Highlander’s Frozen Heart by Shona Thompson

Chapter Three

June, 1623

Arguen kept a faithful account of how many days she’d been locked in the cell. Using the point of a stick as a pen and some dirt from the floor as ink, she faithfully marked every day that passed on the stone wall as soon as the sun had set. Eleven days so far. The summer solstice had passed; that much she could tell. The days grew longer, and she could feel the sliver of sunlight on her face for a couple hours longer than normal. A second stage of heather would begin to bloom soon enough, and it was high time to harvest the thyme in the kitchen garden. Under normal circumstances, Arguen would have snickered at that--”time for thyme.” Her mother had always made lighthearted little puns like that. But now, the best she could manage was a small upturn of the corners of her mouth.

The wildflowers at her mother’s grave were certainly wilted by now. Arguen had left them there the day before Marianne’s debacle, and she had a feeling Douglas was probably too busy to pay their mother a visit now.

He’d visited her about every other day during her imprisonment. Apparently, the laird sent for the magistrate, but he was out in the country, settling disputes between farmers and tradesmen. He had given word that he would travel back to Bruckstone Castle as quickly as possible when finished with his other duties. Douglas kept Arguen updated on all of this. Marianne acted as if nothing had happened--still the same statue of ice around everyone. However, if Arguen’s name was mentioned at all, by anyone, within her earshot, one could see the rage simmering beneath the surface. She never said anything; never ordered anyone to not speak the healer’s name, but her hatred was obvious enough.

Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of another guard bringing her food. For a moment, she thought it might be Douglas, but much to her dismay, it was Robert, a mean-spirited lad who’d never spoken a kind word to her. He stopped before the cell, in all his squat, stocky glory, and she half expected him to drop the tray outside the bars, smirk, and leave. Instead, he stood with that stupid smirk, waiting for her to acknowledge his presence.

Arguen heaved a sigh and forced herself to smile as coldly as the lady of the castle sometimes did. “Tae what do I owe the pleasure?”

“‘Tis nae pleasure servin’ a witch.”

She stifled the urge to roll her eyes, knowing she couldn’t afford to be on such thin ice. “Ye ken I’m nae a witch.”

“Prove it, then,” he challenged.

Arguen took a moment to analyze him. Here was a man, well, barely a man, who found amusement in the suffering of others, especially those over whom he had some sort of power, whether it was social or physical. In this case, Arguen was every bit his inferior, except in dignity, which she promised herself to cling to no matter what. “I have naething tae prove tae ye,”

He sighed and dropped the tray in front of the bars, like she’d expected him to do in the first place. “Ye’re no fun.”

“Well, being prisoner in yer own home is rarely a joyous occasion,” she said dryly.

Robert’s tone changed instantly. “‘Tisn’t yer home,” he snarled. “Ye live here due tae the grace of the laird. Ye own nothin’. Ye work an’ live in this castle because he allows ye tae do so.”

“Aye, but ye forget that I’ve lived here longer than ye have, Master Robert,” she replied, a teasing edge to her voice on his title, “and I’ve patched ye up more times than ye can probably count. Remember that at the trial,” she added, hoping her voice sounded more even and commanding than normal.

“Are ye threatenin’ me, witch?”

“Are ye afear’d?”

“Enjoy yer meal, witch,” he snarled, spitting out the last word as if saying it caused sourness on his tongue.

Arguen waited until she was satisfied that he was gone, then crawled forward, salvaging what she could. The porridge was all over the floor; there was no way she could scrape it up and eat it. The bread was still there though, and she snatched the little hunk into her cell as if someone would take it from her. She knew it was silly and desperate of her, even though there was no one else in this dank hole who would mock her, much less commiserate with her. She ate the small hunk of bread ravenously, her mind blank. Lack of food could do that to a person, she knew. When she was finished with her bread, she crawled across the cell and rolled the small pewter mug closer to her. It was empty, since Robert had dropped it, but she could at least use it to collect water from the leak in the window. Soon she’d have enough for a sip. As she watched the water slowly collect in the mug, drip by drip, she fell fast asleep. This time, her dreams were vivid.

