‘Honour. Loyalty. Courage, Sorcha,’ her mother whispered, tugging her hand to bring her closer still. ‘Women know it. Women live it.’
‘Aye, Mother.’ She nodded and promised, hoping it would quiet her mother’s spirit and struggles. ‘I will live it. As you taught me.’
‘You father has none. He follows a path that will lead to our destruction and your death.’
Her mother’s gaze cleared then and Sorcha saw a strength there she’d not seen in years. Her father made certain his wife was obedient and biddable, if not with harsh words and commands, then with his fists and other punishments. Yet just now Sorcha recognised something in her mother’s eyes that had been long gone—defiance.
‘Mother, you should rest now,’ Sorcha began. The tight squeezing of her hand stopped her.
‘I will not go to my death without protecting you, Sorcha. I will not allow him to sell you into a life of suffering and pain and destroy the rest. Not as I was. Not for gold. Not for power. Nor for this castle. I will not.’
The words admitted things that her mother had never spoken of between them. Everyone knew the laird was a rough man, with little tenderness or mercy within him. Everyone whispered behind their hands that he beat his wife. Everyone guessed Erca MacNeill would die soon and that her daughter would be married off and gone soon. With that, his claim on Castle Sween would weaken. He had needed a son off Erca MacNeill and she’d denied him that.
What most were not privy to was the fact that her father was in talks with a powerful chieftain in the Highlands for Sorcha’s hand in marriage. One who was surely powerful enough to shore up his claim against anyone who tried to push him out. But that was not the disturbing part of the rumours. Nay, there was something more. Something worse and more frightening to her.
She’d heard the gossip about the harsh lord whose past wives had met unhappy ends, but they’d only been rumours. As a dutiful daughter who understood her place and her value to her clan, she’d wait on her father’s word about her future. Though now, with her mother’s warning and declaration fresh, she wondered if the stories were true and if there were more to this than she knew.
One glance at the frail and failing woman on the bed told Sorcha that refusing her mother’s attempts to speak about it would exhaust her mother and upset her even more. So, Sorcha stroked her mother’s hand and nodded.
‘Tell me, Mother. What would you have me do?’ She expected some ramblings about a woman’s place and the choices ahead of her, but instead her mother spoke with clarity.
‘You must be ready. It may be before I pass or just after. Someone will come in the light of day or dark of night. Someone you know I trust will bring you word.’
‘Mother! I pray you not to say such things. You will recover...’ In that moment, the sadness that entered her mother’s eyes then, making them appear grey rather than blue, forced the truth upon her.
‘Courage, Sorcha. You must be ready.’
‘Ready for what? What do you wish me to do?’
Small beads of sweat gathered on her mother’s brow and her upper lip. Her grip on Sorcha’s hand tightened more than she thought possible with her mother’s waning strength.
‘You must run...’
Her mother collapsed then, releasing her hand. Sorcha called for Anna. The woman rushed into the chamber and brought a cup of something steaming and aromatic to the bedside. Sorcha slid away to give her room to minister to her mother. As she watched the servant tend to her, Sorcha thought on her mother’s odd and disturbing words.
And how she had spoken them. Her mother had shown no such fortitude for weeks, not rising from her bed for over a fortnight. Yet her words and her grip revealed strength hidden somewhere deep within her and now coming out.
She must run?
As Anna assisted her mother in drinking some of the concoction, the words, a warning in truth, swirled inside her own thoughts. Run from here? Run to whom or where? When Anna stepped back, Sorcha understood her mother would and could answer nothing she would ask. The grey colour spread through her neck and face and she lay listlessly on the pillows, seeming now even smaller and frailer than just moments ago. But she must try.
‘Where would you have me run, Mother? I know no one outside of our kith and kin here and none would help me and face Father’s wrath.’
‘My mother’s family would aid you. One of my cousins is an abbess in the north, if you can reach her,’ she managed to whisper. ‘And I have other cousins, MacPhersons, who would give you refuge.’
‘You would have me take holy vows?’
‘It is one escape.’ Her mother pushed herself up to sit then and waited as Anna arranged pillows to support her. ‘Once done...’
Sorcha understood that not even her father could unravel vows taken to enter the religious life. Was that a better life to face than marriage? Staring at her mother’s worn face and knowing her beaten-down spirit, Sorcha had to accept it might be.
‘Anna.’
At her mother’s whisper, her companion left her mother’s side and walked over to a place behind the door. She touched and searched along the stones until she pulled a small one free. A small leather sack came free and Anna held it out to Sorcha.
‘For you, my lady. Put it with the others and be ready as your mother instructed,’ Anna said softly.
Sorcha could feel several pieces within the sack, more jewellery from the size and shape of them. Her mother or Anna had been giving her such things for the last several months with some plan in mind. Though she wanted to press both of the women for more knowledge of whatever they planned, the grim expressions of determination that now met her own gaze told her they would reveal nothing for now. She walked back to the bedside to take leave of her mother.
‘Rest well, Mother,’ she whispered, lifting her mother’s hand and kissing it. ‘I will see you on the morrow.’ The only response was a single tear that trickled out of the corner of her mother’s eye and down her face.
Sorcha nodded to Anna as she passed her and tucked the small sack up into her sleeve, hiding it from anyone who witnessed her outside this chamber. Once in her chamber, she dismissed her own maid and hid this sack with the other parcels and bundles her mother had given to her over the last months.
As night fell and the keep and the MacMillans there settled into their sleep, Sorcha could not find rest. Her mother’s words and the other hushed words she’d heard whispered about Gilbert Cameron repeated in her thoughts, keeping her awake and adding to her confusion. Giving up the battle, she rose, lit a small tallow candle and brought out the things her mother had given her. If she organised and assessed them, mayhap she would find sleep?
She’d not kept a count of how many times her mother or Anna had given these to her, so Sorcha was surprised to discover fifteen such gifts. Though most contained small trinkets or coins, bits that could be used without drawing much attention, one ring was costly enough to raise concerns from anyone receiving it. Her mother had not worn it in years, but Sorcha remembered it as a gift passed down from her mother’s mother. A thick and wide gold band covered in precious stones and gems. Something like this would be worth...a small fortune.
* * *
Stunned by this small treasure, Sorcha had found that sleep eluded her long after she’d bundled the items up and placed them back in their hidey-hole. As the sun rose and her sleepless night ended, Sorcha prayed that her mother would not die and that word of a need to flee would not come for a long time, if ever.
* * *
‘If ever’ did eventually come for Sorcha.
It did not come when her father approached her with the news of her betrothal to the chief of the Camerons. It did not come when she dared to utter her refusal, nor did it arrive when her father punished her for her disobedience in the matter of marriage.
It did, however, come i
n the dark of night.
Copyright © 2017 by Theresa S. Brisbin
ISBN-13: 9781488021435
Marrying the Rebellious Miss
Copyright © 2017 by Nikki Poppen
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