A Promise for Tomorrow

by Michele Paige Holmes

  My worry for Collin expanded to concern for these people. A woman struggled along with a babe in her arms and a tiny child clinging to her hand. A man who had only one leg limped forward on a crutch. A woman about my age walked beside him and caught my eye as she passed. I read the panic in her gaze and felt her worry for the man— her father?

  “What have they done?” I asked.

  “They’ve done nothing,” Brann said. “Absolutely nothing. They turn no profit on the land allotted them, so they are being sent to work on plantations in the Colonies.”

  How? The very old, very young, or infirm seemed the poorest candidates for laborers in the Colonies or any place else. They’ll never make it.

  Brann knew that, as did the soldiers. And they didn’t care.

  “A nice purse for you in the bargain. This one, at least, will fetch a good price.” One of the soldiers tossed a pouch at Brann. I lunged and caught it before he could, then turned it upside down.

  “Give that—”

  “You’re despicable.” Coins clattered to the ground as I shook the bag, flinging it to and fro out of Brann’s reach. “You cannot sell these people. You don’t own them.”

  “Who’s going to stop me?” Brann shoved me to the ground. “You? Your husband? Pick those up.” He pushed my head down, and I felt his knee in my back.

  “Collin is not a Campbell, and that pistol is mine. You cannot ship him off like some—slave.” The word tasted bitter. I pushed back against the weight of Brann’s hand to plead with the English soldier. “Please. Take me as well.”

  He did not answer at once but looked over me at Brann, even as my eyes sought Collin’s, still impassive, though I could see his mind was in turmoil— with worry for me. The silent pause continued, and for a second I allowed myself hope. If we can but remain together.

  “Having the woman along might be just the thing to get this one to stay in line.” The soldier nudged Collin with the butt of his musket.

  “She stays here,” Brann said. “With me.”

  “Very well.” The Redcoat faced Collin. “You are hereby charged with having violated the Act of Proscription enacted the first of August 1746, which states that no Highlander may have in his custody, use, or bear a broad sword or target, poignard, whinger, dirk, or side pistol, or any other warlike weapon.”

  “It’s for my defense,” I shouted. “He’s done nothing wrong. Almost every man in that castle carries a dirk.”

  Brann grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled. Tears stung my eyes as my head jerked back. His other hand pressed my face to his leg. “Shut up,” he hissed.

  Collin lunged between the two soldiers and landed a punch to Brann’s jaw before they restrained him.

  “She’ll pay for that,” Brann said, still holding tight to my hair.

  I winced but did not cry out.

  “Let her go, or I swear I’ll come back and kill you— even if it means returning from the grave.” Collin’s hands were pulled roughly behind him.

  “Get in line,” Brann said menacingly. “Katherine’s mother already threatened the same. Yet I don’t see her returned from the dead to save her daughter.” He threw his head back. “No lightning strikes either.” His dark laughter rang across the yard.

  Tears spilled down my cheeks as two of the soldiers worked together to bind Collin with rope. Don’t hurt him. I saw that they would. Just as Collin must know the same was true for me. There was no one to protect me from Brann. But I couldn’t care about that right now and would have willingly done his bidding would they but free Collin.

  I opened my mouth to say one last time that I loved him, but a brief shake of his head stopped me.

  Don’t give him more power. Whether my thought or Collin’s, it was true. I was completely at Brann’s mercy, and the more he thought he could hurt me, the more he would.

  The soldier who had been speaking earlier cleared his throat. “You are hereby sentenced to be transported to one of his Majesty’s plantations beyond the sea, there to remain for the space of fourteen years in servitude.”

  Fourteen years. We had not even had half as many weeks together. If by some miracle we were we both to survive, how were we to find one another again after so long a time? Oh, Collin.

  The soldiers marched him through the gate to join the others being taken.

  “Pick up those coins.” Brann released my hair and thrust me forward. His boot on my back forced me to the ground. I gathered a handful of the gold, clutched it in my fist for a second, then flung my arm wide, sending coins spinning across the yard. Brann flipped me over and brought his boot down hard on my arm.

  The sound of bone snapping coincided with my screams. His boot lifted again, hovered over me a second as we made eye contact, then struck my chest so hard the breath left my lungs.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The metal slot at the bottom of the door swung open, and in the sliver of light a tray pushed inside.

  “Eat,” a gruff voice ordered.

  The flap swung shut, and I sat motionless, counting its movement back and forth, watching the slim band of golden yellow grow smaller and smaller on the floor until it was gone. Anything to distract me from the pain.

  Behind me the rats came, scurrying over my legs and cloak in their haste toward the food I could not reach because it hurt too much to move. My stomach complained pitifully, with a desperate, gnawing hunger. I told myself I didn’t care. If starving brought a quicker end to my suffering, I would be grateful.

  Cradling my broken arm to my chest, I sat motionless as I listened to the rats enjoying their feast. God is merciful trailed through my mind continually. A sort of prayer as I remembered this scripture and begged for it to be true. Mercy for Collin. Let him be spared. And the others with him. I tried to have faith, but it was impossible to believe that many of them would survive long enough to be sold in the Colonies.

