Chapter 14
One thing Ilsabeth truly hated about being imprisoned was the smell.
She was no delicate lass. She knew the scent of blood, the scent of the winter slaughter, the scent of human and animal waste and even the scent of death, but this smell made her stomach curdle.
It was the scent of despair, she decided.
Despair, lost hopes, fear, and resignation.
She was probably adding to the wretched miasma clouding the dank air.
Ilsabeth did not want to consider how many of those who had come here to die, their sorrow still mired in the stone, had been as innocent as she was.
Where was Simon? she asked silently. She was headed into her second full day in this hell.
The dark, the occasional rattle of a chain, the intermittent screams, told her others were there with her but nothing could help her stop feeling so utterly alone.
Her family would rush to her side if they knew where she was, but that would only get them captured and tossed inside with her.
No, it was Simon she really needed, so where was he?
The light suddenly grew brighter around her cell and Ilsabeth sat up on the rat-gnawed pallet she had been given to sleep on.
Then she heard footsteps. Two men, she decided, listening closely.
Ilsabeth prayed that one of them was Simon.
When Walter and a larger man came into view, she cursed, her disappointment so sharp she was surprised she was not bleeding from it.
When the two men stopped in front of her thickly barred cell, she sent Walter a look of utter loathing before studying the man he had brought with him.
There was something very familiar about his height and shape, the broad shoulders and the long legs, but she decided that should not surprise her.
Within her own family there were a lot of broad shoulders and long legs.
Then Walter, wearing that smug look that always made her so nervous, held his torch a little closer to the man, shedding more light on his face, and she frowned in concentration while studying that face even more closely.
A gasp escaped her as she found what she had blindly been seeking, the reason she felt she knew him, as her gaze was caught and held by a familiar shade of gray in the man’s one eye.
Ilsabeth began to reach out to the man but her good sense and caution returned quickly.
She yanked her hand back inside her prison, suddenly glad of the cage she was in, just as the stranger reached out to clasp her hand.
“So ye have brought Henry, the beast of Lachancorrie, with ye, have ye, Walter?” she asked even though she knew that was who the gray-eyed man was.
“Trying to better yourself in his eyes by showing him how cleverly ye have escaped punishment for your crimes. How wondrously brave ye are, to make certain a wee lass takes all the blame. Lies, deceit, murder, betrayal. Ye have been a verra busy boy gathering all the weaponry needed by a knight of the realm. A tale to tell your grandchildren for certain, aye? Ah, but if I happen to escape ye will have no bairns for I will find me a verra sharp knife and kill your progeny at the source.”
Walter looked as if he tried to glare at her yet appear untouched by her insults and threats.
It was an odd look. Simon’s brother was silently staring at her in cold, hard fury.
There was something ugly deep in the man’s one good eye.
Ilsabeth could not believe she could have, even for a moment, thought they resembled Simon’s eyes.
Unlike Walter’s expression, Henry’s sat easily on his scarred face.
The man looked ready to chew through the bars to get to her.
She did not even want to think about what he would do if he got his hands on her.
“I hear ye are the woman my brother is bedding and risking his precious good name for,” said Henry.
He looked her over in a way that made her want to slap him and then go and bathe.
For the second time since she had been tossed into her cell she was heartily glad for the thick iron bars between her and Henry, both times inspired by him.
They stopped her from attacking the man who had caused Simon so much pain and they stopped Henry, laird of Lochancorrie, from breaking her neck or inflicting some other horror on her.
“Whate’er your brother and I might be doing is really none of your business,” she snapped at Henry, suddenly realizing that every time she looked at Henry all she could see in her mind’s eye were the scars covering Simon’s back.
“I suggest ye give up your traitorous plots and run along home, Henry. The boy ye tried to beat to death ten years ago is a mon now and that mon willnae rest until he has ye tried, convicted, and executed for the traitor ye are. Mayhap, if ye cease, if ye just go away, ye can keep all ye have now–your life, your lands, your whips, ye filthy bastard,” she ended in a furious hiss.
“Did all your clever planning get ye the son ye wanted?”
