Page 7 of Blood of the Thistle

Bram caught him before he fell.

David Kerr made a wet, broken sound that might have been apology, or prayer, or nothing at all. His knees folded, and for three stumbling paces Bram took most of his weight, one arm clamped beneath the man’s shoulder while the iron cuff bit into the raw skin around Bram’s wrist.

“Walk,” Bram said under his breath.

Kerr tried—that was all there was to say about him now. He tried.

Bram had learned enough about the lad at Richmond House to know he was no warrior. He was a second son, meant for the church, who’d been stirred by Wallace’s words and joined the resistance against his father’s wishes. The English had broken his body for it, and now, with the fever that had come yesterday, they had finally broken his will.

Bram suspected they’d stopped torturing him after he’d surrendered whatever he might have known about Wallace’s position, or what last he’d known. The lad hadn’t said as much, but Bram had by now figured out the routine, who they targeted, and who they gave up on. He didn’t hold the lad accountable, and in truth, didn’t think it mattered much, whatever Kerr might have told his captors. By now the information was months old, and likely of little use to the English.

Not every man could withstand their methods. Bram himself had come perilously close to breaking, wanting only for the pain to end. But he had given his name—MacCailin—loudly and proudly when they’d captured him. He’d vowed he’d dishonor it by surrendering secrets that were not his.

Bram shoved Kerr upright, propelling him forward.

Ahead, one of the mounted guards turned in his saddle. “Keep moving.”

Bram bent his head against the rain and put one foot in front of the other. His gaze tracked past the other prisoners to the guards. De Wycliffe, as usual, stayed near the front where the road was open. Farther back, the yellow-bearded lad was already nodding off in his saddle, hours before the noon halt. Bram’s eyes settled on the thickset one in boiled leather, the one whose cudgel always moved faster than his thoughts.

Kerr stumbled again, and this time Bram was too slow to catch him cleanly. The chain snapped taut, wrenching Bram’s arm so sharply that pain flashed through his shoulder, hot and white beneath the cold. He clenched his teeth, though he made no sound. He had learned weeks ago that pain offered nothing useful when given voice, but only invited his captors to compound it.

Kerr dropped to one knee, and then, seemingly giving up all hope—or life itself—collapsed onto his back, forcing Bram down beside him.

A guard cursed and rode close enough that his horse’s tail briefly swished against Bram’s shoulder.

“Up with him,” the guard spat, his hand moving to the cudgel at his belt. “I said up.”

Bram winced and got his free hand beneath Kerr’s arm, trying to haul him upright.

“On your feet,” Bram commanded.

The lad whispered brokenly, something incoherent.

“Up, move.” Bram urged. “Jesu, do not give them reason to inflict more pain,” he hissed close to the lad’s ear.

He tried again to drag him upright, but Kerr was now dead weight, having passed out.

The entire party had stopped by now. The line bunched and shifted, men cursing beneath their breath as rain poured from helmets, hoods, and bare heads alike. Bram stole glances upward, gauging the patience—or lack thereof—of the nearest guards.

Another Englishman appeared beside the cudgel-wielding brute, come to inspect what held them up.

“He can go nae farther,” Bram informed him.

The guard looked down at the slumped prisoner, then at Bram, then toward the officer ahead. “He’ll go as far as the rest of us,” he said caustically, beckoning to De Wycliffe with a wave.

“He’ll die in the road,” Bram assured him.

The guard’s mouth twisted. “One more dead Scot will only make the day less miserable.”

Bram bit back a reply. Rage was a blade, his father had taught him—useless to draw it unless you meant to cut deep.

He did suggest, however, “Give him space in the wagon.”

De Wycliffe rode back through the rain, cloak dark and heavy around his shoulders. He was a wide-faced man with pale eyes and a trimmed beard, too careful to be cruel for sport, but not opposed to cruelty if he thought it would serve him more swiftly.

“What delays us?”

“This one is failing,” said the guard.