Chapter 1 #2
Senga climbed to her feet, shaking out her dirty, bloodied skirts.
There’d hardly been enough time to turn around twice, not since the injured men began coming in.
The battle for Keep Grahame had finished by now, but the injured were still suffering.
People were missing, and bodies still piled up in the courtyard.
People were scrabbling through the bodies to find their loved ones.
The horror wasn’t over, not by a long shot.
“There’s nobody to be spared,” Senga sighed. “I’ll go alone.”
“Take my horse,” offered the man she’d been bandaging, staring up at the high ceiling.
He was doing poorly, and Sister Abigail had privately confided that he would likely not last the night.
“Her name is Bluebell, and she’s the most beautiful gray mare ye’ve ever seen.
I’d hate to think of her languishing in the stable alone, poor thing. ”
Senga offered him a faint smile that did not reach her green-blue eyes. He did not smile back, though. She wasn’t sure she could blame him.
Sister Abigail squinted at her. “Are ye well, Senga? Ye are quiet. Very quiet.”
Senga cleared her throat, turning away. There was a heavy brass mirror on the far side of the wall, and she caught a glimpse of herself.
It was not a pleasant surprise. Her hair was tangled, with blood streaks staining her pale blonde locks.
There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek, and of course her dress and apron were heavily soiled, too.
At least six inches of mud and water soaked the hem, and the vibrant green of poultices and herbs mingled with bloodstains painted her apron.
Well, that’s to be expected after two straight days of working in an infirmary, she thought, biting the tip of her tongue hard enough to sting.
“I’m fine,” Senga answered bluntly, turning away so that Sister Abigail could not read her face. “I’m only tired.”
Sister Abigail gave a huff, as Senga had known she would. “Well, we are all tired, lass.”
Senga said nothing and set off through the Keep at a trot.
There weren’t many people around at this time of night, only a few sleepy guards inside, a good many more alert guards outside. The air was frigid, cold enough for her breath to blow out in front of her like a cloud.
I wish I’d brought a shawl or a cloak.
Too late now. The ride would warm her anyway.
The courtyard still stunk of death, and Senga breathed through her mouth as best she could to avoid the smell. However, as she approached the stables, a worse smell filled up her senses.
Some people adored the smell of a stable, but not Senga. She felt the familiar dizziness swell up inside her and clattered to a halt at about forty feet away. She could taste blood.
“Excuse me,” she called to a passing guard, “could ye bring out a horse for me from the stables? I’ll need somebody to open the gates for me, too.”
He scowled. “What for? What are ye wanting to leave the Keep in the middle of the night for, lass? It isnae safe.”
Senga swallowed a prickle of irritation.
Already, she’d begun to notice a sharp difference between life at the convent and life here.
Firstly, there were men everywhere, and they either seemed to ogle her in a most unpleasant way or simply ignore her existence.
The nuns floated around, careful to always wear their habits, and got a little respect that way, but Senga had already lost count of the times she’d been roughly pushed aside by men strolling along the hallways.
She was interrupted when she spoke, talked over, ignored, laughed at, and even sent unceremoniously away. Some Grahame councilors had strode into the Great Hall, demanding to speak to the man in charge. They were always baffled when they were directed towards Sister Abigail or Senga.
Still, Sister Abigail had the authority of her habit, while Senga had none.
It was rapidly becoming clear that an unmarried young woman like herself was not going to be easily listened to in a place like this.
She wondered, briefly, how Freya managed to act as Lady Grahame.
However, Freya had the kind of strength of will that Senga could only dream of. And her husband, of course.
“I am going on an errand for Sister Abigail,” Senga responded, holding the man’s gaze. “I have important herbs to collect.”
The man huffed. “Can’t it wait till morning? I don’t feel like opening the gates now.”
Senga swallowed down a rush of fury. “Nay,” she snapped. “It cannot wait, unless ye would like to explain to Laird and Lady Grahame why more of their loyal, injured soldiers were allowed to die through the night for lack of care.”
That did it. The soldier paled and cleared his throat.
“Right. Well, I see. I’ll open the gates for ye. Just hammer on them when ye want to be let back in. Ye can go and choose a horse for yerself.”
Senga stiffened, an all too familiar fear inching through her. It pressed down on her chest, and she suddenly wanted to vomit.
“I cannot do that,” she said at last, her voice taut. “I don’t want to go into the stables. I… I find that confined spaces make me ill.”
Not confined spaces in general. Just stables.
There was something about the dark, earthy-smelling place that just brought Senga all the way back to the beginning. She remembered how it had been, how the horses’ eyes had rolled in fear—how her eyes had rolled in fear.
