Chapter 17 A Last Look At The Sun
A Last Look At The Sun
They dragged Senga away from the hillside and into the trees. There was a small clearing just inside the treeline, and the soldiers threw her roughly down to the ground. There were about thirty soldiers in total, all of them crowded into the clearing, staring down at her with blank, impassive eyes.
Senga sprawled on the wet ground, the breath knocked out of her body. She could hear Bluebell whinnying and prayed that her father wouldn’t follow through on his threat to have the horse killed.
She thought, briefly, of the Abbess standing in the window of the convent. Had she seen?
It doesn’t matter if she saw, Senga thought blearily. She’s inside and needs to stay inside.
“So, when this battle is won, I’ll be taking ye back to Keep Murray with me,” Laird Murray said conversationally, pacing around Senga.
She stayed where she was, crouched on the ground. Standing up was a mistake—it would only mean it took her longer to fall to the ground when he struck her. And he would strike her, Senga knew that.
“I cannot wait,” she responded, when it was clear that he was waiting for some response.
Her father grinned. He paced over to where a low tree stump jutted out of the ground and sat down upon it.
“I can’t marry ye off now,” he mused, scratching his chin.
“Ye are too old, and everybody will guess that ye have ruined yerself with that wretched stableboy. Maybe I’ll just lock ye in a cell to rot.
I’m sure ye remember what the Murray dungeons are like, eh?
Take a last look at the sun today, lass. Ye won’t see it again.”
Senga dragged her gaze upwards, meeting her father’s eyes. He was watching her with obvious amusement, and he smiled more widely when she looked at him.
Vague threats rolled through her mind, flashes of angry words, things she had no means to voice, and threats that would only make him laugh. A feeling of powerlessness washed over her, so intense it made her shiver. There’d be no running, no fighting. She was out of options, with nowhere to turn.
Suddenly, Senga was very tired of kneeling on the cold ground. Yes, perhaps there would be further to fall, but wasn’t it better than crawling on the earth?
She rose gingerly to her feet, her sore legs twinging, holding her father’s gaze.
“Ye can kill me, but I think ye know already that this war is lost,” she whispered.
“There’ll always be rebellion. Even if this battle is lost, even if ye kill every single one of us, there’ll always be more.
Laird Dickson is starting to realize that, isn’t he?
That’s why he’s so angry because he knows that nothing will ever be enough.
We’ll never stop, and nor will the ones who come after us. ”
Laird Murray’s smile faded rapidly. He jerked his head forward towards her, eyes narrowing. “Och, aye? Well, ye will be dead. And we’ll make such an example of ye that nobody will dare try again.”
She shrugged tiredly. “I think we both know, Father, that there’s always somebody who dares.”
A silence spread out between them. She noticed the Murray soldiers glancing sidelong at each other.
After a moment, Laird Murray gave a sharp, angry laugh.
“Say whatever ye like. We’ll see how fine yer words are once I’ve cut out yer tongue. And as for yer stableboy… oh, I’ve got fine plans for him.”
“Ye won’t find him,” Senga snapped, a tendril of fear uncurling inside her.
“Oh, but he’ll come running when he hears yer screams. Tobey will bring him to me if he doesn’t.
And once we’ve finished the battle here, lass, we’ll break down the convent walls and drag out the nuns.
We’ll kill them all and make sure yer Abbess sees them all die.
She’ll be the last to go. Laird Dickson has something special planned for her.
All her trouble-making, all her politicking—it has all come to this.
Women of the Highlands have been stepping out of their place for far too long, and I include ye in that, lass. ”
Senga clenched her jaw. “Ye are a monster. I don’t feel fear when I look at ye, only shame that we share the same blood.”
He flew across the clearing, hand shooting out.
His palm delivered a cracking blow across her cheek, and blood jumped in Senga’s mouth.
She staggered, nearly falling, but just about managed to keep on her feet.
Straightening up, she met his eye, dragging the back of her hand across her mouth.
