Page 27 of The Heather Wife
A tray of food was set down at her feet with a dull clang—an unceremonious mark of the slow passing of time. She was no longer sure how long she had been held captive.
Each time the kitchen maid came, escorted by a guard, their disdain was as sharp as a blade—silent but keen. Neither woman nor man met her eyes, nor offered a word beyond what was necessary. No scraps of news, nor whispers of what stirred above stairs, ever found their way to her.
When Elspeth sought to draw a response from the maids, the guards, or the raiders locked beside her, their bitter voices cut through the stillness. “Hush yersel’,” one would growl. “We have no use for yer prattle.”
Why was she still here? Why had Calum not come for her?
She had thought once he returned home, her place beside him—as his chosen—would shield her from the coldjudgement of the clan. Yet here she remained, caged with those branded criminals, as if she were no better than they. The very notion curdled her blood.
She was Elspeth Dunn, daughter of the blacksmith, aye, but more than that—she had been close to Calum since they were bairns. He had sought her company, trusted her laughter, chosen her heart over duty. In her mind she had been as good as claimed, her place beside him assured, admired, even envied for the bond she shared with the Laird’s son. Was all that to be forgotten now, cast aside as though she were naught but another servant’s child, left to rot in stone and filth?
What kept him from setting her free? Was it doubt? Hesitation? Or had Sorcha poisoned his mind against her?
The questions spun in her head, steady as the drip of water echoing down the corridor. She did not belong here—not in this darkness, nor amongst these shadows. Yet still, she was forgotten and abandoned, left to languish beneath the very clan she had once hoped to command.
She thought of the great hall above—once hers to glide through, skirts sweeping over therushes, her laughter carrying to the rafters. She thought of the hearth where she should be seated, goblet in hand, her rightful place at Calum’s side, the firelight gilding her hair while the clan’s eyes turned to her.There she ought to have sat in velvet and fur, mistress of Strathloch, her every word heeded.Instead, she sat here, her beauty wasted on the dark.
She only hoped Calum would hasten his coming. For when she was free, those who turned their backs on her—the cold maids, the silent guards—would come to know a reckoning colder than the stones that held her now.
Chapter 20
Sorcha
The evening air was heavy with the scent of peat smoke and damp earth as Sorcha stood by the window of her chamber, staring out at the keep and the scattered homes of Strathloch. Her mind churned with the words she had heard, spoken quietly but with weight in the great hall—the counsel of Elder MacRae, the heavy burden pressing down on Calum, and the whispered fears of a clan fraying at the edges.
She had heard the murmurs too—words laced with doubt and thinly veiled scorn. Some spoke of Calum’s hesitation as weakness, others whispered about her rising favor with the folk. They called her savior, a name she bore as both shield and burden. The tales of her skill with sword and longbow, once whispered like old wives’ tales, now carried weight and respect. Yet, to her, they felt like a delicate frost, brittle and fleeting beneath the rising sun.
Her thoughts flickered to Calum—her Laird by title, but a stranger in the flesh. He carried his own chains, heavy with regret and pride, and though she neither sought his favor nor wished to bridge the gulf between them, she knew the clan looked to him for strength. Yet he wavered.
Sorcha clenched her fists. Loyalty was not born of titles or blood alone; it was earned in the field, in the shadows, in moments where fear threatened to claim the heart. She had learned that well—her bow and blade the echoes of a past scarred by fire and loss.
She thought of Katherine, the laundress with fierce eyes and a steady hand, who had begged for lessons in the longbow. Teaching the lass was more than skill—it was planting a seed of hope in the soil of uncertainty. It was a promise that they would not be broken, no matter the cost.
The elder’s words echoed in her ears: leadership borne of courage and clarity. Sorcha knew her place was not behind a curtain of fear or silence, it never had been. The days ahead would be harsh—testing not only the mettle of Calum and his kin but the very spirit of Strathloch.
Still, she would not rise unbidden, nor claim a throne the clan had not truly offered. If they wished her to lead, let them speak—not with whispers or hidden looks, but with clear voices and open hearts. Only then would she answer their call.
She turned from the window, her eyes steady and fierce. The heather bent but did not break. Neither would she.What she did not yet ken was that come the morrow, the choice she meant to leave to the clan would be made for her—in the full light of day, before every eye in Strathloch’s courtyard.
Chapter 21
Calum
Calum strode through the bailey, the chill bite of the midday wind at his back. His father’s summons had been abrupt—everyone to the courtyard at once. The gathering would begin any moment, and the thought of it quickened his steps. Irritation simmered in him. Since his return, his father had pressed him to see to the traitors and marauders still rotting in the cells below the keep. But Calum could not bring himself to pass judgment—not when the traitors had once been his friends. Their faces haunted him, and with each passing hour the whispers of unrest among Strathloch’s folk grew louder.
The courtyard was already crowded when he arrived, voices hushed with expectation. His father stood upon the broad stone steps of the keep, framed against the grey sky so all could see him. Calum crossed the yard, the sea of onlookers parting, and mounted the steps to stand at his father’s side.
A few steps below, flanked by the clan elders, stood Sorcha. Her face was pale, but her back was straight, her gaze steady. She looked at him not with judgment, but with an unshakable certainty that seemed to cut through his turmoil.
Domhnall raised a hand, and the murmuring fell tosilence. His voice boomed across the stones, stern and unyielding.
“Traitors let murderers into our keep, and our kin died for it—men who fought, and the women and children who had no shield. Five of our own folk perished. The clan has grieved. Now the clan demands justice.”
He turned to Calum, his voice dropping, though it still carried to the farthest corners of the yard.
“The traitors lie below. Their guilt is known. The elders have given their counsel, and the people have made their will plain. As their laird—and the son of a laird—ye must speak. The time for hesitation is past. Give them your judgment.”
The words hung in the air, a heavy cloak of expectation settling on Calum’s shoulders. The faces in the crowd blurred—impatient, angry, demanding. He opened his mouth, but the sentence would not come. The faces of the prisoners flashed in his mind, and with them, a lifetime of shared boyhood and battle.
