Two Wolves For Lizette

by Jessica Miller

  After another half hour or so and they came upon a small village nestled in a valley with the hills sheltering it from the worst of the elements. It was the sort of place that would be easy to pass by, the kind of place that didn't merit so much as a dot on a map.

  “Where are we?” Izzy asked, unable to hold back her curiosity. Besides, there was little she would be able to do with a name. She would be hard pressed to point out Edinburgh and Glasgow on a map, let alone a place so small.

  “Somewhere safe,” Owen said. “Safe for you, perhaps,” Izzy said.

  “Safe for ye as well,” Owen replied.

  “You call this safe?” Izzy said. “My husband is murdered and I have been taken captive by his killer. There is nothing safe about any of this.”

  Owen had no reply to that. Izzy felt his arms stiffen around her.

  The little hamlet was already awake, its inhabitants no doubt up with the sun. They paid little mind to the riders passing them down the main street, towards the far edge where the largest house in the village waited at the back of a small courtyard.

  Two young boys came out to fetch the horses. Owen helped Izzy from the saddle then motioned for her to walk towards the house. She couldn't help but wonder if this was what her place in Longtown looked like, and if she ever stood a chance of seeing it.

  “Upstairs,” Owen said.

  Izzy obeyed. The stairs were sturdy. The entire house seemed to be as much, and the interior, or what little Izzy glanced as she was herded to the top floor, was well-decorated and warm. It had the trappings of a home, but Izzy knew it was to be her prison. At the top of the house was a small room to which Owen escorted her. There was a bed, as well as a single chair and small writing desk, and a chamber pot, but little else. A small window was the sole source of light. Izzy slowly walked to the chair and sat in it, folding her hands in her lap.

  Owen looked at her with sad eyes. “Food will be brough' up t' ye shortly,” he said, and then ran a hand through his hair before bracing it on his hip. “I am sorry it has to be this way.”

  “Sorry does not change what you did,” Izzy said.

  Owen sighed. “No. I suppose it doesn't.” And then he left.

  Izzy heard the click of a lock sliding into place and listened to the thump of his footsteps receding, the creaking of the stairs under his weight, and then there was silence, and a terrible, terrible feeling of solitude. She was still wearing his cloak. Izzy shoved it off her shoulders as violently as if it were on fire and sprung from the chair, hugging herself and pacing to the window. She was above the stable, and had a pretty view, if a limited one. At least her prison was a warm one.

  As Owen had said, food was shortly brought to her, but it wasn't him who served it. It wasn't any of the men who had been with the band that had attacked her and Alan, but one of the boys who had helped with the horses. He wouldn't look at her, only came in, set a plate of bread and cheese on the table with a tankard of small beer and left, locking the door behind him once more. Izzy sipped at the beer, but ignored the food. She had no appetite, and the knot of tension in her stomach made her fear she would only lose anything she tried to eat.

  Occasionally she heard laughter rise up from below, but for the most part she was alone in the silence with nothing to occupy her mind. She paced the room. She tried the door, though she knew it was a futile attempt. She tried to find a latch on the window, but there wasn't one. Eventually the growling in her stomach grew too much and she reluctantly picked at the food she had been brought until there was almost nothing left. Still no one had come to speak to her. She curled up on the bed, facing the wall, and squeezed her eyes shut.

  The tears finally came. Her chest felt as though someone had shoved a hand between her ribs and wrapped their fingers around her heart in a vise-like grip. She could barely breathe so passionate were her sobs. She muffled them as best she could in her pillow, not wanting to risk anyone lurking outside the door hearing. She cried until her throat and eyes were raw and there were no tears left. The sun had risen high into the sky, filling the room with bright light. Izzy lay there, unmoving, until the door rattled and opened. She glanced over her shoulder to see Owen filling the doorway, a book in his hand.

  “I thought ye migh' like something t' read,” he said, and put the book down on the writing desk. “And... I thought ye migh' want t' know what we're plannin' on doin' with ye.”

  Izzy didn't answer.

