AT THE FORT
The light bit into Chrissie's eyelids and made her head hurt. She winced and made a small moan of pain. It stayed where it was, orange and pulsing, and so she risked opening her eyes.
The light was lamplight. Chrissie was suddenly fully awake, terrified. She was on a horse, she remembered that now. She remembered why. She was a captive of whatever soldiers had been lurking in the woods. Now she was, it seemed, in a fortress.
“...and it's about time you were back!” someone shouted. Chrissie cringed, but realized they were not shouting at her, rather at the man who held her over his horse. Bruce, her captor.
“Took time through the woods,” the man said, sounding bitter. He evidently did not like to be shouted at. “An' good thing, too. Look what we found.”
“What? You found a lass. Great,” the man said sarcastically. “Try telling that one to Black Leonard.”
“I'll tell him,” the man said quietly. “And he'll be pleased to hear it. This is a prisoner.”
“You don't need to tell me that,” the man said with a soft laugh. “I can see that for meself.”
Chrissie felt a stab of anger. She was cold, tired, and in pain. That did not mean she was inhuman, or that she could be subjected to such remarks. She stiffened.
“I am Chrissie Connolly,” she said, praying that meant something. “I demand to see whoever commands this fortress.”
Both men were silent for a while. Further down the tunnel, Chrissie could hear men unsaddling their horses, unpacking, and generally settling down. At length, the second man spoke.
“Aye, lass. Ye'll see him alright.”
Chrissie swallowed. Now that she had said it, she was not at all sure that was what she wanted. Who was Black Leonard, and why would he be angry?
“Where are we?” she asked.
The first man, the one who held her captive, made a nasty attempt at laughter. “Why should we tell you that?”
Chrissie was silent. The man was a bully, clearly, and there was not going to be any reasoning with his kind. All she could do was pray that whoever was in charge here at the fort was more reasonable and would understand her predicament. She really was nobody, just a woman, alone, wounded, and vulnerable, caught on her own in the woods at night. She was no threat to anyone.
“Please, just take me inside?” she tried. “It's cold in here.”
Both men chuckled.
“Aye, lass,” the newcomer said, and strangely he did not sound entirely unkind. “It is. Bring her up.”
Grumbling under his breath, Bruce dismounted. He lifted Chrissie from the saddle, throwing her over his shoulder in a way that drove the breath from her body, and carried her across the stone tunnel, following the first man. They reached a door.
“Sean!”
“Yes, boss?”
“Unsaddle my horse. I've got business indoors.”
“Aye, Bruce.”
With that, the door opened and the two men walked inside, Chrissie with them. She looked around.
They were in a corridor, the floor flagstones, the roof wooden. There was a torch in a sconce lighting up the corridor, and it led up and forward. Her captors walked along and she, still slung over the man's shoulder like a bolt of linen, followed them.
They stopped. Chrissie, her head hanging, could not see why. She waited.
“Alec?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Is his lordship about?”
“Yes. He's inside. He said not to disturb him.”
“I think we need to.”
The man's voice was grim and, whoever it was on the receiving end seemed to take it seriously, for Chrissie heard a door creak and the man disappeared inside, his footsteps ringing out hollowly before the door shut and everything went silent.
At length, the door creaked open. “Go in.”
Chrissie held her breath. They were on their way inside. To see whoever was the lord of this fort. She prayed it was not Leonard.
“My lord,” Bruce said, suddenly sounding respectful.
“What do you have?” The voice was cold, detached. Chrissie swallowed, feeling her gut churn with fear. Her heart beat fast and her breath was rasping. She did not think she had ever been quite so frightened before.
“A girl, sir. A lady,” he corrected ironically. “We found her in the woods, at night.”
“Put her down.”
“She's wounded, sir. Cannae walk.”
“I said, put her down. I want to see her.”
“Yes, sir.”
The man dropped her unceremoniously to her feet and Chrissie cried aloud when her foot touched the ground. She felt herself slipping and grabbed the man's arm for support. She stood, wavering, her one leg bent so she did not need to rest her weight on it.
She found herself facing a tall man. He had a long face and a long nose, long hair which was going gray. It was difficult to tell how old he was, for his face did not seem that lined, though his hair was almost white in places. He stared at her out of dark eyes that were strangely dead. He looked emotionless, as if he had seen much of life and had long ago lost interest, preferring the cold implacability of death. The look in them could have been interpreted as sadness, had they not been so terrifyingly blank.