The wind howled in the trees like she’d never heard it before. Branches whipped about in the wind, and even the thickness of the foliage did not block the torrential rain. Arguen never had an issue with dirt or mud, but right now, it was slowing her down. She could hear the boar grunting not far behind her. Her legs were sore and a dull pain throbbed in her calves with every footfall. She’d made it this far, however, and she was not about to die alone in the woods, gutted by a wild boar. The darkness and the deluge obscured her eyesight, making it difficult for her to find any tree to scale or brush to hide in.

Suddenly, she lost footing and slipped in the mud, falling flat on the forest floor. Try as she might, she could not get up; the fall must have tweaked her knee and ankle. She could only wince as she turned over, fumbling to find her knife strapped to her garter. Circumstances had changed—if she was to die in this forest at the hands (well, tusks and hooves) of a wild boar, she would not go quietly. She’d give the bastard all the might she could, even laying on her back in the mud with a sprained ankle. The boar was getting closer and closer. Even through the rain and wind, she could hear its short grunts and pants. With the next flash of lightning, she could see the glint of the boar’s tusks. She gripped her dagger the way Douglas had taught her, ready to slash at its throat when it pounced.

Only the pounce never came. With a great roar, a bear came crashing through the brush. Arguen watched, terrified, as the bear swiped a great paw at the pig, claws extended. The wild boar howled in pain and tried to fight back, but it was too wounded to do much good. The bear roared again as the pig staggered away, back into the brush, perhaps to die alone. For a moment, Arguen felt sorry for the pig, but only a moment—as a much bigger threat had appeared.

Or so she thought. The bear stood on its hind legs before her. Arguen could hear her heart thudding against her ribcage. Every fiber of her being was frozen; no fight or flight to be found. So this is how she was to die—saved from the boar, mangled instead by a bear. But what happened next utterly confused and astounded her.

“Ye are in great danger, my little bird,” her mother’s voice said. Arguen’s eyes widened. Where could her mother’s voice possibly be coming from? She’d been dead for seven years. Surely…

“I see ye’re confused. Aye, ‘tis your mother. I’m here tae warn ye. Stay away from Bruckstone Castle as long as Lady Marianne retains power.”

The bear. It was the bear. The bear was speaking to her with her mother’s voice. How was that even possible?

“Mother?” she asked, feeling her voice catch in her throat.

“Aye. Heed my words. ‘Tis nae for ye to return until Marianne is gone.”

“What do ye mean gone?”

Arguen hadn’t been aware that bears could smile, but in that moment, she swore this mother bear was smiling.

“Marianne will get what she is due. I ken this tae be true. Until then, ye must heed my words, for your protection.”

“Mother, what do I do?”

“My mother used tae tell me that the night is darkest just ‘afore dawn. I ken, the dawn is nigh. Ye must be ready.”

Arguen opened her mouth to ask what that could possibly mean, but mother bear disappeared before her very eyes, leaving her alone and crippled in the forest. She began to sob; for what, she knew not, other than she was miserable and bewildered. The tears flowed until she fell asleep.

“Arguen. Arguen! Rouse yerself!”

Arguen jerked awake fitfully, taking in her surroundings with wild eyes. She was still in her cell, in the dungeons of Bruckstone Castle. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Douglas stood on the other side of the bars, lantern in hand, looking quizzically at her.

“Arguen, are ye well?”

She stretched, letting out a little groan, and padded over to the edge of the cell. “I had an odd dream.”

“Per’aps a nightmare got ye,” Douglas joked.

Arguen shook her head. “Nay, ‘twas no nightmare. ’Twas a message.”

“A message?” In the dim light of the lantern, she could see that Douglas’s brow was furrowed in confusion.

“Aye. I dreamt I was running through the forest. A wild boar was chasin’ me. I slipped and fell; I thought I’d die right there. But this bear...fought it off. An’ it spoke tae me.”

“Ye dreamt that a bear spoke to ye? Christ, they must be puttin’ somethin’ in the porridge,” he teased.

She swatted at his arm through the cell. “The bear was mother. And she gave me a warnin’.”

There was no teasing smirk on her brother’s face now. “A warnin’?”

