by Amy Jarecki
***
Lord Ross could smell him even before the footsteps slapped the hardwood in the hall. His hands bound in front of his kilt, the MacLeod henchman stood, dripping wet, without a shirt. Christ. The man looked more bull than human. Ross pulled his kerchief from his sleeve and held it to his nose. Clearing his throat, he assumed a practiced look of disgust. “You smell like shite.”
Bran kept his gaze averted. Ross didn’t like that. He wanted to see the hate in Bran’s eyes.
“Did you hear me, Highlander?”
“Aye.” The man’s voice grated, as if one single word caused him pain.
Ross stepped up to the hearth and stared at the mantel. Keeping his back to the man would demonstrate his contempt. “We’ve kept you alive so we can watch you die when you lead the Marian army into battle.”
Ross waited for a response, but none came.
“Men like you never amount to anything.” He turned. Ross wanted to see the Highlander’s face with his next words. “You could never be good enough for my daughter—never provide for a real lady, never rise beyond your own pathetic cesspool of poverty.”
Aside from the twitch of his jaw, the Highlander made no outward sign of his ire, but Lord Ross was no fool. It was there, boiling under the surface, and that anger would make him all the more exciting to watch as Regent Moray’s men cut him down. Ross had no doubt Claud Hamilton and the others would go along with his plan—though he’d mention nothing of Enya’s situation.
“Take him to the tower and keep him under lock and key.”
Malcolm bowed. “I’d like to have the healer attend him, my lord.”
Ross flicked his wrist, waving his captain off. “Whatever is necessary to keep him alive. We ride at dawn.”
***
Lying on his side, Bran closed his eyes and sank into the pallet of straw. After sleeping on stone, this was a luxury. He willed sleep to take him away, but Ross’s words echoed in his head. Men like you never amount to anything.
Ross was right. Bran got himself into this mess because he couldn’t control his heart. He couldn’t resist Enya. True, she’d encouraged him, but he should have been stronger. It was his duty to resist her. Now they both were condemned—he to death and she to a life cloistered in an abbey. God help him, Bran loved her. He would gladly die in exchange for her life—for her happiness.
Lord Ross could still marry her off. Bran’s gut clenched. The thought of another man touching Enya filled him with rage. If he wasn’t good enough for her, no one ever would be.
Ross wanted him dead. He expected him to lead the army into Regent Moray’s cannons? Bran hadn’t lost a fight yet, and he didn’t intend to now.
The door opened and Malcolm pushed inside. Bran eyed him from his pallet. The friendship they’d developed was now forfeit. Malcolm worked for the enemy. But the captain of the guard’s concerned expression was more sincere than Bran expected. “I’ve brought Heather to tend your wounds.”
This meager act of kindness surely wouldn’t make Malcolm think he’d repaid his debt. “Ye bring help now I’m nearly dead?”
“No one was allowed to tend you in the pit.”
Heather bustled in with her basket in one hand and a candle in another. “Leave us be, Sir Malcolm.”
“Very well.” The door closed behind him and the heavy iron bar creaked into place.
Heather knelt beside him and tsked. “Look at you.” She held her hand to his forehead. “At least you’re not fevered.”
Bran rolled to his stomach. “Is it festering?”
Holding the candle high, she leaned over and examined the welts. “There’s some pus, but scabs are forming.” She pulled a stoppered pot from her basket. “I’ll apply a honey poultice to keep it from turning putrid.”
“At least there willna be too much time for me wounds to go bad. Ross intends me to be the first man dead in battle.”
“Aye? I’ve watched you spar. ’Twill take quite an army of men to bring down the likes of you.”
Bran chuckled. “I’ve never seen a man stand up to cannon shot.”
“At least there’s hope.” Bran winced as Heather’s fingers worked in the cool cream. “I’ve a message from Enya.”
Bran pushed himself up, but Heather pressed on his shoulder. “She asked me to tell you she loves you.”
Bran’s throat closed. He would give anything to hold her in his arms right now. “Thank you, mistress. That means more to me than you could possibly know.” He had to ask. “Did she send Griffon to me?”
