Chapter Five

The sweet scent of heather filled the air, and a soft breeze whispered through the grass in the sun-dappled glen. Laughter echoed strangely, as if it coursed through water. Her hair and skirts flapped around her as she ran, and her feet were bare and light. Her brothers chased her, mayhap all three of them, their joyful voices eliciting giggles. Birdsong chased her as well and she spun about, twirling, free of cares for the world was right in that moment. She paused at the loch, dipping her fingers into cool, clear water.

Her brothers' voices faded, her own laughter became a distant and faint noise. Another sound intruded, a soft clinking that furrowed her brow. It grew louder, pulling her away from the idyllic scene. The laughter faded, the loch's reflection shimmered and blurred, and the sweet scent of heather was replaced by the damp, musty smell of stone.

Fiona opened her eyes slowly, flustered briefly by her strange surroundings until she recalled where she was and what had transpired. The events of early morning rushed back to her—the chaos of the siege, the desperate fight, and the moment they were captured.

Captured.

Nae. Surrendered!

Prisoners. Stripped of their arms and tossed in cages like animals.

Named traitors to a crown to which she'd never sworn allegiance.

?Twas all a dream, the peaceful romp across the glen, and a fantastic one at that. Truth was, she had never run carefree through the fields with her brothers, had scarcely known them at all.

More distressing, her present reality was no dream. She found herself lying on a cold and hard earthen floor, her hands bound by thick cuffs of iron. The dim light revealed rough stone walls and iron bars of the cell in which she was caged. And she might have been thankful that she'd suffered no grievous wounds—naught but a slice to her sleeve and arm, another across the back of her hand where a ribbon of blood had since dried, and a few bruises begotten either in the climbing of the walls or in the tight combat itself—save that it likely didn't matter as she and all those interred with her would likely die now.

As her eyes adjusted to the gloominess of the cell, Fiona fixed her gaze on the person with whom she shared it, a similarly restrained Austin Merrick.

He'd not apologized for his actions, for what he'd done, surrendering as would a coward—forcing her to do so as well; oh, but she should have kept fighting! death before dishonor! she thought miserably in hindsight. Why had she given in simply because he had? Aye, there was certainly no way they'd have survived the dozens of castle guards and English troops rushing at them, but oh, how she would have liked to try, to have gone down brandishing her blade rather than abandoning it.

Fiona struggled to sit up, her muscles aching.

She had no idea if Austin was awake or not. The only source of light came from an evidently small, flickering torch mounted on the wall far outside their cell. Scarcely could she make out his shape, pressed against the interior wall of the cell.

She listened carefully, trying to discern his breathing, wondering if that would advise her if he were awake or not. She registered a distant drip of water, echoing off cold stone walls and a scratchy scurrying, which she assumed were rats. There was a brief and faint clinking of iron, someone in another cell moving their shackled wrists, followed by a groan, likely come from either the Merrick man or the Urry man, both of whom had been seriously injured, and who would apparently receive no treatment.

The back of her throat clogged, thinking of Will Moray, last seen on the battlements—lifeless, his chest laid open and his sightless eyes staring at the sun—before she'd been dragged away with the other prisoners. Others had fallen as well, five in total of the fourteen brave souls who'd climbed the cliff and the wall.

Those who'd survived, including Keegan, Plum, and Teegan, were here as well, below the earth. A call of inquiry shortly after they'd been restrained and shoved inside the cages revealed that the cells were not situated one next to another, but spread out. When Keegan had answered her call, he'd sounded very far away. The Rose men had assured her that they were scraped and cut but not dangerously so. Beneath the sourness of their tones, Fiona recognized a familiar steadfast determination; they were bruised but not defeated.

She'd been awake for several minutes before Austin's voice drifted low across the cell.

"Still nae speaking to me?"

None of the briefly-displayed and self-indulgent charisma of yesterday was evident in this tone. And yet though he sounded weary, there was a steeliness to his voice, as if he wrestled with his own fury and was resentful of hers.

Few redeeming qualities had he, she'd decided before she'd fought by his side. And while the vigor and cunning of his fight provided a wee atonement, his surrender and then what he'd done when they'd been brought to the dungeon had infuriated her all over again.

She'd wanted—expected, naturally—to have been imprisoned with her men, or close to them.

That desire, too, Austin Merrick had managed to thwart.

Even as he was being shackled early in the morning, Austin had spoken to their captors in that infuriatingly commanding tone, demanding that he was not to be separated from his "sister".

The fact that she'd fought and had been apprehended at his side, combined with her lack of a distinctive plaid, might have been what led their captors to believe that they were indeed kin.

"She stays with me!" he'd barked, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "My sister stays with me."

