Chapter 3
I’m Dead Already
There was a fly drowning in the bowl of gruel.
Una stared down at the struggling creature for a second or two.
Sighing, she picked up the spoon and gingerly lifted it out.
The gruel was meant to be porridge, in point of fact, but this particular bowl seemed to be full of excess water and tiny, burned oats.
The fly, miraculously, recovered after a moment or two.
Stretching out its soggy wings, it staggered along the table, leaving a tiny trail of porridge behind it.
Una cleared her throat. “Can I have another bowl of porridge, please?”
She had been served from one of the huge cauldrons, lugged daily out of the kitchen to rest in the corner of the Great Hall for the nuns and other guests to queue in front of.
Sometimes, there was fruit or even cold meat for breakfast, but lately, with winter coming on, supplies had begun to run thin.
Thinner than usual at this time of the year, according to what the other nuns whispered in the corners.
It was porridge if they were lucky, gruel if they were not.
She had been served by Senga, whose grubby, graying apron strings were wrapped twice around her waist. Was she losing weight? She certainly looked more hollow than before.
Senga glanced up, blinking at her, and frowned.
“What for? It’s not as if ye are going to eat it. That tray’s for him downstairs.”
Una bit her lip. “Aye, but… well, there was a fly in it.”
Senga sighed irritably. “I haven’t got time for this. As it is, I’m scraping the bottom of this pot, and there’s no more. If somebody has to have porridge with a fly in it, I’d rather it be him.”
Well, that was that, then. Una nodded and moved away from the head of the queue, letting the nun behind her shuffle up to get her food.
Part of her had hoped that the Abbess wouldn’t take Una up on her offer to take Struan all of his meals, but really she should have known better.
Una strode out of the hall, clutching the tray tightly to her chest. Aside from the bowl of fly-defiled porridge, he would receive a jug of water, which had to last him all day—there’d be small ale or maybe beer with supper—and nothing else.
Everybody knew, now, that if they saw someone striding grimly along the halls in the direction of the cellar entrance, holding a tray, that that person was going to take it to him.
People averted their eyes as Una went by, some even pressing themselves against the wall.
That was ridiculous, since even the narrowest hall in the convent was wide enough for four people to walk along abreast. She almost felt like hanging her own head and avoiding their eyes.
Janson had warned her about that, though.
Ye are a warrior now, he’d said, chuckling. Ye don’t hang yer head for anyone, hear?
There were two soldiers kicking their heels at the entrance to the cellar, and she knew there’d be two more at the bottom.
They eyed her insolently but moved aside.
Clenching her jaw, Una descended into the miserable dampness below.
The steps here were painfully steep and uneven, too.
The jug on the tray jiggled when she almost missed a step in the dark, water slopping over the side.
She winced and hoped that the water had landed in the porridge. It wouldn’t make any difference, since the stuff was already so watery.
The two soldiers at the bottom of the stairs huddled around, sitting on upturned barrels with a third barrel serving as a table in the middle.
“Three square meals a day for him, eh?” one man remarked, scowling. “And now this latest instruction. Is he a prisoner or a guest?”
“Both at once,” Una retorted. “The Abbess was reluctant enough to house a prisoner here in the convent. Best not to complain.”
The first soldier—she couldn’t see what tartan he wore in the gloom—scoffed and stretched out his legs.
“Aye, but taking him aboveground for fresh air? I don’t—”
“What’s done is done,” Una interrupted. “Excuse me.”
She strode off without a backward glance, her knuckles turning white from gripping the tray. She could hear the men muttering darkly behind her.
No doubt they resented Struan getting to sleep under a roof, even if he was sleeping in a cellar.
The vast majority of Thomas’ army, along with the remaining Grahame and Kenneth men, all camped out in the forest. They wouldn’t all fit in the convent in any case, and anyway the nuns couldn’t feed and house them all.
It was too much of a burden. With men like Thomas in charge, the soldiers couldn't even wander into the town to steal, cause trouble, and harass pretty women.
They’re bored, she thought worriedly. And bored men make trouble. They were braced for Laird Dickson to retaliate, and he just… he just didn’t.
What is he waiting for?
That was an unpleasant thought. Shivering, Una banished it, thinking firmly of a wall. She added details—a nasty gouge in one stone, as though an axe had struck it, or…
Stop!
