They’d taken his sporran and his weapons, but left the crucifix around his neck and Cait’s ring because they hadn’t found them under his sark. Eventually they would, though, and the crucifix would be history for its silver and the ring for its gold. Dylan groped under his sark to find the cord and pulled it over his head. His fingers fumbled at the knot, numb and trembling, but he finally untied it and lifted the ring from the cord. Then he retied it and returned the crucifix to his neck.
The ring lay in his hand, a dim gleam in the failing light. They weren’t going to take this from him if he could help it. They could take his life, but not this. He could think of only one place to hide it. He slipped it into his mouth for a moment to wet it as much as he could in his dehydrated state, then leaned over on his elbow and lifted his kilt. Lips bit together, he slipped the ring into his rectum. Sitting upright again, he felt just a little less defeated. Now he at least had a shot at being buried with Cait’s ring. He wrapped his plaid around his shoulders and huddled against the wall to wait for what might come.
He slept some and woke in the cold several times. The shape across the room never moved, and he determined that whatever it was had died if it had ever lived at all. One time when he awoke, a bluish light wandered in through the window and he knew it was almost dawn. He slept again, but wasn’t much interested in waking afterward. The cold stone made inroads on his aching bones, and every cell of his body hurt.
He was awakened by a soldier with a bucket, from which was dispensed a bowl of thin gruel. Dylan drank it, and didn’t care that it tasted like dirty water. He was too hungry to care what they fed him. The soldier left him to his meal, and when Dylan was finished he set the cup in his lap and dozed again. Sleep was good. It was a place where the English couldn’t come.
The day passed. He received more water, then struggled to his feet to pee as far away from his spot as the shackles would let him. Moving his bowels wasn’t even an issue, he’d eaten so little since leaving Ciorram. Then he spent another cold night. Breakfast came in the form of another cup of gruel. Dylan was appalled at how grateful he was for the food, but refusing it never crossed his mind. It was keeping him alive. For what, he wasn’t sure, but for now dying was not what he wanted.
Sometime that day, the door opened and a silent soldier came to unlock Dylan’s leg irons. He didn’t bother waiting for Dylan to struggle to his feet, but hauled him up and pinned him to the wall for a moment for him to find his legs again. The left one wouldn’t hold him, and he limped to the door with the soldier half-carrying him by one arm.
He was taken down the corridor, past other cells, then through the door at the end of the hall, which led to a long, narrow, and windowless room lit by a number of candles in sconces. Still silent, the soldier hauled him to the center of that room where a thick wooden pillar, like the ones in the corridor, stood. An iron ring was bolted to it at a height of about seven feet. Dylan was taken past the pillar, turned, and shoved against the wood, facing it and the door. He leaned on it as the soldier unlocked one of his irons, brought his arms around to the other side of the pillar, and threaded the shackle through the ring. Then he restored that shackle to Dylan’s wrist, turned the key on it, and left him standing there with his arms just over his head. The Redcoat exited the room, leaving him alone.
Dylan’s heart raced. He struggled to swallow his fear, but his mind was ragged with pain and hunger. The best he could do was hold panic at bay, but it waited like a tiger, for an unguarded moment, to attack.
He had no idea how long he stood there. His arms ached and his legs trembled with the effort to keep him from dangling by his wrists. He hooked his fingers through the ends of the middle link on his shackles and let the ring and his arms take some of his weight. Eventually the door opened, and in came two Redcoats: Bedford and the guard. It seemed not many of the garrison soldiers frequented the dungeon, for Dylan had only seen the two guards. Today the Captain was accompanied by the charming cockney fellow, who carried a long bundle wrapped in linen. He set it on the table by the door, then stood by at attention.
Bedford stood, straight but relaxed. He sighed and blew out his cheeks as he stared at his prisoner. There was a long moment when Dylan hoped that was all he would do, but disappointment was inevitable.
Bedford took another deep breath and said, “First, let me make it plain I know you’re innocent.”
Dylan screwed his eyes shut. Somehow, that was more frightening than anything else the Sassunach could have said. He wouldn’t be here, then, if his guilt or innocence were an issue.
