The Avenger of Castle Wick, page 8
“Roslin?” Austin questioned, rather stunned to hear this. “I was at Roslin,” he stated. “The Merricks, that is.”
The Merricks had been under Simon Fraser’s command then, a part of the smaller Scottish force that had managed to outwit and defeat the English despite incredible odds, being outnumbered nearly four to one by the English on that occasion, who boasted a force of thirty thousand. The memory was vivid: three bloody and vicious engagements on the same day to accommodate the way the English had, unwisely, divided into three columns. On and on it went. No sooner had they triumphed over one column than the next English force came charging at them until the Scots had, amazingly, defeated all of them.
He hadn’t realized that Fiona and the Roses had fought alongside them but then the Scots had managed to put forth a combined army of almost eight thousand. His eyes narrowed slightly, contemplating this new revelation. To know that she had shared the same struggle—and survived—had faced the same dangers, and contributed to the same victory added a layer of respect to his view of Fiona.
He frowned, not sure what to do with this, a newfound sense of connection. He had underestimated her, not just as a soldier, but as someone who had been through the same fire. The realization that they shared a history, unknown to him until now, made him wonder if a bond existed between them, longer and stronger than their current predicament.
“I still dinna understand,” Fiona cut into his musing, “how ye can imagine this imprisonment—and our expected fate—can be better than having continued the fight on the battlements?”
He dismissed the suspicion that she was, in fact, questioning his honor, why he hadn’t wanted to die with sword in hand, fighting until the last breath left his body.
“It’s simple, lass,” he said, with a blithe practicality. “We’re nae dead yet.”
Chapter Six
Austin woke from what he determined was a fairly deep and lengthy sleep on the third morning. Yesterday had passed as uneventfully as the day before it. He supposed that weakness, affected by nothing to eat or drink in more than thirty hours, was the true cause behind so unexpected a slumber.
He was sorry for the discourtesy of it, but he stood—as best he was able, which meant his head and shoulders were bent along the stone ceiling of the cell—and relieved himself through the iron bars. They’d been compelled by necessity to manage their basic needs as discreetly as possible in the cramped, grim surroundings. He knew a bit of regret that this circumstance hadn’t entered his mind when he insisted Fiona, his sister, be housed with him; he’d thought only that she would be safer with him, by way of the Merrick name, which had a better chance of survival than the Rose name, which wasn’t so well known this far south.
Returning to the deep left corner, while Fiona stirred a bit in the right corner, Austin propped against the cold, damp wall several feet away from her and drew up one knee, laying his arm over it. He tapped the toe of his boot softly and repeatedly on the ground.
Fiona stretched her arms out directly in front of her, clasping her hands together and turning her palms outward as she took a long, satisfying stretch.
“What do ye ponder inside yer head, so long silent?” He asked, partly as a means to pass the time. If she didn’t start communicating more regularly with him, more freely, he feared he might become daft. Perhaps he might begin shouting conversation deeper into the dungeon, to those in other cells, merely to relieve the monotony.
“I think on the sweetcakes made with heather honey at Balenmore,” he shared when she didn’t answer. “Christ, it seems like forever since I last had the pleasure of one.”
When she offered no reply to this, he imagined she’d rather pass the time in silence as she had done for nearly every hour they’d been imprisoned. He watched a dribble of water slowly make its way down the wall across from him, its path reflected in pale shimmering gold light from the torch. He counted how many seconds it took to traverse half a foot from where he first noticed it.
“Callie used to bake apples with honey and spices,” Fiona said eventually, her tone reflective, surprising him by answering at all. “Melt on yer tongue, and aye the sweetness. I trow I dream about them at times.”
Austin smiled softly, rather intrigued by the fierce beauty dreaming about sweet apples. He wondered if the space of time between his query and her response was related to her trying to choose her favorite sweet treat, or if she were debating whether or not she wanted to speak to him at all today.
“She dinna leave the skin on,” she surprised him further by expanding her answer, “and the honey seeped directly into the apples’ flesh.”
