by Darby, Brit
The underlying hurt and anger was clear, and Thorvald wondered about its origin though he deserved both. Yes, his part was clear, but he suspected another had contributed to its cause.
“The late earl, your husband … did he not stand father to the children?”
“Yes. John claimed them as his own, willingly gave them his surname to hush any scandal.”
“That is not what I meant.”
She hesitated. “John loved one of them, but his true feelings were not hidden as he thought.”
“Because the boy is … different?”
She shook her head. “He loved Lachlan, despite his simple ways.”
Thorvald was surprised. “He did not love Cailin? Why? She was a remarkable child. I’ve never seen another so bright.” He smiled at a sudden memory. “When she was only ten, she showed me in the ledger how the harbor master had been cheating me for years.”
This time it was Moira who showed surprise. “You claim not to have loved her, yet you speak like a proud father now.”
To this, Thorvald made no comment; her wise words revealed much to his own heart.
Moira sighed. “No, John cared for Cailin in the sense that he provided food and clothing, but his fear kept him from being close to her or loving her as he should have.”
“Fear? By Odhinn’s beard, what did he have to fear from a child?”
Moira’s looked at him across their sleeping son. “Not just John, but the villagers feared her, too. Everyone feared her because of her dreams, her visions … her Dragon tales.”
“IS IT YOUR INTENTION to keep us locked up forever?”
At Moira’s question, an eyebrow twitched above Edwin’s right eye. He enjoyed seeing the woman haggard and drawn; the weeks of captivity had taken their toll. Her red hair hung in limp tangles, and her dress was soiled and torn. Yet, for all her abhorrent living conditions, he still heard impertinence in her tone. That would not do.
“I haven’t quite decided what to do with you and your idiot son. The Church wavers and some of the local priests plead leniency due to past MacGregor generosity, but I am close to convincing them you are servants of the devil.”
She narrowed her eyes at the slur and he saw the hate in them.
“Always the mother-bear protecting her cubs, Moira. Is that what happened the night Thorvald came to take Lachlan? Did you send your daughter in the imbecile’s place? Did you sacrifice one brat to save the other? I’ve always wondered how the Vik ended up with the girl instead of the boy. You messed up my plans, woman. It’s taken me years to take what should have been mine to begin with.”
“Your plans? So you let Thorvald into the castle.”
“Of course. How else could he have gotten through the gates, past the guards, and into your inner chambers so easily? Then the stupid bastard took the wrong child.”
Moira shook her head. “It wasn’t his doing nor mine that messed up your plan.”
“Then whose?” Edwin demanded, then clarity dawned. “Cailin’s?”
“Aye, she thought only of protecting her brother; she could not have understood the danger of what she did.”
“She always was too smart for her own good.” Edwin flicked at a piece of lint that clung to his robes. “By the way, I have decided to let the wedding proceed.”
His change in subject brought Moira’s attention back to him.
“Yes, I’ve decided to marry off that sweet little girl your halfwit was betrothed to, to a man worthy of her charms. One who is thrice her age, maybe more. Regardless, he is a true and loyal servant to me and will not question my prior claim on her virginity. The wedding shall be a joyous occasion, and there will be much celebrating, all sorts of games and entertainment. If you promise to behave, I might be persuaded to allow you and your bastard to attend. After all, I’d think you’d enjoy the main event: Thorvald’s execution.”
Moira showed no visible reaction to the shocking news. She stood straight, unmoving, not even the slightest inflection on her face revealing how she felt. This frustrated Edwin. He had hoped to shock her. Whether by defiling and marrying off her son’s betrothed, or the impending death of the Vik, it didn’t matter. He craved some more of what he had witnessed that first night, some sort of female hysterics and fear from the woman.
Disappointed, he motioned for the guard to take her back to her cell. “Think on it, Moira. I am interested to know how far you are willing to go to protect your son.”
