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CHAPTERSIX
In the castle dungeons, night and day seemed as one. There was no chink of light through some distant bars, only the constant burning of the flaming torch at the far end of the passageway. The rats did not seem to take note of the passage of time, their lives dictated by the clatter of the jailer’s boots and the smell of the stale bread delivered at intervals throughout the day. Time was losing meaning for him, and try as he might, it was becoming impossible to regulate any pattern or order, his mind now so confused in the darkness that it was as though nothing now made sense.
He tried to sleep, but with no indication of how long he had slept and no seeming regularity in the jailer’s visits to his cell, even the respite of his dreams was becoming less. But one dream kept recurring, and it was the one glimmer of hope in an otherwise despairing situation. In it, he was back on board a ship, the same ship, it seemed, which had brought him to this forsaken place, and the ship was sailing into a storm. He was surrounded by faces–faces he seemed to recognize, even if he could not name–and each was telling him to save himself, lest his mission be a disaster.
The dream was always the same, and every time he slipped into it, he tried to ask the questions which might reveal something of the truth. But as he cried out, demanding to know something–anything–of what his mission was, and why he was on board the ship, a wave would crash over the deck, and he would awake with a start, believing himself back on the beach, lying in the surf, injured and unable to remember anything.
“Wake up!” the jailer’s voice called, and he opened his eyes with a start.
“What? What is happening?” he asked, as the jailer’s key turned in the lock, and he sat up peering through the darkness.
“Ye are wanted in the great hall–the laird demands it,” the jailer said, raising a flaming torch above his head, which showed a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes.
“But what does the laird want with me now? I know nothing; I have told him all I know,” he exclaimed, but the jailer only stepped forward and grabbed him roughly by the arm, dragging him out of the cell and along the passageway.
“Tis’ nae for ye to question the laird. Move along,” the jailer said, pushing him roughly ahead.
And with no further understanding than he had when he had first arrived in the castle, all he could do was follow reluctantly on, the dream fresh in his mind, the questions still unanswered…
* * *
“He is very handsome,” Freya said, smiling at Murdina, who shook her head.
“I am sure he is,” she replied, rolling onto her side, and closing her eyes.
Murdina had returned to the castle, soaked to the skin and shivering. She had avoided her father and made her way straight up to her chambers, where one of the maids had brought hot water for her to wash with and a clean set of clothes. She had hoped to remain unthought of for the rest of the evening, but the maid had informed her that Murdoch McGill had arrived earlier that afternoon while she and Cillian were examining the wreck and that he was keen to meet her that evening.
“And wealthy, too. His father owns three castles, runnin’ in a chain north to south along the edge of Loch Craignish,” Ella said.
Both her sisters had come with word from their father that Murdina was to prepare herself for the feast, even if the thought of it filled her with dread. The maid had lain out a dress for her, and both her sisters had put on their best clothes for the evening. It was to be a magnificent feast, even if Murdina could summon little by way of enthusiasm.
“I daenae care if he is the king himself,” Murdina replied, turning to her sisters with an exasperated expression on her face.
“Well, Father wouldnae allow ye to marry him now, would he?” Ella said, raising her eyebrows.
“He would have just as much luck persuadin’ me of his merits,” Murdina replied.
She felt like a pawn in a game of chess, maneuvered around the board in response to her father’s whims. This was all a game to him, a game of strategy and planning for the future. He had little care for her happiness, only his own ambitions, and if the two were to match, then that would be a happy coincidence. But Murdina knew she could not love a man like Murdoch McGill, even if he was as handsome and wealthy as her sisters made him out to be–the spark of love, that first intensity of feeling, could not come from nowhere. Aoife had taught her that, and in seeing her sister fall in love, Murdina had known it to be the only way–even if that love had ended in tragedy.
“Come on, Murdina. Do get ready. There is such a pretty dress laid out for you, and the great hall is filled with merriment on this dismal, dark night,” Freya said, holding out her hand to Murdina, who sighed.
“Will I get nay peace until ye have been satisfied?” she asked, and her two sisters looked at one another and smiled.
“Ye must at least be curious to meet him,” Ella said, and Murdina nodded.
Curiosity was to be expected. This was the man her father intended her to marry–how soon, and under what circumstances, she knew not. But the purpose of his visit was to serve as an introduction. Murdina knew well enough how such marriages worked. An introduction was made, followed by a further meeting, and all the while, the strings above were pulled like those of a puppet. The arrangement would be made–lands, wealth, title, and power would be bargained over–and the day for the marriage would come, the vows sealing the political exchange. And that would be that. The first part of duty would be fulfilled to her family, followed by the second duty to her husband. Murdina would be expected to produce an heir, and any future happiness would rest on that very thing. A male heir to continue a line in support of the Jacobite cause, an heir who could be raised to despise the Hanoverians and see the pretender not as a pretense but as the hope of a nation.
“Will it keep ye quiet if I agree?” Murdina asked, rising reluctantly to her feet.
“We will help ye get ready, Murdina,” Ella said, and there followed a period of great excitement–not for Murdina, but for her sisters.
The castle bell was tolling the evening hour when Murdina was finally ready. The dress was pretty–blue and gold with a lace frill, and she had bathed and tied up her hair into a fashionable bun, secured with golden hairpins.
“Ye look like a London lady,” Freya said, and Murdina rolled her eyes.
She did not care much for dresses and finery. Her life was lived outside, among her father’s soldiers. She was far more comfortable in a shirt and sword belt than in the trappings of fashion and class. It felt unnatural to her, even if her two sisters were forever speaking of the latest fashions to come out of Edinburgh.
“I feel like a fool,” Murdina replied, glancing at herself in the long mirror which stood at the side of the room.
