by D. F. Jones
Ross yanked the queen forward, holding her mere inches from his face. “Where is he?”
She closed her eyes briefly as she shook her head. “He dinnae tell us where he was going. We donnae know.”
Ross pushed her away with a smirk and addressed his men. “Take them to Tweed to meet their fate.”
The soldiers hustled the women and Marjorie out of the chapel and through the yard. The Bruce’s injured and dying men lay scattered across the holy grounds. The smell of death hung thick in the air.
Morgana swallowed hard. A man prodded her back, forcing her downhill toward a covered wagon.
She climbed into the bed, reached down to Marjorie, and tugged her up. Once they were all in the cart, the soldiers shackled their ankles to a ring secured in the floor’s board. The wagon lurched forward and bounced along the bumpy road. Frigid air swirled around her, and she shivered uncontrollably from the temperature and from the fear racking her body.
What will become of us?
Chapter 3
Morgana placed her arms around Christina’s and Marjorie’s shoulders and looked to Mary, then Queen Elizabeth and Isabella. “Come, let’s slide together for warmth.”
The group huddled against each other as the procession transported them south to Berwick on England’s east coast. Mary and Christina cried softly. The queen stroked Marjorie’s head, tears escaping down her cheeks.
“Dinnae fret. Stay strong, my queen.” Morgana cast her gaze over the others and ran a hand down Isabella’s arm. “My friends, ye are all verra important in the Bruce’s household. That alone will stave off harsh treatments.”
Her words sounded believable enough. She just wished she possessed the confidence her voice portrayed.
Once at Berwick, the shackled women were paraded through the muddy castle bailey, their chains clanking between their feet and hands. Men and women filled the area, shouting insults and throwing rotting food at the small procession.
Morgana did her best to square her shoulders and ignore the obscenities, but she heard every horrid wish for her torturous death. A putrid, blackened cabbage slammed into her head and she reeled. Slimy leaves slid from her hair onto her soiled gown.
A beefy soldier yanked the chain. The women fell to the ground.
The crowd cheered.
Horrible, hateful people.
Morgana clenched her jaw as she scrambled to her feet and helped Mary up, while Queen Elizabeth and Christina steadied Marjorie and Isabella. With another jerk of the chain, the guard led them up a raised platform in the lower bailey where they were forced to stand for all to see.
Morgana lifted her chin and glared at the loathsome horde.
Moments later, a guard yelled, “Nigel Bruce, brother to the murderous Robert the Bruce.”
A horse galloped into the yard dragging a naked Nigel, his body blackened and swollen beyond recognition. The crowd roared with malice. Their barbarity had no bounds.
Morgana’s heart lurched. She covered her mouth with her hand. Tears sprang to her eyes.
The commander ordered soldiers to cut him loose. They dragged him to an adjacent platform, threw a rope around his neck, and hoisted him high, legs kicking as the rope spun. The onlookers went wild. Cheers and shouts resounded through the bailey as Nigel twisted against the choking noose. All of a sudden, he dropped to the wooden platform, writhing, his face contorted and eyes bulging.
Queen Elizabeth held Marjorie’s face against her middle, shielding the child from the horrendous brutality. The commander ordered his body quartered and the pieces sent across the countryside as a gift to the Bruce’s supporters.
After Nigel’s gruesome death, the commander turned his attention to the ladies as another stout man climbed the platform and faced the women.
He unrolled a parchment and read aloud. “It is the king’s decree that Robert the Bruce’s daughter, Marjorie, be sent to Gilbertine Convent at Watton. Robert’s sister, Christina Bruce, to a convent in Lincolnshire. Robert’s wife, Elizabeth de Burgh, will be placed under house arrest at a manor in Yorkshire.”
“Nae, I willnae go without ye,” Marjorie wailed, grasping Queen Elizabeth’s waist.
“Shh,” the queen whispered, large tears in her eyes. She stroked the child’s back. “’Twill be a fine place for ye, my sweetling. Ye will be safe there.”
