Chapter Fifteen
Waves of pain made Hamish increasingly dizzy and at times he felt dangerously close to toppling from Luar’s back.
Not wanting to hold any tighter to Isabella’s waist, he sat deeper in the saddle and wrapped his long legs as far as he could around his horse’s warm belly.
Isabella perched before him, her slight stature meaning he had an uninterrupted view of the bleak moorland they travelled through.
Just a few sparse winter trees broke the monotony of hills and heather and melting snow.
He had lost all sense of time and could not guess how much longer they still had to travel.
But every time Luar skidded on some loose ground, or shied at a shadow, he gritted his teeth to prevent himself from crying out in agony.
It had been a blow to his pride when Isabella took the reins. But he had to admit, in the privacy of his thoughts at least, that she had been right to do so. Alaric had plunged the blade through layers of muscle as well as flesh, and in his sword arm to boot.
Hamish cursed his own foolishness. He should have stayed on his guard around Alaric.
But the hot surge of anger did his balance no favors, and he was obliged to lower his head and take deep breaths until the world settled once again.
Seemingly mindful of his troubles, Isabella kept Luar straight and steady over the moors.
She was an accomplished horsewoman, he realized, mastering a strange and headstrong mount, and leading the pony by their side, with no trouble at all.
Isabella was a clever, talented and beautiful woman, who, if his memory served him correctly, claimed she was falling in love.
With him.
Hamish’s heart began to beat faster with the sheer unanticipated wonder of it.
In different times, he might have shouted his good fortune from the highest tower of Greenock.
But those times were gone. He could not pretend, even to himself, that he and Isabella enjoyed much prospect of future happiness.
God’s blood, with his sword arm so injured, could he even defend himself? Let alone, mount an attack on the imposters who had claimed his birthright as their own. His sword hung from his belt, as usual, but would he be able to grasp the hilt and draw it against an enemy?
A cruel wind whipped up his hair and cloak, as if giving further weight to these doubts that struck like an axe at the very foundations of the person Hamish had always believed himself to be.
A leader, with no men to follow him.
A warrior, who could not even swing his own broadsword.
Hamish gritted his teeth at the shame of it.
Isabella tilted her golden head and spoke over her shoulder.
“There is an overhang, up ahead. It should offer shelter from the wind. Would you like to stop a while?”
Irritation made him gruff. “Do ye need to rest?”
She hesitated. “I was thinking of your arm.”
He would not give in to weakness. Nor to this damnable surge of self-pity. “Nay, thank ye for yer concern but the sun is already setting. We should push on.”
“The lay of the land looks familiar to me now.” Her voice was soft and reassuring. “I am certain that once we are over the next hill, the castle ramparts will come into view.”
Isabella spoke with the casual ease of one who expected a warm welcome at their destination. And why should she not? But things were very different for Hamish. He had never envisaged coming before the de Nevilles in such a state.
He grunted in response, but regretted it when Isabella threw him an uncertain glance over her shoulder.
“I thought you would be pleased at the idea of our journey’s end.”
Aye, how could he not long for a comfortable chair and perchance the ministrations of a healer?
But this was an English stronghold they were riding into. And Hamish was a highlander through and through.
He cleared his throat. “Methinks ’twill be difficult to convince yer brother I am worthy to be the Laird of Greenock when I canna steer my own horse.”
Her laughter was like a peal of bells, incongruous given the heaviness of Hamish’s heart.
“Tristan will look beyond that, I promise.”
“Ye have faith in yer brother.”
“I do.” Isabella was emphatic. “Oft times he can be quick to anger. But he always does what is right in the end.”
Hamish breathed deeply to stem the panic that sent dots dancing around his vision.
Down below him, the grey pony stepped on manfully, trotting occasionally to keep up with Luar’s longer strides.
Hamish would have to be like the pony; accepting of these strange twists of fate and willing to keep ploughing forward.
But the pain in his arm had become a hot band of throbbing steel that took up most, if not all, of his thoughts by the time Isabella pointed ahead of her and spoke up with evident relief.
“There it is.”
Wolvesley Castle blazed with light, like a Beltane celebration.
Orange flames flickered against the dark sky from hundreds of torches positioned all around the ramparts.
The mighty gates, however, were closed, and the guards standing in the tower showed no sign of opening them for the ragged pair of riders slowly approaching.
A shiver of misgiving rippled down his spine, but Isabella still sat easily in the saddle.
They rode right up to the colossal gates, as if his companion’s sheer force of will might force them open.
She tilted her face up to the glowing torchlight and a shout went up.
“’Tis Lady Isabella.”
The cry was picked up by other guards and soon reverberated around the ramparts. The large wooden gates creaked open and the guards let out a loud cheer which ricocheted off the high walls all around them.
After an arduous day, it was too much for Luar, who was in a strange place with unfamiliar hands on her reins.
Hamish sensed the frisson of panic pass through her, but was powerless to prevent what happened next.
They were barely through the gates when Luar reared onto her hindlegs then launched into a gallop, leaving both riders grimly hanging on.
Isabella had the good sense to drop the pony’s reins, but even with her full attention fixed on her mount, she could not bring the warhorse back under control.
Hamish lurched dangerously to one side and was obliged to grip the back of the saddle with the hand of his wounded arm.
A shameful moan of pain came from him, as his horse careered into the stable yard of Wolvesley Castle.
