Chapter 5 Nothing To Forget
Nothing To Forget
Ten Years Ago
Senga stood in the middle of the tiny servant’s barrack, staring around her.
He isn’t here.
The room, such as it was, looked like a cell. Of course, she’d been here before, but not often. For the two of them, sneaking in and out of each other’s rooms was simply too risky, and it was safer to choose more neutral locations to spend time together.
Noah’s room was small, rectangular, and bare.
One window let in very little light, and there were bars fenced on the outside of the window.
The grayish pre-dawn light swept through, illuminating the room’s pathetic contents.
A narrow pallet bed was pushed into the corner, with a small stack of books resting on the floor beside it.
He must have taken the books from the library.
Senga recognized a few books she had lent him herself. He’d be punished for having them.
The bed was neat, clearly unslept in. He hadn’t been there all night.
Senga’s limbs seemed to lose their strength, her arms dropping heavily to her side. Her bag, hurriedly packed an eternity ago, fell to the ground.
“Ye only missed him by a few moments, ye know.”
Spinning around, Senga found herself facing her own father in the doorway.
Laird Murray had turned gray early on in his life. Senga couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t had iron-gray hair and a scruffy, patchy beard. He was a short man, round-faced and round-bodied. She’d seen him occasionally with the other lairds, and he always seemed to be the smallest among them.
Senga did not know her father well, but she knew well enough that he resented being small, and not just physically.
“What do ye mean?” she managed at last, tilting up her chin.
The escape was over, she knew that much. They had planned to leave after dark, as soon as Noah could sneak away from the stablehead and the rest of the Murray guardsmen, but somewhere along the line something had gone wrong.
Very wrong.
Laird Murray sighed. For a moment, it almost seemed that he pitied her.
“Ye aren’t as clever as ye think ye are, Senga.
Did ye think ye could throw away yer virtue on a filthy servant and I would not know of it?
Ye are mine to dispose of, lass. Mine. And that servant is guilty of theft towards me, stealing the gratitude and obedience which should have been mine.
” He paused, smiling widely. “We took him shortly after supper for questioning.”
Questioning. That terrible word conjured up enough ideas to make Senga feel ill.
“What did ye do to him?” she breathed.
“Enough to make him tell most of it. Even the sight of the rack made him blubber and cry. That pretty face of his isn’t quite so pretty anymore, I’m afraid.
But he wouldn’t say where ye were, so we pretended to let him escape.
He ran straight to the stables, and we caught him there. Would ye like to see?”
No.
Senga wanted to scream.
She wanted to fling herself onto the unyielding stone floor and sob and cry like a child.
It was a tempting idea. But if she did that, her father would haul her away by her hair.
He’d never whipped her, but he’d threatened to often enough.
She’d watched the tortures he’d imposed on other men and women.
If he ever crossed that line with them, she knew she was done for.
Her father’s threats were not empty. There were often punishments in the courtyard, scenes that every inhabitant of the Keep was forced to watch.
They ranged from simple executions—burnings, beheadings, hangings, and so on—to more elaborate punishments.
A man was whipped until he was dead for abandoning his post as a sentry.
A woman was boiled alive for stealing food from the kitchen.
A serving wench was accused of telling a story that put Laird Murray in a bad light, so she had her head shaved, ears and nostrils slit, and both hands cut off.
She died a beggar later on, and Laird Murray had her body dug out of its shallow pauper’s grave and hung on the Keep walls.
To make a point, he’d said. In case people forgot who their laird was.
She didn’t risk raging him. Instead, she met her father’s gaze coolly and evenly.
“I don’t believe ye.”
Laird Murray blinked. Senga wondered if he was surprised that she held his gaze. Maybe he hadn’t thought that she would have the strength. It wasn’t as if he knew her very well.
“I thought ye might not,” he said at last. “Come with me.”
Senga thought about refusing, then she saw the shadows of soldiers waiting outside the door and realized that it wasn’t a request. To keep her dignity and avoid being dragged by her wrists through the courtyard, Senga hoisted her bag back on her shoulder and followed her father out into the hallway.
They moved in silence through the Keep, with the Laird leading the way, Senga following, and the soldiers flanking them grimly. Senga was under no illusions. She was a prisoner now.