Reading a bit into the melancholy tone of her voice, he pictured a wan smile accompanying her reflection.
In the next moment, a distant clanking noise broke the oppressive silence of the dungeon. Austin’s ears perked up at the sound of heavy boots resonated against the stone, growing louder with each passing second.
The guards were coming.
Moments later, four figures appeared in front of the iron bars. A torch was thrust forward, causing Austin and Fiona to squint and shrink away from the bright light. A key was shoved into the lock and the door to their cell creaked open.
“On yer feet,” one of them barked.
Austin and Fiona rose slowly and stumbled forward, Austin taking the lead. The guards roughly ushered them out of the cell, their grips firm and unyielding.
He couldn’t help but taunt the Scotsmen who escorted them. “Is there a special reward for betraying yer own countrymen, or is serving the English king its own twisted pleasure?”
This was answered by a particularly sharp shove to his back, but Austin was scarcely deterred.
“I suppose the pay is better,” he noted, “more regular at any rate. Aye, but I canna imagine it’s worth selling yer soul for a few extra farthings. Bold move, though, trading honor for a heavier purse.”
They were herded up a narrow, dark stairwell, leaving the remaining prisoners rotting in the dungeon. The ascent was steep and disorienting, and weakness made Austin’s climb sluggish. They reached the ground floor and were prodded along a low-ceilinged corridor before it turned twice and opened up in Wick’s great hall.
The stark contrast between the dungeon and the hall was jarring. Dim morning light filtering through the arched windows high on the wall felt harsh and overwhelming, casting everything in a disorienting glare. The hall was vast, with high ceilings adorned with wooden beams and stone walls lined with tapestries depicting ancient battles. A grand fireplace dominated one end of the hall, its flames crackling, sending a warm glow that did little to ease the chill that had seeped into his bones.
They were directed between heavy wooden tables and benches arranged in the center of the room, remnants of a recent meal still scattered about. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and stale ale. At the far end of the hall, a dais held an imposing wooden chair, almost a throne, where a figure sat, waiting.
As they were brought to a stop before the dais, Austin squared his shoulders. He stole a glance first at Fiona when she was shoved to his side, noting the defiant set of her jaw, and then settled his gaze on the men at the high table.
De Rathe, he assumed, was the person occupying the ornate chair. Projecting an assumed air of authority and menace, the laird of Wick was an inconsequential figure, with a lean, angular face marked by sharp cheekbones and a hawkish nose. His black eyes were cold and calculating, pretending to examine his prisoners with a predator's intensity.
Dressed in a voluminous cloak of deep crimson and adorned with a heavy chain of office, Sir Gervaise looked like a petulant lad playing at ruler of his domain. His fingers, decorated with several ornate rings, drummed impatiently on the armrest of his chair.
Beside him sat who Austin guessed was the English commander, a stark contrast to the laird. The commander was a burly man with a ruddy complexion and a thick, bushy beard that barely concealed a scar running from his jaw to his temple. His eyes, a calculating gray, were filled with disdain as they swept over Austin and Fiona. He wore a chainmail hauberk that clinked softly with any small movement, and a surcoat emblazoned with the English coat of arms.
His presence beside Sir Gervaise caused Austin’s jaw to tighten, reminded of the power and reach of the English crown, even in these remote Scottish lands, and the disturbing lack of fidelity of his own countrymen.
“Merrick, are ye?” Asked de Rathe, his voice embodying a high, clear pitch, which was nearly feminine. “They tell me ye made a point to identify yerself.” Though he was clearly addressing Austin, his gaze was fixed with contemplation upon Fiona. “Do ye imagine yer name will spare ye the fate that awaits a traitor?”
“Aye, as it should,” Austin stated steadily. “My father will pay handsomely for my release and that of his daughter,” he said with a nod toward Fiona. Austin turned his gaze onto the English general. “Does nae Longshanks desire more coin for his war chest?”