A group of armed men stood waiting for them. One of them stepped forward and grasped Luar’s reins as if she was no more than a runaway pony. His horse shied and tossed back her head, but the knight was not perturbed. He raised his torch and gazed at the riders.
“Isabella?”
He did not use her title and this, together with the sheen of blond hair in the torchlight, told Hamish that he was most likely looking at the man he had come here to find, Tristan de Neville.
Tristan was tall and broad-shouldered and spoke with the voice of authority. But his voice had grown more tentative when he frowned in confusion and asked, “Is that really you, Bella?”
“Aye, and what welcome is this? Let go of the horse, Tris, else she’ll never settle.” Isabella sounded irritated. Her brother did as she requested, and after a little more prancing, Luar finally lowered her head, snorted deeply and came to a juddering halt.
Hamish released the breath he did not know he’d been holding, and Isabella patted the horse’s neck.
“Easy girl,” she murmured.
Hamish had the distinct feeling he might be sick.
Only the fact he had eaten little that day went in his favor.
His vision had broken into swirling lines and his arm throbbed with the rhythm of a beating drum.
He knew he must gather his wits to make a good impression on the powerful English lord, but that time came sooner than he had imagined.
Tristan reached up and closed vice-like fingers around his wrist. “Get down,” he ordered.
Hamish tried to speak and introduce himself, but the words refused to come. He looked stupidly down into the piercing blue eyes of Isabella’s brother and heard only a great roaring in his ears.
“Now, I say.” Tristan did not look like a man whose commands were ever ignored.
But Hamish could not dismount without leaning his weight onto his injured arm, and his body was stubbornly refusing to do that. He measured the distance to the ground and thought he would never make it.
“Let go of him, Tris.” Isabella’s voice was sharp. “He is a friend of mine, an ally. Not an enemy.”
“He is a Scot. I can see from the braids in his hair and his plaid that he hails from the highlands. Methinks he is one of the party that slaughtered your escort and kept you captive in Ember Hall. Am I right?”
Isabella must have been as dumbfounded as Hamish, for she had no response to this. Shaking with effort, Hamish held up his free hand in a gesture of peace.
“Ye have the facts right, my lord, but I beg leave to explain—”
Hamish got no further, for seemingly dozens of hands closed around his waist and legs, dragging him unceremoniously from his own horse. He landed with a bump on the damp cobbles and a new pain shot up his back.
“What are you doing?” demanded Isabella, asking the question which Hamish did not have the breath to form.
Luar whinnied a warning, but Tristan held tightly to her head.
“Take him to the dungeons,” Tristan ordered calmly.
“Why the dungeons? What the devil is happening?” Isabella twisted in the saddle and for a precious moment, her eyes met his.
He read confusion and mounting anger in her gaze, and wanted to tell her that she should not say or do anything to risk her own safety.
Not on his account. But before he could speak a word, a gag was forced over his mouth.
He winced at the tightness of it, but at least the cloth was clean had no particular smell or taste.
Just as he counted his blessings, rough hands grasped his arms and legs, and he roared with pain.
Fingers clamped around his injury and Hamish was unable to curb his instinctive response to lash out at his aggressor.
But this only made his captors more eager to restrain him. The more he struggled, the tighter they held onto his flailing limbs.
“Let him go.” Isabella’s voice was loud and imperious, carrying through the stable yard like an imperial command.
Perhaps confused by the contradictory instructions, the men-at-arms released their iron-like grip, but they still carried Hamish like a sack of straw. He was conscious of the slick stone cobbles beneath him, and half hoped they would not carry out Isabella’s order.
Booted footsteps travelled closer and soon Tristan’s face loomed over him. His blue eyes and angular features were reminiscent of Isabella, but the simmering anger in his expression was something Hamish had never seen in the woman he loved.
“Stay still, man,” he said impatiently. “You might consider yourself fortunate I have not already run you through with my sword.”
Hamish forced himself to breathe slowly, to meet the man’s gaze and communicate his peaceful intentions as best he could.
I mean no harm, he tried to convey.
Ridiculous.
How can I inflict harm on anyone just now?
Tristan de Neville’s reputation was of a courageous yet fair-minded knight. But Hamish saw no flicker of fair-mindedness in this man’s eyes.
“Tristan, I tell you, he is my friend.” Isabella jumped down from Luar and threw the reins to a waiting stable hand. If he could have spoken, Hamish would have asked her to stay away. He had no wish for her to see him gagged and bound like a criminal.
’Twas Tristan himself who held up his hand and, glowering, demanded she keep her distance.
He turned back to Hamish. “Answer me this, and answer honestly or suffer the consequences on the morrow. Have you held my sister prisoner these last days?”
What could Hamish do but nod?
Tristan’s expression became cold and disdainful. “Take him away,” he said.
Hamish closed his eyes as his captors bundled him over the cobbles and down a series of stone steps, which jolted his wounded arm and made him clench his teeth around the cloth.
The air grew colder and foul-smelling, and he concluded they had passed into the dungeons.
As a last attempt at self-preservation, he opened his eyes to try and take notice of his surroundings, but all he saw was a dark granite wall and a floor covered in straw.
The tramping of footsteps echoed the pounding in his head.
A door was unlocked with a large iron key, and as Hamish craned to take a look at the cell, he noticed a small, slight figure in the corner of the large room they were passing through.
Perchance ’twas no more than his imagination, for the figure neither moved nor spoke. Hamish was dropped, with little ceremony, onto a thin and stained straw pallet. The door swung closed behind him and he heard the key turn in the lock.
Then everything went dark.