  An odd squealing began from the rats, who had been my companions since I’d been thrown into the pitch-black cell. I’d fought them off at first, pushing them away and kicking whenever I felt one near. But the shooting pain caused by even the slightest movement soon overrode my fear and repulsion.

  Eventually, I had consigned myself to the rats’ presence and continued attempts at sampling whatever parts of me were exposed. Before my arm had become too swollen to move at all, I had curled my legs beneath me and wrapped as tight as possible in my cloak to ward off their attacks.

  I listened intently now at the frenzied noises coming from the crowd gathered at my plate. I couldn’t see them, with the flap closed and the guard and his light moved on, but I imagined the rats in a tight circle surrounding the tin. Were they fighting over its contents?

  My stomach roiled again, a phenomenon I found strange, considering its emptiness. Why should I feel nauseated when there was nothing within me to upset? I imagined what food might be on the plate. Oats? A bit of stale bread? A bowl of soup? I wouldn’t have cared and would have gladly fought off the rats for my portion, if only I could.

  The strange noises— almost shrieking, if that was possible from a rat— continued perhaps a minute more, then began to die off until total silence filled the cell. Puzzled, I listened harder for the sounds of eating or sleeping— something. They’d been rather raucous little pests since my arrival, squeaking, hissing and chattering, chomping and grinding their teeth.

  This sudden, absolute silence felt unnerving. Unnatural.

  I waited for their usual activity to resume and rested my head against the cold stone, eyes closed, arm and ribs throbbing, every breath agony.

  Collin. I crawled into the deepest recesses of my mind, the place I still treasured, the only thing about me unharmed. As I had done countless times since my imprisonment, I recalled every minute we had shared over the few weeks of our marriage. From his first appearance in the foyer of my home to his happy declaration, just before he’d curled up beside me, that he was now able to do something about my nightmares. If only we had stayed there, safe
in the cocoon of our bed. Would the night have turned out any differently? Would we have made our escape later or been captured as we tried to leave?

  I would never find out, but knew only that my foolish vision had a terrible cost. We were apart, possibly forever. I’d had ample time to revisit that night in my mind and recognized the critical error I had made in leaving my dream too soon. Someone had beckoned me back to that burning room, and I had refused to go. I had sensed there was something else, some important information I needed to know. But I had let my fear overcome me and had not listened.

  And now the cost might be one or both of our lives. If I did survive, I would never forgive myself.

  A drop of water landed on top of my head, then trickled down my forehead and nose. Anticipating that others would follow, I tilted my head back and opened my mouth. The water dripped from the kitchens above at certain times each day and was the only nourishment I’d had in all the time I had been here, however long that was. At least my parched throat knew some relief.

  Hunger was another matter. The tray brought a while ago was the first I’d been offered in what I guessed to be days since I’d been down here. How long would it be before there was another? Would I even be alive then? I must be. Death tempted me every minute. I would have given much to leave the pain and cold and fear behind. But that would be leaving Collin. I had to survive for him.

  More time passed. Ten minutes perhaps, or maybe thirty. Still the rats did not stir.

  Are they dead? A chill swept through me, and I shivered, disrupting my anchor against additional pain. My arm was almost too much to bear; every breath I drew was agony. I welcomed the dark, if temporary, oblivion that had claimed me several times already. But first, I had to know if my inability to reach the plate of food had just saved me from being poisoned.

  Slowly I unfolded my numb legs from beneath me. My movements were stiff and clumsy, followed by the feeling of a thousand needles poking my skin. Using my feet and legs, I painstakingly dragged the tin toward me. Still there was no movement or noise from the cell’s former rodent population.

  In increments I drew my knees up, until the plate was close enough for me to touch. I hesitated. Touching the rats with my slippered feet was one thing, but voluntarily reaching for them with my bare hand—

  I have to know.

  I drew out my movement, measured to cause as little pain as possible. If I moved too fast or it became too intense I would faint again.

  At last my fingers brushed the coarse fur. It was cold, the body stiff as I picked it up. Bile rose in my stomach, and it was all I could do not to drop the creature. I set it down and ran my fingers blindly around the rim of the plate, over more rats, all of them dead. Poisoned.

  The Lord is merciful. My heart raced at the realization of such a close brush with death and that I had been spared. For all my pain, for all I might have wished for death in my worst moments, it was not what I wanted.

  How long before the guard returns? He would be expecting a dead body. Or would he even come at all? Would they just leave me down here forever?

  I forced back the panic of that thought and tried to focus on what I should do. Brann had intended to poison me. The rats had saved me. He didn’t know that. What if I could convince him that I ate the poison and was not killed?

  He could try a second time, or simply leave me here to starve. He might use a more certain method to end my life.

  Any of those were possible, though I doubted the latter. Brann had been frightened of me, or of killing me outright at least. What exactly had my mother told him before she died?

  He’d had ample opportunity since my return and had not taken advantage of it. Poisoning was certainly a coward’s way. If he believed his effort had failed, that I was not so easily done away with, might that not disturb him more? He had called me a witch, so what if I were to become one?

