“Round up the rest!” McDougal called to his men. “They will be mah prisoners!”
Arran was pulled to his feet once more, but his legs refused to do his bidding. Instead, he was pulled across the ground, the skin on his legs being flayed alive by the hard ground. He could not get out of this, not now.
But McDougal was making a mistake by leaving him alive. He would have his revenge, somehow.
They reached the horses and McDougal glanced back at him. “Take care of him.”
Arran never saw the blow coming, his body and his thoughts sliding into blessed darkness without pain.
When Arran came to, he found himself chained to a wall, the dim lighting providing nothing about his surroundings. Each one of his hands was chained to a different part of the wall. Even if he managed to break one bond he would have to break the other one as well in order to escape. He tried to break free by grabbing the chains and trying to make them come off the wall. It felt impossible...
He didn’t know how long he had been out, but the last thing he remembered came flooding back into his mind and he cried out for the loss. His warriors, the men who had faithfully guarded their laird, were all dead.
He had failed them and because of his failure, there were families that would grieve once word spread.
Not only that, but he had let his ma and brothers down. Now that he was a prisoner, McDougal could choose to do whatever he wished. He could storm the keep, take the rest of his family hostage, or make an example of Arran and gain the keep that way.
Malcolm stood no chance against a seasoned Scottish warrior such as McDougal.
Arran hung his head in shame, letting the silent tears slide down his cheeks as he mourned for the loss of his clansmen. He had underestimated that McDougal would meet him on the battlefield and not behind his back like the snake that he was. He had put them all in danger unknowingly, and they had paid for it with their lives.
And now he would rot in this dungeon.
Arran lifted his head and the room dipped slightly, clouding his vision briefly. He had lost a great deal of blood and unless McDougal saw fit for someone to tend to his wounds, it would not be long before he would join his clansmen in death.
Either way, his life was done. If his brothers and ma survived whatever McDougal had planned, then they would mourn him. His clan would as well, though Arran knew there would be whispers about his reign and how he had put them all in danger with his recklessness.
He had. There was no uncertainty about it. They had wanted blood, but not at the cost of losing everything.
Arran forced himself to think of something other than the death of his clan. The place was dank, the air heavy with molding hay, and the metallic tang of blood that was likely his own. He had to be in a dungeon, close to outside, for he could feel the moisture in the air, the sign of impending rain to the land. “I’m vera sorry,” he whispered into the dark. If he had a chance to wind back the hands of time, he would not have been so hasty in his decisions.
2
Agentle rain fell around Ainslee as she dug up the fresh earth, inhaling its crispness. She much preferred the smell of the wet soil to the dry heat of the summer, knowing that her herbs would grow and flourish to yield their crop for her poultices, teas, and the like. Without her herbs, she was nothing more than a woman living in the wood and not the healer she had come to be known as.
There was no magic about her. While the clan thought Ainslee must have been touched by the gods with her ability to heal the sick, it was rubbish. There was a great deal of trial and error and a keen sense to identify what may be ailing her visitors so she could heal them the first time.
Nay, she had no magic. Just a good teacher and a bit of luck on her side.
Sighing, Ainslee placed the herb in her basket and stood, not bothering to brush the dirt from her skirt. There was no one out there to scold her, no one to care what her appearance looked like.
It was only her, her herbs, and the animals in the forest.
When she had first moved there, Ainslee had been afraid of the things that lurked in the darkness. Many a night she had sat by the fire, unable to sleep lest some large creature came in and decided she was perfect for a snack.
But gradually, she had gotten used to her surroundings and now felt as if she was part of the forest, only remembered when there was a need.
Following the familiar path back to her hut, Ainslee thought about the warm fireplace and stew she had left in the pot, excellent for shaking off the coldness the mist had brought. Winter would soon be approaching, and she would have to go into the village to gather enough stores to get her through the months ahead.
The thought made her stomach turn. She detested the village. The memories were too strong, the chances too great, but there were certain things the woods could not provide, and the village was the only place to get them.
As Ainslee approached her hut, she slowed her steps, noting the horse standing out front. Drat. She had no way to conceal her identity from the visitor. The woman that stood on the path was not the healer the village knew.
To them, the woman on the path was long dead, a victim of their cruel laird.
The door opened, and she loosened her breath as she recognized her visitor, resuming her pace until she reached the hut. “Cousin,” she replied, gripping the basket handle, “what brings ye here?”
Her cousin, Katherine, stood waiting on her, her hands on her hips. “Och, Ainslee! Ye will catch yer death out here!”