“Aye. She said I cannae stay in the castle while Marianne is here. It’s dangerous. And... she told me...that the night is darkest just ‘afore dawn, and she kent that dawn is comin’.”

Douglas was not an overly superstitious young man, but it was impossible to live in the Scottish Highlands without hearing tales of the fae and other legends.

“Ye should listen tae her,” he said.

Arguen raised her eyebrows. “Well, yer no doubting Thomas, are ye?”

Douglas set the lantern on the floor and sat down. Arguen followed his lead and sat down as well, so she could be level with him. “I’ve a friend,” he began. “An’ I’ve sent word that ye’ll be stayin’ with him a while. He owes me a favor.”

She looked darkly at him. “Douglas, what’re ye plottin’?”

“Do ye trust me?” he asked, reaching through the bars and grasping her hand.

She nodded. “Aye. Yer the only person I can trust.”

Douglas took a deep breath and continued with his plan. “Clan MacMortie. Laird Blake Mawr. D’ye remember him?”

Arguen shook her head. “Should I?”

“Eh, ye might’ve been too young. We used tae fight together before I came here tae serve the laird. Have nae had a response yet, but he owes me, and if he refuses, then we’re nae friends like I thought.”

“Douglas, are ye mad? I cannae leave here without bein’ seen,” she protested.

“But ‘tis dangerous tae stay. Even mother told ye in yer dream.”

“Douglas, the laird will send a search party out fer me. I cannae risk this. If I’m caught, I appear guilty, and Marianne will have even more reason tae try an’ have me killed.”

“Arguen, the only reason she hasn’t come down here and slit yer throat herself is because Laird Morgan has made it clear that if anyone harms ye, they’ll have tae answer tae him. Every day ye stay locked here in this dungeon grows more dangerous. Marianne, Robert, other guards, other servants... they’re all restless. They’re lookin’ fer any excuse tae harm ye.”

She weighed her options in her mind. Neither one was very desirable. Stay here and risk being killed by Marianne out of spite? Or venture into the woods, possibly encounter a real wild boar, and be gored to death? Even if she did make it to Laird Blake’s castle, there was no telling what the reception would be like. What if they hated her even more? What if she was simply jumping out of the frying pan into a blazing fire?

“Why would Laird Blake help me?” she asked.

Douglas heaved a sigh and ran his hand through his sandy blond hair. “He owes me a debt. I saved his life. We were ambushed by English soldiers. He was taken prisoner and nearly executed, but I organized a raid, and we were able tae free him. He promised then that whatever I needed; he would strive to provide. An’, well, I need his help now.”

Arguen knew that the bond between men on the battlefield was intense and emotional, and that promises made there were often kept. It was no small thing, but Douglas was asking an enormous favor. Hide a fugitive accused of witchcraft, in his village? Even he could be considered guilty for harboring an enemy.

“How d’ye ken he’ll agree?”

“He has to. I’ve never asked him for anythin’ else. He owes me.”

Arguen licked her lips nervously. “’Twill be risky,” she said slowly.

“Aye. But ‘tis a risk I’ll take if it means keepin’ the only family I have left.”

At that moment, it hit her. Obviously, Douglas was doing this to protect her, because he was a good brother, but she hadn’t considered his loneliness until now. They truly were the only blood family they had left. Staying together was survival for both of them.

“I’ll do it,” Arguen said quickly.

Douglas raised an eyebrow. “Quick decision.”

“If there’s a chance I may die, I’d rather die free, of me own will, than at the hands of some English bitch.”

Her brother chuckled. “Havenae heard ye curse ‘afore.”

“Thought ‘twas warranted.”

Douglas gathered the lantern and stood up, helping Arguen up with him through the bars.

“As soon as I hear from Laird Blake, I’ll tell ye. ‘Til then, I’ll gather supplies. You’ll have tae go on foot most likely.”

Arguen nodded vigorously. “Douglas, I dinnae wanna die here,” she cried in a sudden burst of emotion.

He held her hand tenderly. “I ken, Arguen. I willnae let it happen.”

With one last goodbye, he left the dungeon, taking the light with him. Once again, she was left alone in the darkness.