Chapter 39
Eyes swollen from weeping, throat raw, face throbbing, Freya leaned against the stone wall of the cell barely wide enough for her shoulders.
A narrow slab served as her seat, cold seeping into her bones.
No torch burned, no window broke the dark.
Two paces before her stood a barred iron door.
Fastened to it was the writ of execution she had read and reread in stunned disbelief, the tolling of distant bells proclaiming that dawn was only minutes away.
She was one of only two prisoners in the Ardtornish dungeon. They had left them unguarded—every man sent to Lochaline to prepare the scaffold. Yet God, in His mercy, had given her one kindness. Pressed against her breast, hidden in her chemise, was the ballad Calum had written for her.
Calum. The memory of his smile, his whispered prayers, the strength of his arms drawing her close each night, brought fresh tears down her battered face.
For one brief night she had known what it was to be his own.
And because of him, she had come to know the Lord.
She would live on in the next life—in a kingdom not of this world, a kingdom that would never end.
Remembering the words she had prayed that holy night when Jesus saved her in the river, Freya prayed again to the One she now knew was listening.
“Take care of Calum, and Bog. Guard them, protect them. Send someone to love him, to fill his home with joy and children. Let him always remember that I love him. And let me die with honor.”
“Are you praying, love?”
Freya startled, lifting her head toward the voice. “Cota Liath?”
A wry chuckle answered. “Please—call me Brian.”
She sniffed through her blocked nose. “Are you hurt, Brian?”
Chains rattled in the dark. “Yes. My hands are broken. My nose is broken…my heart is broken.”
She shuffled closer to the barred door and pressed her forehead to the iron. “Aye, I was praying.”
He sniffed. “Then offer one up for me?”
A tear slipped down her cheek. “Aye…but you could speak to Him yourself.”
A heavy breath rattled out of him. “I haven’t prayed in years. Feels too late now.”
Freya curled her fingers around the cold bar, searching for words. “But…your voice is rich, warm, steady. It would comfort me to hear you pray, even if you didnae mean it.”
A long silence stretched, then another wry chuckle. “Clever girl. All right then.”
He hesitated. “How does one begin these things?”
The humor in his question struck her, and she snorted. He laughed with her and for a moment the dungeon filled with sound lighter than the dark deserved.
She leaned her cheek against the cold door, steeling herself. “I suppose you begin with honesty.”
He cleared his throat. “Dear God...” A silence stretched before he tried again.
“God of Heaven and Earth—I don’t know why we’ve been left here.
I don’t know why a man like Alexander Stewart walks free.
I don’t understand why raids ravage our kingdom, sparing the wicked and crushing the weak.
I’ve long wondered why the most vulnerable bear the worst burdens.
It makes me question if you’re there at all.
“And yet...” His breath caught. “Yet I’ve seen glimpses.
Hope in men who will not bow to evil. A father’s devotion to the memory of his daughter.
The courage of an island lass with nothing but a quill and a voice.
You gave me a voice too, and for that I’m grateful—that I’ve not stood silent while evil spread.
“So I ask for deliverance. If you’re there, and you’ll hear a lapsed man with little more than a voice, give me another chance. And if not...then spare my friend here, Freya. Better yet—both of us. I’d like the chance to know her better. And the kindness in her heart.
“And...erm...forgive me for my sins. Especially for cutting up my sister Hilary’s poppet when I was eight and blaming the cat. The fibers stained the floor red, and Hilary got scolded for leaving her things about. She still hasn’t forgiven me. Perhaps you might send another poppet, to make amends.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
Freya broke into wet laughter, wiping at her cheeks.
He chuckled with her. “Ah, I’ve made you laugh again.”
“Aye. You’ve a sister?”
Chains shifted. “One. Hilary. Our parents are long gone. She and her husband keep a stud farm in Sussex.”
Freya tilted her head. “England, then?”
“Partly. My father was a Scot—a Lowlander. I came north to serve at Scone thirty years past.”
She dabbed her cheeks dry. “And what drove you away?”
His voice hardened. “Alexander Stewart. I couldn’t stomach the things he did. Perhaps it was a foolish mistake.”
She puzzled. “Why do you say that?”
“I’ve been stony-broke ever since. I enjoyed the freedom, however. And the chance to do a little good every once in a while. Like for Tyr MacLean.”
The name calmed her, the thought of his steady presence a balm to her heartbreak. “Tyr was—he was my dearest friend. He loved me. Looked out for me.”
Chains rattled with his groan.
“Are you in pain? Shall I stop talking?”
“No, love. Keep on. It helps with the fear. …Tyr believed in you. He knew what you carried was powerful. I thought you were his daughter. I had no idea you weren’t. Odd, that.”
She tucked her freezing hands under her arms. “What made you think we were related?”
“Well, he told me so. That you were his daughter.”
The word daughter seemed to strike the stone and linger, echoing back at her like a blessing. Her breath caught, chest aching. Papa had given her nothing but his contempt. Her true father had never once acknowledged her. But Tyr—Tyr had claimed her.
Her eyes brimmed over, hot tears tracing the bruises on her cheeks. Her voice broke. “He did?”
“Aye. He said his wife—Mariota, was it?—feared for your safety. They agreed you should be called the Storyteller, to shield you. But he told me this as well: ‘If anything happened to our daughter, Mariota would never recover.’
“I asked him why not leave the tales anonymous. He shook his head. Said they were too beautiful, too rare, too powerful to be left for a man to claim. He insisted his daughter must be named—if only by her sobriquet.” Brian paused, breath shaking. “He was most proud—”
The dungeon door clanged open. A dim torch spilled down the corridor. Freya scrambled back onto her seat as Brian’s door creaked wide, and then her own.
A guard leaned in, torchlight catching his face. “Saints. What have they done to you?”
The odd, almost tender remark lit a flicker of hope. “Are they releasing us?”
His face fell. “I’m sorry, lass. No. The King’s only agreed the MacDonald guards may see you as far as Lochaline. Once we reach the green…” he paused, grimacing, “…the Stewarts will take over.”
Freya’s heart plummeted. “My husband? Has he been told?”
The guard shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
She drew a breath, slow and shuddering. Her chest ached with the weight of all she was losing—Calum, Bog, her friends, the children she would never hold. The grief threatened to crush her, and her eyes burned as fresh tears slid hot over her aching cheeks.
Yet in her sorrow, something steadier stirred. She remembered the river, the words she had whispered there, the God who had heard her then and would hear her now. Death was coming, but not the end. Beyond the scaffold, beyond the sword, lay a kingdom without end.