Page 12 of The Dark Wolf's Deliverance

‘You ask a deal of questions Laird,’ she said, frowning. Her hands were trembling - from fear or the cold?

‘Aye.’ He smiled again, realising his stare must have frightened her. ‘Forgive me, I just wanted to know that you are happy here, that is all, that you do not regret taking my offer of sanctuary.’

‘Oh no, never, for I think I shall be far happier here than I have been in a long while. I am sorry I have not thanked you properly for your kindness and for saving me. If it weren’t for you, my husband would have surrendered me to the witchfinder.’

‘Aye, I’ve heard of a man travelling these parts, condemning innocents on a word or a grudge. It’s no kind of justice, it’s not right, but I promise you that neither your husband nor the witchfinder will bother you here. I shall make sure of that.’

‘You are very kind.’ She smiled, pretty white teeth, dimpled cheeks warmed by a blush. Being the object of that smile was like sunshine entering his soul.Monnine made as if to go, and his heart sank a little. He wanted to tease out her secrets, to gain her trust. Why was that? Why this strange fascination?

‘Your hands are red. Are they working you too hard, giving you the rough tasks, being unfair?’ He took hold of one and stroked his fingers over her knuckles.

Monnine froze rigid at his touch. In her eyes, Rory saw something change. Some kind of hardness came upon her face, cold, distant and unyielding. The atmosphere changed so suddenly between them it was as if icy water had been thrown all over him.

‘Please let go of my hand.’ Her voice shook, but there was iron in it.

‘Forgive me. I.…’

Monnine snatched her hand from his, a frown darkening her brow as she wrapped her arms about herself, and there was only a leaden, awful silence between them.

To Rory’s relief, a sudden clatter of hooves announced the arrival of several horsemen riding in. They skidded to a halt and dismounted, rushing breathlessly over to him.

‘Laird, he’s gone, disappeared.’

‘Who?’

‘Conall. He’s gone, taken in the night.’

Chapter Five

‘No need for this now,’ growled one of his captors as he tugged the sack off Conall’s head. He squinted at the sudden light, gulping in sweet, fresh air after days in that fetid bag. He glowered at his captors, but they did not meet his eye. It was as though he were invisible. There were four of them, all big, burly men, dirty and rough-looking, with threadbare clothing and poor weapons that looked old and not well cared for. Their plaid he did not recognise, a muted green, shot through with black. The biggest thug had a nose broken so severely it bent across his face. He looked the most vicious, as though his life had seen a lot of fighting and not much else.

As his horse picked its way down the steep hillside, Conall saw a structure down below. He had never seen such an ominous place. Was it a castle or a ruin, or somewhere in between? Although a green expanse of what appeared to be moorland spread out for miles around it, as far as the horizon, it was an illusion. He could smell it. A rotten, damp stench was carried in the wind. That land was boggy, not solid. It would ooze and sink underfoot. There were patches of green between dark pools, bog myrtle and woundwort most probably, giving an appearance of firm ground, but there would be none. There was the odd stand of trees here and there on the approach and off in the distance, but nothing else to stop the wind tearing across the open ground and turning a man’s bones to ice. The castle, for he could now see that it was indeed such a thing, stood on an island of rock flanked by wet marsh.

Conall hadn’t felt his feet in hours, for they had stolen his boots. He looked down. They were puckered and white with cold from sitting for hours in the vile bilge water of the boat that had brought him over here, wherever here was. He had spent close to a day in it with that awful hood, and before that, two days of being trussed like a cockerel for market, bouncing on a horse with no idea where he was going or if he could even stay on. He had made damn sure he had stayed on for the alternative had been sliding off, hands tied to the saddle, leg bones broken by the horse’s pounding hooves.

With scarcely any sleep, Conall could barely keep his wits about him, but he determined not to give in to fear. He had been taken with brutal efficiency. It was no chance encounter, and it was not some random attack. There had been no attack on the others in his party, nor had they been robbed. So these men were not your normal cutthroats, scavenging for coin and food, picking on helpless travellers. Indeed his captors had barely spoken to each other or him and answered his questions with a blow to the head or a punch in the stomach, so he had wisely stayed silent. They did not revel in his capture or taunt him. They were merely carrying out an order. So Conall had not a shadow of a doubt his kidnap had been planned, but by whom? Was it one of his father’s enemies?