She reached the cell and found that her heart hammered so hard that she could taste it in her mouth. Or perhaps that was just good old-fashioned fear. Swallowing thickly, she stepped closer and peered in through the bars.
This time, Struan sat facing the door, leafing through a heavy old book.
His black hair had grown longer since he’d been here, now touching his collar.
He was provided with a bowl of water every day to wash with and seemed fairly diligent in keeping clean.
He was given soap, but no razor, of course, so a month’s worth of beard growth clustered around his cheeks and chin.
It was a decent beard, all things considered.
He glanced up as she approached, and his eyes darkened.
“I thought there’d be no breakfast today. I thought ye had finally seen sense and decided to starve me.”
His voice was thin and a little raspy, like he didn’t use it very often.
“Nay,” she responded shortly. “We wouldn’t do that.”
He scoffed. “Why not? I’m dead already.”
He closed the book with a snap and tossed it carelessly aside. Una followed the movement, pressing her lips together.
“Be more careful with that book,” she heard herself say sharply. “Kyla brought that for ye. Handle it with care.”
There was a small gate at the bottom of the cell door, secured by a bolt.
Keeping a wary eye on him, Una undid the bolt, opened the small gate, and slid in the tray.
She’d grown practiced at pushing it, and the tray slid forward all the way to where he sat on his pallet bed. The jug touched his crossed knees.
Struan leaned forward and dunked a finger in the porridge. He sucked it thoughtfully. Una folded her arms.
“It’s cold,” he announced at last. “A wee bit congealed, too.”
She clenched her jaw. “This is not a boarding house. Besides, by the time I get it down here, it’s always cooled down. There’s nothing I can do about it.”
He shrugged, picked up the bowl, and ate a delicate mouthful. “Ye haven’t told me why ye are late.”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s none of yer concern, is it?”
He waved the spoon in the air. “Here is what I think. My father and I torched the fields when we came here. While we didn’t torch them all, I imagine he’s worked hard to make sure that his allies don’t trade or sell to any of the rebellious clans or this place. Ye know what that means?”
She said nothing, but he shot her a grin anyway.
“It means famine,” he whispered. “Not enough food, too many mouths—it's a tale as old as time.”
“We are doing fine,” she responded tartly.
He shrugged. “There are barley kernels in this porridge. My guess is that the kitchen is running out of supplies and had to rush to supplement the porridge with something else. Since I’ve been here, the pottage has gone from being rich and full of meat and vegetables to being a thin sort of stew.
There are more mushrooms, since those can be found in the forest, but fewer vegetables and certainly less meat. ”
Una kept her face impassive. “An interesting theory. If it were true, it would give us more motivation to destroy yer father once and for all.”
He chuckled. “As if ye could. Tell me, lassie, why do ye all resist so much? The Highlands have always been divided. United, we’d be a force to reckon with.
We spend all of our time bickering between clans, when we could be joining together.
We could march on England. We could sail overseas.
We could go anywhere, do anything. We’d be unstoppable.
We only need the right leader to unite us. ”
She dropped into a crouch, peering through the bars at him. Struan kept his gaze fixed downwards on his porridge bowl. There was something mechanical about his words, almost like they were memorized.
Does he really believe this?
“And ye think that Laird Dickson is the man to unite us?” she said at last.
“Undoubtedly,” he answered immediately. “Ye need a strong leader.”
“A leader who sends out raiding parties with the express orders of committing murder, rape, theft, of sowing salt in fields, and of leaving innocent folks in terror?”
Stuan clenched his jaw. “Sacrifices must be made.”
She dropped into a crouch, peering through the gloom at him. “Ye think that is an acceptable sacrifice?”
She expected to hear a determined aye, to hear him defend his father at all costs.
Instead, there was silence.
In the silence, Struan began to cough, a dry, rasping cough that he did his best to smother behind a hand. He glanced up at her, eyes angry and watery, as if he were angry that she’d seen him weak.
“That cough of yours isn’t getting better,” she remarked.
He shot her another glare. “I am fine.”
“Ye wouldn’t let the healer take a look at ye.”
“I’m not sick.”
“Nay,” she admitted, “but this place is making ye sick. It’s too damp down here. Ye need fresh air.”