Chrissie gulped. “I ask your protection, sir,” she said, trying to keep her voice level. “I am Chrissie Connolly. I was riding in the forest when my horse bolted, and I...”
“Where from?”
Chrissie gaped at him. “Sorry, sir?”
“Where had you ridden from?”
“Lochlann. Oh...” Chrissie covered her mouth with her hand. The moment she had said the name, she saw those dead eyes sparkle with interest and she knew she had guessed wrongly. Horribly wrongly. She cringed back, clawing her captor's wrist in an effort to keep upright and keep away from this man.
“Lochlann,” the man said, and he rolled the name in his mouth, as if it was something to be appreciated, like wine.
“I mean, I don't actually live there,” Chrissie demurred. “I'm a servant. A ladies' maid. I...”
The man laughed. “A ladies' maid. With her own horse. Riding in the forest unassisted. I think you know how unlikely that is.”
Chrissie swallowed, feeling stupid. She had already given him all the information he needed. This man was clearly someone who hated her family. Someone who would give a lot to destroy them.
“You're McDonnell,” she breathed. It suddenly made sense. The most recent thane had died, and he had been replaced by his uncle. This must be him. The uncle's name was Leonard.
He laughed. “Well done!” he looked quite pleased.
Chrissie shrank back. She was shivering, and she clutched her captor's arm so tightly that he stiffened and pulled back, making her wince.
“Lady Chrissie,” the man said, giving a mocking bow. “I think we have a lot to discuss. You may go,” he added to her captor, looking at him briefly.
“Sir...”
“Out.”
The man stepped back and Chrissie fell backwards, grabbing at the nearest thing to steady herself, which turned out to be a cornice. The man facing her smiled. Under those dead eyes it was almost as terrifying as if he had scowled. She shivered.
“Come, sit down,” the man invited. “We have much to discuss.”
Chrissie looked across at where he indicated--a settee and some chairs near a blazing log fire in a vast hearth behind them.
“I can't walk.”
“Oh,” the thane said. He reached out and took her wrist. Chrissie hated the way his cool hand felt on her skin...it had a lifeless feeling to it, the grip limp and the skin cold.
“Thank you,” she said nevertheless as he led her to the settle. He waited for her to sit down and then sat facing her on one of the chairs.
“Right,” he said firmly, the instant she was sitting comfortably. “Tell me your home's weaknesses.”
“What?” Chrissie stared at him as if he had gone mad.
“The military strengths of your home's defenses, and what I can do to overcome then,” he explained patiently.
Chrissie stared at him. “I...I don't know!” she stammered, which was almost true. “How would I?”
He sighed. “True,” he commented. “You're no soldier. Nevertheless, you can tell me something. Is Laird Brien prepared for war?”
“Laird Brien's always prepared for everything,” Chrissie said staunchly, praying inwardly that it was true. She had no idea if he was ready or not, only that, if he was not, she would have to try and escape this place and get word to him, and soon. “He is never not ready to face your kind in the field, winter or no.”
The older man laughed. It was not a pleasant sound.
“Well, then,” he said quietly. “I suppose I shall have to accept that...somewhat biased...opinion of Laird Brien.”
“Yes,” Chrissie said in what attempted to be a flippant way, “You will.”
He laughed. “You have a fighter's spirit, young lady. You are Brien's niece, yes?”
Chrissie paused. Here, she was in dangerous water, with no idea of whether or not her identity would protect her, or put her in danger. She knew nothing of the McDonnell, besides that they had a longstanding feud with her family, the origin of which had been lost with time. Would he kill her for who she was? She took a guess.
“No.”
“Oh?” The man's brow went up. “If you are not, how, then, are you a lady from Lochlann? I thought all the young ladies there were nieces of the wily old scoundrel. Am I wrong?”
“I'm...I'm fostering there,” Chrissie lied. “I'm from across the valley.”
“Oh!” The man sighed. “And so you came last week, with the party from Dunellen?”
“Yes.”
“Bruce!” he called. Chrissie's heart sank.
“Yes, my lord?”
Bruce had appeared remarkably fast, Chrissie noted. Apparently he had not wandered off too far.