The Englishman smirked unpleasantly. “He desires, I’m pleased to let you know, more rebel necks for his noose.”
“Aye, I’d heard that about him,” Austin said. “Verra well. Bring ˈem up, the others. Like as nae, ye’ll want to get an early start to the journey.”
“Ye will nae direct anything, nae the operation nor yer own fate,” de Rathe interjected snidely. “ˈTis been decided. Ye are nae even valuable enough even to be used as a pawn. Ye will simply be another poor soul dangling from the end of a rope.” He smiled wickedly. “After, of course, ye endure other...misfortunes.”
“King Edward will be satisfied with these necks,” the Englishman boasted. “He’ll have nae need of the others. Sir Gervaise will gladly see to their punishment.”
While he maintained an indifferent countenance, Austin’s heart dropped to his stomach. All those in the dungeons presently would die, and likely soon.
Unless...well, Austin was never too hasty to give up on hope. They lived today, all of them captured. They might live again tomorrow. For Austin and Fiona, however, this depended entirely on how they traveled, presumably to England, how he and Fiona were restrained, whether they were put onto horses or forced to walk. So many variables, but then so many chances to make an escape before they might reach England and the end of a rope.
With little fanfare, after naught but a wave of de Rathe’s bejeweled hand, Austin and Fiona were marched outside the hall.
Austin was thankful for the gloomy day, but was still forced to shield his eyes when first he stepped outside. Possibly Fiona was shoved from behind, as she rather came crashing against him. Shifting his upper body to the left, which took both manacled hands in that direction, he was able to catch Fiona’s hand as she tried to right herself.
When she did, she and Austin both turned ferocious glowers onto the man behind her, who’d pushed her. Austin took note of his face, as he always did. One never knew when an opportunity for revenge would present itself.
In the expansive bailey, Austin stared with growing unease at the sheer number of English troops.
A quick estimation put the number well over one hundred.
Added to de Rathe’s men, the only ones they’d expected to find within—
“We never stood a chance,” Fiona muttered quietly, having reached the same conclusion.
They waited for what seemed a long time, possibly more than an hour, shackled and made to sit beside a wagon. Austin’s gaze roamed constantly over the parapet, expecting at any moment to see arrows come flying. He watched the gate, hoping it would suddenly shake and shudder under the weight of a battering ram.
Neither of those things happened.
ˈTwas inadvisable, of course. They had a decent number outside, the patriots, but the risks of an assault now, when they might believe the climbers to be hostages, were far too great. There was little sense in executing a rescue if the very people you meant to save would, in all probability, be killed by the plan implemented.
At one point, Austin spoke to Fiona in their native tongue, knowing the Englishmen readying themselves for a march would not be able to comprehend.
“I ken ye are barely talking to me, but I dinna ken ye’d forgo the opportunity to give de Rathe a piece of yer mind.”
“I ken when to keep my mouth closed,” she clipped.
“Hm. Is that nae the same as tossing down yer sword?”
She snapped angry green eyes at him but clamped her lips against any retort.
To his surprise, just before they departed Wick, he and Fiona were dressed as English foot soldiers. Their hands were briefly unchained while red tabards were yanked over the clothes they wore, and shiny helms were fitted onto their heads. Austin understood immediately that they didn’t want any potential watchers to know that the army was moving prisoners.
This rather thwarted any hope of a rescue along the way, in Austin’s mind. The Merricks, if they were observing the English move out, would remain at Wick, assuming all the prisoners remained. There was no reason to pursue the English, not when they would believe that their own people still resided inside Wick if they didn’t imagine them dead already.
Their fate, therefore, his and Fiona’s, rested solely in their hands.
AFTER AUSTIN AND FIONA had been disguised as hated English soldiers, Fiona’s shackles had been briefly removed, and one of Austin’s cuffs had been unlocked. The empty shackle from Austin was then affixed to Fiona’s wrist, attaching her to him. Though she immediately bristled under the cumbersome helm, she decided there might be advantages to this arrangement.
