Chapter 29
The hum of voices greeted Marin before she exited the castle, far too many to be the remaining people left behind, and far too tame to be a winning band of marauders descended upon them for rape and pillaging. Her pulse stumbled and resumed with a wild patter.
Was it true? Had they won?
Ella and Leila gripped her hand with the same level of excitement, and together they ran the length of the castle entry. Sunlight blinded them, but they did not slow, not until a familiar voice slammed into her heart.
“He has brought dishonor to us all.”
She stopped, blinking against the brilliance to the mass of faces before her. Ella and Leila ripped their hands free of Marin's grasp and continued to run. “Papa!”
Marin's knees went weak and she almost pitched to the hard ground.
The only thing keeping her upright was the beloved figure of her father standing tall with the light of the late afternoon sun limning his slender frame, as though he were some kind of saint.
For truly, to them, he was. A man full of goodness and love, a man returned from the dead.
“Father.” Her lips were numb and yet still she managed to whisper the word. She repeated it louder, in a shout of joy. Suddenly the legs nearly too weak to hold her were carrying her across the cobblestones and into his arms.
He caught her beside Ella and Leila and crushed all three of them to his chest in a great bear of a hug, the way he’d done when they were girls and they would squeal for him to stop. His whiskered chin rasped at the top of her head and the odor of peat and death clung to his filthy chainmail.
“You're filthy.” She pushed back with a chuckle and reached out to gingerly touch his silver beard. A bit of dried mud dropped from the once well-trimmed hair and fell to the ground.
He grinned at her. “Is that any way to welcome home your father?”
She laughed, a giddy, happy laugh, earnest and free of all the tension built up over the last month. “I would welcome you home no matter how you looked.”
Though, in truth, it pulled at her how much he had aged, the lines on his face were creased deeper beneath the spatters of muck.
He was thinner, almost frail. All the men carried about them a haunted look.
Their faces were streaked with peat. Even Geordie, Sir Richard’s squire who had gone into battle for experience, appeared to have the worn features of a man rather than the boy he still was.
Cat stood at his side, beaming up at him as she chattered on. Despite his apparent exhaustion, the young man grinned down at her and nodded along with whatever she was saying.
“Papa, they told us you were dead.” Ella hugged at his arm and pressed her face to his sleeve, heedless of how it left a streak of mud on her cheek. “Where is your armor?”
Marin had not noticed until her sister mentioned it, but the fine decorative helm with gilt whorls was now a simple, serviceable helm.
He scoffed. “Some jackanape stole my armor before we were attacked.”
“They told us you were dead,” Marin said weakly. Her gaze shifted to the crowd of men, seeking out her husband, and finding him almost immediately. In a wild chain reaction, she immediately experienced the rush of elation at his safety, followed by the fear and confusion of his capture.
“Aye, many died, daughters,” Father said solemnly. “A great many. The battle had been a victorious one. The attack on us was meant to get us when we were away from England’s forces. When we were vulnerable. The bloody Kerrs.”
“Father, why is my husband restrained?” Marin asked sharply.
Her father's face darkened. “Sir Richard told me about him. You needn't worry after him any longer, Marin.”
“What do you mean?”
“He forced you to marry him. No one else need know, save those of us in this castle.” Father's eyes narrowed. “I'll kill the whoreson and take back my castle.”
“Kill him?” Marin gaped in horror. “He's my husband. You can't—”
“He forced you into marriage, Marin.”
“I offered my hand in marriage to save the lives of my sisters.” She shifted to put herself between her father and her husband, to break the glare of hatred he cast Bran's way. “He made sacrifices to save them and has saved us all many times over. He is a good man.”
“A good man? He raped you. Like your mother, he—”
She put a hand to her father's chest to stop his ugly words and shook her head.
Her cheeks scorched with heat to be discussing her consensual fornication with a man.
As a wife it was her right to do so, but as a daughter, it was humiliating.
Still, it was better for him to believe the truth than the lie Sir Richard had put in his head.
Sir Richard.
She shifted a hard look at the man she had trusted so often in her father's absence. “What is the meaning of this? Is this your plan? To see him destroyed. First with the letter and now with this…this betrayal.”
Sir Richard did not so much as have the decency to wince at her words.
“You needed to see the letter; you needed to know what he was about.