The guard continued reading aloud. “Robert’s sister, Mary Bruce, will be imprisoned in a wooden cage, exposed to public view at Roxburgh Castle.”
A loud gasp filtered through the crowd. Mary bowed her head and clutched Christina’s hand.
“The Countess of Buchan is to be imprisoned in a wooden cage, exposed to public view at Berwick Castle. And the queen’s lady, Morgana McLeod, will be imprisoned in an iron cage, exposed to public view at Conwy Castle for an indefinite period of time.”
Imprisoned in an iron cage at Conwy Castle. Dear Lord.
Morgana’s stomach churned. Her knees wobbled and her legs almost collapsed. It took all her strength to stand before these people and show no reaction to their savagery.
The other women cried as soldiers pulled them apart and shuffled them off to their respective prisons.
A soldier seized Morgana’s upper arm and jerked her forward. Tears blurred her eyes. She swiped a hand across her face and searched the crowd for the other ladies and wee Marjorie. Wails reached her ears, but she could not see the women through the swarm of spectators.
The man whisked her into a small iron-barred wagon. She fell on her side in the hard bed. He grabbed her leg and none too gently, clamped a cold metal shackle around her ankle and secured it to the floor.
He slammed the door and locked the cage with a clank.
She rose onto her knees and grasped the bars, peering out at the jeering crowd. Once again, Marjorie’s cries reached her ears. Tears rolled down Morgana’s cheeks as the cart lurched forward, starting the long journey to England’s west coast.
The days and nights on the road melded into each other. She froze at night with little to no protection in the wagon. Bleakness spread through her upon realizing she’d be exposed to the elements in a cage like this for who knew how long.
An indefinite period of time.
Anguish threatened to engulf her. How would she survive? Winter fast approached.
She rubbed her forehead. Collect yer wits. Donnae let them win. I cannae give them the satisfaction of my death.
Someday, she would escape and seek revenge upon the Earl of Ross.
Focused on vengeance, determination sparked and flickered through her heart. She closed her eyes and grasped hold of the tenuous flame, her lifeline.
Once at Conwy Castle, the soldiers marched Morgana up the steep flight of stairs to the top of the castle. Wind whipped around her, tossing her long dark hair in her face and plastering her gown against her legs.
A guard holding a long spear led her to a square iron cage. Its door on top of the prison stood open, awaiting her.
A lump wedged in Morgana’s throat and she struggled to breathe. The guard rushed her along, up a wooden ramp to the top of the cage.
“Get in.”
She eased down to sit while dangling her legs inside the cage.
He pushed her shoulder, and she fell into the barred prison, landing hard on her knees. Pain shot up her legs, and she rubbed the tender spots.
The guard slammed the door and removed the ramp. “Hoist her up,” he shouted.
Two soldiers shoved a long crank. A loud grating noise screeched and the cage jostled from side to side.
She clutched the bars as the structure swung off the ground.
Another guard rotated a wooden beam to jut out over the side of the castle wall.
Morgana peered through the bars at her feet and gasped. The Conwy River’s dark water smashed against boulders before rushing downstream.
She wrapped her arms about her legs and cried.
Dear Lord, give me strength.
The first few weeks were near unb
earable. Autumn winds whistled off the water and swirled around her body clad in a filthy gown with only the protection of the thin blanket a good woman had tossed to her during a feeding. Once a day, the soldiers hoisted her up, and someone would open the lid and pass her food and water, only enough to sustain life. Then she remained on display.
She held up her chin at the taunting crowd, bearing humiliation, determined not to let them see her misery. The frigid nights sapped her strength, yet she prayed for a miracle—someone who’d save her from rotting in this wretched cage.
The cold bars matched the bleakness in her soul. Would Laird McLeod get word of her imprisonment? Would he come for her? What could he do to have her released?
Despair seeped into her veins, spreading dire tentacles of doom throughout her body. Many days and nights she thought she’d die—prayed she’d die and end this torture—but her dream of revenge kept her alive.
Alive for the day when she could witness the Earl of Ross take his last breath.