The officer continued, “You’ve been brought here because you know things I want to know. And you will die here unless you tell me those things.” His voice carried the certainty bred into aristocracy.
Dylan tried to speak but had to cough to reclaim his voice. “I know nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada. And even if I did I’d not tell you, you bastard.”
Bedford clucked his tongue. “How very rude. We’ll have to teach you manners, I suppose.” He glanced at the guard, who stepped around the pillar behind Dylan.
The dragoon’s hands came around to unbuckle Dylan’s belt. He yanked the feileadh mór from his body, and threw it and the belt into the corner behind him. Bedford tossed the soldier a knife and Dylan’s sark was slit up the back and arms. It, also, was yanked from his body and dumped on the floor at his feet. Dylan stood before the two men, naked from the knees up.
He pressed his face to the well-worn oak and concentrated on not caring. If he didn’t care what they did to the outside of him, they couldn’t touch him on the inside. But he trembled as much from fear as from the cold. He held his chains tight to keep them from rattling, and took deep breaths.
Bedford spoke as he circled Dylan in a slow stroll. “Now, we all know Iain Matheson of Ciorram has Jacobite sympathies. You know it, I know it, the Hottentots of bloody Africa know it. The only reason he hasn’t been arrested and his lands confiscated is that so far he’s managed to keep a low enough profile to stay out of serious trouble.”
“That, and whoever it is you have inside the castle isn’t feeding you enough information,” Dylan said.
Bedford coughed and proceeded as if Dylan hadn’t spoken, but his voice carried a new tension. “However, we have reason to believe your Laird is part of an information and supply network operating in the Highlands. I want to know the names of Iain Matheson’s cohorts. I want to know what they call themselves, the names they go by as they plot their sedition, and I want to know who is passing privileged information to the Jacobite clans.”
Dylan nearly gasped, but caught himself. Ramsay. He was talking about Ramsay. Dylan’s brain flew with scenarios in which he would tell Bedford all about Connor Ramsay. Ramsay would then be arrested and perhaps executed. Cait would be free, and so would he. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it.
To implicate Ramsay for the passing of information would be to murder Iain Mór, who was equally guilty of receiving it. Both would be hung for treason and their properties all forfeit. Cait would lose her father and her home, as well as her husband and his property. Also, the entire Matheson tenancy in Glen Ciorram would be evicted and destitute. Dylan couldn’t do that to the clan. He groaned and said, “I know nothing.”
Bedford sighed, paused for a moment as if thinking, then said, “I’m not sure you understand your position, Matheson. You see, you are not going to trial. You will not be hung. In fact, you are not even here. As far as anyone in that God-forsaken place you now call home is concerned, you died of an infected wound on the way here and were buried in a nameless field with not so much as a rock to mark the place.
“So you see, we can keep you here indefinitely, with no relatives petitioning for your release. No public outcry at your ill-treatment. No legal ramifications whatsoever. In short, I own your life.” He chuckled. “For whatever that’s worth.”
Dylan said nothing. Bedford’s contempt was palpable and his gaze drilled into him with a hatred beyond comp
rehension.
The Captain continued. “Most men in your position would be quite eager to tell me all they know, since talking does happen to be your only chance at release. Besides, it’s what one expects from Scots, really, to turn on each other. You’re a batch of raving barbarians, the lot of you. Surely you know your kinsman was ever so eager to have you arrested. Came to me personally with the information you were transporting communiqués to Killilan. Unfortunately, the letters were nothing more than diatribe. Enough to get you hung, but not enough to implicate anyone who is actually guilty of anything. However, resourceful as I am, I seized the opportunity to take into custody someone who might know something.”
Dylan bit his lower lip and continued to say nothing.
After a long silence during which Bedford picked invisible lint from his uniform and appeared to have forgotten Dylan’s presence, the officer said, “Have you noticed my promotion?”
A sigh escaped Dylan, and he peered at the Redcoat. He didn’t know enough about English army insignia of the period to be able to tell, but he guessed. “Major?”
