The Christmas Blend

by Veronica Bale

  It might as well have been a blessing. The less evidence of the outside world the prisoners had the better. A small mercy that they could not see the freedom they would never again enjoy.

  Amidst the surge-and-lull rhythm of the wind, there was a sinister scratching sound: sharp little nails scrabbling sickeningly across the stone floor. It was not long before those sharp nails were skittering over the leg of Edward Douglas, Earl of Albermarle.

  The earl had abhorred the sensation once…once, when he still had a scrap of his dignity to hold on to. That was when a scraggly, unwashed beard hadn’t grown to cover half his face, and when his tattered and blood-crusted clothing hadn’t stank of urine and worse.

  He didn’t mind the rats so much anymore; they had become his constant companions over the past month. Though, he damned the nasty little creatures to hell when they nibbled at him. He could do little to stop them, though. His leg bone was shattered in at least two places and had not been attended to since the battle. It throbbed day and night as it healed, unset and most likely crooked. Some days the pain was worse than others.

  When he was first taken prisoner, Lord Albermarle had been glad it wasn’t an open wound, which would fester. Not like Geordie Douglas, the aging crofter from Dumfries. It was a blade to the shoulder that brought Geordie down on the battlefield. Within days of being taken, he was writhing with fever.

  Now, though, Lord Albermarle wasn’t sure if he wouldn’t want the same for himself. He was a dead man either way, and at least Geordie had not suffered the agony of a clear mind before he expired.

  Edward Douglas’s mind was as clear as ever. He would never have thought it before now, but that was far worse than a shattered leg.

  That bloody mace. He hadn’t seen it coming. In one breath he was horsed, defending against the upward thrust of an opponent’s blade. The next he was falling from his saddle, the spiked iron ball taking him in the thigh. He hadn’t even seen the man who struck the blow, nor had he seen the second swing that crushed his shin.

  Whether the unseen man had been lucky in his strike, whether he’d aimed true, and why he’d stopped at the earl’s leg only—these were questions that had come afterward, in the long, dark hours of his incarceration. At the time of the injury, Lord Albermarle knew nothing but blinding pain. Around him the battle was being lost, and he’d been senseless to it all.

  By the time enough of his wits had returned, it was over. The dead lay where they’d fallen. Lifeless and drenched in their own blood were the loyal kin of the Black Douglas. The injured were hauled up and tossed onto a cart, Lord Albermarle among them. The uninjured survivors were bound together, tied to horses, and the lot was taken to Stirling.

  Hugh Douglas, Lord Ormonde, was one of the uninjured prisoners traveling by foot. He was not far from Lord Albermarle’s cart. In his haze of pain, the injured earl gazed upon his lord and leader’s face: haggard, bloodied, defeated. Yet still defiant.

  Of the injured that had been loaded onto the cart with him, most had died of their wounds by now. Like Geordie, the Dumfries crofter. Their moans and cries grew weaker over the days; they came less often as the men expired one by one.

  Lord Albermarle had no inkling of whether his sons, Edward and Brandon, were here with him.

  Not an inkling of whether they had survived the battle, or…

  Over the drone of the wind, Lord Albermarle heard the heavy, menacing footsteps of a gaoler’s boot. The metallic click of a lock being opened was followed by the high-pitched squeal of unoiled hinges. A sliver of thin, orange torchlight sliced through the void of blackness, falling on the earl’s dirty, sunken face.

  With the light at the man’s back, Lord Albermarle could not determine which of the guardsmen this one was—until the man carelessly tossed a crude wooden plate just out of his reach so the earl would have to struggle against his damaged leg to fetch it.

  “Supper,” barked the gaoler.

  Ah, so it was Frazer. A brute of a man as ugly as he was mean, with large, bulging eyes and the lower half of his jaw deformed from some long-ago battle. Frazer was one of the cruelest guards at Stirling. He made sure his charges knew it.

  “May I have some water, please?” Lord Albermarle’s voice was raspy, his throat dry.

  “Ye had yer water this morning.”

  “All right. Thank ye all the same.”

