by Emily Royal
The roaring in her ears intensified and her mind drifted, no longer feeling the pain, her senses overwhelmed by the noises around her—the memory of Alice’s laughter; the sobbing from the young man mourning his sister; and the cries from the crowd—until an explosion in her head brought forth peace, and she sank into the darkness.
Chapter 15
Lifting his head to face the evening sun which broke through the trees of the forest, Tavish sighed with contentment. His meeting with Wallace had gone well. Buoyed by the success of Stirling Bridge, Wallace was amassing an army to march on the English and had asked Tavish for support, which he gladly pledged.
The only stain on his conscience was the lass—his Elyssia, waiting for him. He had promised her that her life would change—and change it would. No longer did he feel the urge to avenge Flora.
He wanted to remember his sister as the sweet lass who had brought light into their lives. Perhaps it was the onset of spring, the colourful blooms adorning the landscape. It had been her favourite time of year. Ewan would rush to gather the first blooms and present them to her as a token of his love. He had adored her; a gallant suitor eager to show his prowess with a sword to protect her. The last time Tavish had seen them alive, they had been together, leaving Glenblane to journey across the Highlands and enjoy the land.
At least they were united now, if only in death.
Ma rode beside him, astride a white pony, her face aglow in the light of the setting sun. Despite her age and widowhood, she was still a beautiful woman. She looked well—better than she had looked the day they buried his da. Life in the convent suited her.
“I must say, Tavish, I’m intrigued to meet the Englishwoman who saved the life of my son.”
“Even given whose daughter she is?”
“Must we punish a daughter for the sins of her sire, an Englishwoman for the atrocities caused by her countrymen?”
“Aye, Ma. My conscience has plagued me ever since I realised who she was.”
“Are you telling me that had you not known the woman you took captive, you would have taken her with a clear conscience?”
“Did not Da demand it on his deathbed?”
“Aye, he did, Tavish, which was why I had to leave. I grieved for my daughter as much as your father, but it’s not for me to exact revenge. De Montford will answer for his sins at the hands of a higher authority than mortal man.”
“You would not wish to see Flora avenged?”
“What purpose would it serve? Your quest for revenge took you from me for over two years. I fear it will take you from me again, like your father. His bitterness destroyed him, Tavish.”
Duncan’s cry rose up from the front of the party. Tavish spurred his horse to the front. “What is it?”
“There—by the side of the path.” Duncan pointed ahead.
A large shape lay on the ground. From a distance, it looked like a sack of grain, but as he drew near, the blurred lines became clearer.
A man.
It couldn’t be one of his people—they would never abandon one of their own. It must be a barbarian, one of Morcar’s people. Had they come to raid Glenblane again?
“No!” Finlay’s voice cried out from behind, tight with pain.
Tavish dismounted and approached the prone figure.
Not a man. The body wore a dress of a familiar coarse woollen material, under which soft curves were visible. Long golden hair lay in a tangled mass, almost obscuring the delicate facial features. A thick chain hung round her neck.
Alice de Montford.
With a cry, Finlay fell to his knees beside her, lifting her by the shoulders and cradling her in his arms. A low groan escaped from her lips, and her eyelids opened. She was alive.
“Lyssie…” she croaked.
“What of her, Alice?” Finlay stroked her forehead. “How came you to be here?”
“She told me to leave.”
A finger of dread traced a line along Tavish’s neck. Why did Elyssia tell Alice to leave? What danger was she in?
“Where is she, Alice? Your sister?”
“The courtyard.”
Her body shook, and a cough rattled in her chest.
“Leave her be,” Finlay pleaded. “Can’t you see she’s unwell?”
A slim hand grasped Tavish’s wrist. Pale blue eyes so like Elyssia’s focused on him, her usual vacant gaze sharpening.
“Angus… and your brother. Forgive me! She told me to run—I must always do what she tells me—for the best, for my own protection. Lyssie protects me, she always has.”
“What were they doing in the courtyard?”
“Whipping post.”
“My God!”
