Chapter Thirty-One

“It has been three days, my lord. I beg you release her and allow me to provide her with some care and warmth. Has anyone tended her? She may be dead, for all we know.”

“She is no’ dead. The guards ha’ been listening and heard her weeping last night.”

Tansy, hearing the two voices drift down the stone corridor and filter through the grate that admitted all she knew of air and light, scrambled up in a tangle of filthy skirts. She knew both voices. The first—Catha’s—provided a thread of hope. The other filled her with icy dread.

Three days.

It did not feel so long, yet at the same time felt much longer. In all that time she’d seen no one—not so much as the face of a guard peering in at her. No food or water had been provided, and she felt weak and ill. After endless shivering, she’d begun to ache in every bone, and her throat burned.

Now she swayed on her feet, yearning upward.

“Catha!” she called.

“Tansy?”

She heard Catha start forward, and Latham’s voice swiftly following.

“Nay, Mistress MacGunn, you will not. I ken fine how to break a woman—or a man, for all that. She will be better than halfway there. Do no’ destroy all my work.”

“Work?” Catha’s voice, choked by what might be rage, no longer sounded recognizable. “Wha’ ha’ you done, besides leave her to die?”

“Do you ken naught about the art of questioning? I am but softening her before the examination begins.”

“Examination?”

“She attacked and attempted to kill me. I ken full well what happened, but I will ha’ her admit it before I provide justice.”

“Admit?”

Latham raised his voice deliberately so Tansy could hear. “That she is a witch.”

“Nonsense.”

“It is no’ nonsense, Mistress MacGunn. Everyone knows the country is infested wi’ witches just now—and afire wi’ the flames needed to eradicate them. Your wee companion, unwilling to submit, used witchcraft against me. I felt it. I need only cause her to admit her crime.”

“How?” Catha sounded hoarse.

Latham gave a chilling laugh. “’Tis called persuasion. When she is ready, I will haul her out o’ there and ask for her confession, given before witnesses.”

“She will no’ admit—”

“I assure you she will, eventually.” Again he laughed. “As you will learn of me after we are wed, mistress, I can make anyone admit anything—even that which they may no’ ha’ done.”

“I will no’ wed wi’ you unless you release Tansy,” Catha declared.

Tansy’s heart leaped with a sudden jolt of hope. But Latham’s response dashed her instantly.

“You will, mistress, lest you wish to join her there in yon pit.”

“I might wish it, over being wed wi’ you.”

Tansy heard the sound of a slap, and a gasp from Catha, quickly followed by her defiant words, “Aye—put me into the pit with my companion. I prefer her company to yours.”

Another slap and a growl, “Keep a civil tongue in your head, woman, or you will learn the weight o’ my anger.”

“Do as you will. Until you release Tansy, I will no’ agree to wed wi’ you.”

Catha must have broken free from him then, for she suddenly threw herself down at the side of the grate. Tansy saw her pale face through the rusted iron slats.

“Tansy? Are you there?”

“Catha!”

“Be brave. Be strong. I will see you released from there somehow.”

She flew up and backward as Latham hauled at her. Tansy had one glimpse of his face before he drew Catha away. Only Catha’s voice floated back to her, “I do so vow!”

****

“Father, we must speak together.”

Malcolm entered the chamber where his sire stood at the window, gazing out. Chilly morning sunlight flooded the room, marking every line in Murgo Montgomery’s craggy face and showing his age.

Malcolm knew full well his father had not slept. Since Malcolm’s arrival with Mercien yesterday, Murgo had rarely left Mercien’s side, staying with him in the dispensary all last night. This made Malcolm’s first opportunity to catch the man alone.

He had not slept either. He’d looked in on Mercien several times, always finding Murgo with his head bent over Mercien’s cot. Between those visits he’d been haunted by thoughts of Tansy. By morning he knew what he had to do.

Murgo turned and looked at him blankly. His lips moved for a moment before the words sounded. “Brother Matthew says the eye was burnt from its socket, most likely wi’ a hot iron. Tell me, son, why would any man—even Donald Latham—do such a thing?”

