Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The dungeon under Brochel Castle breathed cold against Halvard’s skin, the stone damp, iron old, a faint, metallic tang of water seeping down the walls. Torches spat and hissed, their flames wavering along the corridor as Halvard descended the worn steps.
Sten stood outside the cell, his arms crossed, his shoulders rigid as carved granite. “He’s awake,” he said with a grim tilt of his head. “Spat on me twice. Called me a flea-ridden barbarian.” His teeth flashed in a humorless smile. “He’s English, alright.”
Halvard stepped past him without a word—only a somber nod and a pat on the shoulder.
Inside the cell, the man sat tied to a chair, his hands bound behind him, his face bruised from Sten’s less than gentle encouragements.
His hair was dark, his clothing rough, torn in places and soiled in others, but not a peasant’s clothing.
His leather boots were well-stitched, shined. A ring rested on one finger.
Halvard’s gaze narrowed. He was not a local brigand.
He’s certainly English.
The man tensed when Halvard entered. He could see it in his shoulders, in the way his spine went rigid, in the way he straightened on the chair as much as his bonds would allow when his gaze fell on Halvard, as if he could make himself larger, more intimidating.
“Ye ken who I am?” Halvard asked, his voice low, controlled.
The man swallowed with an audible click. “Laird Halvard MacLeod. The Savage.” He forced a smirk. “Hard to mistake the reputation.”
Halvard stepped forward until the man flinched. “Then ye ken I dinnae enjoy askin’ questions twice.” He crouched so their eyes were level. “Who sent ye fer her?”
The man’s jaw tightened. “We weren’t sent for anyone.”
Halvard’s patience thinned like a fraying rope. It didn’t take long for him to lose that patience in the best of days, and he was certainly not having a good day.
“Dinnae lie. Ye were armed, prepared, waitin’ on the path like ye kent she’d come. A lad used as bait. Ye werenae stealers of coin. Ye were hunters.”
The man looked up at Halvard, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. Now that Halvard stood close to him, he could see the damage Sten had done—a bruised eye, shut from the swelling, a broken nose, scrapes and cuts from the ring he wore.
And yet, the man smiled.
“Hunters, eh? That’s nice,” he said. “I find myself quite flattered, my laird.”
Halvard’s eyes narrowed, but he tried to push down the rage that threatened to bubble over inside him. He couldn’t lose his temper, not now. He couldn’t allow himself to get distracted by his fury when he needed answers.
“Tell me who sent ye.”
“There isn’t enough gold in the world that would pay for this answer.”
Halvard’s hand shot forward, gripping the man’s throat—not choking, not yet, but enough to remind him who held power there. There was no need for gold; there never was. He wasn’t going to bribe the man when he could simply deal with him in a much easier, more direct way.
Terror flickered in the man’s eyes then, just for a moment, before he masked it. “We were meant to take a woman. That is all.”
“A woman,” Halvard repeated slowly. “From Brochel Castle?”
Silence. But silence was not denial, and that was enough.
Halvard released him with disgust. The man coughed, gasping.
“Ye speak with an English tongue,” Halvard said, standing tall again. “Ye were paid. Trained enough tae ken how to ambush without losin’ yer own hide too quickly.”
The man said nothing. He only stared at Halvard in silence, his good humor now gone, replaced instead by a glare. In the dim light of the cells, his blue eyes flashed with rage, and Halvard could see the shadows over him as he strained, as if he was trying to get out of his bonds.
But the rope held fast. And as he sat there in that rickety chair, the man surely realized there would be no escape. There was nothing waiting for him but the gallows, and yet when Halvard looked at him, he never once found his resolve crumbling.
He’s loyal tae his master. He willnae speak.
But that didn’t mean Halvard couldn’t come to a conclusion on his own.
He glanced at Sten, his voice a low whisper as he said, “This reeks o’ Harcourt.”
Sten nodded grimly, without hesitation. “Aye. A bairn used as bait? That’s a noble’s tactic… someone who kens what’ll pull a lass like Elsie from safety an’ someone who daesnae care about the bairn.”