A cold hand fisted round Tavish’s stomach. Why had he left Elyssia alone with none to protect her? What had he done?
“Finlay, take care of Alice,” he said. “Duncan, with me—quickly!”
“Tavish? What’s happening?” Ma leant forward in the saddle.
“I’ve no time, Mother,” he replied. “Stay with Finlay. He’ll escort you.”
Mounting his horse in a single leap, he squeezed its flanks and set off at a gallop.
* * *
The building became visible through the trees, and Tavish spurred his mount on, the courtyard coming into view. In the centre of the yard, a large rectangular shape stood like a silent sentinel, looking reproachfully at him as he returned. But he had returned too late. Lashed to the whipping block was a human form, the white skin of her exposed back gleaming in the evening light, marred by the criss-cross pattern of the lashes.
Elyssia.
Jumping off his horse, he ran towards her. She wore a chain round her neck identical to the one they must have placed on Alice. Her wrists were secured to the block by knotted lengths of rope. But what made him cry out was what they had done to her hand. A thick shard of iron protruded from the back of her hand where they had nailed her to the block, her fingers curled into a claw. She lay motionless against the block. He had arrived too late. Elyssia was dead.
In the shadows by the walls of the building, shapes moved about. Men and servants of Clan MacLean, none of them wishing to move closer.
“Dear God, what have they done?” Tavish whispered to himself before lifting his head and roaring in anger.
“People, come out! Your laird has returned!”
The shapes moved towards him, others joining them as they emerged from the building, whispering that their master had returned. He gestured to the nearest servant.
“Ross. What happened here?”
“She was whipped a day ago, my lord.”
“And no one saw fit to take her down?”
“She was left as a warning to others, to all who would defy the MacLean.”
“Who was it?” Tavish roared. “Who did this to her?”
“Arran. ‘Tis his job.”
“Bring him here.”
“He was only following orders.”
“Orders?” Tavish cried. “You think I’d sanction an order to murder?”
“She’s not dead.” Isla’s voice, roughened with pain, cut through the ache in his head.
Not dead…
Running to the block, he placed a hand against Elyssia’s cheek. The skin was cold and damp, but a faint brush of a breath tingled against the skin of his fingers. As he caressed her cheek, a low moan escaped her lips.
Placing his hands on her shoulders, he bent his head down until his lips brushed against her ear.
“Elyssia, can you hear me?”
“T-Tavish…” The whisper on her lips was almost inaudible, but his skin reacted, tightening with guilt and need.
“Aye. I’m here.”
“Tavish,” she sighed his name, the sigh cut short by a moan of pain as she tried to move her arms.
“Someone help me!” he cried. “We must cut her free.”
The low rumble of hoofbeats told him the rest of the party had arrived. A sharp cry of anguish rose up. Alice had seen them.
“Alice,” she cried weakly, “you must leave. The wolves…”
Tavish placed his hands on her shoulders. “Hush, be still so I can free you.”
“No!” she wailed. “They’ll kill her if she does not run!”
“No one will kill her. You have my word.”
A hand touched his shoulder. Duncan, his beloved friend.
“Come, Tav, we must take her inside. You can deal with the repercussions later.”
He drew out his knife and sliced through the ropes binding her wrists. The chain round her neck would have to wait. The skin around her wrists pulsed an angry red.
“Hold her hand,” Duncan said. “I’ll remove the nail.”
Pressing her wrist against the wooden block to immobilise her hand, Tavish whispered comforting words as if to soothe a frightened animal before a branding. At the sound of his voice, she grew still.
Duncan grasped the nail and with a swift, sharp movement pulled it cleanly from the block. Elyssia’s body jerked against Tavish’s hold, and she let out a scream of agony.
“Pity the young master was not here to witness this.”
Tavish turned to the man who had spoken. Arran—master of the whip—responsible for meting out punishments. Rare they may be, but necessary to maintain order. Though never before had a punishment been so harsh—or meted out on a woman.
“Pity?” Tavish replied, his body tight with loathing.