“Did you see this lady in the party from Dunellen?”
“No, milord.”
Chrissie looked at the floor. She wanted to weep. It didn't matter very much whether she did or not, she decided, so she let herself cry noiselessly, the tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Thank you. You may go now.”
When Bruce had left them, his lordship stood and circled her chair. Chrissie tensed, fearing something terrible was about to happen.
“So,” he said softly. “You thought you could lie to me. You are his lordship's niece. I know that now. And you thought to hide it. Well,” he came to the front of the settee and looked into her face, his own, with its blank eyes, inches away. “I don't like people who try and make a fool of me.”
“Please,” Chrissie whispered. She was frightened. Things had ceased to feel real to her. This couldn't possibly be happening. She was dreaming. That was it. This was a dream from which she would wake tomorrow. It would be something she could forget with a mug of warm milk and some porridge. Warm, creamy porridge, like Cook made, with salt and a little bit of butter to melt into it, smelling of oats and warmth and milk...
“I have decided what I'm going to do,” Lord Leonard spoke, startling her out of her warm dreams of breakfast. It was not a nightmare. It was real.
Chrissie said nothing. She stared at him, willing him to disappear and be replaced with the familiarity of her bedchamber.
“I am,” he continued, “going to have you killed. We will slit your throat and leave you at the gates of Lochlann. That ought to stir the hornet' nest.”
“No!” Chrissie whispered. No. No. He couldn't be saying this. He couldn't mean it. She wasn't going to die. She wasn't. She wasn't...
She tried to scramble to her feet, but her ankle gave way and she stumbled, slipping. She fell on the flagstones, but she couldn't lie there. She had to get up. She had to leave here. Had to...
She was crawling on hands and knees over the flagstones, scrambling too fast to even think about the pain, the cold, the stiffness. She had to reach the door. Had to...
“Got you!” Leonard shouted triumphantly. He dragged her back to the settee, lifting her as easily as if she weighed nothing. Chrissie screamed and kicked out, her wounded ankle connecting his boot. He had lined them with metal strips to protect against sword strokes, and the pain jarred up her leg and she whimpered.
“Please,” she said, tears streaming down her face as he carried her to the settee. “Please. No. No. No...”
He said nothing. He held her on the settee at arm's length and regarded her coolly.
“I don't enjoy this, you know,” he confided. “I don't hate it. Don't love it. I don't really care either way. I do it and I go to bed and wake and nothing gives me pleasure and nothing saddens me. Nobody, anyway.” he shrugged.
Chrissie swallowed. There was something very odd about this man. She cringed back from him but he wasn't looking at her, his eyes on some distant horizon. She blinked. If she reached out, she could grab his dagger and...
“Guards!” he shouted. As she moved, he caught her wrist. Chrissie cried out, more in rage than fear. Her last hope had gone. The guards were there now, surrounding them both.
“Yes?”
“Take her to the turret. We'll do what has to be done tomorrow. This should bring matters to a swift conclusion.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Chrissie did her best, shouting, howling, kicking, and trying to make them let her go, but they resisted quietly, subdued by their fear of their master as much as anything else.
They reached the turret room and locked her in. None of them looked happy about what they had to do. Chrissie considered pleading with them, but one look at the face of their leader – resigned, cold – let her know it would be impossible.
The turret room contained nothing but a bucket and a blanket. Chrissie, shivering with cold, drew the blanket around her shoulders and curled up on the floor, which, mercifully, was of wooden slats. The thick stone walls kept out the chill here below the slit of window, and that, at least, meant she would not die of cold that night. Why, though, would she be preserved from cold, only to die here in the morning?
If she died, she would never see any of them again. She would never see Alina, or hold her baby in her arms. She would never see Amabel and her bonny children, or Aili. She wished she was here with her wise counsel. Journeys. She had warned her. Well, this journey might prove to be her last, for Aili had not promised any future after. She couldn't forget Blaine. Laughing, smiling Blaine, his rugged features wrinkled temporarily by a big grin. She would never see Blaine again. Never hold him, kiss him. Never wed him – even if that were to somehow become possible.
“Blaine,” she whispered into the silent turret room. “Blaine. I love you.”
At that moment, in the remote silence of the turret, she knew that it was true. She only wished she had not only known it now. When it was far too late.