His eyes glittered. “Aye, so I do. Ye ought to let me go, then.”
She gave a mirthless laugh. “Very funny.”
She heard the cellar door open, and male voices drifted in.
She knew who would be there. Finnegan would be crouched at the top of the stairs, alert as always, and Janson would be making his way down, flanked by at least half a dozen men.
Glancing back at Struan, she saw that he’d risen to his feet, eyes sharp and wary.
“What’s going on?” he demanded, an edge in his voice. “Ye have planned to execute me at last, then?”
“This is a convent, not a jail,” Una responded. “The Abbess has judged that being confined down here will cause yer health to suffer. Ye need to be above ground. Ye need fresh air.”
He stared at her, bewildered. “Ye are taking me for… for a walk? Like a pet?”
“Like a human,” Una snapped back. “It wasn’t my idea, but nobody argues with the Abbess. Ye are not free to leave or wander at will, but nor will ye rot down here.”
Stuan’s gaze was dark and unreadable, fixed on her in confusion.
For a moment, she couldn’t interpret his thoughts.
Why was he looking at her like that? She imagined that he was looking forward to his first breath of fresh air in a month, but she’d told him quite clearly that she had had nothing to do with that.
A bubble of yellowish light spread through the cellar, and she glanced briefly over to see Janson approaching, candle in hand, flanked by a handful of armed men. Their faces were grim and set.
When she looked back, his face was smooth and composed once again.
“Get ready,” she informed him briefly.
Struan grunted and jerked his head but said nothing.
It seemed to take a long time to get Struan ready to head above ground. Janson was clearly on edge, and so were the others. They tied Struan up and then untied him again when Una pointed out that he had to climb the steps.
Struan, for his part, stood there, calm and motionless. However, when they began to climb the steps, she was sure that she saw something glint in his eyes. Hope, maybe?
Aye, hope that he’ll be able to escape, Una thought grimly.
When they reached the ground floor of the convent, he blinked in the light, squinting and lifting a hand to shield his eyes. When he moved, the soldiers all flinched forward, hands flying towards their swords.
Struan did not seem to notice.
“Listen to me,” Una spoke up, relieved that her voice did not wobble when she spoke. “There is nowhere ye can go. There are soldiers around the perimeter of this place. There are archers on the roof. There are all of us here to watch ye. Weak as ye are, do ye think that ye can outrun us?”
Struan’s cool blue gaze swiveled towards her, and his eyes narrowed. He said nothing, however.
“So long as that’s understood,” Una muttered. “Run if ye like, but Finnegan here has an arrow trained on ye, and he won’t shoot to kill. Ye will be wounded again, and back in the cellar. Do ye want that?”
It could have been her imagination, or maybe even a trick of the light, but Una was sure that she saw a flash of fear cross Struan’s face.
“I’d rather not go back down there,” he muttered so quietly that she almost didn’t hear him. “So, tell me. How come ye are calling the shots here?”
Una breathed in, lifting her chin. “Because I am responsible for ye.”
He blinked, seemingly taken aback. “Nobody is responsible for me.”
Una shrugged. “If ye like. Well, let’s go outside, eh? Ye have chores to do.”
“Chores?”
“Oh, aye. We’re picking herbs.”
She paused, half expecting Struan to complain or simply refuse outright. Instead, he only shrugged and nodded.
“Very well.”
They moved in a tight group towards the exit, following a wide, airy hallway that led towards the doors that opened onto the gardens.
The halls were notably empty—no nuns or anybody else there.
Una assumed that they’d been warned that Struan was going to be around, and the halls were cleared. That was wise.
They reached the doorway, and Struan paused, tipping his head back to let the sunshine play over his face. He closed his eyes, long dark lashes resting on his cheek. Una flinched, suddenly aware that she was staring, and turned away.
“How long do I have above ground?” Struan asked, his voice low.
“One hour. Maybe a wee bit longer if ye behave.”
He grunted.
Before anything else could be said, a strangled cry broke out across the gardens. Una glanced over to find a Grahame soldier storming towards them, seething.
“Ye let him out?” he screamed. “Ye let him out?”
“Looks like we’re getting a wee bit of excitement already,” Struan murmured, and there was a smile in his voice. “At last.”