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CHAPTERTHREE
Murdina was staring up at the ceiling of her chambers. She had lain with her eyes closed for some time, and now she opened them, watching the spider on its web in the corner. She had shut herself away after the encounter with her father, refusing to go down to the great hall to eat and finding no distraction even in a fresh sparring match with Cillian. Life seemed so hopeless now, devoid of anything to give it meaning–her sister was dead, her sword master, too, and her father was adamant that soon she would be married to a man, not of her own choosing, but his. She was in the depths of despair and could summon little hope to stir her heart.
“Tis’ useless,” she said to herself, knowing that her father would never relent from his intention to see all three sisters married in support of the Jacobite cause.
She thought about running away, of slipping out of the castle late one night and making for the north or to Edinburgh. Murdina had a strong will about her, which was not easily quelled. She was brave and determined, too much like her father for the two of them not to clash. To run away would prove to everyone she meant what she had said, and rising from her bed, she began packing clothes into a bundle, preparing to leave and make her point by her absence. But as she did so, a commotion in the courtyard below caused her to pause, and she crossed to the window to look down to where the castle gates stood open, and a man was being dragged forcefully inside by two dozen of her father’s soldiers.
It seemed an excessive guard for one mere man, and she watched with interest as the man was hauled into the stocks. Murdina opened the window to hear what was said, just as her father was called from the keep. She looked at the man with interest; he was handsome, dressed in a waistcoat which, though muddied and torn, would once have been of the finest weave. His beard was trimmed, his hair jet black, and he had an air about him–defiant and self-assured. Despite the danger he was in, it seemed he would face his captors bravely, and Murdina’s thoughts of running away were, for a moment, set aside.
“Tell the laird we have a prisoner. We found him wanderin’ over the dunes. He claims to be the victim of a shipwreck, but more likely a spy,” Murdina heard one of the men–a soldier named Carrick and captain of her father’s guard–calling out.
The man began to protest, claiming he knew nothing of his whereabouts nor his purpose.
“I have no memory of what occurred. I know nothing of who I am or why I was on board that ship,” he exclaimed, but Carrick and the others only laughed.
“Tis’ a convenient thing when a man cannae remember who he is or where he is from,” Carrick replied, waving his hand dismissively.
Murdina’s interest was roused, and forgetting her intent to run away, she made her way from her chambers and down the stairs towards the great hall, just as her father emerged at the summons.
“What is all this? A prisoner? A spy?” he said, as one of the clansmen began explaining what was happening out in the courtyard.
“We found him on patrol, laird. Carrick says ye must come at once. Tis’ a strange thing, we daenae know his name–he claims to have nay memory,” the clansmen said, and Murdina’s father shook his head.
“Nonsense, we shall beat it out of him, if necessary,” he said, ignoring Murdina as he strode out into the courtyard.
She followed him, curious to learn more about the man she had seen from the window. A dozen of her father’s soldiers stood around the courtyard, the prisoner now bound in the stocks which lay at the center–a favorite pastime was to pelt those accused of petty crimes with whatever unpleasant detritus was lying around, but today, curiosity prevailed, and the soldiers and peasants merely watched, waiting for the laird to pronounce his judgment.
“A prisoner, laird,” Carrick said, stepping forward with a smug look on his face.
Murdina had never liked him–he was a bully who thought himself above the menial tasks of a soldier and who boasted of his position as captain of the guards to anyone who would listen. Murdina had once beaten him in a sword fight–a fact for which he had never forgiven her.
“So I see,” Murdina’s father replied, “and what dae we know of him? What is it that brings a man dressed in fine clothes and with the air of nobility about him to the Mull of Kilchurn?” he asked, and Carrick shook his head.
“We know nothin’ of him, laird. He claims to have lost his memory,” the captain replied.
Murdina watched the expression on her father’s face–he could be a cruel man, though fair, too. But once his mind was made up, there could be little to change it. The man’s fate hung in the balance, and now she looked at him, surprised to see not fear but defiance in his eyes.
“Speak then, if ye will. Who are ye?” Murdina’s father demanded, but the man only shook his head.
“I have told your men already; I do not remember,” he said.
Murdina was surprised to hear his accent–he was English and well-spoken, too. There was no drawl of accent, no lilt of a county tongue, but the English of a courtesan or a noble. It seemed strange to hear, for Murdina had perhaps only encountered such an accent a few times in her life, and certainly, she counted no Englishman as a friend. Murdina had been raised to despise the English crown–at least its occupant. Her family and clan were Jacobites, loyal to the Stuart cause. The crowning of a Hanoverian king had set them at odds with their English cousins, many of whom would gladly have seen the crushing of the Jacobite cause and its supporters by any means necessary.
“Did ye hear that, men? He does nae remember, and yet he stands in the castle of a Scottish laird, full of the king’s English. Tis’ a predicament– for him,” the laird said, and a ripple of laughter rang out among the gathered clansmen.
“What will ye dae with him, laird?” Carrick asked, glancing at the gallows that stood on the courtyard's far wall.
“We cannae allow a man like this to be wanderin’ about the countryside–whether he remembers anythin’ or nae. Question him– persuade him to remember. Does he carry anythin’ with him?” Murdina’s father asked, and Carrick nodded.
“Aye, we found a key and a coin in his pocket. Nothin’ more. But tis’ nay the key to the dungeons,” Carrick said, laughing and shaking his head.
“What is this key? What is this coin?” Murdina’s father demanded, but the man only shook his head and made further protests.
“I tell you; I do not know. I know nothing of who I am or where I have come from. I know nothing of a key or of a coin,” he said, and Murdina’s father stepped forward and grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt, even as his neck and hands were locked into the stocks.
“Ye will soon find my patience wearin’ thin,” he snarled, fixing the man with an angry expression.
Murdina watched the man curiously. There was sincerity in his words. He was defiant, but there was something entirely believable about his story–as farfetched as it seemed. Cillian had just pushed through the crowd, and he came to stand at Murdina’s side, looking curiously at the scene before them.