“Aye,” Arran replied, his voice tight. “She remained silent throughout, refused to give him a scream. Until now.” His lip curled into a sneer. “He’ll be sorry to have been denied his entertainment.”
Entertainment. Allendyne’s words returned to haunt him. Each slice on Elyssia’s back brought forth the memory of the savage punishments that man had meted out on his own flesh, driving a searing pain through his own back. The pain he had endured at that man’s hands. To think that his Elyssia had been reduced to entertainment—a piece of flesh for his clan’s amusement!
With a roar, he smashed his fist in Arran’s face. The man staggered under the blow, but other than lift his hand to his face to stem the scarlet liquid pouring from his nose, he did not react.
“You bastard!” Tavish cried. He spread his arms out at the crowd which had gathered.
“This woman is innocent! What right have we to torture her thus?”
“She’s de Montford’s daughter!” a voice cried. Ross. “You said yourself she was to pay for the sins of her sire; the sins of the English.”
“Not like this! What you’ve done to her is no better than savagery!”
“And what of you, my lord?” Ross retorted. “What of your treatment? You lead by example, do you not?”
“You overstep your authority,” Tavish snarled. “What I did was wrong. I see that now. It’s time the circle of vengeance stopped.”
He lifted his head to the sky. “Do you hear me, Da? I want my sister to rest in peace—and not with the blood of an innocent woman staining her memory. It stops! Now!”
Letting out a howl, he sank to his knees.
“I want Flora to be remembered for the love and light she gave us. Not for the suffering and pain endured in her name.”
The silence which followed broke when a soft cry called to his soul, his heart tightening at her voice.
Elyssia.
“Help me get her inside.” Duncan lifted her limp form, taking care not to touch the exposed skin of her back, and handed her to Tavish. He wrinkled his nose at the faint odour of herbs. A thick substance glistened in the light. Someone had spread salve across her wounds. Not all of his people were driven by vengeance.
“My lord, I thank God you’ve returned!”
Isla. Of course! The telltale scent of herbs clung to her skin.
“Bring water and bandages to her chamber, Isla.”
“My lord, it’s better if we took her to yours. Her chamber has not been lived in since you left. It would be too cold for her.”
“Not lived in? Where in God’s name has she been sleeping?”
“With the dogs.” At Alice’s soft voice, he turned to look at her, and she cast her eyes down.
“You make no sense, woman.”
“She speaks the truth, Master Tavish,” Isla said. “They have slept on the floor in the main hall this past month.”
God’s blood! The woman in his arms let out a cry. In his anger, he’d tightened his hold on her. Something was amiss, and he would get to the bottom of it, but not now. First, he needed to treat Elyssia’s wounds. Even if she were to recover, such deep lashes would very likely cripple her for life.
“Very well, Isla,” he said, gritting his teeth to control the tight coil of rage threatening to unleash itself. “Bring what you need to my chamber.”
Nodding, the old woman fled. With Duncan’s help, he lifted Elyssia onto his shoulders and carried her inside. Alice followed Finlay by her side, a protective arm around her shoulders.
Tavish kicked at his chamber door, and it flew open with a crash. A fire blazed in the hearth. He nodded towards the furs on his bed and Duncan placed them beside the hearth, his friend needing no words to understand what must be done. Too often they had fought together, in play and in battle, watching each other’s backs, witnessing the injuries in the field and the treatments necessary to prevent putrefaction and death. With luck, Elyssia would remain unconscious until her wounds had been cauterized.
Placing her on the furs, Tavish inspected the wounds on Elyssia’s back. Four lash marks formed a neat criss-cross pattern—evidence of Arran’s work. Though running the entire length of her back, they were not as deep as he would have expected. Another four had not been administered with such care or accuracy. Their irregular shape and depth told him a different hand had been at work—one driven by emotion and fury rather than the careful detachment of the master of the whip. The jagged skin around the wounds had reddened, the flesh swollen, but there was no telltale sweet smell of putrefaction. The salve was performing its task. She would suffer pain for at least a sennight, but the wounds would heal.
