“You most certainly are.”
“I was a man in love and not thinking clearly.”
“You were bitter and vindictive, Morley. You wanted to hurt Torston as he had hurt you and you cannot convince me otherwise.”
Morley looked as if he were verging on tears. The pain, the confusion, was palpable.
“Then God forgive me for ever becoming involved,” he whispered. “And may he have mercy for what is yet to come.”
Antonia moved close, like a viper moving in for the kill. Her forked tongue all but pierced Morley’s ear as she whispered.
“No mercy, Morley.” It was Satan’s voice echoed in her throaty tone. “No mercy at all.”
In terror, Morley fled the chamber.
“The dogs found them just outside of the wall, my lord.” The senior soldier, a grizzled man with horse-like teeth, addressed Torston formally. “They were shoved into a crevice and there was nowhere for them to go once the dogs picked up their scents. We captured them easily.”
Torston gazed grimly at the two men in question, covered with filth and long, brown tunics. “And you found them on routine patrol?”
“Aye, my lord,” the soldier replied.
Torston maintained his hard stance, wondering what the Scots could have been up to lurking near the walls of The Lyceum. With a peace accord in the making, there was no reason for their presence and he was understandably suspicious. But in truth, he wasn’t particularly surprised.
He turned to Morley, standing slightly behind him. “Where is Great Caesar?”
Morley was pale, a sheen of perspiration on his brow. In fact, he had been unusually pale and clammy all day, but Torston had attributed it to his distress over Lionel’s madness and Winslow’s death. Morley had mostly stuck close to Torston all day in case the man needed something. Still, Morley looked particularly ill and Torston would have spared him more concern had he not been so preoccupied.
“He is in his solar, being watched by several servants,” Morley replied softly. Then he cleared his throat. “He is planning a major offensive against the Scots, you know. He is convinced that…”
Torston cut him off with a wave of his hand. “I know,” he said. He did not want the Scots inadvertently hearing anything useful. “He may plan to his heart’s content. But whether I carry out his plans is another matter altogether.”
“You would disobey him, Lord Centurion?”
Torston looked at Morley. “And you would not?”
Morley paused, then nodded in resignation. “I have difficulty believing all of this. It still does not seem possible.”
Torston’s gaze lingered on the majordomo a moment before returning to the Scots. He, too, reflected Morley’s sentiment, though the initial shock had faded somewhat. What remained now was the fact that he was, by and large, in charge of The Lyceum and Alyx was still nowhere to be found. That, coupled with Winslow’s death and Dyl’s subsequent rage of grief, had made for an extremely trying day. And it was barely mid-afternoon.
“Be that as it may, I am afraid we have greater troubles at hand.” He couldn’t let himself become distracted by his emotions. There was pressing business to attend to. “I would like to know why there were spies lingering about when such a thing, according to Kerr, should be a figment of the past.”
Morley simply nodded his head and turned back for the keep, knowing that Torston’s focus on the captives was his own attempt to ignore the turmoil of recent events. Though he’d stopped loving the man a long time ago, Morley was still concerned for everything Torston had to deal with.
He was powerless to help him.
“You’re Kerrs,” Torston finally spoke to the men at his feet. “Well?”
The men eyed him, fearlessness in their expressions. The older one replied. “Ask yer questions and be done with it, Sassenach.”
Torston didn’t react to what the Scots considered an insulting term. The man had said it with much contempt. As he gazed at the battle-hardened warriors, Torston knew that the torture of interrogation would mean nothing to them. In fact, they would wear it as a badge of honor. Death would bring martyrdom. But he wanted very much to know why the pair had been caught sneaking around The Lyceum.
So, he stood back, silently observing every movement, every mannerism, as he formed a course of attack. If there was one thing Torston de Royans had learned over the years, it was that there was more than one way to beat a stubborn Scot.
He had a plan.