A fresh wave of fury rolled through Halvard’s veins.
Sten was right, and Elsie had been right, too.
In his haste to blame someone, he had blamed the boy, when he was only a child and had been used by Harcourt.
Who knows what could have happened to him had it not been Elsie who followed him, had he been caught by someone?
Who knows what he could have endured if one wrong move had threatened his life.
Or even ended it.
But it was Harcourt and his schemes. He had dared to send English men onto Highland soil to drag Elsie from his land; to take her back to England by force at best—and at worst, to get rid of her entirely.
Tae replace her with his own daughter.
The bastards had planned it well—if Halvard hadn’t returned early, if Elsie had vanished without witnesses, Bowen could have spun any tale he wished to the crown.
The king would have believed him; why wouldn’t he, after all?
He had no reason to believe Halvard if he claimed it was all because of Harcourt.
Even now, the only proof he had was in his gut, in the feeling he carried with him.
If this man didn’t speak, which was the most likely outcome, then Halvard would have to find other proof—something solid, something he could use against Harcourt when the time came.
Halvard turned back to the prisoner. “Where’s the rest o’ yer group?”
The man pressed his lips shut but Halvard didn’t miss the fear behind his stubbornness.
Maybe, just maybe, he or Sten could get the man to talk.
But that would surely take long. Even if the man caved, he was loyal enough that Halvard doubted all it would take was a few punches and a few threats.
They would have to wear him down and then, if they were lucky, there was a chance he would speak.
But until then, he couldn’t rely on him for information.
“Nay matter,” Halvard said coldly. “I’ll find them afore the night is done.” He motioned to Sten, nodding his head towards the man. “Keep him alive. I want him tae remember the price o’ lyin’ tae me.”
The man’s eyes widened as Sten rolled his shoulders. Fear coursed through him—as it should. Sten was not a gentle man when it came to protecting his people.
And when he ascended the stairs to the courtyard, Halvard didn’t look back.
Outside, the sky was a steel gray that bleached the color from everything around him.
Halvard squinted up at the sparse sunlight, soft and diffused by the clouds, a sigh escaping him.
Now that he had dealt with the prisoner as well as circumstances allowed, he searched for Elsie, first in the great hall, then in their chambers and, finally, in the drawing room, where he found her.
She sat at the small table by the hearth, a blanket draped around her shoulders.
The fire cast a soft glow across her hair, making her look more fragile than he liked.
She rose the moment he entered, tension weighing her shoulders. Her skin was pallid, her expression one of concern.
“Did he say anything?” she asked.
Halvard shook his head. “Naethin’ worth the breath it cost him.”
Elsie’s shoulders slumped with defeat. “I’m sorry.”
Halvard stepped closer. “Lass, ye’ve naethin’ fer which tae be sorry. I only need tae ken what ye remember. Anythin’. Even the smallest piece.”
She bit her lip in thought, frowning, but then shook her head. “I didn’t recognize their faces. Their clothing was normal. But their voices … the accents were English. All of them.”
“Aye, I thought so,” Halvard said with a sigh, his hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose.
That only reinforced his suspicion that Harcourt was behind all this.
One Englishman was not enough proof, but several of them?
Who else could have sent them but the very man who had something to gain?
“I’m sorry I can’t give you more.”
“It’s enough,” he assured her. “More than enough.”
Because it confirmed everything. Bowen Harcourt had broken the fragile peace, trespassed onto clan land, and tried to kidnap a woman under Halvard’s protection. And not just any woman, but rather his wife in the king’s eyes.
Elsie hesitated, her fingers tangling around the edge of her sleeve as she toyed nervously with the lace there. “Ye seem… furious.”
“I am.” He didn’t hide it; he saw no reason to. If anything, he wanted the entire world to know just how much this had angered him, so that no one would dare lay a hand on Elsie again. “But nae at ye.”
Her shoulders eased only slightly, some of her concern dissipating. But it was not enough; the more he looked at her, the more he realized just how shaken she was by everything, how much the ordeal had affected her.