A wide smile cut across Bedford’s face. “Yes. Though I was close to it to begin with, having been posted so far into the countryside had not brought me sufficiently within notice of my superiors. I haven’t advanced nearly as quickly as I should have. Your capture may have given me the edge I needed, and now I am over more than just that little company in the wilderness. I would like to show my appreciation by allowing you an opportunity to tell me what you know so I can release you. Then you can go running back to your dirty friends. I’ll wager it’s the best offer you’ve had in at least a few days.”
Dylan stared for a moment, then said with as much insouciance as he could muster, “You know what, Jeeves, your good-cop–bad-cop act needs a whole lot of work.”
Bedford couldn’t have understood the comment, but he did seem to get the sense of ridicule. Frustration built in his tense demeanor. Anger showing in jerky, sudden movements, he turned to the table and opened the bundle on it. Inside were Dylan’s belongings: his sword, baldric, dirks, and sporran.
His voice took on an edge. “Here’s the offer, Matheson. Give me the information I ask for, and I’ll let you go. Simple as that. Talk to me, and you can have your things back, even your weaponry. In fact,” his voice had the lilt of a game show host awarding prizes, and he reached under the sporran for a piece of folded fabric, “I’ll even let you have a fresh, new shirt.” He shook out the fabric, which turned out to be a white silk shirt with ruffled sleeves and neck. “I’d call that an excellent bargain, in exchange for someone you can hardly call cousin anymore.”
When Bedford offered the weapons, Dylan realized it was all a lie. The man had no intention of ever letting him go, no matter what he did or said. Releasing him with his sword and dirks was unthinkable, and therefore a lie. He still said nothing, and knew for a certainty his life was about to end.
The edge in his voice sharpening, Bedford said, “You’ve never been flogged, have you? No, I can see you have not.” He gestured with a graceful hand to Dylan’s bare back. “You might want to think about this a bit before refusing my offer. Men have been known to die from flogging, particularly when the one ordering the punishment is not constrained by silly little rules regarding the number of strokes and waits between floggings and such. Surely there is nobody in that broken-down castle who means that much to you.”
Dylan screwed his eyes shut and tried not to think about Ramsay and Cait. Nor Coll, who was dead. He thought about Iain, and the people he’d come to know this past winter. He thought of Sarah and little Eóin, of Gracie, of Seonag, of Robin and Marc, and of Malcolm, who had trusted him almost from the very beginning. They were his clan, and his death would be to protect all of them. He opened his eyes and glared at Bedford. With a deep, shuddering breath he said, “Faodaigh thu a’ póg mo thóin!”
Bedford laughed, though anger flashed in his eyes. “Why, how generous of you! And what a lovely arse you have for me to kiss!” He strolled to lean against the pillar into Dylan’s face, almost nose-to-nose. His breath stank. “But I’m afraid I must decline, for bestiality is not among my many vices. I’d as soon thrum a pig as dirty myself with a Scot of any gender. Not to mention I don’t happen to be bent quite in that direction. But it’s good of you to offer.” He glanced at the soldier, then strolled back to lean on the table and continued, “So, since you refuse to cooperate, my only alternative is to proceed. Remember, you have only yourself to blame for this.” He nodded to the soldier.
Searing pain slashed across Dylan’s back. A surprised yell escaped him and his knees went out from under him. He hung for a moment, paralyzed by agony, then hauled himself to his feet. Bedford nodded again, and the whip came down a second time. Dylan lost his weakened legs once more and gasped as he hung. His arms trembled as he pulled himself up, only to be struck a third time.
Dylan wished to pass out. Each stroke of the whip, in expert hands, landed in a fresh spot. As he bled the tip picked up that blood and cut deeper on the next stroke for being wet. His blood ran freely down his back and thighs, and over his leggings. Soon there was a puddle of it, making mud of the straw on the floor and soaking into his ruined sark. His shoes slipped in it. He hugged the pillar for support. The strokes came slowly, spaced unevenly so each was a fresh surprise. The agony was heightened by anticipation. Time stretched until it seemed he’d spent his entire life in pain, which would never stop until time ended.