A gloved hand went up, a firm twist of the hand. It was a summons, and Jess was immediately by Torston’s side, listening intently as the Centurion muttered in his ear. The air in the small dungeon remained brittle and uncertain as Jess dashed off, returning a short time later with a large ceramic jug and several wooden cups. He handed them to Torston who, in turn, crouched on his knees before the captives.
“This,” he said as he set the cups down in front of the prisoners, “is the finest ale I can provide. Will you drink with me?”
He poured the cloudy liquid into the two cups on the ground and the one in his own hand. While the Scots stared at the liquor, Torston drank deeply and smacked his lips.
“Excellent.” He poured himself more, eyeing the untouched cups on the ground. “A shame you do not intend to share this fine drink with me. I never knew an Englishman who could outdrink a Scot. But I can try.”
The younger captive flinched, his hand darting toward the cup as the older of the pair growled at him. They scuffled a moment, a verbal argument that was short and brutal. Torston listened to every word, taking another hearty swallow and emitting a loud belch. The tone and deepness of the burp alluded to the quality of the ale and even the older soldier seemed reluctantly impressed. The younger took the cup without further hassle and drank deeply.
“Marvelous,” Torston poured himself more. The younger captive held out his cup and Torston poured it to the rim. “Best you’ve had in a long while, eh?”
The younger man downed the contents before sharply nodding his head. Outnumbered and tempted beyond reason, the older man was the last to drink of the offered liquor. When the jug was nearly empty, Torston demanded more and Jess went on the run.
Torston hadn’t intended to get drunk, but the ale had affected him more than he’d hoped. Within the hour, the Scots were blathering, slobbering idiots, speaking in slurred Gaelic between themselves and greedily downing the drink. Torston, however, had backed off, knowing he’d reached his limit. But the Scots didn’t notice his sudden abstinence. They continued to down a third jug of alcohol.
“Tell me something,” Torston said, slurring his speech. He listened to himself, thinking he sounded like an idiot. “What were you doing on my land? Looking for handouts? Food, clothing, horses? What forced you to come here?”
The older soldier waved a clumsy hand at him. “We werena looking for anything, ye Sassenach fool.”
Torston shrugged. “What else can I think? You were caught on my property, skulking in the shadows, when there is a peace treaty in the works. Are you renegades? Beggars, in fact?”
“Nay!” The old man slammed his cup on the floor, his bright green eyes blazing. “We dunna beg from no one!”
“Then you work for your keep?”
“Aye,” the old man said, demurring somewhat. The younger man was drinking from the jug and he ripped it away, putting it to his bearded lips. “The Kerrs are no beggars.”
“Then forgive me for suggesting it,” Torston said, leaning back and using his arms for support. But his arms felt like jelly and he struggled to keep from weaving side to side. “Then if you did not come here to beg, you must have been doing something else. Mayhap you came to offer your military services to the English laird?”
It was the ultimate insult and the older soldier quite rightly flared. “We dunna serve the Sassenach!” he snarled. “We ally with Clan Gordon!”
“You mean you ally with Kerr.”
“He’s our kin!” The old man licked his lips, slowly realizing what he had sa
id in his drunken haste. But the words could not be forgotten or retracted and he licked his lips again, taking another long drink from the ceramic jug. “Doogie Kerr is a good man. His da was a Kerr and we’re proud to be allied with him. But his mam was a Gordon.”
Torston didn’t react outwardly. But he knew he was getting closer to the facts. The more the fortification of the ale invaded their senses, like a truth serum, the more he knew he would eventually have his answers.
As he had hoped, the way to obtaining the Scots’ information would come by far less violent and painful means. A bit of ale, a few persuasive insults, and…
“My own mother comes from the Clan Douglas,” Torston said, wondering if they would look upon them as kin or perhaps even more of an abomination because he had chosen to pursue his English roots over his Scot heritage. “Her father’s brother is The Douglas himself.”
The two Scots were silent a moment, glancing to each other in their drunken state and trying to make some sense out of what Torston was saying. The younger one, far gone with alcohol, shrugged and took another drink as the older tried to sort his jumbled thoughts.
