the worst of prisoners. There were no windows, and the only way to know the passage of time was to count the meager meals he was given. Two meals a day of bread and water only, and as the days passed, he felt his flesh eating him from the inside.
At first, he was alone, and glad for it. He spent the moments counting the flecks of blue in Kensey’s green eyes and reliving every breath of time she’d spent in his bed.
He dreaded every time the guards passed by, for he knew the special bonds were on their way to him. He’d heard of these, where men were chained to a wall without even an inch of room to move to comfort. Always on their feet and always with their backs to the grimy dungeon walls.
Tales told that the flesh rotted off their backs and fell off in stumpy masses, sometimes years before they died themselves.
Force-fed enough to keep them alive, the men were in agony for as long as their bodies would allow. The younger and more virile the man, the longer he could withstand the torture. And there was no hope of even ending one’s own life, because the chains limited all movement.
In those moments where he imagined the torture of those bonds, all he could do was think of Kensey and hope he would return to her someday.
After what he thought was three days, the door to his cell opened and Broc thought this was his moment. He’d planned, as they gave him new shackles, to whisper bribes to the guards. He’d managed to cut loose his purse and hide it behind a loose stone in the wall. While the guard might decide to shackle him anyway and find the purse himself, Broc hoped the man was lazy and stupid enough to agree to the bribe.
But instead of bringing new shackles, the guards brought a line of men, all emaciated, all tied at the hands with thick, tight knots of rope.
When the guards left, he nudged the closest one. “Who are you, man?”
The prisoner
looked at him, brown eyes shot through with red. “I’m Kenneth Teague.”
“Why did they bring you here, Kenneth Teague?”
“They’ve moved several of us out of the closer cells, and back toward the belly of the dungeon,” said another man with light, almost blond hair. “I heard the guards talking. They’ve just captured an entire band of raiders in Dunbar and they have to make room.”
“Overcrowding in the prisons,” said another man in a knowing voice, as though that meant something particularly.
Broccin shrugged. “How long have you been here?”
“I’ve been the longest.” A gaunt man with dark hair raised his head off the ground and nodded to Broccin. “Teague came about a month ago, and MacLeod and his young squire have been here almost six months now.” The man pointed across the room to the nearly blond young man and an older man with long, dark hair, partially braided. The older man lay with his face away from Broccin and something in Broc’s heart leapt.
“Lachlan?” he called, hopeful.
The half-braided head rose and turned. For a moment, those same green-blue eyes of Kensey’s stared back at him, unknowing, then they lit up and blinked.
“Good Lord in heaven. Broccin Sinclair? Is that you?”
Broc exhaled. “Lachlan. Thank God. We thought you dead.”
“Oh, my boy.” Lachlan MacLeod pulled himself up on his elbow and Broc shuddered. The right side of his face was a mass of lash marks, as though the ends of the whip had caught him around the head and pulled flesh from his face. But it had left his eye untouched, and the rest of him recognizable.
Broc scooted across the floor, taking the loose hay with him. He didn’t have much strength to stand, but he pulled himself to Kensey’s father and embraced the man with all the fervor he could manage.
I have to escape now, he thought. Kensey needs to know that her father lives. And I have to bring him back to her.
“But how did you get in here, boy?” Lachlan leaned against Broccin’s shoulder as they sat.
“It’s quite a long story.” He paused, unsure of how much to reveal and how quickly. “But I have many stories to tell you.” Broc patted Kensey’s father on the back and let the tired man lean against his aching side for some comfort. “Not the least of which, my friend, is the story of how you and I are going to escape.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Castle St. Claire, March of 1297
Duncan jumped off his horse, mid-stride and nearly fell upon Fiona as he did so. Kensey reached out to catch the big animal’s reins as her friends engaged in their usual frippery. Giggling and sighing, Fiona held Duncan in her arms as he pressed against her swelling belly.
“You’re safe with me, at last,” Fiona nearly cried. Duncan finally managed to pry her off him and stepped back to admire her.
“You look right beautiful, lass,” he said proudly. “Pregnancy agrees with you.” Fiona blushed and returned to his strong arms for comfort.
As she always did, Kensey searched the faces among the riders for Broccin, but did not find him. She turned to Duncan, whose raised eyebrows said he was anticipating her question. He nodded to her in a promise for explanation. All she could do was pray that his wasn’t one of the bodies being carted behind the rest of the group on the cart that had first carried Broccin back into this family.
“He isn’t with us, lass,” Duncan said quietly.
“He is not with the corpses, is he?” she asked, her voice catching in fear. Duncan shook his head quickly.
“We managed to track down Elizabeth on our way to Edinburgh. She says that Broc is at Avoch.” Duncan paused, glancing at Fiona, then shaking his head. ”With Andrew.”
“And Elizabeth, herself, I suspect?” The bitterness in Kensey’s voice was unmistakable.
“I’m sure it’s not like that.” Fiona touched a gentling hand to Kensey’s shoulder. “Andrew and Elizabeth are married, and Broccin has far too much honor to bed a married woman.”