Of more concern, however, was her hand. Isla had rubbed salve on it, but the danger of infection from the dirty nail still lingered. Not needing to tell his friend what must be done, Tavish nodded his approval as Duncan held his sword in the fire.
“Hold her hand, Duncan. This is my task to perform.”
“No, Tav.” His friend shook his head. “This is a job for someone whose judgement is not clouded by emotion. You need to tend to her. She needs to hear your voice. Finlay, come here.”
Letting go of Alice, Finlay knelt by Elyssia’s prone form and took her wrist. Tavish leant across her body and stroked her forehead.
“Forgive me.”
She stirred and opened her eyes—the blue, once so vivid, now dulled by pain; eyelids puffy, the whites of her eyes cracked with red. He ran a light finger across her forehead, and her gaze began to focus. Her body stiffened, and she gave an anguished whisper.
“Alice…”
“Lyssie!” Alice cried.
“Do not move, Alice my love,” Finlay said, “until we have seen to your sister.”
My love.
Elyssia’s gentle sister had found a champion.
“Elyssia,” he whispered in her ear. “We must sterilize your wound. Forgive me. It will hurt, but it will be over quickly. Do you trust me?”
Her head moved in a slight nod. “Always.”
Always! Despite his clan’s treatment of her—to say nothing of his own! How could this woman have such a capacity for forgiveness? Her courage and fortitude outshone his own sense of justice. His only regret was that Flora had not known her. With Elyssia’s courage and determination to protect the weak and downtrodden, Flora might be alive now had Elyssia been there to protect her.
Her lips moved again. “Tavish, I beg you.”
“What is it, my love?”
“Alice. She must not
see this.”
“No!” Alice cried. “I won’t leave your side!”
Nodding, Elyssia closed her eyes, her brow creasing into a deep frown. Even now, knowing what she was to suffer, she thought of her sister—not wanting Alice to see her pain. Her voice was barely audible through gritted teeth.
“Be quick.”
Finlay held her wrist firm, palm, down, as Duncan approached. The dull hiss of metal against flesh was met with a strangled moan from Elyssia’s throat, and her body jerked with the pain and the effort not to scream. Stronger men had howled at such treatment, but concern for her sister’s distress drove her to remain silent. At a nod from Duncan, Finlay turned her hand over, and he pressed the sword against her palm. Another hiss and the smell of burning flesh reached Tavish’s nostrils, making his stomach heave. Eventually, Elyssia lay still. She had passed out again.
Tavish sat up. With a cry, Alice leapt forward to kneel beside her sister, cradling her head, whispering comforting words though Elyssia could not hear them.
The door opened, and Isla entered the chamber, carrying a jar of salve. Iona accompanied her. The young girl who Elyssia had treated after she had burned herself, come to repay the favour.
Tavish gestured to Elyssia’s hand.
“Tend to her.”
Isla knelt beside Elyssia’s body and began to clean the burn on her hand before smothering the wound with salve and bandaging it. When she finished, she took Tavish’s hand.
“Do not fear, my lord. She’s strong—and she has not lost the babe.”
“God’s blood. Is she with child?”
“Aye, your child grows within her.”
A bolt of white-hot fury surged through him. Not only was the life of his woman at risk, but that of his child. He leapt to his feet and strode out of the chamber.
“Arran, where are you!”
“Master Tavish.” The master of the whip had been waiting outside the chamber. “Forgive me. It pained my heart to do what I did.”
“Who gave the order?”
Arran shook his head.
“Who, God damn you, man? Who?”
A gentle hand touched his arm.
“My love, calm yourself.”
Margaret. God’s blood, had his gentle Margaret witnessed Elyssia’s beating? With her delicate nature, she would have suffered to see it. Guilt washed over him as her soft eyes looked up into his own. No longer able to deny the love he felt for Elyssia, he would have to decide what to do with Margaret. She expected him to marry her—and rightly so. They had been promised to each other from childhood. If she still wanted him for a husband, he must honour that promise, but no longer could he deny his feelings for Elyssia. Not now she carried his child.