  Owen took a deep breath and continued. “We'll be sending a ransom note, to yer family. So... that bein' how it is... I'll be needing to know yer full name.”

  Izzy closed her eyes and bit back a sigh. “Isabelle Wharton nee Granger. My parents reside in London.”

  “Aye,” Owen said. He cleared his throat. “Very well. Thank ye.”

  “Of course,” Izzy muttered with a bite of sarcasm in her tone. She heard Owen pick up her plate. “Tell me,” she said before he could close the door behind him, “how does a man with an English father end up fighting with a band of barbarians?”

  Owen's reply was delayed and tense when it came. “The kind of man whose mother was violated by a man in a red uniform,” he said, and shut the door behind him so hard that it rattled in the frame. Izzy curled into herself, suddenly struck by regret. Hers had been a low blow. No one asked to be born who they were. Still, that didn't excuse what he had done. She would have no sympathy for a murderer and an outlaw.

  *****

  No one came to see her again until dinnertime. Izzy's stomach was growling by then and she was grateful when fresh food and drink were brought, even though it was Owen who brought it to her. She hadn't touched the book he had delivered earlier. In fact, she had barely noticed the passing of time. It was only the creaking of the door that brought her out of her almost trance-like state. She rolled over to watch Owen set down her dinner. The light in the room had dimmed, yet still there were no candles. It looked like she would be spending the evening in the complete dark.

  Izzy could see the tension in Owen's broad shoulders. Another wave of guilt rolled over her. She sat up and wrapped her fingers around the edge of the bed.

  “I'm sorry, for what I said earlier,” she said. “You must understand...” Her words failed her.

  Owen sighed softly and scratched at his beard. It made him look older than Izzy suspected he really was.

  “Ye need t' try and understand as well,” he said. “We have no choice. It's our freedom on the line.” His eyes, black in the low light, met hers. “I woulda thought a woman would sympathize with such things.”

  Izzy had nothing to say to him. Instead she cleared her throat and picked at the end of her braid with her fingers.

  “How long am I to be prisoner here?”

  “Until we receive a reply from yer family. T'won't be long. I imagine they're eager t' have ye back.” He tried to smile, but it fell flat. “Try t' rest.” He left her alone once more.

  Izzy ate and drank and stared out the window until the room was almost too black for her to see before struggling out of her dress. It wasn't easy to manage all her laces, but her travelling clothes at least were far simpler than her normal fare, and soon were a pile on the floor. She slipped into the bed and pulled the thin blanket over herself.

  She woke in the middle of the night shivering, and by the moonlight that came through her window she found where she had discarded Owen's cloak. She spread it out on top of herself and the blanket and pulled it up close to her chin, burying her face in the warm fur. She tried to convince herself that the pleasant scent that still clung to it wasn't part of why she fell asleep so quickly, or why she didn't have dreams that night.

  ***

  The days following were much the same. Sometimes it was Owen who brought her food, other times it was not, but no one spoke to her and she spent most of her time in solitude mourning her husband and wondering what her parents would say and do once they received the ransom note. Owen was the only one who seemed to see her as something more than a pawn to be
bargained with. Maybe he really did feel some remorse for what he had done. After all, he hardly could have known what Alan had been to her. Likely he had no idea Izzy would be there at all. It was clear they had been striking a move against what they had thought to be an important man on his way to the garrison.

  Izzy scoffed at herself. They had slaughtered innocent men. They were monsters and weren't at all deserving of her remorse. Still, she read the book Owen had brought her, an adventure story that was simple and predictable but passed the time easily enough, and waited, and waited, and waited. By the time Owen brought her dinner that night she was bored stiff and looking once more for some way to open the single, little window that was her only source of light.

  “I hope yer not tryin' to escape,” Owen said from behind her. Izzy almost flinched away from the window but she squared her shoulders and climbed off the bed to stand and face him.

  “And where would I go? I don't know where I am, and from what I can tell the only way out of this room is through that door, which is always kept locked.”

  “'Tis true this town is too small to warrant much attention,” Owen replied as he put Izzy's dinner down on the writing desk. “I don' know the name of it meself, just that it's here, and sheltered, and tha's enough for us.”

