Chapter 19
Armed with more than his sword, Callum strode into the guards’ room. He removed his bonnet, untied the toorie of MacTavish plaid, and threw it onto the table.
“Captain, how long before the feast finishes an’ the beddan begins?”
The captain looked from the plaid toorie to the tall mercenary standing in front of him and sighed. “Have ye heard we’re out o’ gold? I can try an’ get ye some sovereigns from the treasury, but ye might have to accept shillings instead.”
Callum said nothing. He just stood there, waiting for his question to be answered.
“Look ye here…” The captain thought he was in a position to bargain.
“We don’ have to winter here. We are heading out soon to attack the Calvin estate, and then we’ll have all the gold we want.
It’s common knowledge the Calvin manor house can be taken with just a handful o’ soldiers.
I’ll recommend to the laird that he promote ye to second-in-command, Kerr. ”
Five soldiers were slumped on their barrack beds, not even bothering to walk the castle perimeter.
Three were playing a game of chance with a board, pebbles, and six-sided cubes of carved bone with different symbols on each side.
The other two were picking over a plate of leftovers from the feast. Callum checked the exit arrangements and saw he was using the only door.
“Me name’s Callum MacNair,” he said, walking out of the door and setting the bar across the thick wood panels.
He did not even bother looking back over his shoulder when he heard the captain’s voice behind the door shouting for him to open it.
He had already slain the two sentries standing guard at the gates.
According to his calculations, he had two soldiers left to deal with.
Like a dark angel of vengeance, Callum entered the castle halls.
“This is always me favorite part o’ the day—or night, for that matter.” Laird Hamish MacTavish leered at Meria, closing one pudgy eye in a fat wink. “Come now, Wife, lose yer garments and climb into bed.”
Meria stood watching as her husband struggled to reach around his stomach, his large fingers fumbling to find the belt buckle.
She was horrified at what he might reveal once he let his plaid drop to the floor.
But when Hamish finally managed to release the leather binding, it was not as revolting as Meria thought it would be.
His stomach hid his manhood from view, and then his shirt fell down, hiding everything.
She could not imagine him being able to chase her around the bedchamber in such bad condition as he was, and the thought crossed her mind that she might be able to dash from one wall to the other, one corner to the other, and her husband would not be able to touch her once.
“What are ye waitin’ for!” Hamish yelled, and then he clambered up the dais and settled himself against the bolster as the bed cords holding up the mattress creaked ominously underneath him.
“I’m a wee bit thirsty, Laird,” she said, edging around the room with her back to the wall, facing the bed in the same way someone might do with a dangerous dog. “Can I no’ pour meself a cup o’ ale?”
His face changed from an expression of eager anticipation to one of impatience. “If ye plan on givin’ me the run around today, wench, I’ll have one o’ me soldiers cut the tendons at the back of yer feet so ye cannae run nay more. Would ye like that?”
Meria had seen two of the female slaves who served them at the feast hobbling on deformed feet.
Now she knew the reason why. She repressed a shudder.
What was about to happen to her would be as far away from her night beside the fire in the mountains as anyone could have dreamed, but Meria no longer cared.
Her heart was broken, and her world had shrunk down to the choice of living a miserable and empty life or doing something so bad to Hamish that he would cut off her head for the spike.
This castle was a hellhole, but it had the air of a place that had been dying for many years.
The slaves were middle-aged or too sick to work.
One of the women had told her in broken Scots that all the children had been sold off or fostered out for gold, but no soldiers wanted to work for a laird who claimed all the women for his own use.
The laird had not been able to beget bairns on women since a slave girl had bitten him sorely on his manly parts, and trade was in chaos because this part of the coast was rife with pirates.
Meria was Lady MacTavish, ruling over a dying castle.
Even the dozen old men who had sat at the table during the feast had been so old they had to dice their meat before they could eat it.
Feeling half dead inside and considering herself well suited to the castle in that regard, Meria began to undress.
She may as well get it over and done with because she did not feel like running away forever.
She raised the bed covers and climbed in next to her husband.
When he shuffled closer, all of Meria’s numbness and acceptance fled from her when he laid a hand on her breast and squeezed it.
“Very nice,” Hamish wheezed. “Young an’ fresh.
I have nae had such a tasty morsel in a long while.
” His breathing began to quicken. “Ye are so well covered, girl, ye would put a comfortable bolster to shame.” His hands moved around to grope her behind.
“Losh! I have nae seen a delicious bahookie like this ever before.”
She wished he would stop gloating over her and just get on with it. Why must he relish the moment as if she were a nicely roasted duck? He indicated that he wanted her to turn over onto her stomach, but Meria demurred.