“Yer… yer grand-uncle is The Douglas?”
Torston nodded, once. “Clan chief. I’ve never met him, however. But I hear he’s a mean old bastard.”
The old soldier stared at him a moment before emitting a hissing snort. Then he shook his head, be it in disbelief or irony Torston could not be sure.
“Lies, Sassenach,” he muttered after a moment. He was almost laughing at Torston. “I’m not as stupid as ye think. Using yer wiles against me. Well, it willna work. I’ll not telling ye anything more!”
Torston’s expression was as intense as it could be in his inebriated state. “I never said you were stupid and I’ve no reason to lie to you, not even to gain my ends.” He sat forward, fixing the older man in the eye. “Would you at least tell me your name? I would know who I am addressing.”
The older man stared back. He was silent at first, staunchly refusing to reply, but then thought better of it. He’d already said quite enough this night and divulging his name would make little difference. “Orr.”
“Orr,” Torston repeated slowly. “Did Kerr send you here tonight? To spy on us, mayhap? It’s all right to tell me. I simply want to know.”
Orr didn’t respond. He continued to stare defiantly. To his right, his companion had finished the jug of ale and dejectedly turned it over, hoping against hope for more and licking at the drops from the rim.
“More of this!” the young Scot demanded.
Torston turned his attention to the drunken soldier, hardly missing a beat as he gave the silent order for more ale. The young man grinned and tossed the jug aside, waiting for the third round.
“Kerr dinna send us tae spy, Sassenach.”
Torston instantly sensed that his answers were near and ignored the stubborn Orr, focusing instead on his more compromised and free-speaking companion. “But he did send you, correct?”
Orr slugged the younger man, who refused to be intimidated. Torston could see the struggle and was wise enough to use it to his advantage.
“I’ll give you ten jugs of the ale if you’ll tell me why you came,” he promised. “I simply want to know. There’s no harm in knowing, is there?”
The younger soldier opened his mouth. Orr slapped his dirty palm over his lips to keep him from speaking, but Torston motioned to the soldiers hovering in the shadows and Orr was immediately restrained. As they dragged the older Scot away, kicking and bellowing, Torston focused on the drunk young man.
“Well?” he asked as calmly as he could manage. “Why did Kerr send you?”
The man wiped the sweat away from his brow. It was suddenly very warm in the dingy vault. And the English knight’s intense gaze somehow increased the heat.
“Not… not tae spy,” he slurred.
“Then why?”
The fourth jug was brought about by Jess. Torston held up a hand, however, preventing the knight from giving the alcohol to the prisoner. The young Scot gazed at the jug, his yearning evident.
“Tell me,” Torston demanded again. “Tell me and you shall have your ale.”
The younger man hesitated only a moment. He was young, and foolish, and unseasoned to the ways and means of war, including subtle interrogation. All he knew was that divulging seemingly harmless information would get him what he wanted.
“Kerr sent us out tae make sure he wasna followed,” he said.
Torston’s brow furrowed. “Followed? Followed where?”
“Home.”
Torston was more puzzled than before. “Home?” he glanced at Jess, who seemed equally confused. “I don’t understand.”
The young Scot sighed impatiently, eyeing the jug. “He was here, in the wood,” he said, throwing his thumb in the general direction of the woods near The Lyceum. “He sent me and Orr tae cover his retreat home, tae make sure the Sassenach dinna become wise tae him.”
It was all becoming a little clearer, sort of. So Kerr had been in the woods surrounding The Lyceum? Torston couldn’t help the sense of foreboding that suddenly gripped him.
“He was here, at The Lyceum?” he asked.
The young man nodded. “In the wood. But he got what he came for and went home.”
“What did he come for?”
The younger soldier looked at him, then. “The lass.”
Torston felt as if he had been hit in the stomach. Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t even speak. It was all he could do simply to maintain his erect posture. Jess, far more in control but by no means any less shocked, put forth the fatal question.
“What lass?” he asked.