Chapter Thirty-four
DESPAIR TOUCHED MOIRA AS she was led back to the dungeon, not only for herself and Lachlan, but for Athol and his daughter Shona as well. A shudder overwhelmed her as she recalled the rumors of Edwin’s perverse desires; both young boys and girls fell prey to his sick, warped whims. His lifelong obsession with power led to his destroying many innocents. Even news of Thorvald’s imminent execution brought a deep, unsettling sorrow to her heart.
It was hard to place one foot in front of the other, each step taking her back to the dark, dank cell that had become home. She dreaded trying to explain their circumstances to Lachlan. But to her surprise, thus far Thorvald helped keep Lachlan calm and distracted, surprisingly gentle in his interactions with his unexpected son.
But, if she were honest with herself, she had seen Thorvald show kindness before. Hadn’t he acted the same with her long ago? Had she really once been young and fair? Time had dulled her memories, stilled the shame that stirred within her breast, lessened the despair left inside her. Yet seeing this man again brought it all back, but this time, recollection wasn’t nearly as painful.
She paused as the jailer opened the locked door, the creak of the rusted hinges echoing off the damp stone walls. When she entered she saw Lachlan, sitting next to Thorvald as the big blond man patiently showed him how to tie another knot in the short piece of worn rope he held. He spoke in hushed tones to the lad, explaining what each one was for when sailing a ship upon the sea, embellishing each lesson with tales of his ventures. Lachlan looked enraptured.
Memories washed over Moira as she watched them. She was still newly wed, married to John Fetherstone for only a year when her father died and she spent several months in Alba with her mother to ease her mourning. Bound for home, none expected the attack, especially upon an inland road traveled by many. Her retinue had easily been overtaken, many killed, most taken for slaves. Including Moira.
Finding her attractive, Thorvald claimed her from among the surviving women. Moira was not naïve. She knew had it been any other man, she might not have survived. Despite the fact she was his captive, he was never abusive. As she thought back, she knew she would have died but for his care. As horrible as that time was, she was alive because of the man she now shared a cell with. The father of her twins.
“YOU ARE TOO PALE.” Thorvald studied Moira as she settled onto the rickety stool in the cell, next to the equally shabby small table. Without being asked, he brought her a tin cup filled with water and placed it into her hands. “Drink, it will help.”
Moira took a sip of the water to relieve the dryness of her throat. “Your English is very good. Much better than I remember.”
Even in the dimness of the cell, Thorvald saw the slightest flush touch her cheeks at her recollection of times gone by. At least that was preferable over the damned ghostly appearance he saw when she returned.
She had never before willingly broached the subject of him taking her captive, so he suspected it was her attempt to avoid the subject of her visit with Edwin. It took every bit of control he possessed not to growl at the mere thought of the man, and even more so not to pry and prod about their conversation.
“I had a good teacher. You were patient, considering.”
Moira looked away, as if embarrassed. “Not many men would have bothered to learn as you did — but being able to communicate made my time easier.”
Thorvald grunted, then added, “Cailin insisted I continue to practice my English, despite her picking up Norse quickly. She learned more tongues, so
many I cannot tell you which ones they are. She is smart, quick as a whip. And beautiful, so very beautiful.”
His voice trailed off as he thought of home, of Cailin, of his Aunt Hulda. It all seemed so long ago. It saddened him to think he would never see home or his loved ones again.
“Is she? Beautiful?” Moira reached out and touched his callused hand, prompting him to look at her.
“Ja, fortunately she did not take after her father.” He tried to smile, but sadness stole it away, leaving him melancholy. “My first sons, too, looked more like their mother. The gods blessed Siegveig and me with three strong, handsome boys. I must have done much wrong in my past life for them to be taken from me, and their sweet mother as well.”
Moira shook her head. “No, it was not your fault, Thorvald. That is just how life is, this one or the last. It gives, it takes; we must abide its challenges without despair. What is it that we have done to deserve so much heartache and pain? Nothing. We must accept the good and the bad, and move on.”