“If it’s all the same to ye, Laird, I prefer to see it comin’.” She could not keep the bored tone out of her voice, but in truth, Meria did not feel as if this was happening to her. It felt as if she were watching it happen through a window.
The stinging slap he gave her snapped Meria out of her reverie. She sprang out of the bed, spitting like a cat. “How dare ye lay yer stinkin’ hand on me, ye craven snake! I am no’ some blate slave girl ye can treat with contempt and bully. If ye ever lay a hand on me again, ye will die!”
The formerly slow and feast-filled old man disappeared in a flash. Hamish barreled out of the bed, jumping off the dais with surprising agility, and grabbed his sword out of the ceremonial scabbard he had been wearing at the kirk.
“Time for that unruly tongue o’ yers to come out o’ yer mouth, gullah!
” he wheezed, and charged toward her. Meria tried to duck out from his reach, but he caught her by the hair, pinching that part of her jaw under her ear that forced her mouth open.
Seeing the tip of the sword approaching her mouth, Meria screamed.
The door opened. Callum was standing in the doorway. He did not move when he saw Hamish holding Meria in front of him, using the girl as a human shield in one hand and his sword in the other. But Hamish’s sword blade was clean, whereas Callum’s was bloody.
“Kill her, and I will have yer stomach open so fast it will be a race between the two o’ ye to see who reaches hell’s gates first!”
Meria hardly recognized Callum’s voice. It was a battle cry, a shout so fierce and loud it could make the strongest enemy quail in his boots.
“Who are ye?” Hamish snarled. “I knew I recognized yer face!”
Callum ignored him. “Let go of the girl, and we fight this out ourselves—just the two o’ us. That’s the only fightin’ chance ye have, MacTavish!”
Meria felt Hamish’s inner turmoil as he weighed his odds.
A moment later he had cast her aside, and the two men circled one another like rabid dogs.
When he saw her thrown across the room, Callum moved his hand, indicating to Meria that she must leave the room, but she stayed because it felt as if MacTavish still had her in his power; she was his wife, and she would not be free until he was dead.
The swords met in midair, and the clash of steel rang out so loud the walls echoed.
Hamish MacTavish had put all of his considerable weight and height into his first blow, and Callum took a step back, pushed away by the force of the sword stroke.
Hamish grinned and wasted no time in following it up.
It was then that Meria noticed Callum was wearing a leather glove on his left hand.
He gripped the end of his sword’s blade and was using the weapon like a staff to ward off the blows by holding the hilt in one hand and the tip in the other.
Each time Hamish raised his sword and then brought it down with a mighty swing, Callum would block the blow and ward it off with the sword blade he kept holding in two hands.
She had never seen such a method used in training before, not even when her father had taken her to go and watch the Highland games and the men had put on a display of fighting with wooden swords.
Only these swords were not wooden. They were sharply honed and deadly heavy, able to sever a limb with no effort.
The fight seemed to last a lifetime, but it was only a fleeting few moments; Hamish began to pant like an old horse pulling a big cart.
Immediately, he moved his sword into one hand and began making short jabbing motions with the blade.
Callum ducked one long thrust, stepped to one side, and brought his weapon down on Hamish’s outstretched arm.
The arm, still holding the sword, fell to the floor.
Hamish was so shocked that he did not even make a sound.
His mouth formed a circle of surprise while his other hand groped for his elbow.
It was no longer there. The stump pumped out blood like a fountain as Hamish dropped to his knees, his eyes wide with horror.
“Fetch me a pail of pitch, quickly!” he begged the tall warrior. “Fetch me pitch an’ I will hand over control of the castle to ye.”
Callum gave a rueful glance over at Meria. “I believe Lady MacTavish might have a few things to say about that, don’ ye, Hamish?”
MacTavish slumped to the ground, his face the same color as the gray stones of the wall. “Who…who are ye?” he whispered.
Callum hunkered down beside him and picked up the dying man’s chin so he would be forced to stare into his eyes as he told him.
“Me name’s Callum MacNair. Ye ambushed me faither and killed him with a flight of arrows, just like the coward ye truly are, Hamish.
After having yer fun with me mither, ye handed her off to that brither of yers who runs the tavern for wenches. I am their son.”
“P-Please…” the man begged.
Callum turned to Meria. “Shall I fetch him a pail o’ pitch?”
For an answer, Meria approached the two men.
She thought about the terrifying deaths and wretched lives of the women who had lived and died inside this castle for years and years.
And the little boy who had lost his mother while she was forced to earn her keep by offering her body to drunken tavern customers night after night.
She reached down and took Callum by the hand. And then, together, they left the man in the room behind them, forever.