Fiona's eyes had widened, and she'd clenched her teeth, her anger flaring to new heights. She didn't want or need his protection, nor did she appreciate—again—the maddening notion that she was helpless.

Thus, his initial attempts at conversation once the cage door had been slammed closed and locked had been met with stony silence. She owed him nothing but her derision.

When she refused to answer him now, he pressed on.

"It would have been a slaughter, ye ken that," he reasoned. "This cold tomb would be empty, our bodies thrown down the verra path we'd taken up."

She couldn't see how this was actually preferrable.

"Have ye never called for retreat?" He wondered.

She had, of course, but this was different.

"It's nae any different," he argued, reading her mind. "Live to fight another day."

They would not live, she knew. They would either be hanged here as traitors or marched to England and hanged there. The latter possibility brought with it the likelihood that they'd suffer more than only a hanging. Longshanks liked to make examples of clan leaders, liked to humiliate and denigrate them, was fond of drawing and quartering. Wrinkling her nose, she closed her eyes and fought back tears, picturing her limbs strewn about, to the four corners of the Scottish realm, impaled with pikes.

Needing the diversion—which an argument with Austin Merrick would provide—she challenged, "And how do ye plan to fight from here? Or from the end of a rope?"

"?Tis nae the end, nae yet," he pronounced. "This morn? Aye, that would have been our end. I dinna ken if an opportunity will present itself or if a rescue will come, but I ken at dawn there was nae possibility of either."

"It was nae for ye to decide whether I die valiantly or ignobly, as nae doubt they will make our deaths now," she contended, her voice laced with bitterness.

"Valor and nobleness pale in comparison to realism and guid judgment."

Fiona rolled her eyes. "?Tis yer opinion and ye had nae call to impose it upon me, or anyone for that matter, who might have wished to fight to the end."

"Tell me, Fiona Rose, who will fight for Scotland when all the noble but clearly na?ve warriors become dust in the earth, fallen into their tombs by a want of rash valor?"

Closing her eyes again, she wished him silent or gone or at the very least, a thousand times less condescending.

"I do, though," he continued, much to her chagrin, "admit that ye fight far better than I'd expected of a Rose and a female. However, I would advise that in the future ye use the dagger more—"

"I'm going to stop ye right there," she snapped. "Unless ye plan to sleep with one eye open to prevent me from wrapping this chain round yer neck while ye sleep, I suggest ye refrain from prattling on, daring to instruct me on methods of warfare."

She sighed internally when he pursued no more that topic, but then was compelled to clench her teeth when his soft chuckle floated across the cage to her.

THE SUN STRUGGLED TO break through the thick, ominous clouds that sat low in the sky, casting a bleak pall over the campsite that had bustled with activity less than twenty four hours ago. Now, the remnants of the armies joined under Urry's command gathered in tense clusters, the air filled with murmurs of discontent and whispered blame.

Fraser stomped into what had been the main campsite, which was beginning to fill again as different units returned in defeat. His eyes were murderous, his jaw set with a want of vengeance. He moved with purpose, his imposing frame cutting through the throng of disgruntled soldiers like a ship through water.

The night before, they had executed a carefully planned multi-pronged attack. Men had taken positions in the forest, ready to ambush any reinforcements. Soldiers had secured the docks, aiming to cut off any escape by water or resupply. The MacLaren and Rose forces had positioned themselves to stage a frontal assault, drawing attention away from those climbing the castle walls to infiltrate from the rear. Each unit had been confident in their role, assured by Urry's scouts that the castle defenses were manageable.

How swiftly the plan had unraveled! The assault on the gates of Wick had begun shortly before dawn. The men in the forest, hearing the distant clash, had forwarded their own siege on the west side.

Occasional glimpses of the morning sun had shown them what the gray fog had hidden, a wall filled with twice as many red tabards and shiny helms as it was with de Rathe tartan-ed guardsmen. The infiltration team never did arrive at the gate from inside and how could they? The castle was obviously garrisoning an English contingent.

The MacLaren forces out front, with whom Fraser had been embedded, under heavy fire from an unexpected and insurmountable number of archers, had been forced to retreat. The infiltration team likely had been overcome inside the walls, the element of surprise stolen by being so vastly outnumbered by the addition of the English. Within hours, it became clear that the entire operation was compromised to a fatal degree.

Their once coordinated attack had been reduced to a disorganized retreat.

With a stabbing pain in his chest, Fraser feared that Fiona—along with the others in her company—could not possibly have survived numbers so great inside as he was imagining, as was shockingly evidenced by what was demonstrated on the south-facing battlements.

