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“Traitor” was what he had said, and Murdina could not help but wonder what those words could mean.
“Did he know ye?” Murdina asked, her thoughts spilling out into words.
“What dae ye mean?” Murdoch asked, turning to her, and reining in his horse.
They were in the forest now, taking a winding track which led up to a ruined watchtower on a hill above, which once had guarded the path onto the mull and served as the first port of warning to invasion from enemy clans. The trees grew close, tall and dark, the pathways shaded by the overhanging canopy above.
“The prisoner, I mean,” Murdina replied, embarrassed that the words should so easily have come from her lips.
She had not wanted Murdoch to know what she was thinking.
“How could he possibly know me? He is an Englishman, and I daenae make a habit of cavortin’ with Englishmen,” Murdoch snarled.
Murdina knew she had raised his hackles, but she was curious to know more.
“He called ye a traitor. What did he mean?” she asked, and now Murdoch turned to her angrily.
“He meant nothin’ by it. The man is unreasonable. He knows nothin’ of what he is sayin’, and ye would dae well to ignore him if ye know what is good for ye, lass,” he said, fixing her with an angry stare.
“Are ye worried he recognized ye?” she asked, persisting with her questions, even though she knew it had angered him.
“Why would I be worried if an English spy recognized me? I know nothin’ of him, and he knows nothin’ of me. Let us leave it at that,” Murdoch replied.
He climbed down from his horse, tethering it to a tree, and walked on up the path towards the ruins of the watchtower. Murdina followed, catching him up as they emerged onto the lookout point. It was clear why a watchtower had been built there; the landscape of the northern country spread out below them for many miles. It was a land of heathers and trees, a river running through its center and meandering into the sea beyond. Any enemy would ford the water at Argadoon, which lay some ten miles to the east and was just visible on the horizon. Murdina could well imagine her ancestors there, kindling the fire on the top of the watchtower, a signal to the castle below that the enemy was approaching.
“My father’s lands stretch from here to the river,” Murdina said, pointing across the landscape.
“They are nae yer father’s lands, they are the crown’s, and any claim to them comes through the king himself,” Murdoch said, shaking his head.
“And why does it matter then who our king is?” Murdina asked.
He turned to look at her and shook his head.
“A woman like ye cannae understand. The Hanoverians are impostors. Are we to be ruled by a foreign power when we have our own king of our own blood waiting in exile across the channel? Nae, lass, we have a cause to fight for, one we must uphold–at any cost,” he replied, and turning, he marched back down the hill towards the horses.
The ride back to the castle passed almost in silence. It was clear they would not get along–not for an hour and certainly not for a lifetime. Murdina hoped Murdoch would soon change his mind, for even if her father was adamant she should marry, it would require Murdoch’s consent, even if not her own.
“Murdina, we have news for ye. Father has agreed that the prisoner– the spy–might dine with us tomorrow evenin’–can ye believe it?” Ella said, running across the courtyard to greet them on their return.
Tact had never been Ella’s strong point, and the look on Murdoch’s face told Murdina that, in this case, she was grateful for her sister’s lack of self-awareness.
“I shall be pleased to make his acquaintance,” she replied, and Murdoch scowled.
“Yer father is a fool to entertain such a man,” he snapped, but Murdina only shrugged and clambered down from her horse, spotting Cillian over by the stables.
“A sword fight, Cillian?” she called out, nodding to Murdoch, before running over to her friend.