And Halvard would do anything to erase that fear from her face.
He reached out, brushing his knuckles lightly along her cheek. “Ye’re safe, lass. That’s all that matters now.”
But the truth was, safety meant nothing as long as Harcourt stalked the shadows.
The council chamber filled quickly—warriors, elders, Sten, and a few trusted captains. The long table held maps weighted by stones and daggers. Rain hammered against the narrow window slits as lightning flashed over the sea, the storm having approached fast and in silence.
Halvard stood at the head.
“We were lured tae the borders,” he began, his voice carrying through the chamber. “The news o’ the attack was a distraction meant tae draw me and Sten away from Brochel.”
Murmurs rippled through the chamber as the men discussed amongst themselves. Halvard caught only fragments of it, but they were all saying the same thing, expressing their distrust for Harcourt and any Englishman who had stepped foot in the castle.
And Halvard couldn’t blame them.
Sten stepped forward, clearing his throat as the discussions around him faded. “An’ while we were gone, English men attempted tae seize the Lady Elsie.”
It was not news, of course, as the tale of Elsie’s ordeal had already spread through the castle, and those who were informed of it first were none other than the members of the Council.
And yet, outrage still spread through them at the thought that their Lady, the woman chosen by their laird despite the circumstances of their marriage, had been the target of such an attack.
Halvard slammed his palm onto the map. “This wasnae chance. This was planned. Bowen Harcourt seeks vengeance fer bein’ denied the treaty. He wants Elsie out o’ me hall an’ his own daughter in her place.”
One of the captains bristled. “A Sassenach thinkin’ he can take a lady from our land? Treachery.”
“Aye,” Halvard said. “An’ he’ll answer fer it.
We’ll send word tae Thomas Redfern at once.
We dinnae ken how far this can escalate if we allow this now.
We cannae overlook the attack an’ we certainly cannae overlook the fact that someone lured us tae the borders…
it’s very likely there will be a real attack at the borderlands soon an’ we must be prepared fer it. ”
Halvard wouldn’t put it past Harcourt to orchestrate a real attack, something to distract them and keep them there for longer, or something to simply cause damage.
“Aye, that’s true enough,” said Sten. “I dinnae think Harcourt will stop until he has what he wants.”
Halvard turned to the messenger waiting near the door. “Write this,” he said. “Bowen Harcourt has violated Highland territory, used mercenaries, an’ attempted abduction o’ a titled Englishwoman under MacLeod protection. Demand immediate investigation.”
The messenger bowed and hurried out, his footsteps echoing in the large room. Halvard inhaled slowly, letting the fury anchor him rather than consume him.
“This ends now,” he said. The room quieted, every warrior alert. “Double the guards. Patrol the borders. Send scouts toward the coast. Harcourt isnae done. He’ll try again.”
Sten nodded. “An’ next time, he’ll find the gates ready.”
The meeting ended with heavy tension and determined faces, but Halvard didn’t feel relief. He couldn’t, not until he saw her again.
He found Elsie waiting in the dim corridor outside the council chamber, her hands clasped in front of her, worry etched into her brow.
“Halvard,” she whispered, stepping toward him, “what will happen now?”
He exhaled slowly. He didn’t touch her, but the urge trembled through him.
“Now,” he said, his voice steady despite the storm in his chest, “I protect ye, better than afore.”
“And Harcourt?” she asked.
“He’s crossed a line he’ll regret.”
His voice was steel, just as hard and sharp. Elsie hesitated, then placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, stepping closer.
“Halvard… will ye be safe?”
His heart clenched. His chest seized, and Halvard felt as though a giant hand was closing around him like a vice.
“Lass,” he said, finally allowing himself to cup her cheek, “as long as ye’re under me roof, I’ll nae be worryin’ fer meself.”
Elsie’s breath caught, hitching in her throat. And for a moment—for a heartbeat of quiet in the storm-torn world—he let himself look at her the way he truly felt.
Then he stepped back before he did something they may both regret.
“Rest, Elsie,” he said softly. “On the morrow, we prepare.”