  I reached for the rats again, grimacing with every move. Stay awake, I ordered myself, sharply. When the guard returned, he must not see the creatures. But where was I to put them? I could not move from my position on the floor. Any attempt, and I would pass out. With the foul rodent in my grip, I put my good hand behind me and shoved the body in the crevice of the wall where it met the floor. It took some maneuvering, but it was all I could think to do.

  Four of the creatures fit there. The others I threw, one at a time, to the far corners of the room, hoping the guard wouldn’t linger long enough to note that they were all dead.

  The entire process took quite some time and left me with a cold sweat upon my head and pain thrumming in my chest and arm. I leaned back to receive a few drops more of the precious water when the sound of voices and feet disrupted the silence.

  Using the last of my strength, I lifted the plate to my lap and waited.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The steps grew closer. I savored a last drop of water, then lowered my head so as to be facing the door when it opened.

  “It’s a dreich day. Especially down here.” A man’s voice echoed against the stone walls and carried to my cell. “What’s the laird want us to do with her body?”

  “Doesna care. Doesna even want to see it,” a second, unfamiliar, voice replied.

  “Seems a waste of a perfectly good lass,” the first man said. “What harm did Brann think she could do with her MacDonald husband gone?”

  “You’d be surprised,” his companion said. “According to Brann, her mother was a witch.” He hissed the word as if it were distasteful.

  I’ll show you a witch. Instead of being fearful of the men and what they might do, I anticipated the moment of our confrontation and what I would do. I hadn’t much on my side, except the knowledge of Brann’s fear.

  Perhaps my mother really was a ghost, and he had seen her. If so, I wished she would visit me. I could use company other than the rats.

  I’d been right in believing that Brann’s earlier expressions had betrayed him. He’d kicked and stomped and beaten me out in the courtyard, but only to the point of great pain, not death. I’d worried he’d spared my life because he intended to use me— after I was broken.

  Since being left down here this thought had warred with my instinct and will to survive for Collin. Better I am dead than at Brann’s mercy. What might he wish to use my sight for? To know where other clans were placed and what their strengths and weaknesses were, so he might invade? Would he want to know when the English patrols frequenting the area would visit the Campbell keep— so he might assure all appeared as it should?

  He would be disappointed in all of that, my sight being limited as it was. Perhaps he had realized this when Collin and I had walked neatly into his trap. Maybe that was why he

  had tried to kill me. Not with his own hands, but a coward’s way. His men had brought me down here. And now they’d been sent to retrieve what was left of me as well.

  It was one thing to inflict cruelty in public, but quite another to be alone with me— if I was a witch— particularly in a place so dark and frightening as this. I could only hope his wariness would keep him far away for some time to come. Alone in a dank, musty cell was far better than with Brann anywhere else. My surviving his attempt to end my life might work in my favor.

  Or, if I was wrong, it might not.

  The key turned in the lock and the door swung open, its hinges whining terribly. The first man ducked his head and stepped inside the low cell. His companion followed, swinging a lantern.

  “Hello.” I squinted against the light and held my arm protectively as the men jumped back, the latter hitting his head on the low doorframe.

  “What?” The first grabbed the lantern from his companion and held it up to me. “I thought you said she’d been poisoned.”

  The second muttered in Gaelic as he rubbed the back of his head. “She was. I saw it prepared. This is impossible.” He crossed himself.

  The first hit him in the arm. “Careful. If she is a witch, you’ve just marked yourself.”

  I was no more a
witch than he was supposed to be Catholic. But I had learned that all at the Campbell keep was not as it seemed.

  “What are we to do now?” the man with the lantern asked. His eyes were large and frightened. “I don’t want to be the one to tell the laird.”

  “Then don’t.” The second, still rubbing the top of his head where it had struck the doorframe, stepped closer. He squatted in front of me and reached a tentative hand out. I flinched, anticipating the pain even the slightest touch would bring.

  “She’s hurt. Badly.” He looked to his companion.

  “So?”

  “So she’s Liam Campbell’s granddaughter. We can’t just leave her here.” His words were concerned. He leaned toward me. “You’re not a witch, are ye?” he asked kindly.

  “No.” Tears brimmed and spilled over. There was compassion in his expression. The Lord is merciful.

  “I’ve a better idea than telling the laird.” Looking at me, he asked, “Could you pretend to be dead, you think?”

  I nodded. If they tried to move me the pain would be so great I would lose consciousness again.

  “And just where do you propose to take her?” the first whispered harshly.

  A smile curved my rescuer’s mouth. “Somewhere the laird will never dare to look.”

  * * *

  Heaven was a strange mixture of comfort and excruciating pain. My head rested on a soft pillow, and warm blankets covered me. But that was where the niceties ended. My stomach coiled in constant agony. I struggled for breath beneath ribs that felt crushed, and my arm throbbed and burned as if it was being wrenched in a medieval torture device.

  I opened my eyes to ensure that wasn’t actually the case and discovered that I was in my mother’s old room. Four others were here with me as well, three women and one man. No Collin.

  Light hurt too, so I squeezed my eyes shut against it, hating that I was powerless to stop the pain or the tears sliding down either side of my face.