  “And who is this 'us' exactly?” Izzy asked.

  Owen gave her a sad, crooked smile. “I cannae tell ye their names.”

  “Yet you told me yours.

  ”He almost looked taken aback. “Aye, that I did.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I may not know th' town, but I know where we are. The garrison's a couple days ride southeast. Bloody bastards tryin' to claim lands they have no right to.”

  “Is it not better for everyone to be united under one set of laws?” Izzy asked. “From what I hear your clans are too busy killing one another to adapt to more civilized ways.”

  Owen's face darkened. “Ye wouldn't understand,” he said, and shut and locked the door behind him.

  Izzy went back to the window. If she pressed her face against the glass, then she could see down to the roof of the stables. She didn't judge the distance to be too far to fall. If she could just think of some way to get the window open... Perhaps the chair would work. It looked sturdy enough, and she could likely split the window frame with it as well. It was just large enough that she could slip out, and provided she didn't break something in the fall she was sure she could make her way out of the village and find the road to the garrison. There would be help there. Izzy didn't need to know the name of the town to bring a hoard of regulars down upon them. It was still too light outside now, but in the morning, just before dawn, that would be when she could make her move. She would not be ransomed off to her family and allow these men the funds they needed.

  That night she prepared. Her window faced west. She could see the little hamlet cramped around the base of the large house where Izzy was being held captive. There was only one road out that led up through the mountains, and plenty of shadows for her to hide in.

  As the sun sank below the horizon, Izzy ripped off the already irreparably soiled fabric from the bottom of her dress to form a small sack in which to carry the food she was brought. The men fed her well, and the bread and cheese on her plate would be enough to last her a couple days if she was careful and rationed. Water would be an issue, but Alan had always told her Scotland was rife with clear streams and creeks, and if the garrison was as close as Owen implied, then the odds would be in her favour. Or so she hoped. She stashed the food sack under her bed and climbed onto the mattress.

  She slept on and off through the night, too afraid that if she properly slept she wouldn't wake in time to make her escape. When the first traces of dawn began to turn the room grey, Izzy fully blinked her eyes open and slowly climbed out of bed. She dressed herself in the dim light, made sure that her sack of food was tightly tied, and placed it by the window. With barely a second thought she grabbed Owen's cloak from over the chair to take with her, then lifted the chair and balanced herself on the bed. The chair was awkward to hold, but its weight felt solid. Izzy sucked in a deep breath and prayed to God that her plan would work.

  The leg of the chair burst through the glass, but her momentum of her swing carried her forward, and the ragged shards the impact had left behind scraped against her hand an arm. Even worse, the sound of breaking glass was louder than she imagined, shattering the morning silence. Izzy ignored the pain lacing her arm and swung the chair again. The thin frame separating from the panes of glass easily. More bits of broken glass spread across the bed and fell down to the roof of the stable blow. Behind Izzy, the door rattled, and then flew open. Owen crossed the room in three large strides and wrapped his strong arms around Izzy's waist, bodily pulling her off the bed and away from the window.

  “Stop yer squirmin'!” he shouted loudly in her ear, then grunted as Izzy promptly elbowed him in the ribs. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough to make him let go, and Izzy found herself being manhandled across the room until Owen could wrestle her through the door and down to the lower level.

  Two of his companions were on the stairs, their swords half drawn and their faces as dark as thunder. Owen shouted something at them in Gaelic that made them grumble but back off. Owen hauled Izzy into an empty room and kicked the door shut behind them.

  “Let go of me!” Izzy shouted. “Let go! Let go!” It took her digging her nails into his arm to get him to drop her with a pained sound. He rubbed his arm and glared at her like a wounded puppy. Izzy crossed her arms over her chest, ignoring the stinging of her own wounds, her chest heaving as she drew in sharp breaths.

  “What in the hell did ye think ye were doin'!?” Owen shouted. “Ye could 'ave broken yer leg, or worse!”

