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A heavy tread approached. Roselyn instinctively knew it to be the Scottish lord who had led this conquering force to such an effortless victory who now stood before her. She had to speak to him, must find a way to convince him not to harm the defenceless people huddled around her.
“Sir? My lord, I wonder—”
“Be quiet. I shall deal with ye soon enough.”
More footsteps approached.
“The carts are all loaded, Laird, and ready to leave.”
“Right. Apart from the drivers, bring the men and boys back to join their womenfolk then. Is everyone here, in the bailey?”
“Aye, sir. We searched all the buildings, there are none left within.”
“Torch it then. I want every part of this cursed place aflame by the time we leave.”
“Please, you cannot do this—” Roselyn reached for him, her fingertips brushing the leather of his jerkin.
“Can I not, madam? I disagree.” His tone was unrelenting. “Mortain is burnt to the ground, still smouldering days after your brother’s vicious blood-letting. Why should Etal Castle fare any better?”
“Please, these people have done you no harm. Have mercy, I beg of you.”
“What does Etal know of mercy? What mercy was shown to my family? To the weak and the innocent at Mortain?” He shook his arm to dislodge her grip. “Aiden, you have your orders.”
“Aye, Laird.”
Roselyn cringed and hugged her stomach as the other soldier yelled his commands to their men. No part of their keep was to be spared.
“As for ye, I have unfinished business to resolve with ye, my lady. Ye may be assured that ye will regret bitterly the part ye played in the death of my sister and her family. Your hands, if you would.”
“My hands? Sir…?”
“Hold them out.”
“You mean to bind me?”
“Aye. Ye’re a prisoner now, an’ will be treated as such. Ye may consider yourself fortunate indeed that I do not drag ye behind my horse all the way back to Duncleit. Now, your hands.”
Roselyn flinched as her captor bound her wrists together before her. Her restraints were tight, though not to the point of pain, but even so she felt more vulnerable and isolated than usual. Her hands were her main means of finding her way, of knowing her dark world. Without the ability to touch she was at a loss. The stern Scot who now held the power of life and death over her was unrelenting though. He grasped her bound wrists and tugged her behind him as he walked across the bailey, then she was unceremoniously lifted and tossed onto what she quickly realised must be one of the loaded carts. Instinctively Roselyn twisted her body but failed to prevent the stab of agony that shot through her ribs and winded her momentarily. She failed to stifle her cry of pain.
“Did I hurt ye, madam?” He sounded surprised. And concerned. “I apologise if I did so, ‘twas not my intent.”
“Nay, my lord. I was startled, is all.”
“Then make yourself as comfortable as ye may. Ye have a long journey ahead.”
She listened to his crisp, heavy tread as he strode away from her. As the footsteps faded Roselyn cautiously arranged herself in her new surroundings. Coarse sacking rubbed her hands as she scrabbled for something to grab hold of, and the scent of milled flour filled her nostrils. These must be supplies from the Etal stores, now pillaged and about to be carried off by the victors.
Was that what she, too, had become? The spoils of war?
No, it was worse than that. At least as an innocent captive, a hostage, she could expect decent treatment and eventual release. This harsh Highlander had a score to settle and now that he knew of her involvement he would kill her. Of that she was quite certain.
And he would be right to do so for she did not deserve any better.
“Make sure she reaches Duncleit safely. I will deal with her there. The rest of your cargo is intended to relieve Mortain. I bid you a safe journey.”
“Wait! Please, wait…” He might be already gone, though Roselyn thought not. She had heard no footsteps, and could still sense his presence close by. “May I know your name?”
There was a short pause, then, “You may. I am The McGregor, Laird of Duncleit.”
