The room, such as it was, looked like a cell. Of course, she’d been here before, but not often. For the two of them, sneaking in and out of each other’s rooms was simply too risky, and it was safer to choose more neutral locations to spend time together.
Noah’s room was small, rectangular, and bare. One window let in very little light, and there were bars fenced on the outside of the window. The grayish pre-dawn light swept through, illuminating the room’s pathetic contents. A narrow pallet bed was pushed into the corner, with a small stack of books resting on the floor beside it. He must have taken the books from the library.
Senga recognized a few books she had lent him herself. He’d be punished for having them.
The bed was neat, clearly unslept in. He hadn’t been there all night.
Senga’s limbs seemed to lose their strength, her arms dropping heavily to her side. Her bag, hurriedly packed an eternity ago, fell to the ground.
“Ye only missed him by a few moments, ye know.”
Spinning around, Senga found herself facing her own father in the doorway.
Laird Murray had turned gray early on in his life. Senga couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t had iron-gray hair and a scruffy, patchy beard. He was a short man, round-faced and round-bodied. She’d seen him occasionally with the other lairds, and he always seemed to be the smallest among them.
Senga did not know her father well, but she knew well enough that he resented being small, and not just physically.
“What do ye mean?” she managed at last, tilting up her chin.
The escape was over, she knew that much. They had planned to leave after dark, as soon as Noah could sneak away from the stablehead and the rest of the Murray guardsmen, but somewhere along the line something had gone wrong.
Very wrong.
Laird Murray sighed. For a moment, it almost seemed that he pitied her.
“Ye aren’t as clever as ye think ye are, Senga. Did ye think ye could throw away yer virtue on a filthy servant and I would not know of it? Ye are mine to dispose of, lass. Mine. And that servant is guilty of theft towards me, stealing the gratitude and obedience which should have been mine.” He paused, smiling widely. “We took him shortly after supper for questioning.”
Questioning. That terrible word conjured up enough ideas to make Senga feel ill.
“What did ye do to him?” she breathed.
“Enough to make him tell most of it. Even the sight of the rack made him blubber and cry. That pretty face of his isn’t quite so pretty anymore, I’m afraid. But he wouldn’t say where ye were, so we pretended to let him escape. He ran straight to the stables, and we caught him there. Would ye like to see?”
No.
Senga wanted to scream.
She wanted to fling herself onto the unyielding stone floor and sob and cry like a child. It was a tempting idea. But if she did that, her father would haul her away by her hair. He’d never whipped her, but he’d threatened to often enough. She’d watched the tortures he’d imposed on other men and women. If he ever crossed that line with them, she knew she was done for.
Her father’s threats were not empty. There were often punishments in the courtyard, scenes that every inhabitant of the Keep was forced to watch. They ranged from simple executions—burnings, beheadings, hangings, and so on—to more elaborate punishments. A man was whipped until he was dead for abandoning his post as a sentry. A woman was boiled alive for stealing food from the kitchen. A serving wench was accused of telling a story that put Laird Murray in a bad light, so she had her head shaved, ears and nostrils slit, and both hands cut off. She died a beggar later on, and Laird Murray had her body dug out of its shallow pauper’s grave and hung on the Keep walls.
To make a point, he’d said. In case people forgot who their laird was.
She didn’t risk raging him. Instead, she met her father’s gaze coolly and evenly.
“I don’t believe ye.”
Laird Murray blinked. Senga wondered if he was surprised that she held his gaze. Maybe he hadn’t thought that she would have the strength. It wasn’t as if he knew her very well.
“I thought ye might not,” he said at last. “Come with me.”
Senga thought about refusing, then she saw the shadows of soldiers waiting outside the door and realized that it wasn’t a request. To keep her dignity and avoid being dragged by her wrists through the courtyard, Senga hoisted her bag back on her shoulder and followed her father out into the hallway.
They moved in silence through the Keep, with the Laird leading the way, Senga following, and the soldiers flanking them grimly. Senga was under no illusions. She was a prisoner now.
They crossed the courtyard, and she realized with a sickening lurch where they were going.
“The stables?” Senga queried aloud, her voice seeming very thin and high in the silence. “Why are we here?”