  The gaoler towered over him, glaring down with what Lord Albermarle imagined was a look of disgust (he could not say for certain in such poor light). Frazer kicked the earl’s bad leg. Lord Albermarle emitted a strangled cry against closed lips as fire shot through his shin and up into his hip.

  “Why d’ye keep on wi’ yer lordly manners, eh? D’ye no’ ken ye’re about to lose yer head?”

  “I’m aware, sir.”

  Frazer stepped farther into the room and squatted in front of his prisoner. At closer range, Lord Albermarle could make out a hateful glint in his bulbous, black eyes.

  “Yer lands are well and truly forfeit now, too. Were ye aware of that? I heard parliament’s finally agreed to the king’s demand.”

  When Lord Albermarle made no reply, Frazer jabbed a finger at his shin with a sharp, quick thrust. “D’ye hear me, traitor? Ye’ve no more lands. Yer family will be turned out into the night like beggars. Who kens what horrors await yer women at the hands of yer Highland vagrants. Tell me, is yer wife comely? Have ye any ripe, wee daughters? No’ that it matters. One wench is as good as another when it’s free for the taking.”

  Laughing at his parting shot, Frazer left the cell. The door banged shut behind him.

  Outside, a fresh man waited for the changing of the guard, a new recruit brought on to replace Munroe who had drunk too much in a tavern one night and strangely wandered into the River Forth and drowned. Frazer raked the young man up and down with a scowl. He was young, no more than five-and-twenty. His sand-colored hair was pulled back at the crown and plaited, revealing a smooth face and keen eyes. Despite his youth, he was strong, with well-developed muscle tone at the shoulders, arms, and neck. The new guard was a warrior, to be sure. Or had been, before he came to Stirling.

  “So ye’re the new one, then. What be yer name?”

  “MacLellan?”

  “Are ye asking me, pup?”

  MacLellan stepped close. His hand rested on the hilt of the dirk strapped to his waist. “Call me pup again, and we’ll see who be asking the questions.”

  The two men stared each other down for a breath or two, before Frazer broke into a hearty laugh.

  “Aye, ye’ll do fine here. Well done.” He slapped MacLellan on the shoulder, giving it a rough, admiring shake. “Ye’ve come at a good time. This lot here’s from Arkinholm. Black Douglases, all of them. There’ll be a beheading soon. Nothing like being at the front of the action when there’s a noble to execute. A shame ye missed Ormonde.”

  Frazer tossed the heavy iron ring of keys to MacLellan. Snatching the ale skin resting on the ground beside his gaoler’s stool, he stalked off toward the stone staircase that led to the wall walk.

  “Have they set the date then?” MacLellan called after him.

  “No’ yet. But soon,” echoed Frazer’s voice from the stairwell.

  Inside his cell, Lord Albermarle was crying. His head rested against the masonry behind him, his face upturned to the dark. He had not let himself cry even once since he’d been taken, but he cried bitter tears now.

  If what Frazer said was true, then his clansmen back in Kinross would be killed within the month. Perhaps sooner. His wife and children would be made beggars and turned out of Glen Craggan to face dangers unknown. His people would be driven from their land. It was too much to bear.

  A king’s justice is his divine right. His temper and his fits are no’. His words to Lachlan Ramsay those many nights ago at Glendalough Castle whispered in his mind. How idealistic he’d been then. And how foolish. He hated himself now.

  Edward Douglas, Earl of Albermarle despaired alone in his cell. He had
no way of knowing that on the other side of the door, a sympathetic ear was listening to him weep.

  “Dinna ye fret, My Lord Albermarle,” MacLellan murmured, pressing a hand to the rough wood grain. “Ye’ve friends out here that willna let them take yer head. Hold on to life a wee bit longer, for we’ve a plan to help ye all escape.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Veronica Bale is a freelance writer, book reviewer, Coronation Street junkie and author of cracking-good love stories set in the Highlands of Scotland. She lives in Ontario, Canada, with her husband, son and three spoiled cats. When she’s not writing, Veronica likes running, reading, or spending time with her family. What Veronica loves most about being an author is hearing from her readers.

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