Clan Campbell had rivals in the Grants and the Sinclairs who had been soundly beaten by his father in battle over the years, battles that had weakened not just them but Clan Campbell too. They would certainly still bear a grudge despite feigning obedience to his face, and that was why his father was in London to get the ear of King Charles and bolster support for his cause. Murderous resentments lingered when the clans were at odds, and enmities could last for generations. But if either clan had taken him, Conall was certain they would have killed him outright. Surely that would hurt his father the most?

As they drew near the castle, Conall regarded it with dismay. Its walls were streaked black with damp and age. The main turret stood firm, a towering square, solid and unremarkable in size, but its battlements were derelict and crumbling to dust. Capstones were missing and holes all over its facade, like gaping eye sockets, told of windows not replaced. Ivy shrouded one side of it, creeping in through holes in the walls, and it was surely consuming the place inch by inch, trying to drag it back to nature and the bogs surrounding it. The castle had the look of a pock-marked face and was dreadful in its gloom. Was he to be tortured before he was killed here? Were they going to take their time over it? Whatever happened, he determined to survive and wreak vengeance, no matter what it took.

As they rode closer, they reached a thin road, gaping with potholes, leading to a stone archway up ahead. A fetid stench rose off the damp bog alongside it, and it would be treacherous in the dark, fatal for those who fell in and an excellent defence against those trying to gain entry or escape. Any assault on the castle’s flanks would be suicidal, and anyone fool enough to attempt to cross its treacheries, weighed down by armour and sword, would be sucked to a murky death or be mired, becoming target practice for the wall’s defenders. There was only one way in and out, and that was the track, which would soon turn into a narrow killing ground for anyone foolish enough to mount a full-frontal attack. It may be unpleasantly situated, but the castle was burrowed in deep in that oozing marsh, like a tick, and its occupants just as difficult to dislodge.

What a godforsaken place. The prevailing wind had bent the few trees, and they leant down like craven servants, supplicant before some evil master. Stripped of their leaves in autumn’s gales, against the grey skies, they seemed like huge black claws reaching for something. It was strangely silent on their approach as well, no bustle and noise of people coming and going like Dunslair, trading and gossiping and gathering together as clansmen. Instead, there was only the drip of recent rain slipping off the dull bark of the trees and the anguished cawing of crows circling for carrion in the wetlands beyond.

Ruin and hopelessness dwelt here, of that he was sure.

As he entered the gates, Conall noticed a carving hacked into the archway above them, ‘omo homini lupus est.’ His Latin was not the best, but he knew what it meant and what kind of awful clan had as their motto – ‘man is wolf to man?’

They came to a halt in a small courtyard, full of muck and with a few animals running around. The people that were there stared at him. On their blank faces, he saw no hostility, just indifference, as his captors cut him from the saddle and dragged him off the horse. His legs buckled under him after such a long ride, and he hit his knees and hands hard on the cold ground. The circulation coming back into his wrists set off a dull throb. The pain made him alert and watchful, and angry.

When Conall tried to stand, they kicked his legs out from under him, and he fell down into the mud. He raised his head and glanced up at the people around him, gathered to gawp. Off at a distance, he noticed a young woman. She watched from across the yard, her blonde hair a flash of brightness against the dark castle walls. When her wide eyes met his, the pity on her face enraged him. Conall tried to rise, but his legs were kicked from under him and down he went again.

Someone grabbed him roughly by the hair and wrenched his head back hard, causing his neck bones to crackle, dragging him up to his knees. The man’s face in his was sneering, rough-featured, broken teeth in a slack mouth, dirty blonde hair.

‘Welcome to Sgathach Dun Castle,Lord,’ said the man with a snarl.

‘Who are you?’ Conall said, trying to rise.

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