Chapter 4
Stonecrest Castle
South of Aberdeen
October 1306
Ocean spray peppered Alysander’s face and cold wind cut through his heavy cloak as he sailed the Dhìoghaltas up the coast toward Laird Brandon McLeod’s castle. The vessel sliced through the white-capped water with ease.
His body thrummed with anticipation as he rocked back on his heels. He let out a throaty laugh. After six long years, he was going to see Morgana again. He’d often thought of the dark-haired, blue-eyed lass and the sweet kiss she’d given him when he last saw her. He could not wait to lay eyes upon her angel face again.
His younger brother, Bryce, joined him at the helm. “’Tis been a long time since visiting Lady Elsbeth and Laird Brandon. We were but lads when we left.”
“Aye, young lads with high hopes.”
Memories surfaced of Laird McLeod saving Alysander and Bryce when the English murdered their loved ones and burned their family’s village. Since that time, the brothers had trained to sail under Laird MacAndrew’s direction. Now, Alysander commanded his own merchant ship and had made enough profits to build a fortress tucked away in the forest of Loch Linnhe on the west coast. He always knew someday he would return for Morgana and ask her to join him on his island.
That day had finally arrived.
A stab of doubt sliced into his chest, threatening to shatter his rapturous dream. He’d not had contact with her in a long time. Would he find her married or promised to another? Would she still have amorous feelings toward him?
He took a deep breath. ’Twas only one way to find out.
A mountainous boulder rose from the ocean and transformed into a daunting stone fortress. Gray clouds blocked the waning sun, cloaking the immense structure in eerie shadows. Golden flames from torches lining the battlements flared into the evening sky. Warriors patrolled ramparts between round bastions positioned at the castle’s corners.
Stonecrest was just as he remembered.
Alysander moored his boat in the cove below the castle and headed up the hill on horseback with Bryce and two of his men following. The imposing gray structure soared above the sheer sea-cliff and raging ocean. The waves pummeled its foundation. Glowing torches revealed defensive arrow-slits positioned at strategic locations, and men armed with broadswords, bows, and arrows marched along the fortified battlements.
Snapping in the wind, Stonecrest’s white banner graced with two elk waved over the castle. He studied the pennant. Raised on hind feet, the animals flanked a blue shield and a golden eagle presided above the elk. The symbols representing freedom, strength, independence, and pride characterized the laird’s spirit, beliefs, and convictions.
The brothers owed the man their lives. In many ways, they were returning home.
Alysander was close to Stonecrest Castle—close to seeing Morgana again. He squeezed his legs around Cadarn’s girth, and the horse broke into a full gallop. He laughed into the wind. Bryce and the others would have to keep pace.
Chapter 5
Roussel ushered Alysander, Bryce, and the others into the castle’s great room where the laird’s wife, Elsbeth, and adopted children, Alainne, Lena, and Bodwyn, sat before a blazing hearth. How the lad and lasses had grown.
The four jumped from their chairs and rushed toward them.
“Oh, Alysander and Bryce.” Elsbeth hugged one, then the other. “We’re so happy ye’ve come. Please have a seat.”
Bryce dropped onto the bench beside Bodwyn, the two friends smiling and quickly catching up with each other.
Alysander turned to his men. “This is David and Bram. They sail with me.”
“Welcome to our home.” Elsbeth smiled warmly then clasped Alysander’s hand. “’Tis verra good to have ye here. I so wish Brandon and Tristian knew of yer visit. They have gone to the Bruce’s aid in Ireland and will be sorely disappointed to have missed ye.”
Alysander exhaled loudly. “Mangus told me Brandon signed the Turnberry Bond and has been instrumental in helping the Bruce and the cause.”
“After the Bruce’s defeat at the Battle of Methven, that bond between the nobles and lairds is more important than ever. Our king needs all the support he can garner.”
Roussel entered the room carrying a tray of tankards and sweetmeats. He passed the refreshments around.