Thorvald was confused by her calm acceptance of the past. “I have wronged you terribly, and yet you show me kindness. Why?”
“I know—” Moira tried voicing what she felt, the truth as she had come to understand it. She started again. “I know your actions back then were all you knew. Your culture dictated you go a-Viking, just as your father did. Had I not been chosen by you, I would have been killed, or died soon after. In your own way, you protected me, cared for me. I saw how the other women were treated by their captors. I was not so blind I did not see what happened around me.”
She fell silent, perhaps visions of the past floating across her mind.
“Lachlan is a fine boy, no … young man. Do not let anyone tell you differently.” He glanced down at their son, who had grown sleepy as they conversed and lay down in the rushes, leaving his parents lost in reflection.
Moira smiled at his praise. “Yes, Lachlan is kind, and gentle, and loving.”
Thorvald nodded and smiled back. “So unlike his father, ja?”
“Perhaps not a warrior, but deep down, I see some of your characteristics.”
This time he chuckled, and gave a quiet bark of laughter. “Ha, you see my shattered soul, full of regrets of the things I could have done, should have done. Now it is too late. I shall go to my death with so much left unsaid. It is unforgivable, and I know it.”
This time Moira said nothing, but her eyes revealed all.
“So,” he sighed, “it is to be soon. What has the mastermind planned for this old Vik? Somehow, I don’t believe it will be an honorable end befitting a warrior, to die fighting with sword in hand so that I may ascend to Valhalla to be with my ancestors. To see my wife and sons as they were before they left me for the next world.”
A tear slid down Moira’s cheek. “Edwin is forcing Shona, Lachlan’s affianced, to wed one of his foul cronies for political favors. Your execution is to be a part of the celebration. He plans to force me and Lachlan to attend. I prefer to remain in this hellhole, rather than witness such innocence given over to that beast.”
“No,” Thorvald’s voice rose. “You must do as he wishes. You must do whatever it takes to get out of this cell, to see Lachlan safe.”
“What makes you think we will be safe? As long as Edwin lives, our son is in danger.”
“If you remain here, you will die here. There is no chance of escape. But if the bishop believes you are willing to allow him to rule, then you will have a better chance to get Lachlan away. Play along, make Edwin believe you are happy or at least willing to watch my execution. Make him relax his guard.”
“I do not think I can do what you say. Edwin is pure evil, and I cannot pretend otherwise.”
“You must, and you will.” He saw her reluctance. “What has happened to the strong-willed woman I took captive? The woman who endured all to survive?”
Thorvald grabbed her and shook her gently, taking care not to hurt her. He had done enough of that in the past. “You must keep our son safe, Moira. There is no one else!”
Suddenly she was sobbing. “How can I watch as he executes you? Do you not know it shall be a gruesome affair? It is too much to ask. I cannot.” She buried her face in her hands, her thin shoulders shaking. Thorvald wrapped a strong arm around her, supporting and comforting.
Gruffly he said, “If I can face my executioner, you can watch. Should it become too much, remember that I go gladly to the Otherworld, knowing you and our children live on. Whatever it takes to survive, promise me you will do it.”
Moira’s eyes widened, uncertainty deep in their depths.
“Promise me, Moira.”
Slowly, reluctantly, she nodded. Finally, she whispered what he needed to hear: “I promise.”
Chapter Thirty-five
CAILIN MOVED QUICKLY THROUGH the quiet streets of Tynemoor village. Most of the residents sought the safety of their homes as Edwin’s men patrolled in numbers intimidating any they came across. The somber mood clung like a foul odor in the air, fear running like a disease without cure.
It was many years, seemingly a lifetime ago, but all looked the same as when she was a girl. The buildings, the streets, the smells, the sounds — all prompted a flood of memories. Despite the distraction, Cailin stopped, turned and studied the shadows.
An odd feeling touched her, making her anxious. Nothing out of the norm fell beneath her gaze, but the uneasiness persisted. Cailin moved on, her steps even faster as she maneuvered the narrow alleys to the humble place they had procured to stay while solidifying their plans. A noise startled her and she slipped into a small alcove, its darkness cloaking her from sight.