“Rodney released him, but she asked me to have him do so.”
The salve started to soothe as it seeped into his exposed welts. “And how is she?”
Heather stoppered the pot. “She’s nearly gone mad, locked in a cell.”
“Miss Enya isn’t one to be caged. She needs to spread her wings and fly.”
“Aye, she does.” Heather held up a bandage strip and applied it to his back. “Lord Ross is sending her to Iona until he can finalize her marriage.”
“Iona?” That was farther away from Renfrewshire…and on an island, easier for a sailor to reach. It surprised him the abbey was still in operation, having been hit hard by the Reformation—parts of it were in ruins. “Finalize? He’s still proceeding, then?”
“It appears so—after the uprising.”
“When will ye see her again?”
Heather applied another bandage across his angry welts. “I’ve asked Lady Ross to allow me to take her a change of clothes. I plan to return as soon as I’m allowed.”
Bran pictured Enya sitting in a lone cell still wrapped in her red dressing gown, subsisting on bread and water. “I must see her.”
Heather shook her head. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t appear that will be possible.”
He had to find some way of reaching her. “Please tell Miss Enya I return her love tenfold.”
“It would be best if you would both forget you ever met.”
Bran grasped Heather’s hand. “But we did meet, and I love her like no other. Promise me ye’ll tell her.”
“Aye,” Heather whispered. “’Tis the least I can do.”
With a jingle of keys, the lock scraped and the door opened. Rewan MacLeod stepped in, carrying a bundle. “I’ve brought yer things from the loft.”
Rewan doing something considerate? Does every warrior at Halkhead want to give me charity now I’ve been bludgeoned? “Gratitude.” Bran recognized his chainmail and clothing, but saw no weapons. “Where’s me sword?”
“Malcolm’s holding on to it. Ye’ll have it afore battle and for practice.” A slow whistle passed Rewan’s lips. “Ye look like hell.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t need you to tell him so.” Heather tugged Bran’s arm. “Sit up so I can tie these bandages in place.”
Bran complied, though he wasn’t happy Malcolm had his weapons. It would be a long time before he could trust Ross’s captain of the guard.
Heather wrapped the roll of bandage around him at least a half-dozen times before she tied it off. “I’ll leave you the poultice. Have someone to reapply the dressings in a couple of days.”
“I’ll do that. If I’m still alive.”
She stood and brushed her hands. “I have an inkling you’ll find a way to survive.”
Bran grasped her hand and kissed it. “I thank ye, Mistress Heather.”
It tickled him to see the matron blush. With a nod, she picked up her basket and swished out the door.
Rewan sauntered over and sat on the pallet beside him—another unusual move for the Lewis henchman. “I never like to see me own kin tied to a post and whipped. Even if ye are from Raasay.” He pulled a flagon from beneath his plaid. “But why did ye have to mess with the lass?”
“She came to me.” Bran reached for the flagon and took a long draw. “But dunna take me wrong. I’m in love with her.”
“Yer feelings will see ye killed.”
Bran stoppered the flask and passed it back. “We’ll all
be dead if Ross has his way.”
“Och, ye’re bloody right.” Rewan clapped his shoulder and Bran winced at the pain radiating across his welts. “The Highlanders will stay together. I’ll do what I can to watch yer back.”
Bran grasped Rewan’s arm at the elbow, a sign of kinship. “And I’ll watch yers. Let us disappoint the bastard.”
“Aye, I want to see Lewis again afore I die.”
“I have me own plans as well.”
“I hope that doesna include a stop at Paisley Abbey.”
“It does.”
“God have mercy on yer soul.” Rewan pulled the stopper. “Here. Another tot of whisky will help ye sleep.”
Bran took it and savored the fiery liquid as it slid down his gulled. “Ye’re no so bad are ye?”
***
Rutherglen of Hamilton ~ 8th May, 1568
Claud Hamilton could take no more posturing from the nobles who were all supposedly on the same side. Even the queen had her own damned agenda.