The young Scot snatched the jug from him, clutching it against his chest as if fearful it would be taken away. “The Sassenach lass with the golden hair,” he said. “Curls, all down her back, like an angel.”
Torston went ashen. He could only stare at the Scot in horror, fearful if that if he did attempt to speak, it would come out as some terrible explosion of rage. He felt Jess’ hand on his shoulder, aware of little else but the pounding of his heart and the swirling in his head.
“He… took her?” he asked in a strange croaking noise. “He took Alyx?”
“Took her home,” the Scot said as he lifted the jug and drank. “She belongs tae him now.”
Torston didn’t make it as far as the stairs from the vault before he vomited.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Luckenburn Tower
“Why did ye bring her here?”
The question came from Edna Kerr, Douglas’ mother.
It was not yet evening on the same day that Douglas had brought a lass to Luckenburn Tower who had hair like spun gold, in curly tendrils past her buttocks. She was a pretty little thing, young and flawless, and Douglas had deposited her into his hall with great care.
But Edna had been watching. Since the death of Mairi, it was Edna who watched over the house and hold, and that included Douglas’ infant son. With the child asleep as the wet nurse watched over him, Edna had been supervising some clean up in the hall when Douglas and his men had arrived.
And what she saw disturbed her greatly.
“Answer me, Doogie,” she said. “Why did ye bring that lass here? Who is she?”
Douglas showed no remorse for having brought a strange woman into his fold. “She is tae me my wife,” he told his mother confidently. “She’s the daughter of the laird of Makendon Castle.”
Edna, unlike her son at times, was a reasonable and levelheaded woman. Sometimes brutally so. She looked at the forlorn woman sitting on a stool before the hearth and raised her eyebrows.
“How did ye come by her?” she said, shocked. “I assume her father knows she’s here?”
Douglas’ gaze was on the blond lass in his hall, not on his mother. “I found her wandering in the woods,” he said. Then, he tore his gaze off of Alyx to focus on his mother. “And if her father cared a wink about her, he wouldna let
her wander alone in the woods. The man has gone against my wishes in all things and I will marry his daughter with or without his consent. Ye’ll not argue with me on this, Ma.”
Edna stared at her son as if the man had lost his mind. “Ye abducted her?” she hissed. “Doogie, ye’ll bring the Sassenach down on us. Take her home!”
Douglas frowned. “I willna,” he said. “She belongs tae me. I’ll send Robby for the priest and he’ll marry us right away.”
Edna shook her head. “Ye’ll do no such thing,” she said. “Ye’ve become a madman, Doogie. How could ye do such a thing?”
With that, she pushed past her outraged son and headed over to the hearth where Alyx was sitting, eyes red-rimmed as she stared into the fire.
“Welcome, lass,” she said gently. “What’s yer name, angel?”
Big, blue eyes turned to her. It was clear she had been crying. “I am Alyx de Ameland,” she said hoarsely.
Edna shook her head sadly at the state of the young woman. She was enraged with her son. “My name is Edna,” she said, reaching down to grasp an arm. “Come with me, Alyx. Let’s take ye somewhere tae rest and eat.”
Alyx let the woman pull her off the stool and walk her across the floor of the hall. Edna was very motherly and put her arm around Alyx, using the other to shove her son back when he tried to intervene. As Douglas stood aside, scowling at his mother, Edna took Alyx with her and headed up the narrow spiral staircase.
Luckenburn was a big, stone tower house, four stories tall. The second and third floors were divided into two chambers and Edna hustled Alyx up to the third floor. In the first chamber, a big bed was wedged near the hearth while a second, smaller bed was shoved into a corner. This chamber also had a big table, chairs, a wardrobe, and what looked like a copper tub in the corner near the hearth.
It was quite lived in.
Edna went straight to the hearth and began stirring up the embers, tossing peat from the peat bucket onto the sparks.
“Sit down, lass,” she said, indicating the table. “I’ll have food brought tae ye. Ye must be starved.”
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