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“I daenae believe for a moment he has lost his memory. He is a liar; spies are always gifted at lyin’, but this one… he has been in the dungeon for days, and nothin’ I can dae will persuade him to talk. I intend to hang him,” he said, causing Murdina to gasp.
Murdoch turned to her with a look of surprise.
“Dae ye nae believe in hangin’ spies and enemies of our cause?” he asked, even as Murdina composed herself.
She had been too quick to let her guard down, too quick to display her true feelings. Murdina was sympathetic to their prisoner and willing to believe he was telling the truth. He posed no threat to them–even if he had not been captured–and the thought of seeing him punished when he could not even remember who he was seemed dreadfully unjust.
“I… dae, aye,” she said, catching her father’s eye.
“Then let us meet this prisoner, Andrew. Have him brought to us. I am intrigued to know more about him,” Murdoch said, picking up a knife and cutting himself a wedge of game pie.
Murdina’s father looked surprised but clearly wished to please their guest. He summoned one of the servants and issued orders that the prisoner was to be brought from the dungeons. Murdina could say nothing to prevent such a spectacle, which would surely only lead to the poor man’s further humiliation.
“But what will be gained by this?” Murdina asked, but her father and Murdoch only laughed.
“Now we shall have some sport,” Murdoch said, leaning back in his chair and twirling his knife in his hands.
* * *
“Where are you taking me?” he asked as he followed the jailer across the courtyard.
It was the first time he had left the dungeon since his incarceration, and even in the moonlight–for he now knew it to be night–his eyes found it difficult to adjust. It was a cold and cloudy night, with spits of rain in the wind and the cobbles wet with large puddles as though a deluge had earlier hit.
“To see the laird, he has summoned ye. But tis’ nae for ye to question why ye are summoned,” the jailer replied, pulling him roughly along.
Several dozen horses were tied up around the courtyard, and from the windows of the great hall above, there came the sound of feasting and merriment.
“Am I to be the spectacle?” he asked, dreading the prospect of what was to come.
His bravery was unquestionable, but he had begun to despair when faced with such overwhelming odds. The gallows stood ominously in the far corner of the courtyard, and he could only believe that his fate was to hang from the gibbet, tried as a traitor to a cause he knew nothing of.
“Ye are to dae as ye are told, and that is that,” the jailer replied as he followed him up the steps and into the keep.
The scent of roasting meat wafted on the air, and it made his stomach curl in knots–he was starving, though he knew he could look forward only to stale bread shared with the rats on his return to the dungeons.
If I return, he thought to himself.
The large, oak double doors to the great hall were thrown open, and the sound of laughter and storytelling could be heard from inside. His stomach was in knots, and he took a deep breath as the jailer now beckoned him to follow.
“I have nothing more to say to the laird,” he said, but the jailer only struck him around the face and pushed him through the doors.
As he appeared, silence fell, and all eyes turned to face him. There must have been a hundred clansmen there, sitting at two long trestle tables, both of which were laden with food and drink. A dais stood at a high table at the far end of the great hall, the laird seated in the middle. He blinked, squinting in the bright light of hundreds of candles and a roaring fire in the hearth. After the cramped confinement of the dungeons, the sight of the great hall was quite overwhelming.
“The prisoner,” the laird said, rising to his feet.
Even in his advancing years, he was a formidable man, and he strode around the high table, beckoning him to come forward. Silence reigned, and all eyes were on him as he made his way slowly between the tables. Another finely dressed man sat at the table, who now rose to join the laird on the dais, an unpleasant smile coming over his face.
“So, this is our spy, is it?” he exclaimed, and the laird nodded.
“Aye, this is he–though his memory does nae even provide us with his name. He forgets it all–even though he seems quite capable of rememberin’ words and mannerisms,” the laird replied.
The other man laughed, stepping down from the dais and advancing toward him, as all eyes remained fixed and staring. But his gaze was drawn, not to the laird or his companion, but to a woman sitting at the high table. She was remarkable in her beauty, her golden blonde hair was tied up into a bun, and she was wearing a beautiful dress of blue and gold, trimmed with lace. He could hardly take his eyes off her, even as the man continued to advance towards him. She caught his eye, a slight blush coming over her face as she stared at him in what seemed to be utter fascination.
“Dae ye know who ye are facin’ now?” he asked, and he shook his head, even as he faced the man defiantly.
“I do not know,” he replied, and the man grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.
“Murdoch McGill, that is my name, and ye will dae well to remember it,” he snarled.