Minutes passed as she waited, then she saw an older man moved forward from the shadows, searching every possible hiding place. When he neared, Cailin drew a deep breath before stepping into his path, a dagger clutched firmly in her hand. He nearly collided with her, looking startled at her sudden appearance. Just then, sounds drifted to them; a group of rowdy men, maybe three or four approaching.
The man she confronted studied her face intently. Suddenly, he grabbed her hand holding the dagger and pulled her back into the alcove, his fingers closing like a manacle about her wrist. His other hand clamped over her mouth, to keep her from crying out.
The group of men sauntered down the alley, headed straight toward them. The stranger whispered in her ear in Gaelic, “Hush. Be still, lest they find us, lass.”
Deciding it prudent, Cailin did as he said. Edwin’s paid mercenaries posed a bigger threat than the lone man who held her. Slowly, he removed his hand and they huddled in their hiding place. Cailin thought him strangely familiar, especially his voice. The Highlands brogue teased the memories stored in her mind. She noticed he had placed his body between her the men who approached, as if ready to protect her. That too struck a chord of familiarity.
With agonizing slowness, the mercenaries ambled along, as if they had no destination or purpose. Laughter filled the air, their ribald comments and crude gestures uncensored. When they were but steps away, Cailin smelled the ale upon their breath, mingling with the stench of their acrid, unwashed bodies.
One belched, long and loud, as another stepped up closer to the wall to relieve himself. Cailin instinctively turned her head into the shoulder of the man who still held her tightly, her eyes closed as his hand moved to cradle her head in a comforting way.
All fear of the stranger subsided then, though she had yet to know why.
Finally, the men moved off and drifted away. Their shouts and laughter grew faint and finally faded into silence.
“I thought that bastard would ne’er empty his bladder. Was like a horse pissin’ on a rock.”
The stranger’s dry comment was so unexpected Cailin couldn’t stop the giggle that erupted from her lips. Horrified, she covered her mouth with her hand to still further outburst.
He chuckled. “Now milady,” he chided softly, “you’ve been accosted by a stranger in a dark alley, an’ nearly discovered by a lot
of unseemly men, more likely mercenaries than honorable soldiers. An’ you giggle like a little girl, yet I can see you are a woman full grown. What have you t’ say, lass?”
She turned, scoured his craggy features and recognition dawned. “Donald?” It was many years since she last saw the weathered face of her mother’s kinsman.
“Aye. How is it that Moira’s lass, Cailin, finds her way home after so long an absence? An’ at such a dark hour?”
Cailin smiled. “It’s a long story, so perhaps I should tell it someplace safer and more private.” Another giggle escaped her. “And far less pungent than this giant water closet.”
“SHONA?”
The name burst from his lips, the question posed with such anguish Cailin thought her heart would break. Drake stood unmoving, uncertainty still on his face. “Are you sure?”
Leo placed his hand on Drake’s arm, steadying him. “Perhaps there has been some mistake. Surely Uncle Athol would not allow such a thing.”
“What choice does he have?” Cailin’s question was like cold water thrown in their faces as she turned and paced the floor. “Donald says Edwin has taken over, his men hold the castle and village itself hostage. Thorvald, my mother and brother he has imprisoned in the dungeons. Even your father and sister are the bishop’s prisoners, Drake. And the men-at-arms your father brought are not enough in number to take back the castle. It would be suicide to try.”
Leo’s lips pursed at Cailin’s assessment. “But we will try anyway, won’t we? Drake can’t let his little sister marry one of that bishop’s twisted cronies who—” He didn’t finish, failing to find words despicable enough to describe Edwin or his ilk.
“She was just a little girl when I left.” Drake found it hard to focus on the changes so many years wrought. Hearing the quiet despair in his voice, Cailin stopped beside him and laid her head against his shoulder.