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She had only just reached her eighteenth birthday, and Ella was but only a year older than she. Murdina was the eldest at twenty-one, and Aoife had been twenty when she was so cruelly taken from them. They were all of them in their prime, and now it seemed their father was determined to see them reduced to nothing but the wives of Jacobite supporters, destined to miserable lives at the hands of men who did not love them.
“But ye will nae be soon–mark my words, Freya, ye shall suffer the same fate as I. The both of ye shall,” Murdina replied and shaking her head, she marched off across the courtyard, eager to take her frustrations out with the sword and seeking a worthy opponent with which to do so.
* * *
He must have walked five miles–or so he reasoned. But in that time, there had been no recollection of serving as a reference point. For all he knew, the countryside surrounding him could be entirely familiar, his home even, but given he could not remember even his name, the hope of recalling further details was unlikely. He had met no one on the way, but he continued to see signs of life–the marks of horse’s hooves in the mud, the remnants of a fire, an abandoned croft, still with the marks of cultivation in the land roundabout. It was a wild and lonely country, or so it seemed, and he began to long for the sight of something–anything–which would offer hope.
The path wound up to the top of a hill, a steep climb, and one during which he paused several times to catch his breath. From the summit, he commanded a view back towards the coast, where the clouds gathering on the horizon brought with them the promise of further wind and rain to come. He had with him only the small amount of food he could carry and a blanket for warmth, along with the mysterious key and phoenix embossed coin. He took them both out now and examined them again, willing himself to remember–but to no avail.
But as he surveyed the land ahead, a sight brought cheer to his heart. Perhaps two miles further in land, a castle surrounded by a forest built on a promontory of jutting rock. It was no ruin, and from his vantage point, he could make out a banner fluttering on the battlements. With a sigh of relief, he strode forward, caring not if the inhabitants of the castle were friend or foe. The sight gave him hope, and he wondered if there he might even discover the truth as to who he was.
“I could be a noble laird or a knight of the realm,” he said to himself, the hint of a smile coming over his face as he strode forward with renewed vigor.
The path now wound across the heathers and emerged onto a well-used track, paved in parts and cobbled in others. It led all the way to the castle, and though there were no other dwellings visible for miles around, he reasoned that the castle inhabitants were master of all he could see. The land was wild, though fertile, and from his vantage point, it seemed he was walking along the spine of a mull, one of the great lengths of land which stretched down from the mainland, surrounded by the sea on both sides.
As he came in sight of the castle, he thought he recognized the banner fluttering from the battlements, but he could not remember its precise origins. There was something familiar about it, the stirring of a distant memory, but try as he might, he could not remember. The castle itself was formidable, a great stone edifice rising above the trees. A keep lay at its center, surrounded by a curtain wall with towers at equal intervals and a gatehouse from which stretched a bridge over a deep chasm that surrounded the castle on three sides, its back built into the rocks of the cliff towered above.
“A fine place, and make nay mistake,” he said, shaking his head.
By the clothes he had been wearing on the beach, he had reasoned to himself that he was of some good and noble birth. Had he been dressed in the clothes of a peasant, he would have wondered how such a man as he had come to possess those strange objects–the key and the coin–and be furnished with a letter, indecipherable as it was, bearing a noble crest. As it was, he could only assume himself to be a man of some standing, if not of the aristocracy, then perhaps of a family of merchants or well-to-do traders. His accent, too, betrayed him–he was Scottish, but that meant either he was for or against the crown, his memory offering nothing to confirm so either way.
He made his way along the track, which wound its way across an open plain and into the woods below the castle. He was surprised to find himself unchallenged as he walked, though he was certain his presence would have been noted by any watcher from the castle battlements. A stream flowed beneath a wooden bridge–the first sign of present habitation he had passed since his walk began, and he paused to look over into the waters below, where fish leaped in a clear, deep pool. The sight of them brought fresh hunger to his stomach, and he fumbled in his pocket for one of the oatcakes he had stowed there, when all of a sudden, there came a shout from the far side of the bridge, and he looked up to find a band of clansmen–soldiers–charging towards him.
“Ye there, who are ye?” one of them demanded, drawing his sword.
The sight of the men awoke in him an instinct of danger–he did not know if they were friend or foe–and he turned to run, just as another half dozen appeared at the opposite end of the bridge, blocking his retreat. They must have lain in wait for him, guarding the bridge lest any strangers pass that way. He cursed himself for falling into their trap, and as both sides advanced, he stole himself for the attack.
“I mean nay harm,” he said, glancing from one side of the bridge to the other.
“And what are ye doin’ on the laird’s lands? A spy, are ye?” another of them said.
With no weapon and outnumbered, there was little chance of escape. But he stood his ground, unafraid to fight. He was a strong man, powerfully built, and though his memory was gone, his reflexes remained–he knew what to do, and ducking forward, he lunged at the nearest clansman, knocking him to the ground. The others now charged forward, but despite being outnumbered, he put up a valiant fight, knocking several of them to the ground, and wrestling the sword from one man’s hands, so that he delivered several blows before he was subdued.
“Enough,” he cried, struggling in their grip.
“Eager for a fight, are ye?. What is yer name?” the lead man demanded, but he could only shake his head and shrug.
“I… I was washed up on the beach some miles yonder. I cannae remember anythin’–nae who I am or where I came from. Go to the beach if ye daenae believe me–ye will see the wreck,” he said, as the clansmen looked at him suspiciously.
The one who had spoken had fiery red hair, his beard neatly trimmed, and his eyes flashed angrily, a look of disbelief and contempt on his face. He shook his head and spat to the ground.
“Ye expect us to believe that?” he said, and the man shook his head.
It was an incredible story–the loss of memory, the speculation in his own mind, the strange circumstances in which he now found himself.
“Give me something to eat and a warm hearth–perhaps I shall remember something more then,” he said, but the clansmen only laughed.
“Did ye hear that, men?” the ginger-haired man exclaimed, “he seeks to deceive us and thinks we will offer him hospitality.. Aye, well, we shall see what the laird has to say about it, what dae ye say?” he said, and now they dragged him across the bridge and towards the castle, even as he continued to fight with them.
“Let me go,” he exclaimed, but it was to no avail, the clansmen jeering him and dragging him through the castle gates to whatever fate now lay before him…