He has almost too much honor to bed his own wife, Kensey thought. But her head spun with the memory of her husband embracing the beautiful blonde. She turned away from him and ran into the castle, crying. No one would give credence to the ideas she had of Elizabeth and Broccin, but this looked to be the last bit of proof she needed.
***
“When do you expect his return?” Fiona asked.
Duncan watched Kensey’s retreat into the castle and almost forgot to answer. “I do not understand for certain. I made Elizabeth swear to send word, although I do not know what good that will do us.”
“Without a letter in four months, I don’t know how Broc expects his wife to await his return.”
Duncan scoffed. “Fiona. Don’t say such things. He’s my brother.” But inside, Duncan agreed with her. The lack of communication troubled him, and Elizabeth’s vague answers had been almost worse.
“Andrew is at Avoch recovering from an injury and Elizabeth went to court in Edinburgh without him. But she seemed so guarded, and was so surprised to see me.” Duncan kicked at the ground. “I’ve never liked her.”
“That doesn’t mean your suspicions are unfounded, my love.” Fiona took his face in her hands and kissed him.
“True. Something feels off about this.”
“And you believe Elizabeth is the culprit?”
“Aye, I believe it.” Duncan spat and pulled Fiona into a steady gait toward the castle doors. “That woman would do anything to keep Broccin by her side. Absolutely anything.”
“Do you think...”
“I cannot say for sure, love,” Duncan interrupted, looking down into her eyes. “But I do believe he loves her very much.”
“Now that we know where he is, we’ll be able to send letters to him.” Fiona clasped Duncan’s hand. “She’s all but given up hope that he will ever return to her, let alone love her. I do not wish to see her suffer this way.”
“I don’t believe it will help, Fiona.”
“Why do you say that?”
One of the pages ran up to Duncan with two unopened letters. Duncan cracked the seals immediately, hoping one would be from his brother, but both were responses to letters he’d sent to allies in the West about the health of Colin Ross. He would read them once he got up to his rooms and had a bath. The last word about Colin Ross in Edinburgh had been that his leg still hadn’t healed from Duncan shattering it into pieces, and it may never heal. That wouldn’t prevent Colin from seeking clan vengeance forever, but it might stave off the conflict until Duncan could move a good portion of his men out into the mountains to meet them.
“Because four months is a long time to be without communication from your love, and when there is no impediment to their communication, you have to ask many questions.”
“What questions?”
Duncan laughed and kissed Fiona’s forehead. Her face had healed from much of the injury she’d received at the hands of Colin Ross, but some of the scarring remained. Mainly, the long scars on her face and cheeks where her skin had been so broken open and infected, it was all they could do to get the sickness out of her body.
“Questions about why he hasn’t written and whether it might be a sign that he’s just not coming back.” Duncan’s throat constricted and he was afraid he might give away too much of his own emotion if he continued on this road. “Just things to consider.”
Fiona nodded and slumped her shoulders, making her belly protrude even more, and making Duncan want her even more. “What should we do, then?” she asked.
“Pray,” Duncan said gravely. “Pray that Broc returns quickly or that Kensey can be more forgiving than a saint.”
***
“You haven’t yet told me why,” Robert insisted as Kensey paced back and forth in front of the fireplace.
“Do I need a reason?” she asked, turning on her heel.
“Of course you do.” Robert rose from his chair, trying to provide a more formidable sight. “You cannot ju
st say we’re leaving for France and leave it at that, Kensey.”
“I am now your guardian, and I’ve decided it’s time you went to court. Besides, don’t you want to see our relatives?”
“I do not want to go to France, or England, or anywhere else, for that matter.” Robert slumped back into his seat and crossed his arms.
“If you stick that lip out any farther, I’ll cut it right off,” Kensey teased, walking toward her little brother.
Robert clenched his lips and stared at her. Laughing, Kensey walked over to him and knelt in front of the chair. She placed a hand on his arm and he flinched.
“What’s wrong?”
“You can’t make me go. I’m ten years old.”
Kensey sat back on her heels. During the winter, she’d managed to convince herself that letters were going astray, or that Broc had been held up somewhere important and would write on the morrow. But too many morrows passed with no letter, and she wasn’t going to wait forever for a man who obviously didn’t want to return and didn’t want to explain why.
This wasn’t the first time he’d left and disappeared. Perhaps married life was too much for him. Or perhaps he just didn’t want to be married to her. The frustrating part was, he wasn’t here to speak for himself, so it was likely she would never know.
Once the snow began to melt and Duncan’s riders went out looking for Broc, she slowly began looking toward France. Their first forays had been just around the area, checking the bothans, asking at inns. Then, they’d gone to Inverness, and around. Then Edinburgh, and they’d at least found Elizabeth.
At Avoch with Andrew and couldn’t even be bothered to write his wife a letter. A wife who may have been carrying his baby for all he knew.
The tears came more quickly this time than previous times and Kensey didn’t stop them. She’d only had one chance to know her husband intimately. How many of her friends had gotten pregnant from only one encounter! But even though she’d been late in her menses after Broc had come to her, there was no baby. And perhaps it was better there wasn’t.
