Page 12 of Highlander’s Quest of Desire

Chapter Four

Bruce squinted against the ray of bright sunlight. His eyes were growing sensitive to light as the days passed, and a weakness pervaded his limbs that frightened him. He had never felt like this before. It was disconcerting to Bruce, who had always considered his body an extension of his indomitable will, how his body was so dependent on food and water, the lack of which had reduced him to a mere shadow of himself. His soul still burned with rage and righteous fury, but it was trapped in a mortal coil too weak to advocate for its ambitions.

Footsteps echoed through the chambers signaling more ridicule and humiliation. His food was often slopped onto the floor or flung against the wall. Bruce was too proud to eat like an animal, so he had wasted away. A few of the guards were decent men. They treated him better. But most were degenerates.

Yet, the fire burned inside him, keeping his mind clear and his heart steady in his breast.

“You up, Grant?” It was a voice Bruce did not recognize. Raspy and breathless, the accent mangled, and there was an excitement in the voice that didn’t bode well. Usually, when his goalers were excited, it was bad news for Bruce.

“Who wants to ken?” Bruce asked.

“You’re a brave one,” the voice snarled. “Won’t be saying such pretty things once I’ve knocked the teeth out of your pretty mouth.”

“Yer welcome to come in here and try!” Bruce spat.

The door opened, and in stepped a tall soldier. He had a bowl of porridge in his hand and a small club in the other. Bruce squinted up into the face, but it was hidden. The soldier wore his cap low over his eyes. He slammed the club against the chains that dangled from the wall. The noise of it made Bruce jump, and he hated himself for his body’s weakness and showing fear.

The man knelt and placed the bowl gingerly in Bruce’s hands. “Eat up, my Laird,” he whispered, his accent distinctly Scottish now. “Ye’ll need yer strength tonight.”

“Leo?” Bruce looked at the man, in wonder.

Was he losing his senses? Surely, it must be his imagination. Leo Sinclair couldn’t penetrate the walls, nor would he don the uniform of the wretched English. Bruce must be imagining things, or the English had finally broken his mind.

“Aye,” Leo touched his hands gently. “We’ve come to rescue ye, my Laird. I beg pardon that we couldnae come sooner.”

It was Leo! Bruce grasped his hand, to feel that he indeed was real. The strong pulse in his friend’s veins and the warmth of his skin convinced him of his reality.

“But how did ye get in?” Bruce asked. “I thought it impossible.”

“There’s nae time to explain,” Leo produced a brown package from inside his coat. “Put this uniform on and be ready tonight. We shall break ye free at midnight.”

Bruce flung the package aside with distaste. “I wouldnae don the English uniform for either love or money.”

“Donae be a fool, Bruce!” Leo hissed. “Tis our only way out. Bury yer pride for Dunnottar, for Scotland! We need ye alive and fighting in our ranks, nae dead and moldering in the ground.”

Bruce bit the inside of his lip. Leo struck the chains a few times and howled to give credit to his disguise of a cruel goaler. “What say ye?” he finally asked. “Yer loyal men are risking their skins to get ye out. Will ye nae wear that for a few hours to gain a life of freedom?”

Bruce sighed. Leo spoke sense. It would be unwise to throw an opportunity such as this away. If he didn’t make it out of Bass Rock tonight, the fish would soon feast on his dead flesh. The welt on his back had mended poorly. It wept, and a stench had settled into it. The English meant to make him weak enough to fall sick and not survive his ailment.

“Aye,” Bruce finally nodded. “I’ll wait for ye.”

“Good man!” Leo took his arm and squeezed it. “I’ll see ye tonight.”

With one last crash and bang and a yowl to make the hair stand on end, Leo left, his cap pulled low over his eyes.

* * *

The night was black as soot. The sickle of a silver moon had winked at Bruce through the narrow window before it was swallowed up by the night. It was so dark in his cell he could not see the shape of his hand. Like a blind man, he dressed, biting his teeth on his tongue as his tunic parted from his back.

The welt had crusted with the fabric and the tearing of it was agony beyond imagining. Ice cold draught made his limbs shiver so it was hard to put on the clothes Leo had provided. Ready, at last, Bruce sat by the door, his breathing measured, waiting like a beast in its cave. He hadn't been this alert in weeks.

A faint glow suffused beneath the door. Firelight. Keys jingled in the corridor, and the door was unlocked. Bruce crouched low, his hands clenched into fists, but no one entered.

Getting up, Bruce stepped out of the cell that had been his shroud for the past four weeks. Three men surrounded him; he recognized two - Leo and Drew. He couldn't begin to tell them how happy he was to see them. But now was not the time to celebrate. They were in grave danger, and escape wasn't yet guaranteed.

"You best leave now," the mangy youth Bruce didn't recognize said, looking up and down the corridor. He looked like a nervous rat. "I don't want to be seen."

"Aye," Leo nodded. "And we thank ye for yer service."