by Emily Royal
After their chamber door closed behind them, the familiar sound of the key turning in the lock, the two sisters sank onto the cot.
With so many people milling about, how could they possibly escape? Always they were accompanied, always watched. Elyssia might be able to overcome Isla, but could she harm her? Hatred and fear of the English may be ingrained in the old woman’s nature, but she had treated them with nothing but kindness.
But even if they escaped, could Alice withstand it? She could not sustain even a walk of any length without tiring. As children, they had played outside in the garden, and on one occasion Alice had collapsed, fighting for breath and clutching her chest, her body spasming with the onset of another seizure. Dear Richard had carried her back home, Elyssia keeping watch for onlookers. Papa and Mama always grew so angry when presented with evidence of Alice’s ailments.
No, poor Alice could not withstand an attempt to run. There must be another way. Perhaps she could rely on the mercy of a kind heart here—one who would be willing to waver from their duty to Tavish and help her escape.
Tavish—an invisible fist punched through her chest at the mere thought of his name. She was his whore, to be handed over to his men when he grew tired of her. Part of her wanted to hate the woman, Margaret, for securing his love—but she seemed kind. Perhaps she might be persuaded? She would not want Elyssia to stay.
Elyssia drew Alice to her, holding her dear sister close.
“We may be fortunate to have Margaret as a friend.”
“Nay.”
Drawing the blankets around them both, Elyssia sank back onto the bed. Before long the familiar sound of Alice’s steady breathing told her she was asleep.
Nay.
Alice’s voice had been no more than a whisper, but from years of watching over her sister, that single word told Elyssia more than an entire conversation, just as the grip of Alice’s trembling little fingers on her hand when she had reacted to Margaret’s first greeting.
Had it been a trick of the shadows dancing in the candlelight in the passageway? For a moment, Margaret’s eyes had glittered as if the devil himself had come upon them before she blinked, and their expression showed nothing but friendship. But Alice—her poor sister so unknowing in the ways of the world—often possessed such clarity of sight. The single word she uttered conveyed one thing—that which the suppressed shuddering of her body spoke of. Fear.
How was it that a softly spoken woman who greeted them in friendship could elicit such a reaction from Alice?
* * *
The following morning, the two women were roused once more by Isla and spent their time in the workroom mending torn sheets. Left to her own devices, Elyssia could almost believe herself back at home. Would her life have been so different had she remained married to de Beauchamp or even Edward Morland? Shivering at the memory of Edward’s touch, she drove the needle into the linen, wincing as it pricked her thumb.
Had she married Edward her life would have been little different to what it was now. Edward would have treated her like a whore. Though she would have been the lady of the castle, with power over the servants and household, she would have been trapped. Women were the property of the men in their lives. Fathers brokered daughters as chattel to secure alliances with no thought for their welfare. Husbands viewed their wives as their property to be used—and abused—as they saw fit.
At least here she had Alice to care for—sweet, gentle Alice, who would have suffered at the hands of any man their father would have given her to, the poor, gentle soul!
As the day wore on, hunger and thirst overcame her. After securing Isla’s permission, the two sisters went outside in search of fresh air and water.
Crossing the courtyard to the well, the familiar sound of steel on steel echoed in the air. Men sparred and laughed with each other. The familiar tall figure was not there, but she could make out the chestnut head of the young man, Callum, swinging a sword at Angus. The older man stopped and stared at her, eyes full of loathing and lust. A slow predatory smile spread across his lips.
Turning her back on him, an uneasy feeling crawled across her skin. Moving swiftly, she filled the bowl she carried with water. Whispering to Alice to stay by her side, she hurried back towards the building, focusing her eyes forward, not daring to look at the men.
A pair of feet appeared in front of her—a tall, thick shape casting a shadow.
“What have we here, men? A little refreshment after our exertions?”
The sour stench of unwashed man sharpened in her nostrils, and she took a step back. Leering down at her, Angus’s breath came out in short, sharp bursts—the efforts of sword fighting mixed with increasing lust. A low, primal growl rumbled in his throat.
“W-would you like some water?” Holding the bowl out, she willed him to take it, to occupy those hands which twitched with anticipation as if she could almost feel them on her body.
“Water would not quench my thirst, whore. Come here…”
“Nay!” She stepped back shaking her head.
“Then I’ll take the half-wit.”
With a speed which belied his bulky frame, he grasped Alice’s arm and pulled her to him amid a cheer from the men. Ignoring her screams, he forced his mouth on hers, grasping her buttocks with both hands.
Throwing the bowl to the ground, Elyssia lunged at Angus and clawed at his arms.
“Leave her alone, you beast!”
“Beast, is it?” a voice laughed. “Says the whore who my brother rides nightly.”
“Hush, Callum! Angus, leave her alone.” Elyssia recognised Duncan’s voice—the one man among all who had shown her kindness, save for young Finlay. Next to him, she saw Finlay’s pale, distressed face watching the huge Highlander fondle Alice.
She pummelled Angus in the arm before reaching up and digging her nails into his cheek. He pushed Alice back, and she fell to the ground with a cry, but before Elyssia could tend to her, a huge hand grasped her arm.
