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Murdina caught her father’s eye, and the look they exchanged was one of mutual understanding. She and her father did not always see eye to eye, but they understood one another, and each knew that Ella and Freya were foolish and immature–all the worse when they were together. A fire was burning in the hearth, and the sideboard was laden with all manner of good things to eat. Murdina was dressed in a blue gown with a red sash, Ella in green, and Freya in gold, so that all three of them looked exceptionally pretty–even if the two younger ones would spend the evening lessening that prettiness by bickering and vying for the upper hand in attention.
“Ye did allow him to wash, Father, did ye nae?” Freya asked, and their father nodded.
“Aye, the jailer got him cleaned up–but here they are now,” Murdina’s father said, as a rough voice echoed from the great hall and footsteps approached across the flagstone floor.
Murdina rose from the table, surprised to find her heart beating at the prospect of meeting with the prisoner face to face. His story fascinated her, and there was much she wished to ask him. Was he a spy? Was he a traitor? Or was he, as he said–a Jacobite like themselves. The thought of his execution had left a sour taste in her mouth, and she was glad that her father would at least consider the possibility of reprieve–if only the man could remember more about himself.
“In, and mind ye hold yer tongue until ye are spoken to,” the jailer said as the door opened, and the prisoner was pushed roughly into the parlor.
“Now, jailer, there is nay need for such rough treatment–I am sure I can handle our guest,” Murdina’s father said, and the jailer nodded.
“Aye, laird, but I shall wait out here all the same–tis’ a risky business allowin’ him to eat with yer daughters,” he said.
“And what makes ye think we are any the less able to take care of ourselves?” Murdina asked, raising her eyebrows, “I have had ye at the tip of the sword in trainin’ a dozen times, jailer,” and she glanced at the prisoner and smiled.
He had been washed, after a fashion, and was wearing an overly large shirt and breeches. His hair was matted, and his beard had grown, but there was no mistaking his handsome features, and as their eyes met, Murdina smiled at him.
“Ye may sit here,” her father said, indicating the place at the table next to Murdina.
“I am grateful to you, laird. The hospitality of your hall is gratefully received,” he said, sitting down and glancing at the food laid out on the sideboard.
Freya and Ella were whispering to one another from across the table, and despite their father’s angry scowl, they now spoke up in unison.
“We are goin’ to call ye Thomas,” they said, and the prisoner smiled.
“Since I cannot remember my own name, it seems a reasonable one to begin with,” he said, and Freya and Ella giggled to one another.
“Enough of yer foolishness, the food now,” the laird said, turning to the steward who had come to serve them.
Murdina was fascinated by the man sitting next to her. She had so many questions, but she waited until a plate of food was set before him, and his glass had been filled before turning to address him.
“I went to see the wreck of yer ship,” she said, and her father raised his eyebrows.
“Did ye now?” he asked, and Murdina blushed.
“I did, and I found it… a strange sight. Nay bodies, nay sign of anythin’ that might tell us who ye are,” she said, and the prisoner shook his head.
“And I can remember nothin’ either …” he replied.
It seemed their plan to help him remember would not be as simple as a mere association to events in the past, and Murdina tried to think of something–anything–else to help rouse those memories which were surely lodged in his mind.
“Ye are English–dae ye know where ye came from? Was it Carlisle? Or Lancaster?” she asked, trying to imagine the most reasonable passage by which he had come to be sailing along the western coast.
“I know I was on board the ship, that there was a storm, and then the wreck–but I remember nothing else,” he said, tearing at a piece of bread and wiping it over his plate.
“Tis’ a strange business when a man can remember nothin’ of who he is,” the laird said, shaking his head.
“But tis’ nay reason to hang him,” Murdina retorted, and her father shrugged.
“Aye… well, we await word from the MacGlens. But tell me, lad, ye say ye favor our cause, but what dae ye know of it?” he asked, fixing the prisoner with a searching gaze.
Thomas–for Murdina preferred to think of him by name than merely as their prisoner–thought for a moment and then shook his head.
“I know that it is a cause dear to my heart, but for what reason I cannot imagine,” he said, a blank look coming over his face.
Murdina was willing him to remember, for she knew his fate would be decided on memory rather than merit.
“But what of yer kin, Thomas, what of those who might know who ye are?” Ella asked, but Thomas gave a start as she spoke, and his eyes grew wide.