And then how fear had turned to misery and anger when she realized that he was not coming.
She could still smell blood, the scent of blood and fresh straw, mixed with her own feelings of terror and despair.
Somehow, that feeling was all bound up in the smell and sounds of a stable. It had been easy enough to avoid the stables in the convent, but going forward, it might be a little bit trickier.
The man gawked at her. “What on earth do ye mean?”
“I mean what I say, man. Go fetch me a horse.”
He heaved a furious sigh. “Fine. Do ye have a preference?”
She thought for a moment. “There’s a gray one in there called Bluebell. I’d like that horse.”
Twenty minutes later, Senga was riding through the night, hair flying out behind her. The wind was ice-cold, whipping across her cheeks and stealing her breath. Bluebell was a fine horse, not too large, but she raced across the dark hills with a speed that ate up the miles.
They were two miles from the Keep by the time Senga spotted a likely patch of undergrowth. She reined in her horse and slipped down nimbly, dropping to her knees.
Shadesflax grew in low, thick clusters that were often hidden by the surrounding undergrowth. Cursing herself for not remembering to bring a lantern, Senga began to sift through the greenery. As she searched, she thought about the chores the rest of the night would bring.
The infirmary was always busy, all day and all night. It never stopped, and the stream of sick and wounded kept coming and coming.
I can’t remember the last time I saw Astrid, Senga thought with a pang. Has it really only been days? It feels like weeks.
It was to be expected, of course. Her friends, Freya, Kyla, Astrid, even Una, were all married. They all had their own goals, their own families, and their own paths to follow. And Senga? Well, she had nothing.
Stop this, she thought to herself, gritting her teeth hard enough to hear them squeak. Ye have yer own work. Be grateful.
Then she spotted a patch of shadesflax, with its distinctive coarse leaves.
Hastily, Senga began to pull up handfuls of the herb, stuffing handfuls of it in her pockets.
Only the leaves could be used, meaning that the roots and stems would be discarded, but there was no time to sort through all of that now.
A few pocketfuls should do, she thought. We can go out to replenish our herb supplies in the morning.
There was no time for celebration, however. A nervous whinny from Bluebell was the only warning she had before the shadows across the clearing shifted, forming themselves into the shape of a man.
Senga froze, blinking hard, willing the specter to go away. Instead, it took a step forward. More shadows shifted on either side of him, forming three men in total.
“Senga Murray,” the man said, his voice heavy, harsh, and horribly familiar. “We’ve been searching for ye for a long while.”
The moonlight shone down on him, revealing a balding head of gray hair. A distinctive tartan was wrapped around his shoulders, yellow, green, and white.
Murray tartan.
Senga’s heart seemed to calcify inside her. She dragged herself slowly to her feet, heart hammering hard enough to make her feel sick.
The man met her eye and grinned.
“Remember me? Yer father’s Captain of the Guard? It’s time to come home, lassie. We couldn’t believe our luck when we saw ye leave the Keep walls tonight. We’d have gotten ye sooner or later, but it’s better sooner than later, eh?”
“I…” Senga opened her mouth, but only an undignified squeak came out.
Would words even do anything? Her feet appeared to have grown roots, anchoring her to the ground. A voice in her head screamed at her to run, but a more practical and louder voice warned her that running would get her nowhere.
This can’t be happening. I can’t have lived in safety for so long only to be dragged home now.
The captain—his name was Tobey, Senga remembered that now—took a step towards her, hand outstretched.
“Come quietly, lass,” he rasped. “I promise we will be gentle… at first.”
A long, sharp sound echoed in the undergrowth behind her. It was the metallic rasp of a sword being drawn from its sheath. As if he were an extension of her own shadow, a fourth man stepped out from the trees.
At the moment, the moon seemed to brighten up her shine especially to display him, bathing him in silvery light. Tall and broad, his skin seemed to glow in the dark, his eyes pools of black, even though Senga knew they were brown.
I am dreaming, she thought dizzily.
It couldn’t be…
The man she’d spent her life waiting for. Here. Now.
Alive.
He didn’t look at her. He didn’t look at her.
She glanced between him and the three Murray men.
Tobey sniffed, eyeing the newcomer.
“I’ve heard of ye,” he hissed. “Ye’re Grahame’s Captain, aye? Well, I suggest ye step aside if ye don’t want me to slice ye from neck to navel.”
Face impassive, the man leveled his sword, glinting in the moonlight, directly at Tobey.
“Go ahead,” he whispered, and his voice was exactly how Senga remembered it in her dreams. “Try it.”