He paced in front of the hearth where nine earls, nine bishops, eighteen lairds and over a hundred lesser supporters crammed into Rutherglen’s great hall, all with something to say. The queen sat on the dais in his velvet-upholstered chair and struggled to listen to countless simultaneous petitions.
Archbishop Hamilton stood beside her and pounded his staff on the floorboards. “Silence! I will never read through this proclamation if you do not hold your tongues until the end.”
Lovely Queen Mary with her red tresses, masked by a veil held in placed by her bejeweled crown, turned to him and frowned. “I did not overlook the fact that as a Hamilton you are seizing the ripe opportunity to emphasize your nephew’s claim to the succession if both my son and I disappeared.” She shook her finger. “Let it be known there will be no skullduggery here.”
The archbishop bowed. “Of course not, your grace. I am only saying should something happen to your highness, the Hamilton succession would act as governors for the prince until he comes of age.”
Claud ground his back molars. The one way to make the queen shy away from his potential suit would be to pressure her into thinking he only had eyes for the throne.
Mary shook her finger at the archbishop. “I believe I should be the one to determine the succession.”
“But we want Moray”—the Archbishop rattled his head vehemently—“a bastard conceived in shameful adultery, removed as regent.”
She gave one firm nod. “On that we are agreed.” Her gaze darted to Claud. It was more the look of a wild cat telling him to keep his distance than that of an enamored woman. Claud possessed a number of fine qualities, but patience was not one of them. He would prove his worth to the queen. Once she saw him in battle, she would understand his superiority and choose him to sit beside her.
Archbishop Hamilton droned on until he got to the proclamation of allegiance. Every man in the hall stood and cheered for the queen. Once again, the archbishop called for silence.
The queen stood. For the first time, Claud could hear the fire crackle in the hearth.
She gazed across the crowd, the power of her presence captivating every man in the hall. “There are many brave souls to recognize for my escape from my half-brother’s unlawful incarceration of my person on Lochleven. As you are aware, under duress, I was forced to sign a document abdicating my throne. ’Tis time to push aside the usurper and take it back.”
The hall erupted in cheers.
She raised her hand and dipped her head. “Though I prefer to proceed peacefully, I gravely fear my throne will only be reclaimed by force.”
The Earl of Eglinton shook his fist. “I shall be the first to lead my men against the usurper!”
Again the rafters resounded with shouts, everyone wanting to be a part of the battle that would seal their legacies for all history.
Queen Mary held up her hands and requested silence. “In appreciation of his great numbers brought to defend my honor, I hereby name the Earl of Argyll as lieutenant of the kingdom.”
Claud’s gut knotted. That post should have gone to his father, the Earl of Arran—regardless of the thousand untrained pikemen Argyll brought. Argyll was a blubbering buffoon. Once again, the hall erupted into an earsplitting roar as everyone voiced objections about the queen’s declaration.
She motioned to the archbishop, who called for silence, pounding his staff.
“I ask all my loyal subjects to sign this joint proclamation of support.” The queen gestured to the parchment on the table. “Together we will depose the usurper and the prince will once again be in my arms, where he belongs.”
The noise in the hall escalated in volume as, one by one, Queen Mary’s supporters stepped up to the dais and made their mark, pledging their allegiance to her.
Chapter Seventeen
Enya inhaled a deep breath of fresh air. The abbot had finally seen fit to pay her a visit, and subsequently allowed her to walk the secured cloisters of the abbey—with a meddling monk trailing five paces behind. Would there be no chance for escape?
She’d also asked the abbot to send for some clothing. Had Lord and Lady Ross forgotten she still wore her dressing gown? She walked a bit faster. Her parents most likely cared not about her state of dress now she was imprisoned away from Halkhead.
On Enya’s fifth trip through the airy hall, Heather bustled in, her hands clasped to her breast.
Hit with a myriad of emotions, Enya wanted nothing to do with the disloyal maid, but then, Heather was her only contact with the world outside the abbey and she might have news from Bran. She planted her fists on her hips. “Good day, Mistress Heather.”