“Nay. I got yet another cursed, useless daughter.” He smiled and Ilsabeth decided it was the coldest thing she had ever seen. “Sad to say, she was weak, just like her puling excuse for a father. She died.”
Ilsabeth prayed Simon never found that out.
“Do ye ken? I believe someone should have hunted ye down years ago and killed ye. I ne’er thought I would say this, as I believed I held all life sacred, but ye are a mon who sorely needs killing.
” Oh, aye, Henry would dearly love to kill me or at least make me pray for death.
“My mother would say that ye are a mon who has no other purpose in life but to destroy things, people, a young lad’s pet. ”
She looked at Walter again. “Say what ye want and go away. Your company grows tedious.”
“If ye were one of my women, I would beat ye, but I would do it so verra slowly, breaking one bone at a time,” Henry said.
That was truly terrifying, she decided, especially when the man saying the words spoke in such a slow, considering way one could imagine him savoring the pictures they painted for him.
When she had first seen Henry, she had let anger rule her tongue, not fully considering what she was saying, but now she thought she may have been very close to the truth.
There was something very wrong with Henry Innes.
She prayed his plot to steal the throne from the king failed miserably because, if Scotland ever came under this man’s rule, it was doomed to fall into a bloody, cruel time from which it might never recover.
“How verra intriguing. Most would just snap my neck,” she said. “Like a twig is often how they put it, I believe.”
“Ilsabeth, ye should watch that sharp tongue of yours,” warned Walter.
“Why? If your great plan succeeds, I will soon be dead. If it fails, I will be dead. What difference can it make what I say now?”
“ ‘Tis in the manner of the killing,” said Henry. “I can make it verra painful.”
“That is a skill to be so proud of. Henry, if I am declared guilty of all this fool”–she jabbed a finger in Walter’s direction–“has seen that I am accused of, my death is already destined to be verra painful. Unless the two of you and whatever poor fools ye have drawn to your cause, succeed, I dinnae have to worry o’er who can kill me in the most painful way possible.
” She looked at Walter again. “I am certain ye didnae come just to gloat so what do ye want?”
“I wish to speak to Ilsabeth in private, Henry,” said Walter, “if ye would excuse me for just a moment.”
Henry shrugged and, after a final chilling look at Ilsabeth, walked away. “Ye are a fool, Walter,” she told her former fiancé, “to risk everything ye have because that mon wants to be king. He will kill ye as soon as possible after he dons his stolen crown.”
“Of course he willnae,” Walter snapped, “but I didnae come to talk about Henry. Ye do ken what ye are facing, dinnae ye?”
Ilsabeth thought that was a rather witless question.
Her insides were knotted with a terror she tried to fight back with every breath she took.
In fact, only the anger over how she had been used by this man kept it from overwhelming her until she was no more than a shivering, wretched creature curled up babbling in a corner.
“A knighthood?” She wished she could see the sneer she was giving Walter for she was sure it was one of her best.
“I ne’er truly realized what a sharp, irreverent tongue ye had. No matter, that can be mended. So can this in a way. I ken a way to get ye out of here, Ilsabeth, to free you.”
“Nay, ye dinnae mean to free me. Dinnae try to lie to me, Walter, ye festering scab.” The way his eyes widened was proof enough that her fury was revealing itself in far more than her words.
“Ye wish to put me in a wee cottage in France, a mistress ye can force to your will because her only other choice is death. Weel, this woman would prefer the torturous death of a traitor to that.”
“How do ye ken about my wee cottage in France?”
“How do ye think I kenned enough about your plans to run and hide? I heard ye and David, didnae I? I was but yards away when ye sat in that garden and spoke of killing kings, laying false accusations, and saving me from execution by slipping me away to France to await your pleasure.”
“Ye were creeping about my house like a thief, were ye?”
“Oh, go away, Walter. Ye are as doomed as I am. Ye have tied your fate to a mon who beats his own brother nearly to death, who kills his own wives because they give him no sons or just because they irritate him, and who kills his own daughters because he thinks them naught but useless. A mon who killed his own father because he thought the mon had been laird enough and now it was his turn. And ye believe he willnae kill ye? Nay, Walter, ye may be even more doomed than I. Go. Away.”