of misery, waiting on his brother to make the decisions about how and when to escape, damned if he’d wait another day. Even if he died in the effort, he’d be no man’s slave.
Each day, he defied the soldiers, fighting to escape Lord Harkirk’s fortress. The baron was no better than Cairnross, for he killed men each day as an example to others. Callum didn’t doubt that he would one day be the next victim, his head mounted upon a pike.
Strangely, his rebellion appeared to entertain the soldiers. Each time he attempted to run away, they collected wagers from one another, depending on how far he’d managed to go. And once they captured him again, they took turns punishing him. Sometimes they withheld food, or other times he felt the pain of the lash upon his shoulders.
But everything had changed when he’d stolen a bow several nights ago. They’d whipped him afterwards, taking it back until one soldier had decided to test Callum’s skills. A guard stood behind him, holding a dagger to his throat while the others set up a wooden shield as a target.
‘Do you know how to shoot, MacKinloch?’ the guard had taunted, pricking him with the blade. ‘Show us what you can do. Hit the shield and you won’t feel the lash upon your shoulders any more this night. If you miss, you’ll have another dozen strokes.’
Already his limbs were leaden, blood pooling down his back. Callum’s vision blurred from dizziness and he knew they wouldn’t release him until they saw him shoot. It had been years since he’d used a bow, but he’d gone hunting often with his father and brothers. He’d always had a good eye and spent hours practising until he could hit anything.
The bow felt comfortable in his hand, like a lost friend. Although the soldiers expected him to miss, he knew the skill was there, buried through the years. He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the weapon.
Without an arrow, he pulled back the bowstring, testing the tension. It wasn’t as taut as the bows he’d used as a child. Eyeing the distance of the target, he knew he’d have to use his arm strength to increase the speed of the arrow.
‘One shot,’ the soldier said, handing him an arrow. ‘If you try to shoot one of us, you die.’ The men gathered behind him to watch, keeping away from the target.
The cold blade rested against his neck, but Callum ignored it. He focused all of his concentration upon the shield, ignoring the fierce pain within his muscles. Pulling back the bowstring, he adjusted his aim. In his mind, he heard the memory of his father’s voice.
‘See your target not only with your eyes,’ Tavin MacKinloch had instructed him. ‘See it with your arm, your stance. Let it fly only when you know you’ll strike true.’
His arm was shaking now, the arrow pulled tight. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek and he ignored the jeers of the soldiers. He envisioned the arrow embedding deep within the shield. Then, at last, he released the bowstring, letting the arrow fly.
It struck the centre of the shield, just as he’d imagined.
The roar of the soldiers was deafening. They took the weapon from him, dragging him away. As promised, they hadn’t whipped him that night, but afterwards, they made him shoot every day, wagering upon him. It was an unexpected gift, allowing him to rebuild the lost skill.
He didn’t hit all of their selected targets and had been punished when he missed. But he hardly felt the blows any more. His silence intimidated the other prisoners, making them believe he possessed an unearthly tolerance for pain. They’d come to fear him and it heightened the sense of isolation. It didn’t matter. Soon he would find a way to make his escape from the fortress, leaving all of them behind.
One night, he thought he’d spied a weakness in the walls, only to be distracted by the sight of Lady Harkirk standing at the entrance of the tower. In her eyes, he saw the bleakness that echoed his own emotions. Her marriage to Lord Harkirk made him think of Marguerite, betrothed to a man who would eventually destroy her.
Callum’s hand paused on the wooden palisade wall. Instead of seeing Lady Harkirk’s brown hair and slim form, he saw Marguerite’s lighter hair and deep blue eyes. The young woman’s face was burned into his memory, though he didn’t understand why. Perhaps it was because he’d never imagined that a beautiful woman like her would ever bother with a man like him. The vision held strong in his mind, binding him to her.
Had Marguerite suffered any punishment for granting him mercy? The earl was infatuated with her, eager to have her as his wife. The idea of such a man touching her, forcing himself upon her slender body, brought out a violent edge to Callum’s temper. He wished he were at Cairnross, if only to grant her the shadow of his protection.
‘Behind you!’ he heard Lady Harkirk cry out. Her warning broke through his vision and Callum spun, finding three armed soldiers in chainmail armour. He ran hard, but the chains at his ankles hindered his stride, making it impossible to gain any speed. The men closed in on him and another stepped in to trip him with a quarterstaff.
Callum crashed into the ground, their laughter ringing in his ears. He tasted dirt and blood in his mouth and, when he raised his head, saw the silent sympathy of Lady Harkirk.
The soldiers dragged him back to the centre of the fortress. He saw where they were taking him and ceased his struggle.
‘Beg for mercy, MacKinloch, and we won’t put you inside,’ one taunted. They knew he couldn’t speak, much less beg for anything. Callum stared back in defiance.
They lifted the trapdoor leading to the underground pit and threw him inside. All light extinguished when they closed the ceiling lid, weighing it down with a heavy stone. Though he tried to push against it, the stone wouldn’t budge.
Suffocating darkness overwhelmed him and he wondered how long they would leave him in here. The small space was akin to a grave, and he forced himself to breathe slowly. They wanted him to be afraid, to lose his last grasp of sanity. Instead, he closed his eyes and sat down, reaching inside his tunic for the crumpled ribbon. He held it to his nose, absorbing all thoughts of Marguerite.
As the minutes drifted into hours, he remembered the gentle touch of her hands, the soft music of her voice. If there were such a thing as a living angel, it was she.
And hours later, when they dragged him out, he kept the ribbon gripped in his palm as the whip struck him down.
‘You should set the MacKinloch slave free,’ Lady Alys Fitzroy of Harkirk remarked to her husband. ‘He’s half-dead and no good to you any more.’
Last night, she’d been too late to stop the brutal beating. The prisoner, Callum MacKinloch, hadn’t uttered a single scream. And she’d found him lying among the other slaves, huddled with his knees drawn up, trembling violently. One of the other Scots had put a tunic upon him and the fabric was stained dark with blood.
Harkirk’s gaze narrowed. ‘You saw his family approaching.’
Alys shrugged, as if it were no matter. ‘Aye. The sentry reported that they’ve brought a purse to ransom him.’ She prayed her husband would accept the bribe, for Lord Harkirk valued silver far more than a man’s life.
‘Why would I let him go? If I release him, it will weaken my authority. Better to let him die for his insolence.’
‘He might die anyway. And you’d still have the bribe.’
Though it bothered her deeply, Alys lowered herself to kneel
