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CHAPTEREIGHT
“Eat it and be grateful,” the jailer said, opening the cell door and entering with a tray.
A torch had been left to burn in the dungeon, and a table and chair brought in so that he might sit. Straw had been provided for a mattress and a brush given so that he might sweep away the rat’s droppings and leftover food from the cobbles. He looked up and nodded as the jailer set down the tray, which carried a freshly baked loaf of bread, two apples, a large piece of cheese, and a jug of water with a wooden cup.
“What fortunate favor have I garnered for such a feast?” he asked, but the jailer only scowled at him.
“Enjoy it now, for if what ye say is a lie and tis’ proved, then that pretty neck will find itself stretched,” he said, before slamming the cell door behind him and turning the key in the lock.
The meal was satisfying, and once he had finished, he lay down on the straw bed and stretched out his arms. He knew it was late afternoon, the passage of time far easier to discern now that his meals followed a regular pattern, and the jailer brought fresh fuel for the torch each morning –rags doused in strong-smelling oil made from pig fat. He put his arms behind his head, leaning back and pondering the strange events of the night of the feast again.
The sight of Murdoch McGill had aroused in him such passionate feelings as to be quite overwhelming. He knew him, even if he could not remember him, and he knew him to be a traitor to the cause he believed in. He had clung to those two things in the hours since the feast, grateful to the laird for a respite from his sufferings. Even if he did so grudgingly, the jailer had been ordered to bring him proper food and treat him with respect. He had slept the whole night through on the straw bedding, and with rest, had come a clarity he had not yet known in the strange and unforgiving place.
“Traitor, Murdoch, Jacobite’s,” he mused, allowing the words to go round in his mind, and wondering what they could mean.
Each of them held such a strong resonance with him, and he knew for certain he was meant to do something about them. Was he a Jacobite spy returning from a dangerous mission? Or had he been sent to find Murdoch and kill him? He could not remember, but he clung to those three words as though they were the difference between life and death.
Since the banquet, his dreams had become clearer, too. The mist was lifted, and it was not the faces of familiar, but nameless, individuals who haunted his dreams, but that of Murdoch, whose leering grin appeared over the bow of the ship, just as it was dashed on the rocks. He had seemed so sure of himself, so certain in his position. There had been such a sorrowful look on the face of that poor woman–the woman Murdoch was to marry– and though their eyes had met, it had been with a sad sense of resignation as to her fate.
“I just wish I could remember,” he said to himself as footsteps came along the passageway.
He rose to his feet, surprised to think the jailer was returning, but it was not the jailer, but the laird himself who now appeared at the grill, and he rose to his feet and waited for the man to speak, expecting further admonishment.
“My daughters have made a request of me. They ask if ye will dine with us tonight,” the laird said, and he looked at him in surprise.
“What do I owe this unexpected pleasure to?” he asked, and the laird laughed.
“They think they can help ye remember who ye are–spy or nay spy,” came the reply.
“And what do you think?” he asked, curious to know what the laird really thought of him.
“I have sent word to the MacGlens. We should have our answer soon enough, though they may know nothin’ of ye. But tell me, I am curious now that we are alone. What did ye mean by accusin’ Murdoch of being a traitor? A traitor to what?” the laird asked, and he thought for a moment before answering.
“I cannot say for certain. But when I saw him and heard his name, I knew there was something about him, something I had to do. That is all I can remember. I have tried my best to think it through, but I know this, laird, your cause and mine are the same,” he said, and the laird nodded, pondering what he had said.
“Murdoch McGill has always been the staunchest of Jacobites, and I have nay reason to doubt him, nor to believe what ye say. But I am willin’ to give ye a chance, lad, and I will wait on the MacGlens before I pass judgment. Know this, though, if ye are lyin’ it will be the worse for ye,” the laird replied.
“And if I am not lying, if I am telling you the truth?” he asked, and the laird shrugged.
“Then ye will be exonerated, I am sure. But tonight, we dine together, and my daughters have already decided they shall name ye Thomas until ye remember yer own name,” he said.
“Thomas? I like that name,” he replied, and even though it stirred no memories for him, he did not doubt that it was a name he could easily have taken, and he looked forward to meeting the sisters, and most particularly the beautiful woman, whose sad fate was to marry the traitor who now haunted his dreams…
* * *
“I want to sit next to him,” Ella said, jostling with Freya at the table.
They were to dine in the laird’s parlor, a room off the great hall their father used for entertaining visiting guests, and the table had been laid for five. Murdina had been relieved when Murdoch announced he was leaving the castle a day early to return home on pressing business. Murdina did not know what that business was, but she was glad it would take him away from her, and she hoped she had made a bad enough impression to ensure he would not return. Traitor or not, she had come to despise him.
“But it was my idea to invite him,” Freya replied, pushing her sister back.
“It was nae,” Ella retorted.
“Enough!” their father exclaimed, banging his fist down on the table.
Ella and Freya fell silent, and Murdina raised her eyebrows as their father pointed her to the place next to which their guest would sit, the laird taking his place at the head of the table.
“I want to tell him we are calling him Thomas,” Ella said, folding her arms sulkily.