“You dare touch me?” Angus roared. “Arran, fetch the whip.”
“Angus, for the love of God, stop!”
“Nay!” he roared. “You all saw her attack me, and she should be punished for it.”
He pushed her toward the solid block of wood in the centre of the courtyard.
“You will suffer for this, whore. I will break you. Come what may, you’ll be mine. When the MacLean tires of you, I’ll take you and then you shall learn to be obedient.”
Forcing her against the whipping post, he held her at arm’s length, his superior strength holding her firm despite her struggles. He drew back his free arm, the hiss in the air the only warning before pain exploded across her back.
“Stop this!” a voice roared across the courtyard. Angus delivered two more blows before he released his grip. She collapsed on the ground, shifting her mind away from the agony spreading across her back like fire.
“For the love of God, Angus, what are you doing?”
Tavish stood facing Angus. Though the other man dwarfed him, the aura of authority made Tavish look the taller. He turned his green gaze on her for a moment before his expression morphed into fury.
“What were you about, Angus?”
“This whore saw fit to harm me.”
Tavish pointed to Alice. “You think me blind—or a fool? I saw what you did to her. Duncan, Finlay, help them up.”
With a cry of relief, Finlay rushed to Alice and lifted her up, stroking her hair and enveloping her in a protective embrace.
“Come, lady.” Duncan’s soft voice rumbled in Elyssia’s ear. He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. Though not as tender as Finlay’s care of Alice, there was a kindness in his touch.
Tavish drew his sword and brandished it at his men.
“Listen,” he cried, “or you’ll suffer the point of my sword for disobeying me. These women are not to be treated so. Do ye understand?”
“Aye,” a few voices murmured. Angus looked on, pursing his thick lips.
&
nbsp; “Angus, I would have ye pledge obedience.”
“I will do all my master asks of me to further our cause,” he muttered. His eyes focused on Elyssia, glittering with hatred.
“From henceforth, let my intentions be known,” Tavish cried. “These women are not to be punished or lashed without the authority of my family. Do I make myself clear?”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Duncan, take them inside.” Turning his back on Elyssia, Tavish strode across the courtyard.
A low chuckle rumbled in Angus’s chest, and he smiled as she walked past him.
…without the authority of my family…
Angus nodded towards Callum. The young man looked sulky for a moment before understanding crossed his eyes which creased into a cold smile.
* * *
Entering his chamber, Tavish saw the prone form of the woman on his bed. Her back faced him, faint lash marks visible through her thin shift where Angus had struck her.
He sighed. Angus had lost his entire family to the English and hatred festered deep inside him. Unfit to lead an army into battle, yet he was a skilled warrior, his brute strength able to cut down many men. Tavish would have great need of him in the battles to come. William Wallace thought highly of Angus, admired his passion and devotion to their cause. Untempered by kindness, he did not suffer nightmares brought about by a lively conscience. That very conscience pricked Tavish now as the sharp aroma of salve prickled his senses, growing stronger as he approached the woman on the bed.
She turned to face him, a sharp breath forced from her lips as her sore back touched the bed. Her eyes were unreadable. Pain nestled in their depths, but something else. Sorrow? Regret?
“Forgive Angus. He feels your countrymen’s oppression keenly.”
She narrowed her eyes, the expression morphing into hatred.
“What have I done to merit the abuse my poor sister suffers at the hands of that brute?”
“Your family has done mine much harm, wench.”
“An excuse to justify such treatment of innocent women.”
“Innocent women?” he roared. “Shall I tell you of an innocent woman?”
“I care not!” Elyssia spat.
“My sister was raped and abused by your father,” he said roughly. “He took her for himself when he saw her walking among the heather with her sweetheart—Ewan, my friend. To your sire, she was merely a fleeting fancy to be devoured with no thought to the consequences, with no thought to her family, her honour or her person.”
Her eyes widened at his words—recognition and horror sparking in their depths.
“He kept her at his estate as his whore, raping her day after day, night after night until she quickened with child, upon which he had no use for her and threw her to his men. He tortured Ewan and made him watch. I thank the Lord that some of his servants had enough compassion to help her escape. She returned to us battered, ruined, and broken both in body and in spirit, heavy with de Montford’s bastard. As for Ewan—I never saw him again.”
Her lips trembled, and a tear splashed onto her cheek, but the compassion in her eyes came too late—several years too late. Where was she when his beloved Flora had been destroyed?
“She had lost the will to live. My beautiful wee sister who was the light of our lives. She became a shadow of herself; a mere shell, never to laugh or sing again.”
“What happened to her?” The low whisper from the woman on the bed threatened to melt his heart, but he hardened it against her—the daughter of the man who had brought such sorrow into his life.
“She died in my arms giving birth to his bastard. The day she died she weighed no more than a child.”
“What of the child she bore?”
“Thin, sickly—it looked nothing like her and everything like its sire. The bastard child of the devil.”
He laughed coldly. “It would be a fitting role for you to be nursemaid to the brat.”
