“I’ll get the guard to bring ye a pail. Then he’ll take ye upstairs. ‘Tis only polite ye make yerselves known to me other guest,” she said with a crafty look.
Caillen replied with an offhand air, “Is yer faither still lurking in his chambers like an auld spider, Flora? Tell him I will nae bargain with a proxy. He faces me down himself – in the flesh - or me secrets stay me own.”
They locked eyes for one chilly moment, and then Flora pirouetted on her heel, banged on the door to be let out, and left.
Emer could finally let out a groan.
“Aaah! Me bones are frozen - stiff and frozen!”
Caillen put his arms around her and rubbed her back up and down, as though trying to kindle a fire, “There, there, Em, dinnae cry, Flora Sutherland tends to have that effect on folks.”
She gave a little chuckle, her head still buried against his riding jacket. Emer stood there with her face hidden for a comforting length of time. When she was in Caillen’s arms, it seemed possible to block out recent events and pretend they were back at the inn, their love for one another still new and eager.
Then the guard bashed into the cellar.
“Here’s yer pail o’ water – enjoy it. Ye’re nae likely to see much more of it again this day.”
Caillen and Emer broke apart. They were parched – they had not been allowed to sip from the water skins in their saddlebags since they were captured - and the sound of the water sloshing in the pail was maddeningly satisfying. They went to the small wooden receptacle and looked at the murky liquid lapping at the bottom.
“D’ye think it’s safe to drink?” Emer rasped, her lips too cracked and dry to really care.
“I’ll go first, Em,” Caillen said, “if it’s safe to drink, I’ll let ye ken.”
Not bothering to dip his hands into the pail, Caillen upended the rim to his lips and took a hesitant sip, “it’s definitely scullery run-off,” he said to Emer after tasting it, “but besides the taste of cabbage leaves and the remains of auld food scrapings, I’ll bet me life it’s safe to drink. And ye never ken, maybe the scrapings floating in the water will contain enough food in it to keep us fed.”
Too parched to laugh, Emer cupped her hands and drank handfuls of the water. It tasted revolting, and if she had not been dying of thirst, she had no doubt her body would have rejected it. She eventually found a way to block out the taste of rotten food by pinching her nose closed with one hand while using her other hand to drink. Caillen laughed a bit when he saw her doing this, but he praised Emer for her clever thinking after trying out the technique for himself. Then he went to the other end of the cellar while Emer used the empty pail to relieve herself. Emer was horrified she had to expose her bodily functions to her betrothed even before their wedding night. Still, she was so dehydrated it only took a moment before she was relieved.
Emer had dipped her kerchief into the water before they had finished drinking it, and she used the damp cloth to wipe her face and hands. She hoped she would not smell of rotting vegetables for the rest of the day, but after meeting Flora, Emer supposed it would be the least of her problems.
“That’s all there is for us to do here,” Caillen said, “and now it’s time for these yappy dags to explain their purpose to us.”
He went to the door and banged on it with his fist, “Open! Send for the lady!”
There was no reply. Instead of looking put out, Caillen smiled, “They’re so sure of our incarceration, they have nae bothered posting a guard outside the door. We could work that to our advantage.”
Emer wanted to add that it could also mean they were locked in the cellar for the near foreseeable future but did not want him to realize how crabby she felt.
Neither of them sat down again. Caillen paced from one side of the cellar to the other, like a caged lion. Emer perched on a barrel, took off her hat, and tried to untangle her hair. While she did this, she attempted to work out when they had last eaten. She had consumed a sugar cake with her tea when she had been at the manse. Emer was about to ask Caillen when he had eaten last when the door opened.
The guard said nothing. He just held the door open and jerked his head toward the passageway.
Caillen said nothing either. He waited for Emer to join him and then walked out with her by his side. Emer could not resist saying in soulful accents as the man escorted them before him, “How lovely to see the beautiful decor of this welcoming homestead by daylight!” But her sarcasm was wasted on the guard – he drew his sword and pointed it at them, his face grim and unresponsive.
Through a succession of doors and passages, Emer could feel they were making their way to where she presumed the west wing of the lodge would be.
Whoever these people we are about to meet turn out to be - they are comfortable enough with the Sutherlands to have their own lodgings and sure enough of their welcome to forego meeting with us in the great hall.
It was Highland etiquette for every guest to be offered a drink in the great hall as a token of friendship. Emer knew they were far beyond what was considered proper conduct and outside the boundaries of Scottish custom and had been since they had been waylaid on the highway. She looked at Caillen walking beside her, and he turned to give her a wink and squeezed her hand while doing it. This confident act reassured her – perhaps Caillen had the diplomatic skills to bring any enmity not of his own making to a close.
The sullen guard banged on the door with his fist, and when it was opened a crack, allowing them to enter, he said, “Go on with ye, get in.”
Emer was petrified he had led them all the way over the lodge, only for them to be put into another prison, but she was wrong. Flora was waiting like some winter snow queen inside the chamber. Behind her sat the most outlandish figure Emer had ever seen.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The man was seated on an invalid chair pushed back against the wall opposite the entrance. At first, Emer thought he might be of a naturally diminutive stature but then realized his body was hunched, twisted, and squat, making him appear shorter than his body would be if he were standing.
But it was the man’s skin that made Emer have to fight the urge to recoil or run back out the door. It was covered in foul-smelling, noxious sores and abscesses, some of which had healed halfway, just enough to form a blackened scab, but most of which oozed out pus and blood.
