CHAPTERNINE
Elsy
Elsy scowled as Brann guided her through the corridors. Her eyes were covered with a dark cloth wrapped around her head.It’s better than the bag, she thought, although hardly. The emerald gown, thankfully, didn’t scratch at her skin. She wondered briefly why the brigands would have such finery, until she realized they most likely stole anything luxurious they came across. They had most likely stolen the clothes they wore. She wondered what happened to the woman who once owned this dress, if they had also captured her and made her stay in the same tower. Elsy frowned.Is that woman alive now?she thought darkly.Will my fate be the same as the owner of this dress?
Her nose wrinkled at the scent of mold assaulting it and she was thankful for the distraction, not wanting to think about what awaited her. Thankfully, her quarters did not have the smell, although they were terribly dusty. She tried to concentrate on the twists and turns, yet once again it seemed Brann was leading her through a maze.
It wasn’t until she heard the creak of a door that she knew she was being taken inside a room. Her stomach twisted as she stepped inside. She didn’t know what to expect on the other side of this door. Was it a dungeon of sorts? Was she to finally discover what they wanted her for? She clenched her jaw, her hands fisting to keep her fingers from trembling. Since she had awakened, all she had wanted was to know why they captured her. Now, she didn’t know if she was ready for the truth.
Elsy stilled as Brann untied the cloth around her eyes.Am I being watched?she wondered.Is Brann’s master waiting in this room?She blinked her eyes open, allowing them to adjust to the lighting. Confusion tented her brow as she looked around the small and cramped room, finding papers littering the desk in front of her and books stuffed in shelves resting near the walls. There was a small window behind the desk. Big enough to allow for light, but too small for her to escape through.
“Wait here,” said Brann.
Elsy turned on her heel, fear making her follow him. “But--”
The slam of the door and the click of the lock stifled Elsy’s complaints.Wait for whom?she wanted to ask.Or what?She stared at the door, willing for it to open.How long must I wait? she wondered while she slowly turned around, stepping toward the shelves. Her fingers grazed lightly against the books, swiping away dust that clung to her skin. She narrowed her eyes, trying to read the titles. There were few she recognized, but the books were thick, and she found herself nodding in appreciation. It seemed whomever she was about to meet was of sound mind. Either that, or this wasn’t his fortress. Elsy grimaced. The latter was more likely.
What am I doing? she wondered while turning around, her gaze landing on the desk.Why would I wait when there could be something here to help me escape?She rushed toward the desk, rifling through the letters, searching for a needle or quill she could use to unlock the door.
But her hands stopped, her eyes widening as she peered down at the soft cloth brushing against her fingertips. A yellowed and frayed handkerchief stared back at her. She blinked, wondering if in her fright she was imagining things, but it was still there, calling for her. Her gaze flicked toward the door, and she wondered how much longer she had before it opened. She waited as several seconds ticked past before curiosity got the best of her.
Elsy reached for the handkerchief and held it up to take a closer look. Her bottom lip trembled as she saw the two letters stitched into the corner, now worn from abuse.
“E.T.,” she breathed.
Elizabeth Tandie, she thought, tears welling in her eyes as she recalled the man this cloth once belonged to.
She remembered the moment she’d met him. MacArthur soldiers had brought him in. His cries had been heard outside her father’s small cottage. She remembered opening the door, ushering the soldiers inside. They were donned in emerald, dressed in the MacArthur colors. One soldier had an emblem emblazoned with three crowns pinned to his tunic while the other did not, and his freckled face had been pinched with fear. Elsy remembered clenching her jaw when she saw the young laird, not wanting to gasp or display any weakness before the men. Blood had seeped through the side of the young laird’s tunic. The wound had seemed deep. She remembered the fear making her fingers tremble, her feet faltering as she stepped within her cottage.
“Where is the healer?” the soldier with the emblem asked. His brown, scrutinizing glare moved over the small space, as if searching for anyone hiding behind the door or under the table, wanting to harm his laird.
Elsy ignored the question as she rushed to clean the broad table, setting the cups and jars of herbs to the side. “What happened?” she asked while taking the young laird’s shoulders and helping the soldiers rest him on the wooden table. Her heart lurched at Connell’s groaning. His eyes were clamped closed, his head tossing from side to side. She tried to calm herself, yet her heart was racing as she stared at the laird, wondering if he would die on her table this day.
“Where is the healer?” the soldier insisted, his companion pacing back and forth, one hand clasped to his mouth while the other ran through his golden hair over and over again.
“My father is gone, aiding a child far from here. If ye want aid, I am here to provide it.”
The soldier with the emblem scoffed. “Yer a woman. What can ye do?”
Elsy straightened her shoulders, jutting out her chin as she stared the soldier down. “I am my father’s daughter. He has taught me everything he knows about the art of healing. Now, would ye be so kind as to tell me what happened?”
The soldier kept silent while the golden one rushed forward, his brown eyes conveying his desperation. “There was an accident on the hunt,” he said anxiously while wiping the sweat from his brow. “The young laird was chasing a stag and one of our men’s arrows caught him.”
Elsy stared at the guard, wide eyed, her mouth agape in horror. “A soldier,” she whispered, “injured his own laird? Where is the man now?”
The man with the emblem stepped forward as the other gasped, the words too terrible to utter. “He has been dealt with,” he said gravely.
Elsy turned away, grabbing a towel, and wetting it. She clamped her eyes closed as a shudder rippled through her body, hearing those few simple words repeat once more inside her head. She knew what happened to men who struck their master, accident or no. Her eyes stung with unshed tears, ones she willed away, not wanting to give the soldiers any more excuse to treat her as if she was nothing.
“May he rest in peace,” she whispered as she turned to the young laird’s side, pushing up his tunic. Her nose wrinkled at the blood pooling around the wound. She pressed her hands against it, looking at the slice. There was blood, yet the cut wasn’t too deep. He would need to be stitched. There would be no hunting or riding in the near future, but if healed properly he would live and ride again.
Elsy set herself to the task, finding the needle and thread she would need to stitch the young laird. She tried to ignore the soldiers’ stares as she cleaned the wound gently, careful not to inflict more pain on the young laird.
“What are ye doing?” one soldier asked.
Elsy glanced in his direction as she threaded the needle, noting the question had come from the man with the emblem. His gaze was dark as he watched her, as if he didn’t trust her.
“The young laird will need to be stitched.”
