Chapter 16
A Mistake, I think
Freya walked as quickly as she could, in the hopes of distracting herself from the memories.
It wasn’t working so far.
Her own words swam round and round in her head, taunting her.
How could I have done it? How could I have spoken to them like that?
Regret, it seemed, was a more painful thing than Freya could have anticipated.
Her feet had taken her up through the convent garden, towards the forest.
I don’t even know where I’m going.
This is all a mistake.
There was nobody in the gardens, which was odd in itself. Freya imagined that just about everybody must be in the infirmary, taking care of the injured. No, that wasn’t quite true—one elderly nun picked her way between the beds, rheumy old eyes fixed downwards on the vegetables.
I’ll have to tread carefully, she told herself. I’m on my own now. Maybe I’ll find another convent, another place to rest.
She paused at the crest of the hill, swallowing thickly.
Turning, she looked back down the slope.
Part of her hoped to see one of the girls, Senga perhaps, or Kyla, running out to catch her.
In her imagination, they told her that she was forgiven for the cruel things she’d said, that they understood why she’d said it.
They assured her that they cared, that she could come home, that it could all be the way it was before.
Nobody was there, of course. The doors remained resolutely closed.
Happy endings don’t exist in the real world, she thought, biting the inside of her cheek.
Tears stung her eyes, but Freya had already decided that she wasn’t going to waste any more time on tears. Tears did nothing, and got a person nowhere. She considered, briefly, running back to the convent, to make her apologies before she left.
Nay, lass. It’s too late for that.
Slowly but firmly, Freya put her back to the convent, and climbed up a little further. The cool green of the forest swallowed her up, her feet finding the familiar path which snaked through the forest and led to the town. She’d need supplies, and then…
Something heavy struck Freya on the back of the head. The world spun, and she found herself face-down on the ground, pain pounding through her skull. Rough gravel and dirt pressed against her cheek, and her fingers scrabbled in the undergrowth, seeking purchase or perhaps a weapon.
Muffled male voices came from above her, and a pang of fear shot through Freya, so intense she had to bite her lip not to cry out. Her head cleared, just a little, and she heard one of the men speak.
“I never thought we’d get her. Aye, it’s her, for sure. Ye were right, Fergus—she was in the convent.”
“Told ye so,” came a smug reply.
Freya’s reaching hand finally closed around a smooth, cold stone, large enough to fit in her palm. Her heart leapt. It was hardly a proper weapon, but it was better than nothing. She began to draw it back, already planning what she would do.
I have to get up, get free of them, then run down to the convent. It’s not far, and if I can just…
She let out an involuntary cry of pain as one of the men knelt down, his knee pressing against her forearm with all of his weight behind it. She dropped the stone, but the painful pressure remained.
“Not so fast, lassie,” ground out an unpleasant voice.
Squinting upwards, Freya recognized the man from the pub, the one who’d identified her and caused all the trouble. Like the rest of them, he wore Grahame tartan. He reached down, pinching her cheeks painfully.
“Pretty lass, aren’t ye? I’m sure we’ll have a good deal of fun on the way back to Keep Grahame.”
Before icy fear could properly take hold of Freya’s heart, another man reached down, gripping the man’s shoulder and hauling him back.
“She’s Laird Grahame’s betrothed, Fergus,” the man snarled. “Nobody lays a finger on her. There might already be questions asked about any bruises. Ye don’t look at her without my say-so, got it?”
Fergus snarled, but backed away. Freya found herself hauled onto her feet, her arms roughly twisted and bound behind her back. The man who’d spoken was tall and dark-haired, middle-aged and visibly tired.
“I’m no threat to ye, lassie,” he said, sighing. “But Laird Grahame has sent me to bring ye back to him, and back ye shall go. Unless, of course, ye have some information to offer us?”
The air seemed to go still. Freya licked her dry lips.
“What do ye mean by information?”
The man smiled coldly. “The Grahame heir is missing. Rumor has it he was in this part of the world. I think the Laird would rather have his heir back than ye if he had to choose. Do ye know anything about that?”
The air seemed to grow chilly.
Could I do it? Freya thought wildly. Could I point him in the direction of Brendan and my own freedom?
The answer came disappointingly quickly.
“No,” she said aloud. “I don’t know anything about a Grahame heir.”
The man nodded. “I thought not. Come on, then, lass, off we go.”
She struggled, pulling backwards in vain. She was outnumbered, of course, and the men simply lifted her off her feet, carrying her as her feet flailed in the air.
“I don’t want to go back!” Freya burst out, twisting around desperately, praying for a rescue that was not coming. “Ye can’t take me back to him, not after I got away. It’s not fair!”
“Aye, a great deal in life is not fair,” the man sighed. “What possessed ye to leave the convent, lass? A mistake, I fancy.”
Freya went limp, the fight draining out of her.
This is what I deserve. I was ungrateful to the people who wanted to help me. I didn’t help myself. I was cruel to them.
This is no more than what I deserve. I’ve brought it all upon myself.
“Aye,” she whispered, although no one seemed to be listening. “It was a mistake.”