Next, they were forced to climb into the bed of the wagon. Fiona’s free wrist was then shackled again, with the empty cuff attached to an iron bar on the floor of the wagon bed. The soldier who saw her restrained then showed an ugly smile, his teeth yellow and uneven. On either side of his nose guards, his eyes glinted with menacing purpose as he put his hand on Fiona’s thigh. Her legs were draped over the edge of the wagon and instinctively she lifted the one touched, meaning to kick out at him. Austin reacted at the same time, yanking her hand as he moved his inside the shackle, plunging it forward to reach for the man’s throat. While Fiona’s hand flopped uselessly next to his, Austin tightened his fingers around the man’s neck, pinching at the sides.
The man’s eyes widened, and his hands clutched at Austin’s, scratching and slapping to be released.
Fiona admonished Austin in a hiss, “Stop,” for fear they would only cause trouble to themselves.
At the same time, a sharp command was issued from somewhere behind them.
With a good shove, that lurched Fiona forward and sent the man stumbling backward, Austin removed his hand.
A commanding figure on horseback appeared then, glaring first at the soldier who’d been manhandled by a shackled man and next at Austin.
“I’ll bring harm to anyone who touches her,” Austin said before the sergeant opened his mouth.
The man nodded. “As will I. I am William de Montague, sir,” the middle-aged man announced. “You are Merrick of Balenmore and this is your...sister?” At Austin’s rigid nod, the man addressed Fiona. “Apologies to you for the offense. It will not happen again, I trow.” De Montague’s eyes, a somber brown, softened slightly as he spoke to Fiona. His coarsened face, with a prominent nose and a square jaw, exuded a mixture of stern authority and fatherly compassion. His armor, though practical and well-worn, gleamed faintly under the dreary sky, and a simple but well-crafted sword hung at his side.
“Before he was recovered in a trade of prisoners,” de Montague continued, “my son spent several months as a captive of Magnus Matheson of Lismore Abbey. By all accounts, including those given directly by my son, he was cared for with respect. Though detained as a prisoner of war, he was fed daily and allowed to bathe and even engage in light exercise. In gratefulness of that, I endeavor always to return the favor. I vow to ye, young lady, that no further distress shall be visited upon your person.”
Stunned by the man’s humanity and civility, Fiona nodded gratefully. “Thank ye, sir.”
“To London, we go?” Austin inquired of the courteous Englishman.
“To York, actually,” de Montague informed them. “I expect the march will take between sixteen and twenty-two days. I will attempt to make it as comfortable as possible but will be able to better accommodate you when we break from the sheriff, Sheffield.”
Much could be interpreted from his statement, but Fiona took away the idea that Sheffield, presumably whom they’d met inside the hall in de Rathe’s company, was a tyrant who did not subscribe to this man’s decency toward prisoners.
“I—we—appreciate that, sir,” Austin allowed.
De Montague bowed his head and trotted his horse away.
Shortly after, the wagon jolted forward, causing Austin and Fiona to shift uncomfortably in their restraints. Almost immediately, it became apparent that the hard boards of the bed would cause her grief by the end of the day but presently, little choice had she but to endure the rough, uneven path as the English forces began their march away from Wick. The sky above was a dismal gray as they cleared the gates of Wick, not quite the scene she’d anticipated when the gates were opened. Heavy clouds threatened rain at any moment and a chill wind swept through the air.
As they cleared the gates, Fiona’s eyes darted around, searching the landscape for any sign of Fraser, or any other Rose clansmen, or any of the Merricks. She couldn’t shake the hope that they might be watching, possibly planning an assault on the marching army.
“They’ll see only an English troop marching away,” Austin reminded her, in consideration of their costumes, searching the near horizon same as she was, “and possibly be overjoyed that the path inside Wick—where they will expect to find us—has just been made easier.”
Though she continued to search for any sign or any friendly face, her shoulders sank with dejection.