He marched with purpose, his eyes locked onto his target. The murmurs around him—the blaming, accusations, and rebuttals— were drowned out by the pounding of his heart and the seething anger in his veins.

John Urry barely had time to register Fraser's approach before Fraser's fist connected squarely with his jaw. Urry staggered back, clutching his face, eyes wide with shock and fear.

"Ye bluidy fool!" Fraser roared, his voice cutting through the din. "Yer scouts assured us the way was clear! An entire fecking English force is garrisoned here! Yer scouts were supposed to be superior!" Fraser continued, stepping closer to the still-dazed Urry. "Yet somehow they missed an entire garrison of English soldiers. Ye bluidy incompetent fool!"

Urry struggled to find his voice, still reeling from the blow. "We...we had nae reason to believe—"

"Nae reason?" Fraser interrupted, his roar overwhelming all other noise. "Guid people are captured or dead now due to yer incompetence!"

Fraser's thrown punch and subsequent tirade sparked an eruption of chaos.

Urry soldiers came under attack, guilty merely by association. Merrick and Rose men started thumping chests, hollering at each other. Shouts and curses filled the air as men pointed fingers, their faces red with anger and futility.

Some level-headed men tried to bring order, but the damage was done. Trust had been shattered, and unity had dissolved into a bitter blame game. The Merrick soldiers were particularly vocal, furious over the capture of their commander, while what remained of the Rose faction accused Urry and his men of willful murder for how they'd sent that party into danger.

Amidst the chaos, Fraser's voice rose above the rest. "This is on ye, Urry," he charged, pointing his finger at the smaller man. "If she's laying on some cold stone, lifeblood spilt from her, I'm coming after ye. I'll do to ye whatever's been done to her. I dinna care who ye are or who ye ken, no one will save ye, nae king or God—I will kill ye."

For good measure, he swung his mighty fist again, his rage not yet satisfied, his fear for Fiona devastating him.

This time, and though he ducked and winced, Urry was knocked out, falling backward, his flaccid body bouncing a bit as it met with the earth.

Straun, equally as enraged on behalf of the party likely lost to a futile siege at Wick, most specifically his commander and Ronan, interceded when it appeared Fraser would have went down atop Urry and continued his assault.

"Nae," the giant said, struggling to hold back the older man. "It dinna need this right now. Clear heads, mate."

Having spent the wee hours of the morning and the abruptly aborted siege with Fraser, Straun knew the man was capable of reason and wisdom. And presently, with Urry having proven fatally his incompetence, Straun knew Fraser was possibly the best chance this remaining army had, since it was effectively leaderless at the moment.

"Get hold of yerself, man," Straun advised, standing with his chest pressed into Fraser's shoulder. He patted Fraser's leather breastplate. "Get control of this force and let's get in there and get them out. Dead or alive, we want them back."

Though he settled, Fraser turned a wild look upon Straun.

"She's nae dead."

Straun's brows lifted. "Then we better hurry."

"THEY WOULD HAVE LEFT marks," Austin said reflectively. "An entire army crosses field and forest to reach Wick—there should have been signs." He rocked his jaw side to side, considering this. "How do ye miss that?" The very idea was so implausible to him that he began to toy with the idea that Urry was not so loyal to the Scottish cause as he projected.

There was no response to his deliberations; she'd not spoken to him in hours.

Aside from exchanging brief and succinct inquiries about their well-being with her mates in other cells, she had remained completely silent. ?Twas almost midnight again, by his reckoning, mayhap later. What she did, nestled there across the floor from him, her back against the wall, he did not know. What went through her mind likewise remained a mystery.

Jesu, but wasn't she a revelation?

With hindsight, he suspected he should have expected how passionately she'd have fought. She'd proven her fierceness, verbally when she'd stood up to him and by way of her tenacious resolve. He admitted to himself—and might to her one day—that indeed her size and speed, combined with her zeal, did in fact make for a proficient fighter. Though, to be fair, her blanket statement was not true; not all smaller soldiers were so capable. She was though, for the nature of her abilities, being that she was very adept with both sword and dagger, the latter seeming to be an extension of her hand that she used to great effect. She wasn't so much reckless as she was both fearless and awash in self-confidence.

When she'd first made it to the top of the wall, and had appeared just over the head of the man he'd been fighting, in truth he'd expected to see her cower, to see at least a wince for the viciousness of the melee already underway. Instead, without hesitation, she'd leapt on the man's back and had caused his death with ease, with nary a grimace for the foul deed.

He grinned unconsciously now, intrigued by the entire package she presented. Her beauty alone was sufficient to rock a man back on his heels. Her boldness and refusal to be cowed by any man, to challenge Urry's orders and Austin's attempt to provoke her spoke of her resolve, and to a greater degree, to her self-possession. Her poise, outside of battle and certainly within it, put her in league with some of the great warriors of their time. By nature, men were either leaders or followers, hardly ever compatible to both. Fiona Rose was clearly a leader.