He forced his way into our lives. He brought war when there was none.
He endangered the lives of every person in this castle and lost just as many.
His men ate up our food stores and left us to the dire situation we're in now.”
“One page,” Marin growled under her breath. “You only gave me one page of it.”
“The one you needed to see.” Sir Richard lifted his chin.
“I don't know what bloody page you are discussing,” Father said in an exasperated tone. “But I'm tired and hungry and in urgent need of a good bathing.” He stepped around Marin and addressed the soldiers holding Bran. “Kill him.”
“Nay.” Marin threw herself in front of Bran, blocking his body with her own, and looked frantically to the soldiers. “I order you to stop.”
“You no longer give the orders.” Her father spoke sternly, as though she were a chastised child.
Bran's chest was warm against her back. His breath blew delicately against the nape of her neck. She shook her head with the force of her insistence. “You will not kill him.”
“I will do as I damn well please with this usurper.” Father nodded to the soldiers. “Marin, cease this behavior at once. Guards, kill him.”
The men cast glances at one another, apparently unsure what to do.
“Lock him in one of the chambers, please, but don’t kill him.” Marin cast a look at the countless eyes watching in fascination while their family battle publicly ensued. “We can discuss this privately.”
Father's eyes narrowed into a shrewd squint and his eyes glittered with something she could not make out but knew she did not like. “Put him in the dungeon.”
“Father,” she admonished.
He glared at her. “You forget yourself in this madness, Daughter.” He nodded to the guards. “Take him to the dungeon.”
“Nay,” Marin gasped. She spun around to face Bran and clung to him. His arms were restrained, and he could not wrap them around her. The loss of his embrace was palpable, painful.
“Nay,” Marin whispered against him. “I won't let them take you to the dungeon.”
Bran pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Aye, ye will, lass.”
Surprised, she looked up.
He stared at her with a solemnity which cut into her heart. “’Tis better than death.”
“I don't want you down there,” she protested.
“Separate them,” Father's voice said from behind her.
She tightened her grip. By God, she would never allow them to drag her free.
“Let go,” Bran said. “I'll no' have ye getting hurt.” He pressed a kiss to her mouth, greedy and desperate. “Save Ena. Please.”
Strong hands grasped Marin's arms and Bran was wrenched from her grasp. Sir Richard and another soldier dragged him to the mouth of the castle.
“Nay,” she cried. “Please.” She tried to run after him, but the hands on her arms held her back. She was entirely helpless to do anything save watch her husband be forcefully taken to the dungeon.
Bran paced the narrow floor of his cell.
All around him was darkness, so heavy it seemed to be a living thing more than nothing at all.
It squeezed at him and made his eyes ache with the strain to see.
Ten paces and he stopped short to avoid running into the grates.
Turn. Ten paces and he stopped short to avoid running into the grates. Turn.
He had been down there a while, without even the courtesy of a torch.
Though it was obvious they were not attempting to be conciliatory.
His stomach had begun to growl two thousand, four hundred and twenty paces ago, and his throat burned with thirst. He'd given up trying to swallow, for it only made his throat stick together and caused him to cough. And that made his throat drier still.
He still wore the chainmail from battle, the blood of his enemies long since dried and stinking on his armor. All of his discomforts were minor though, at least in comparison to the torment of worrying after Ena. Would Anice be able to help her? Marin?
Marin.
Her name was a dagger in his heart.
Her shrieks had accompanied him to the dungeon, or at least into the heart of the castle where the sounds from outside were dulled by thick stone walls and countless winding corridors. And yet sometimes he swore he could still hear her cries, echoing in the darkness.
Two thousand, four hundred and fifty-five paces.
He staggered and fell to his knees as though dragged down by the weight of his suffering. Marin.
He dug his fingers into the hard-packed earth, ignoring how his fingernails bent backward and gritty dirt scraped at the tender skin beneath.
He would sell his soul for one last moment with her, to hold her in his arms and confess the extent of his love for her.
But in truth, he would doubtlessly never see her again.
Something awful and wretched twisted in his chest and a gasp of pain choked from his lips.
He clenched his jaw and pulled himself to his feet while releasing the handfuls of earth back to the ground. Two thousand, four hundred and fifty-six paces. Fifty-seven, fifty-eight…