His eyes screwed shut, he struggled to remove his mind from the pain. Cait. He focused on Cait. Her soft skin, her musical voice, the way she’d made him feel when they were together at last. He took himself away from Ft. William, away from the Redcoats, and away from the whip that was cutting deep swaths in his back. The pain dimmed.
When Bedford was satisfied, or bored, he called a halt and left the room. The soldier remained at guard, the whip rolled up in his hand. Dylan’s mind returned and the agony descended on him in an avalanche. He continued to hug the pillar, to keep his weight off his arm sockets. He gasped at the ongoing pain, and pressed his mouth to the pillar to keep his silence. He feared if he said anything it would be to give the Sassunaich what they wanted. Tears stung his eyes and ran down his cheeks into his mouth, and he didn’t care. He just didn’t care. Loyalty to his people had been bred into him for millennia, and it was one thing his American ancestors had not lost. He would die before telling the outlanders anything that would hurt Cait or her family.
Time passed. Water was brought. The guard changed. Dylan’s mind grayed out. He fell into a state that was almost a doze but not really sleep. He regained his legs, but still hugged the pillar for the sake of protecting his most vital organs. The wood was smooth on his belly, polished by the bodies of other victims. He wondered how many other men had lost their lives while chained here.
The cold was deep inside him now, and his teeth chattered with endless shivering. The blood drying on his buttocks and legs itched and stung, and his outraged muscles stiffened.
And he waited.
It felt like he’d been here all his life, that his entire existence had never been anything but pain. Eternity was now. But when was now? How long had he actually been in the room? He sifted through the shards of his splintered mind to remember. It became horribly important to know the date. If he could remember the date, he could know the rest of the world existed and he was a part of it. If only he could remember the date, he would know he was still sane.
May 1. Beltane. His arrest had been the Tuesday before the wedding three weeks later, which made that May 15. Five days to Ft. William, he remembered by the five times they’d fed him. They arrived on May 20, the day he and Cait had expected to marry. He squeezed his eyes shut and struggled to set that aside, and continued his calculations. He’d spent one night in the cell, a day and another night, then was brought to this room and flogged on May 22.
The air went out of him when he realized the date, and what a mistake he’d ma
de in trying to remember. May 22 was his birthday. He’d just turned thirty-one.
Dylan’s mind retreated from the world, and he waited through the cold night.
He was shivering hard by the time Bedford returned, accompanied by the Cockney dragoon. The night watch departed. The sconce candles, most of which had guttered out long ago, were now replaced and light returned to the room. Bedford said in a chipper voice, “Have we changed our mind yet?”
Dylan declined to answer.
A sardonic edge crept into the cheer. “Have we a mind left to change?”
Still Dylan was silent.
Bedford sighed. “Very well.” He mumbled an order to the soldier, which sent him out of the room. He returned, with something that looked like a smoking hibachi. There were metal rods sticking out of the fire. “Over there,” the Major said, and the soldier set the contraption on the floor. “Adjust him.”
The soldier’s keys jangled in his hand and he unlocked one of the shackles. Dylan’s back and shoulders screamed with pain as he lowered his arms. Then he was turned around and shoved back against the pillar, his arms over his head, and his irons put through the ring again and secured. Now he stood with his back to the pillar and his hands secured behind his head. There was no longer any play in the chain and his stiff shoulder sockets felt as if they’d been bent in a direction they weren’t meant to go. The wounds on his back reopened and blood flowed again, and his back made wet, squelching noises against the wood when he moved to adjust his weight.
Bedford chuckled. “If you know anything about the history of your people, Matheson, you’ll appreciate this. When your King James I, not ours, but King of Scotland only, was murdered in 1437, one of the conspirators in the assassination was executed by this method. Pincers were heated until glowing, then used to tear the flesh from his body bit by bit. Finally an iron crown was heated ’til red and placed on his head, a fitting end to a man who had betrayed his king. A traitor. And that’s what you are, as well. A traitor to your Queen, and you deserve to die like one.”
Son of the Sword Page 25