“Nursemaid to a bastard child?” she scoffed. “Is that a more fitting role than whore to an animal such as yourself? Have you not done enough to me?”
“Enough?” he roared. “You’re alive and will be returned to your family, while my beloved sister is dead! I can never see her again, my memories tainted by the pitiful creature she became!”
“Alive? What kind of life is this?” She gestured to the scar on her face.
“I am ruined! You took my virtue and destroyed my face! In a world which places such value on both, no man will want me. Is it my destiny to beg on the streets with a bastard child in my arms?”
“Be thankful you’re alive. Now remove your shift so you may fulfil your duties.”
“So you can rape me?” she hissed. “Does that make you a better man than my father?”
She lifted off her shift, her eyes narrowing in pain as the fabric brushed against her back. Sitting erect before him, she challenged him with her eyes, the blue turning to ice.
Withering under her look, he stepped back, ignoring the tightening in his body at the sight of her naked form. Her nipples puckered in the cold air—or was it with desire?
Devil take him, he wanted her! But not unwilling. The memory of her screams when his men had violated her tormented him with every waking moment. Though he had prayed each night for forgiveness, the guilt gnawed at him like a canker, rotting his mind and soul.
Clenching his hands, he turned his back to her to hide the cockstand which threatened to burst at the sight of her lush curves.
“Get thee gone.”
“You wish me to return to my chamber?”
“Aye!” he yelled. “Ross! Ross!”
The door opened.
“My lord?”
“I’ve finished with my whore for the night, Return her to her chamber.”
Closing his eyes, he prayed once more for forgiveness, barely registering her soft footsteps as Ross led her away.
* * *
A month into her captivity, Elyssia had grown used to the taunts from the children who gathered beside the kitchen fire and argued over the porridge each morning. But many of the kitchen servants had lost their edge of hostility.
Lorna, in particular, had softened towards her, having taken a liking to Alice, recognising her gentle nature. Taking Alice into her care, Lorna trusted Elyssia to gather berries in the woods; rich berries which ripened as the leaves turned brown, signalling the onset of winter. Lorna knew that Elyssia’s love for her sister prevented her from wanting to escape while Alice remained.
Anxious for air, peace, and solitude, Elyssia had almost kissed the woman when she first suggested the errand. Though part of her longed to be near her Highlander, the greater the distance between them, the less his presence affected her. Torn between hatred for what he had done, compassion for the dead sister he avenged and shame at her ruination, the brief moments of solitude in the forest or on the slopes of the mountain gave her solace.
The pure, natural beauty of the landscape untainted by men drove away her cares, and she was better able to bear the burdens—those she bore now and the greater burdens to come—knowing she could enjoy a brief, snatched moment of freedom.
Since the night he had withdrawn from the brink of taking her unwilling, Tavish had not sent for her again, but his presence ever hung over her like a growing thundercloud waiting to release its anger in a raging storm. Deep within the recesses of her conscience, a small voice told her that storm would soon break, and the full force of his anger would unleash itself. The dreadful secret which she suppressed during the day, filtered through her consciousness to plague her at night. On the day of judgement, she would be made to pay for her sin. Her violation and captivity were payment for Papa’s sins, but what would these people do once they discovered the full truth of the events of that terrible night at Papa’s castle—the part Elyssia herself had played? Tavish must never know of it.
Tavish. Her body tightened whenever he drew near, the sound of his footsteps discernible from the other men’s. Each time she he
ard him, she would flee, unwilling in her shame to look upon the man her mind and body craved. During the day, in the cold light of Glenblane Castle, her rational mind conquered her inner voice, telling her he was a man to be despised, a barbaric Highlander. But at night or when her mind drifted, her inner voice would come to the fore, speaking of the connection they shared. He was her Highlander, the man who ruled her dreams and had enslaved her heart as surely as he had enslaved her body. An invisible thread shackled her to him as surely as the ropes which had bound her hands the day he had taken her captive.
But to him, she was merely a means to an end. How long might it be before he discarded her and the others staked their claim on her body, the faceless men who had violated her? A rush of nausea threatened to overwhelm her, and she took a deep breath before pushing open the door leading to the courtyard, almost stumbling over the obstacle in her way.
A child crouched beside the door, shivering. Conall.
Elyssia knelt beside him. “Child, you’re frozen. Come inside. There’s hot porridge—you look in need of it.”
He shook his head, eyes already huge in his emaciated face growing larger, fear shuddering in their blue irises.
“Nobody will harm you,” she said.
“The others,” he whispered.
“The other children? Are you frightened of them?”
Though he shook his head, the fear in his eyes told a different story. She held out her hand, but he shrank back. If only Alice was with them, for her gentle nature could calm the most skittish of creatures.
“Let me take care of you.”
He twisted his face into a scowl.
“Ye’re the English whore,” he hissed, the momentary flash of bravado only thinly veiling the tremor in his voice. “All English are the spawn of dragons and witches.”
“Is that what you’ve been told?”
“Aye,” he said with less vehemence.
“By the other children?”
He nodded.
“And you trust them? Are they your friends?”
Not answering, he lowered his gaze. “I have no friends.”