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It had taken him a while to learn the art of delegating so he could pursue his real passion, t
he healing arts, while managing the Clan. The message from the King had been an imperative plea for fighting men with subtle promises for extra aid to the Clans that responded and penalties for those who did not. Needless to say, he had responded.
He could have easily sent someone else to do the work, but he and over three hundred of his clansmen had gone with him. Caelan had gone to fight thinking his medical knowledge would serve well on the battlefield. No one, especially him, could have thought that the battle would turn so sour and even more that he would end up in an Englishman’s dungeon for a crime he had not committed.
His mind flitted back to poor Peter Watson, laying on the cot in the tower, battling for his life the night before he died. The next morning, he’d woken up to see Peter thrashing on the bed and when Caelan went to hold him down, Peter’s eyes had flow open, wide with terror. He’d managed to get the wounded soldier to settle down and had gone to get some more medicine, but by the time he had returned, Peter was gone. His eyes were lifeless, and his skin was mottled red, black and blue.
He drifted back asleep, hoping his second-in-command Artur would take control of his Clan in his absence and lead them as he would.
The sole comfort he had, that is if it could be called comfort in any case, was that he had not left a wife and a bairn or two behind. If he had, his suffering would be so acute that he wasn’t sure he could have coped. His mind ran to his mother, Elsbeth, and how she was faring. His mother had a frail disposition and he feared for her health.
He was drifting back to sleep when, through hazy eyes, he spotted a figure, a female figure, standing beyond the bars of his cell. Her hands were clasped in front of her and she had brown hair curling around her shoulder blades. He blinked slowly and when he looked again, she was gone.
Drifting off he wondered if he had truly seen the woman at all. He woke up again when the jailer called him for his evening meal, a repeat of the water, bland meat, and stale bread but he ate it anyway.
When the jailer was gone, he wondered again if what he had seen was real or of his mind had been playing games on him.
Come on, Caelan. There are no causes for delirium. You’re not suffering torture or taken any mind-altering herbs.
He sat back in silence, wondering again if what he did see was real, and who the woman was. The sky was darkening again and the cool evening air was coming in through the window. Then, the door was opened and the Earl stepped inside.
It was the first time he had seen the man in a day and a half. His tall intimidating stature, wide shoulders and heavy gaze under lowered brows, would have scared any other man but Caelan did not allow himself to be scared. He braced his hand on the wall and stood on tender feet.
“Hmph,” the Earl grunted. “At least you have some manners. Are you ready to admit to your crime?”
“I did nae wrong to yer son, Me Lord,” Caelan said calmly. “In fact, if I had not attended to him as quickly as I had, he would have died much earlier. Frankly, I cannot imagine how he spent almost two days injured on the way to the Arnside.”
The Earl bristled, “Are you priding yourself on my son’s death? You arrogant swine! How dare you!”
“I am only stating what happened, Me Lord,” Caelan said firmly. His honor was not going to be challenged by a man who killed by proxy. “Sir Duglas will vouch for me, it was he who drew me attention to Peter.”
“You don’t get to say his name,” the Earl roared. “You’re not worthy say anything about him!”
Caelan clamped his mouth shut, resisting the urge to tell the cocky man that he was speaking to a Laird, a man of his level or possibly even higher.
“Regardless,” Caelan said. “I will nae admit to something I dinnae do. The man was poisoned, I administered herbs to counteract the poison nae hasten it. The only reason he died was that the poison had gotten too far in his blood to be counteracted.”
“No,” the Earl snapped. “The reason he died was that you were a vengeful dog who took the chance to kill another man. One of the few who conquered you. Did it not sting, swine, to be one of the thousands who were forced to bow to an army half your size?”
Again, Caelan had to bite his tongue, harder this time; he tasted the metal tang of his blood. “Be it so, I did nea kill yer son.”
“Keep professing your innocence, you piece of filth. I will have you confess your crime soon enough,” the Earl said icily. “It will not be in your best interest to sleep soundly.”
With that, he spun and strode out. Caelan heard the clang of the upper gates echo in the air as they closed behind him. Caelan sagged back on his patch of cold stone, his eyes closed tightly. He might be a prisoner but not a resigned one. He’d take death before admitting to something he had not done.
Dear Lord, please uphold my strength.
Chapter 3
“Please, Lady Adelaine,” her maid, Martha, pleaded as she rested another breakfast tray on the table near her bed. “Please muster the strength to eat something. Your Father would not be pleased to see you this way and know you have not eaten anything in the past three days.”
“Not true,” Adelaine contested. “I had tea and bread last night.”
“Tea and bread are not a meal, My Lady,” the maid said, her light blue eyes reflecting her plea. “It’s just porridge, please, eat.”
Adelaine sat up and grasped the spoon. She had no appetite but her maid was right. She did need to eat something. As she spooned the warm food into her mouth, she reflected on the man she had snuck out to see a few days ago, the man her father told her had killed her brother.
Seeing him huddle in the corner evoked images of a kicked dog and she could not see a better comparison, only a dead dog would have been better. That was what the evil Scotsman deserved—death, like what he had brought to her brother.