Heather reached out her arms, but pulled them back, bowed her head and curtseyed as a serving maid ought. “I’ve brought you some clothes and have had them placed in your cell, Miss Enya.”
Enya looked to the archaic arched ceiling and sighed. It was a small act of kindness, but it meant a great deal. “Thank you.” Enya outstretched her arms and beckoned Heather in.
The matron welcomed the gesture, her matronly frame providing comfort that brought tears to Enya’s eyes.
Heather trembled, obviously holding in her tears. “I begged Lady Ross to allow me to bring you a kirtle and undergarments.”
“Would she prefer her daughter be seen in her nightdress?”
“Nay, but your father insisted you have no visitors—said you should be wearing a habit and wimple by now. He doesn’t know I’ve come.”
“I wouldn’t think they’d have nun’s clothing here, and it would be rather embarrassing attending mass in a monk’s habit—or my dressing gown.”
“Aye, Miss Enya.”
Enya grasped Heather’s shoulders. “And have you news of Sir Bran?”
“I dressed his wounds last eve. Though the welts are grave, he was in far better condition than I would have expected after spending three days in the pit with no food or water.”
“Did Master Rodney release the eagle?”
“Yes, and I had him attach an arrow so Sir Bran would know it was your doing.”
Enya’s heart soared. Though Heather had betrayed her to her parents, she’d given Enya a warning, and then acted on her word. “That was very thoughtful of you.” Unable to hold a grudge, Enya slid her elbow through Heather’s arm and continued on her walk. “With Griffon released, Bran would not have starved—though I doubt he’d savor an uncooked bit of meat.”
“Ah. That explains it.” Heather’s brow creased.
Enya’s insides churned with unease. “You’re not telling me everything, are you?”
“The men left for Rutherglen this morning.” Heather squeezed Enya’s arm. “I suspect we shall have news of fighting soon.”
“If only I could break free of these walls. I could find a vantage point and fire arrows to protect him—protect all our men.”
“Well then, ’tis probably best you’re here. For if you take up a weapon, you must expect to have it used against you.” Heather shook her head. “That is t
he way of war.”
Enya clutched her arm across her stomach. “I hate being caged in this abbey while danger is about. I can be of no use at all.”
***
Once they arrived at Rutherglen, Malcolm returned Bran’s weapons. “I ken you live by a knight’s code of honor. In returning these, I expect all misgivings you harbor for Lord Ross to be cast aside.”
Bran snatched his claymore, dirk and dagger and issued a thin-lipped nod. If his oath of fealty had not been for Calum, he’d challenge Ross’s captain on the spot. He doubted he would ever forget the baron’s hospitality, and mayhap one day he would prove how much it meant to him. Christ, if Lord Ross weren’t Enya’s father, Bran would seek his vengeance and deal with Calum’s ire.
“You’ve got the look of a killer in your eye.” Malcolm wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the sword on his belt. “Your punishment could have been far more severe.”
Bran grabbed the neckline of Malcolm’s mail and pulled the captain of the guard to his face. “I fight for me chieftain, Calum MacLeod, and to honor the word he gave yer lord.” He took one more step in. “When me debt us paid, I shall no longer owe fealty to Lord Ross.”
Malcolm batted Bran’s hand away. “Are you making a threat?”
“I’m merely stating the truth.” Before he did something that would see him thrown into Hamilton’s pit, Bran headed to the courtyard.
He removed his shirt and bandages to spar. He’d been idle for too long, and Bran needed to regain his strength. Heather’s poultice had worked magic, and the air against his healing wounds soothed the burn, but he must to lock away all pain, for if Ross had his way, Bran would need every tactic in his arsenal to stay alive.
He sauntered over to a pair of men wearing Hamilton tunics. They both showed promise, using advanced maneuvers. Bran drew his sword. “Ye mind if I have a go?”
“With us both?”
“Aye.”
The two men exchanged grins. “You want to be killed?” one asked.