They crossed the courtyard, and she realized with a sickening lurch where they were going.
“The stables?” Senga queried aloud, her voice seeming very thin and high in the silence. “Why are we here?”
“I told ye,” Laird Murray answered, not bothering to turn around. “He ran here. We caught him here. I want ye to see.”
Bile crept up Senga’s throat. When they reached the threshold of the stables, she balked. She wasn’t allowed to change her mind now, though. Had she ever had a choice in any of this?
No, probably not.
One of the soldiers placed a hard, flat hand in the small of her back, pushing her forward. She stumbled into the darkness of the stables, straw pushing up against the hem of her skirts.
The smell hit her first.
Stables always had a distinctive scent. It was an earthy, animal-scented place, mingled with fresh hay, manure, and sometimes the sharp smell of spilled liquor if the grooms and stablehands had been sneaking nips of whiskey.
The smell could be a comforting one, but not this time. This time, it was laced strongly with the metallic, carnage-scent of blood. Senga gagged because she knew whose blood it must be.
Her eyesight adjusted after the smell had sunk in. Blinking, Senga stared around her. It was clear where Noah had bled. A section of the ground in the middle of the stables had been cleared haphazardly of straw, as if by the sweep of an arm or the kick of a leg.
Blood puddled on the bare floorboards, seeping into the wood to cause a stain that would last forever. A bloodstained knife, the small wooden-handled thing that Noah used to whittle wood, lay in the middle of the floor.
When Senga picked it up, the handle left a thick line of blood across her palm.
Sprays of blood shot up the walls; fat droplets splashed here and there. Lumps of offal were kicked into the corners, shapes she did not dare look at too closely. The smell hung in the air, and bile fought its way up her throat.
Abruptly, Senga spun around and raced outside. She half expected the soldiers to stop her, but they merely stepped aside. She skidded around the corner, just managing to secure some privacy for herself before she vomited up her guts.
Vomit splashed onto the cobbles, and Senga’s tears mingled with it.
He’s gone. He’s dead. Murdered.
Because of me.
A boot scraped across the cobbles behind her, and Senga didn’t need to look to know who was there. She tried to catch her breath, but it was no use.
“How long have ye known?” she managed, her voice hoarse.
“Long enough,” Laird Murray murmured. “I haven’t decided upon yer punishment yet.
I cannot ruin yer pretty face or risk cutting any part of ye off, not with the marriage coming up, but I’ll think of something.
For now, I’ve spent enough of my anger on that stable lad.
Should have strung him up by his own guts. ”
Senga retched. “Ye are a monster. He was innocent.”
Her father gave a thin smile. “No one is innocent, lass. Those who are innocent deserve death more than the rest of us, if ye ask my opinion. I’ll give ye a moment to grieve, then ye can come to me and we’ll talk about yer future.
Just know that the longer ye keep me waiting, the longer I’ll have to think up a pretty punishment for ye.
Ye must have known that this would not go unpunished, lassie.
Not at all. For what it’s worth, yer new husband is said to be even crueler than me.
Or so his previous wives said, at least. He’s a widower now, o’ course.
I’d tread carefully if I were ye, but I doubt ye will hear my advice on this matter. ”
Senga offered no response, and her father didn’t seem to want one.
He’d never bothered to listen to her before, and no doubt he would not want to start now.
She’d never been worth listening to, perhaps.
Senga leaned against the stable wall, listening as his footsteps retreated.
She could hear the low mutters of the soldiers, still waiting for her around the front of the stables.
It had occurred to Senga, of course, that her father could be lying.
There was a great deal of blood in the stables, too much for any one man to lose and live.
However, Laird Murray was good at playing tricks.
He’d once caught a merchant who’d schemed against him, but the man’s wife and children escaped.
Furious, he lied to the merchant and told him that his family had been caught.
The merchant told him everything about the plot, but Laird Murray wasn’t satisfied.
He served the man a rich dinner, pie, slices of beef, and delicious red dripping.
Later, he told the man that his wife and children had been cut up and served in that meal.
Apparently, the poor merchant starved himself to death in his cell later, never knowing what everybody else knew—that Laird Murray had lied to him.