Malcolm had to gulp back the sickness that rose to the back of his throat before he could reply. “Hate,” he said tersely. “Latham is all hate.”

Murgo did not seem to hear him. “And to Mercien, of all men. Always laughing; always fair in his dealings wi’ others. The sunshine in my life.” Murgo glanced out the window again as if angry the sun should shine. Perhaps forgetting to whom he spoke, he grated on, “I love all my sons, but Mercien…”

Malcolm absorbed the blow, minor in the welter of pain he currently endured. He might be the elder, but he’d known forever his Da loved Mercien best. He could not blame him for that—Mercien held also a high place in his heart.

But perhaps with Tansy Bellrose Gant in the world, there might be one person who chose him first.

Did she remain in the world? That thought tormented and goaded him to speak on. “He will recover, Father. Mercien is strong.”

“Wi’out one eye. Maimed and broken. My bonny son!”

“He is no’ broken.” So Malcolm hoped. Yet he sensed the change in his brother, bone deep.

Murgo rounded on him. “And the eye—the eye is no’ the worst o’ his injuries. I was there when Brother Matthew undressed him. That bastard laid the irons everywhere. Your brother may never father a son.”

“I did no’ ken.” The sickness inside Malcolm rose in a wave. “He should ha’ said. I would no’ ha’ let him ride so far.”

“Your brother is made o’ courage—pure courage. Of what are you made?” Challenge crackled in Murgo’s voice like a whip. “Will you avenge him?”

“Aye. ’Tis what I came to say. I want to raise the household guard.”

“You will need more men than that. Hire them if you ha’ to. Empty my coffers if you must. Just bring me that bastard’s head.”

Generations of bloodthirsty Scot lay behind the words, and Malcolm responded to them. Yet a few shreds of sanity remained. “There is naught I want more. But you ken there will be retaliation. Latham is held in high esteem by the King.”

“Bugger the King! Latham has harmed one of mine. I want him dead.”

“Aye. And, Father, there is somewhat more. The lass I brought here to Crag Corvan, Tansy Bellrose Gant—”

“Eh?” Clearly Murgo, in his present state, did not recall her.

“She and Catha are still there, in Dun Ballan. I need to rescue them.”

“Catha, aye. She needed to be sacrificed for Mercien’s sake.”

Suddenly, blindingly, Malcolm wondered if his father would be willing also to sacrifice him for Mercien’s sake. He did not ask; he didn’t truly wish to know. “Yet,” he said heavily, “I will see her free of that bastard’s hands if I can. And when I bring Tansy back wi’ me, I mean to wed wi’ her.”

“Wha’?” He’d snared Murgo’s attention at last. “Wed? Who is this woman?”

A witch. A waif. A peasant from a village so poor it boasted not even a kirk. The heart of his heart.

“She comes of modest family but has great abilities in, among other things, healing.”

“Wait a moment.” Murgo’s eyes narrowed. “Is she no’ the one who turned my household on its head? I heard complaints o’ her.” He drew a breath and roared, “She is no one. You are my firstborn son. You will marry into a good family, worthy of continuing our line. ’Tis your responsibility—indeed, you should ha’ tended to it before you went to France. What if neither of you had returned?”

Malcolm bared his teeth in a mirthless smile. “Then I expect the succession would ha’ been left to our younger brother, or you would ha’ needed to tak’ yoursel’ another wife.”

“I am past that. And your brother may, as I say, ne’er have a son. It falls to you. If you will marry, we will decide on the right woman—as soon as Latham lies dead.”

“Tansy—”

“Tansy? Take her awa’ out o’ that place if you wish. Bed her if you must. But marriage? Do no’ be daft.”

“Father, I am no lad, but a proven knight. In this I make my own choice.”

Murgo leaned toward him, his face stark in the merciless light. “Aye son, mak’ your own choice. Just be certain ’tis the right one for the future o’ this clan.”