  “Did you simply expect me to sit here idly by wasting the days away until you can sell me back to my family!?” Izzy yelled back, and had the satisfaction of seeing Owen flinch at her raised voice. “I am not some cattle to be bartered away! You have taken me against my will, for no good reason, and you think I'll simply let it happen? How daft can you possibly be!?”

  Owen glared at her, but seconds later his expression relaxed and he sighed heavily, his broad shoulders drooping. “C'mere, lass,” he said softly. Izzy turned her nose up, her jaw tightly clenched. “Isabelle, please. Let me at least tend t'yer arm.”

  The way he said her name sent a shiver down her spine. Izzy remained standing where she was while Owen slowly closed the distance between them, and then touched her elbow to guide her to sit on the bed pushed up against the wall. While he tore what looked like an old shirt into strips and balled one up to use as a wet cloth, Izzy looked about the room. It was plain, but it had a familiar scent to it, and it only took Izzy half a minute longer to realize that she was sitting in Owen's room, on his bed. She felt her face warm and hated herself for it.

  Owen crouched before her and held out his hand. “Let me see yer arm, eh?”

  Izzy reluctantly held it out. With a tenderness she hadn't expected from the man capable of murdering her husband, and others, he washed the blood from her hand and arm. It hurt, but not because of his attentions. Her jaw tight, Izzy did her best to keep from whimpering and bore her pain as silently as she could. Owen wrapped her wounds once he had cleaned them as thoroughly as he was able, then leaned back on his heels. Izzy hugged her arm to her chest, unable to look away from his grey eyes. Was her heart pounding because of him or because of something else? She couldn't be sure.

  “Tha' was a pretty stupid thing you did,” he said softly, then smiled as if it would soften his words. Surprisingly, it did.

  “Why do you care?” Izzy asked.

  Owen sighed, then shrugged. “This might seem... forward, but... I see a bit of meself in you. Ye're stubborn, smart...” He nodded. “Aye. Not what I was expecting from an English woman.”

  “I suppose that does give me some satisfaction.” She paused and let her hands fall into her lap, where she twined her fingers together in somet
hing that closely resembled awkwardness. “Perhaps... perhaps you aren't what I expected either.”

  Owen grinned a her, a genuine smile that promptly stole Izzy's breath away. She cleared her throat.

  “Can I ask ye somethin'?” Owen said.

  Izzy nodded.

  “Do ye hate me? For what I did.”

  Izzy felt her chest clench. Owen had, in a way, shown her more kindness than the others during her captivity, but what he had done...

  “I don't know,” she said honestly. Owen inhaled deeply then nodded and pushed to his feet. “I'll bring ye some breakfast,” he said. He paused, looking down at her, and raised his hand to touch her chin, his thumb smoothing gently across it. Izzy caught a glimpse of something familiar in his eyes before he turned and left.

  He shut the door but Izzy didn't hear it lock, nor did she hear any footsteps other than his as he went down the creaky steps. She was still sitting on his bed when he returned a few minutes later with a plate piled high with something more than just bread and cheese for once. Izzy spied potatoes and an apple. As always, her meal was accompanied by a small beer. This time, however, Owen was carrying two plates, and he sat on the window sill and picked at what was on his own plate while he had left the fuller one on the bed near Izzy's hip. The door was half open, and Izzy could hear soft laughter and voices coming from downstairs, and smell sweet cooking meat. The latter made her mouth water, and she reached for her plate.

  “Thank you,” she said between bites a moment later.

  Owen simply dipped his head. “Ye're very much welcome.”

  *****

  Izzy lost track of the days that passed. They all blurred together into one elongated period of time, only barely broken by sleeping. To her surprise she was allowed out of her room, or Owen's room rather, provided that he remained with her. Given the broken window in her old room, he had allowed her the use of his bed, and slept on a pallet on the floor, wrapped in furs. It was certainly much warmer than it had been at the top of the house, and the bed softer. Owen would even take her out around the village, to let her stretch her legs and breathe fresh air. None of the other men ever dared lay a hand on her, not since that first smack after the initial attack. Izzy could almost forget she was a prisoner. Owen made her feel like she was someone important, much in the same way Alan had.