There was a bloody smear left on her knuckles, and she gave a grim smile.
At that moment, running footsteps approached, and Senga’s heart jumped into her mouth.
No, no, no, she thought desperately. No, Noah!
But it was a stranger who stumbled through the trees, gasping for breath. He wore Murray tartan, torn and bloodied, and his face was splattered with dirt and gore.
“M’Laird,” he wheezed, “Laird Dickson says ye are to release yer private troop of men. He wants them to try to take the Kenneth archers one last time.”
Senga let out a long, slow breath. Laird Murray’s livid gaze fixed on her, and she bit back a laugh.
The battle is going poorly, then.
“Very well, very well,” Laird Murray snarled. “I’ll keep three of them. It will be four when Tobey gets here.”
“He wants to launch an attack on the convent, too,” the man continued, wiping a hand across his sweaty forehead. “In case we have to retreat, he—”
“Shut up!” Laird Murray howled. “Don’t say all this in front of her!”
The man shot Senga a bewildered glance. “But she is a prisoner, m’Laird.”
Laird Murray gave a growl of rage, waving his hand. The man hurried off with the vast majority of Laird Murray’s personal soldiers in tow, on their way to join the battle.
“It is going poorly, then,” Senga stated.
“Shut up,” Laird Murray hissed, rushing towards her and lifting his hand to strike her again. Senga flinched, lifting her chin, and anticipated the blow. “I tell ye what, lass, ye won’t be so cocky once that lad gets here.”
“Perhaps I am already here. And if ye lay another hand on her, I’ll cut it off, m’Laird.”
There was an instant of silence. Senga was perfectly placed to watch comical surprise spread over her father’s face.
He spun around, facing the shadows that led to the deeper parts of the forest. A figure stood there, just out of the light. The sunlight caressed a bloodied sword.
“Noah,” Senga breathed, equally terrified and thrilled.
“Don’t just stand there,” Laird Murray roared. “Get him! Quickly! Where is Tobey?”
“Tobey will not be joining us, unfortunately,” Noah stated, taking a step forward into the light. He hefted his sword, the point glinting in the weak sunlight. “At all, in fact. I left him in pieces on the battlefield, I’m afraid.”
The color drained from Laird Murray’s face. Wordlessly, he gestured to his men. The three of them hurried forward grimly. One carried a greatsword, the other a heavy battleaxe, and the third, a small and thin man, carried a sharp shortsword in each hand.
Senga let out a ragged breath as all three pounced upon him at once, blades flashing. She glanced around wildly, looking for a weapon. A rock, or a branch, even, just something to…
A hand wound around her wrist, twisting her arm back and up until she cried out in pain.
“Oh no, ye don’t, lass,” Laird Murray hissed. “Ye are coming with me now.”
Senga yelped in pain, feeling tendons and muscles in her shoulder creak. Any more pressure, and her arm would break.
“Ye are too afraid to face him, aren’t ye?” she hissed. “Ye imagined ye would have yer private guard here to kill him for ye, but ye were too cowardly to refuse Laird Dickson’s request.”
“Shut up!”
He shoved her forward through the trees, away from Noah and the fight. She could hear the clang of blades meeting and sent up a quick, frantic prayer that he would not die.
“If I can’t kill him,” Laird Murray muttered, pushing her forward to stumble through the trees back into the open space. “Then I will at least take ye. Ye are mine, at least.”
Despite it all, Senga felt a rush of relief to see that Bluebell still stood there, unharmed, cropping grass in the most unhurried way.
“When we get back to the Keep,” Laird Murray hissed, a little breathless, “ye will announce to our people that ye have come back to my side, where ye belong. Ye will tell all kinds of stories of how wild and cruel this rebellion is and how abominably ye were treated. Ye will show scars and talk of torture and cruelty enough to move even the hardest heart. That is how we’ll turn the Highlands against Keep Grahame and Kenneth.