“Thank ye.” Alysander nodded at the man, took a swig of ale, then balanced the tankard on his thigh. “Laird MacAndrew recruited me in the fight against the English. King Edward is sending troops into Scotland to rout Bruce supporters. Ye need to be verra careful, Elsbeth. The Dragon Banner has been raised. If Edward were to get wind of what Brandon is doing, he would attack and kill all in his wake. He will grant no quarter.”
She shuddered and briefly closed her eyes. “I understand and appreciate yer warning. I hope ye’ll all take care as well.”
He shrugged. “’Tis safe enough. We deliver food and supplies in ports along the coast for the warriors in hiding still fighting for the Bruce. The rebellion has suffered a devastating setback. We have to rebuild, restore the drive against Edward and his determination to rule Scotland and eradicate our way of life, our freedom.”
“I agree. I only worry about our safety.”
Alysander could barely stand a minute longer without seeing Morgana. He’d thought of this time so often over the years, wondered how she was getting along. She’d been three and ten summers when he’d last seen her—a budding young lass who captured his heart.
“’Tis been quite a while since I was here last.” He glanced around the hall. “Is…is everyone well?”
Satan’s toes! Why can’t I just come out and ask about her?
Elsbeth ran a hand down Lena’s arm. “Aye, we miss the men when they are gone, but we’re managing.”
Alainne bumped Elsbeth’s elbow. “I think he’s asking about Morgana.”
Bright lass.
Elsbeth straightened. “Ye are here because of Morgana?”
“Aye…well, I also wanted to see ye and the laird, too.” He smiled. “Will ye tell her I am here?”
Her eyes misted with tears.
Alysander tilted his head. “What is it? Why do ye cry?”
She held up a hand, then rubbed her forehead. “Of course, ye wouldnae have heard.”
His chest tightened. “Heard what?”
She gazed at him with doleful eyes. “Morgana was with the Bruce’s wife, Queen Elizabeth, when they fled Kildrummy. She was arrested and is being held prisoner in Conwy Castle.” She put a hand over her mouth and shook her head. More tears flowed down her face. “They imprisoned her in a cage over the side of the castle.”
His heart pounded at a dizzying speed.
Arrested? Held prisoner in a cage?
Alainne rubbed Elsbeth’s back as the lady pinched the skin at her throat. “I was uncertain as to whether to let her go with Queen Elizabeth’s party last fall, but Morgana is a grown woman. I could not keep her here under my skirt forever.�
�� She tugged a linen square from inside her sleeve and wiped her eyes. “I should have forbidden her to leave, but she saw this as a grand opportunity, one she’d never have again.”
Alysander stood and marched to the hearth. He paced back to her. “When? When did this happen?”
“Almost a month ago. I sent a missive to Brandon informing him of Morgana’s arrest and the Bruce’s family’s imprisonment the moment I received the message last week, but I havenae heard from him yet.”
“Dinnae fash.” Alysander knelt before her and grasped her wringing hands. “I’m going after her. Let Brandon know. I’ll send word of her safety as soon as I can.”
“Oh, nae, Alysander. ’Tis too dangerous. Ye could be killed…or worse.”
“My life wouldnae be worth a fig without her.” He straightened and looked to Bryce and his men. “Let’s ride.”
“Wait.” Elsbeth stepped before him and placed a hand on his chest. “I know ye must be tired. Will ye nae stay the night and leave in the morning after ye’ve rested?”
“I cannae rest until I know she is safe.”
Elsbeth sighed with a nod. “I understand. And I thank ye.”
She walked the men to the door, then clutched Alysander’s arm and gazed into his eyes. “Morgana is nae a princess who might be leverage for Edward. He uses her as an example to other supporters without raising the Bruce’s ire like he would should he mistreat Queen Elizabeth.”
Alysander’s stomach clenched.
Royal blood might not flow through Morgana’s veins, but she was his princess, and he would do everything in his power to see her released. The lass had nothing to do with the war or the cause. She’d only been part of the court, serving her queen—her friend—Elizabeth, and by God, he would set Morgana free.
Chapter 6
Alysander and his men sailed around the northern tip of Scotland and down the coast to the Menai Strait. They hid the ship south of Conwy River and struck out on horseback.
