Page 20 of Highlander’s Wrath

Held Hostage

Coira was able to bamboozle her way back into the castle by using the same tactics as she had done to leave. If the guards had reason to question her pale face and shocked expression—hardly the look someone would have if they had been picking seaweed on the beach—they said nothing, at least not to her face.

Running back to her bedchamber on trembling limbs, Coira could not wait to strip the riding habit off her body and wash herself. It felt as though the cries of dying men and the smell and sight of their life’s blood had the ability to follow her back down the moradh.

Not even bothering to order up warm water from the kitchen, Coira tore the woolen riding habit off her body and began to swab herself down with the old water she had used to wash last night. Miriam had obviously had her hands full looking after wee Colban because the bedchamber was as untidy as it had been that morning.

Only after the sound of dying screams had stopped ringing in her ears did Coira feel strong enough to make her way to the nursery.

When she opened the door, Colban was overjoyed to see her again.

“Madam, where were ye? This auld hen has allowed me to do naught, ye ken?!”

Coira told Miriam she could leave and should prioritize tidying her mistress’s bedchamber anon. Miriam gave a scowl, muttered something about her not being a blasted nursemaid or scullion, and left, shutting the door loudly behind her.

Coira was too overwrought to care overmuch about this lack of respect.

“So, young Master Colban, what did you learn today?” she asked her small charge, hoping his childish prattle would clear her mind of the horrors she had witnessed earlier in the day.

He obliged her by chattering like a magpie, complaining the guards would not let him outside to play and that he wanted to go and help the gardener plant the seeds for spring.

“Well then, let us go and do that now,” Coira suggested, and taking his hand, walked with Colban down to the kitchen gardens.

The next day, although the wind was biting cold, Coira took Colban down to the kitchen courtyard gardens again. She had spent a restless night wondering what had delayed the master’s return home, but she had succumbed to her exhaustion eventually. Riding up into the mountains and then spending the afternoon with Colban had tired her out beyond measure.

The tall yew hedges protected them from the chilly air blasting down from the surrounding mountains and across from the northern seas. The young boy was allowed to kick his ball around the vegetable patch after Coira had asked the gardener if this was permissible; she did not want to run the risk of the ball squashing any new seedlings. The old man assured her there was no chance of this, as the seeds would not begin sprouting until the winter snows had receded back north. Coira watched as Colban laughingly threw his ball into the air and tried to catch it, but today, she could not concentrate on his playful antics. Her mind still dwelled on the terrifying events she had watched yesterday.

Suddenly, a commotion was heard coming from the stable courtyards adjacent to the kitchen garden. Checking first to see that Colban was busy at his play, she walked to where a thick wooden gate connected the two outside castle spaces and then placed her ear to the door.

The soldiers had returned.

And from the sound of groans and shuffling feet, they had brought prisoners with them. Silently, Coira lifted the gate latch and put one eye to the crack that opened up. The courtyard was abustle with men. Grooms were running from horse to horse, pails of water in their hands. After slaking the animals’ thirst, the exhausted beasts were led off to the stables to feed and be wiped down. From the look of the men walking tiredly around the courtyard, they had not fared much better than their horses. Some of the soldiers carried their arms in slings; others limped as they busied themselves with saddlebags and weaponry. Bonnets sat askew on hair plastered down with old sweat and the grime of battle. Grazes and oozing open wounds showed under their plaids. But not all of Laird Barclay’s soldiers were there; some had been left behind on the moradh to bury the dead.

Pushed back against one side of the castle walls, around half a dozen prisoners knelt on the ground, their heads bowed and backs bent. Coira imagined what their trip back down the moradh might have been like. No coat, no water or food, no sleep. Some of the men were badly wounded and quaking so hard from exhaustion, they shook like leaves in a strong wind. One man had wrapped his shirt around his head to staunch the bleeding; another held his woolen bonnet to his face, the blood staining the tartan even redder.

It was a ghastly sight. Coira's eyes raked the courtyard, desperate for a glimpse of Laird Barclay. No matter how beastly the man might appear in battle, she cared deeply about his fate and that of his son. Her heart was held hostage by his lairdship fully as much as he kept his prisoners chained and bound.

Striding out of Lancer’s stable, Laird Barclay looked none the worse for his fight, bar a small cut on his upper lip, and he held a strip of torn fabric around the fingers of his left hand. Coira gave a sigh of relief, but her happiness at his survival was not to last long.

“Send the cart to fetch our dead back to the crypt. Bathe the fetlock with warm water every time the kirk bell tolls,” he was ordering one of the grooms. “And then run and fetch me an ax. I cannae stand to have these Farquharson wretches breathe on this earth for a moment longer.”

As the groom ran off to do his lairdship’s bidding, fearful cries of woe rose up from the prisoners on hearing his words. They were to be beheaded.

The captain of the guards stepped forward, and for one moment, Coira thought the man was volunteering to decapitate the prisoners himself.

“Me laird, will ye no’ ransom the men instead? Ten of our men are dead, and we need to collect silver and gold in ransoms for their families.”

Laird Barclay snarled, “Awa’ wi’ ye! I’ll no’ ransom these dogs! They deserve to die and right soon at that. I will no’ rest ‘til their heads roll in the dirt. Compensation for the slain soldiers’ families must come out of me own coffers.”

The captain, wary of his master’s temper, stepped back, bowing. This was too much for Coira to bear. After asking the gardener to keep an eye on Colban, she pushed the gate door all the way open and stepped into the courtyard.

He did not smile when he saw her, nor did he walk forward to greet her. The fury of battle was still uppermost in his mind. Instead, Laird Barclay frowned, saying gruffly, “Go back into the garden, lass. ‘Tis no place for a maiden here. Do as I say.”

Coira had to be brave for the sake of the prisoners’ lives.

“You must not slay these poor men, Laird,” she pleaded. “Think! They have families waiting for them back home too. Are more people to die and more orphans made just because the Farquharson clan moved a troop of soldiers a wee bit to the south?”

He frowned at these words, but not because they gave him leave to think; he was scowling because this maiden was speaking out of turn.