Ye had better start thinking of good stories to tell, and I promise ye that ye will have scars enough to show. ”
Senga stumbled, unable to use her arms to save herself, and felt her father’s grip loosen on her arm. She crawled forward, snatching up a rock. It was pretty useless, as weapons went, but it was better than nothing.
Her father hadn’t noticed the rock in her hand.
“Get back here!” he roared, grabbing her ankle and hauling her backwards towards him.
Gritting her teeth, Senga spun around, throwing the rock straight at him. It wasn’t a wonderful shot, and it wasn’t a particularly large or sharp stone. But it glanced off Laird Murray’s forehead, grazing it. Blood quickly welled up.
He staggered back, dropping her leg, and lifted a hand to his forehead. When his fingers came away smeared with blood, he blanched.
“Ye bitch,” he whispered.
Senga tightened her jaw until her teeth squeaked.
“All the terrible things ye have done,” she murmured softly, “all the horrors ye have wrenched upon others, and ye swoon at the sight of yer own blood? For shame, Father. For shame.”
Rage flared in his eyes, as she’d known it would. He lunged towards her, and Senga knew that she’d gone too far.
He delivered a stinging blow across her face, making her vision blur, and knelt over her, pinning down her arms before she could recover her senses. His hands closed around her throat and squeezed.
Senga’s eyes bulged, her lungs beginning to scream almost at once. She scrabbled weakly, trying and failing to buck him off her.
This is it, then, she thought weakly, her vision beginning to bubble and blur. This is how I die.
Oh, but how far I have come!
Then there was movement, and in a confusing rush, Laird Murray went flying backwards. His hands were torn free of Senga’s throat, and she dragged in a deep, rasping breath, her fingers flying up to her bruised throat.
Noah stood over Laird Murray, who was lying on his back like an upended tortoise. Through her wobbling vision, Senga saw her father roll onto all fours and try to crawl away, fingers digging into the mossy, muddy earth.
Noah’s sword came down in a glinting flash, severing Laird Murray’s right hand at the wrist.
There was a split second of silent horror, and then the man began to scream.
“I told ye that the next time ye lay a hand on her, I’d take yer hand off,” Noah stated, his voice trembling with emotion. He turned to Senga, hurrying over towards her.
“I’m not hurt,” she wheezed, her voice oddly cracked and strained.
She knew that there could be permanent damage to a person’s throat from strangulation or other injuries and wondered briefly if her voice would ever return to the way it was.
Even if it didn’t, it wouldn’t change the fact that she was alive.
“Are ye hurt?”
He shook his head. “Murray’s men are dead. The tide of battle is turning, Senga. The Dickson men are retreating. Jame and his troops have already gone. We have the high ground, and we have better archers.”
“It’s not over,” Senga stated.
She blinked, trying to clear the pinpricks from her vision, and crouched down, tearing a long strip off the bottom of her gown. She tossed it towards her father, who was curled up on his side, sobbing faintly.
“Here, Father. Use these to stem the bleeding, if ye can.”
He said nothing, only sniffled miserably and tried to pick up the strip of cloth, using his whole hand to wrap the other.
“Whether ye are executed or not depends on the others,” Senga hissed, taking a step towards him. “Look at me!”
Laird Murray dragged his gaze up from his bleeding stump to focus terrified eyes on her.
“For my part, I’d let ye live,” Senga continued, as evenly as she could.
“But ye have committed atrocities, and I do not know how ye will be punished for them. But know this, Father. When we part ways today, I will not see ye again, and I will never think of ye again, and nor will anybody else. That will be yer punishment.”
He made no response, and really she did not want to hear one. Drawing in a ragged breath, she turned to Noah.
“It’s not over,” she repeated. “They are attacking the convent. Laird Dickson is coming for the Abbess.”
His eyes widened. “What?”
“Could they have slipped soldiers behind our lines?”
He paused, thinking. “I don’t know. I suppose so. We should hurry, then. I’ll find somewhere to lock him up, and then we’ll have to run. Can ye run?”
Senga nodded, ignoring the twinges of pain in her body. “Aye. I can do this.”