For what felt like the hundredth time, he pulled his gaze away from her, his stare scarcely fruitful in the gloom of this dungeon.

Wondering what might have happened outside the wall and gates was a futile endeavor as well. He simply might never know. Likely, there were few casualties to the armies under Urry's bungling command; the enemy inside would not open the gates to charge at their foe, not when they owned safety and security behind the wall. Urry and the armies could lay a proper siege, without subterfuge, but it could last weeks or months. This was unlikely, however, Austin presently imagining that either Fraser or Brodie—maybe Brodie, he could never be sure with that one—would argue against it, knowing the prisoners would suffer for any harm done to the castle or its occupants.

As so much of the war was a matter of "hurry up and wait", as Straun liked to say—rush to this place only to wait on reinforcements, make haste to overtake this force but be delayed on supplies not arriving in time, hurry to assume a position only to have to wait hours or days for the enemy to appear—he expected his captivity would be more of the same, minus the hurry obviously.

He, Fiona, and the others would be forced to simply await their fate, whatever it might be. She, evidently, having barely moved or spoken, would fare much better in this regard, in the waiting. Austin did not idle well, was unaccustomed to even short stretches of inactivity, and had never been able to find peace or comfort inside his head as she might have already done.

Sleep eluded him. Another thirty minutes dragged on.

Fiona shifted, lowering her legs from where they'd been pulled up to her chest, extending them outward and flexing her ankles a bit.

"Do ye ken fear at all?" He asked Fiona, his voice low.

As expected, his query was met with silence. Then, a full minute later, her quiet voice broke the stillness.

"I'm nae afraid to die," she said. Another moment passed before she confessed, her voice smaller, "But aye, I sometimes fear...the thought of what they might do to me, a female...being at their mercy, vulnerable to the worst they can imagine."

Austin's brow lifted, a wee surprised he'd not considered this. But why would he have? Few women soldiers had he ever met, and not once had he ever become friendly enough with one of them to have delved into this particular fear. It struck him then, the unique and harrowing vulnerabilities she faced as a female.

However, what struck him more profoundly was the wave of protectiveness that surged within him.

"I would rather be drawn and quartered, hanged—anything but that," she added.

Hearing her admit this fear stirred something deep within him. It wasn't that her fear made her any less of a warrior; if anything, it highlighted her courage even more. She faced not only the perils of battle but also the threats posed to her as a woman in this brutal world.

He did not say what flashed through his mind, that here was another reason that females had no place among an army. And while he couldn't comprehend her dread over something that never entered his mind as a possible fate of his, he imagined that death by hanging was bad enough, but having to dread that she might be used and abused before then was in all probability terrifying. War was nasty business and made monsters out of men.

Her confession gave him some insight into the depth of her courage, what it took for her to stand and fight alongside men.

"We fought at Roslin with Urry," Fiona said next after another lengthy silence had stretched between them. "I deemed him capable. A wee overconfident, but nae inept."

"Roslin?" Austin questioned, rather stunned to hear this. "I was at Roslin," he stated. "The Merricks, that is."

The Merricks had been under Simon Fraser's command then, a part of the smaller Scottish force that had managed to outwit and defeat the English despite incredible odds, being outnumbered nearly four to one by the English on that occasion, who boasted a force of thirty thousand. The memory was vivid: three bloody and vicious engagements on the same day to accommodate the way the English had, unwisely, divided into three columns. On and on it went. No sooner had they triumphed over one column than the next English force came charging at them until the Scots had, amazingly, defeated all of them.

He hadn't realized that Fiona and the Roses had fought alongside them but then the Scots had managed to put forth a combined army of almost eight thousand. His eyes narrowed slightly, contemplating this new revelation. To know that she had shared the same struggle—and survived—had faced the same dangers, and contributed to the same victory added a layer of respect to his view of Fiona.

He frowned, not sure what to do with this, a newfound sense of connection. He had underestimated her, not just as a soldier, but as someone who had been through the same fire. The realization that they shared a history, unknown to him until now, made him wonder if a bond existed between them, longer and stronger than their current predicament.

"I still dinna understand," Fiona cut into his musing, "how ye can imagine this imprisonment—and our expected fate—can be better than having continued the fight on the battlements?"

He dismissed the suspicion that she was, in fact, questioning his honor, why he hadn't wanted to die with sword in hand, fighting until the last breath left his body.

"It's simple, lass," he said, with a blithe practicality. "We're nae dead yet."