Page 13 of The Dark Wolf's Deliverance

‘My name is Ross Moncur, and you will bend the knee to me, Conall Campbell, if you want to live.’

‘I don’t bow down before dogs.’

‘Dogs, is it? I’ll give you dogs, you arrogant fool.’

A boot to the face sent Conall flying, his blood spattering the muck.

‘Steady Ross, we don’t want to be showing father a corpse,’ shouted the man with the broken nose.

‘Shut up, Bruce.’ He turned to the men around him. ‘Teach him some obedience,’ he said, and suddenly they were all on him, punching, kicking and shoving him down, again and again.

Conall fought back with what strength he had left until a brutal fist connected with his chin, and his eyes started to go dark. His cheek was wet and cold against the earth, laughter all around him, and a wave of sickening anger rose in his throat and made him want to vomit. He coughed up blood, the yard a dizzying swirl as his head spun. A flash of yellow from across the yard. He focussed on that, trying to clear his head. It was the girl still looking on. He would not stay down before this Ross Moncur. He could not. He heard someone say, ‘Enough now, he’s had enough.’ Was that the last thing he would hear before they beat him to death?

Across the yard, Kenna could not help but stare. It was not that he was a handsome young man that made her do it. She had seen this game played out on countless occasions and had steeled herself to ignore it, keep her head down and survive the day. No, it was not his beauty but his courage that stopped her from turning away. He was sure to be frightened, but he hid it, refusing to kneel before his tormentors, and so they beat him again and again until he did. Their fists connected with his flesh with a dull thump that cut through her, but the prisoner made no sound. How could he not cry out with the pain of it and beg for its end?

Kenna was struck by him, for she had never seen any man like him before, so different from the other unfortunates dragged into Sgathach Dun. This was no cowering wretch. This man was tall, darkly handsome and fine in a way that men who are only recently grown into manhood can be. Hard body, neck thickening and arms roped with muscle, voice turned to a deep growl, too much masculinity and vigour for a body to contain.

Piece by piece, her brothers would take it all away. Through their cruelty and torture, starving and beating, they would reduce his beauty to nothing, and by the time they were finished, he would be a shell of what he was before, all his strength and honour sucked out, to leave a skeletal thing, begging for the mercy of death.

His bravery he wore like a shield, but she could see through it to the fear beneath. Here he was, at the peak of his beauty, and Kenna ached at the waste of it all. He was young, a little older than her, she guessed, and perhaps he would not get any older or any finer than in this moment, so new to manhood, perfect and pulsing with life. When he shouted out his defiance at her brother Ross, in his growl of a voice, there was real courage in it.

‘Fool,’ she thought, ‘stay down, be quiet, save yourself.’

But he did not.

When he tried to rise one final time, they dragged him away, wrenching his arms back so hard they almost tore them from their sockets. It was at that point that the young man looked up, straight at her, blinking away blood, and in his eyes, she saw rage of the most awful kind, but not a single flicker of fear.

When they had left the yard with their ill-used prisoner, Kenna sighed heavily and hurried inside to the kitchens. She felt on the edge of tears. It was no effort for her half-brothers, Ross and Bruce, to be cruel. It was their nature to be so, especially Ross, who, when he had someone at his mercy, was like a spiteful child who holds its toys to the flames just to see them burn. Their hearts did not feel the suffering of others, but hers was softer. She wished that were not so.

***

Sleep eluded Kenna that night, shivering under her blankets. The castle seemed to be wailing its misery out into the night. She told herself it was just the wind rising off the vast sweep of marsh which encircled it like a choking, stinking noose. But part of her could not banish the thought that it sounded like someone moaning in pain, like the spirit of the white lady wailing for her lost love, prowling the dank corridors of Sgathach Dun in search of souls to drag to hell. Draughts whined in under the door, despite the rags she had stuffed under it, guttering the fire in the hearth, making it die and then rise, die and rise, like the ghosts of Sgathach Dun.

It shouldn’t be this cold on an autumn night. It was as if the bite of winter had arrived early and was nipping at her toes and fingers. Kenna hoped the candle wouldn’t blow out.

If only she could go to sleep and be at peace for just a few short hours. She had to have her wits about her in the morning in case her father was in a bad mood and found fault with her. Though now he had a new prisoner to torment, he might be the opposite. The young man’s face intruded into her mind and she marvelled again at this resilience. He had courage, like a dog that is beaten but refuses to lie down and cower before its master. If he’d had an ounce of sense, he would have given in and saved himself the pain, the fool. Making yourself invisible, that was the best way to stay safe, no matter how much it crushed your pride to do it.

The wind howled again, and the curtains around her bed moved in the darkness. Kenna stiffened and squeezed her eyes shut and tried to picture him in her mind to calm her terror. It had upset her to see him hurt, and she wondered why. Violence was nothing new to her. Growing up she had seen plenty of it. So why did his dark, angry eyes stick in her mind and the way he had glowered at her as if she was to blame. His hate was so strong it had felt like an angry beast clawing at her as she stood frozen to the spot. And his beauty, she had never seen such a man in all her life. He made her brothers look like gargoyles next to him. That thought made her smile a little despite her discomfort. She wondered if the dark man shivered somewhere in the bowels of the castle or if he was in pain and frightened. She hoped he wasn’t, for, despite his hate, she pitied him. Her smile faded away. There was only one way this would end for him.

Enough of this. She would not sleep here no matter how she tried, and if he could be brave, then so could she. Kenna leapt up and threw some blankets around her shoulders and, grabbing the candle rushed to the door and out into the night. She made her way quickly through the passageways, determined not to turn around if she heard a noise and shielding the light with her hand so she wouldn't be plunged into darkness.

She crept down to the kitchen, where several lurchers were curled up before the embers of the fire. She threw some more wood on, shooshing them away as they rose languidly and snuffled their whiskery snouts into her hand, seeking affection. A high-backed bench stood against the fire, and Kenna placed one blanket on the floor underneath it and lay down with her back up against the wood, pulling the other over her. One dog came over and licked her face. She could smell its meaty breath, and she grabbed it and pulled it close. It also smelled of earth and heather and smoke from the fire, but she found warmth and solace at the sound of its steady breathing and the warmth of its back against her belly.

The fire sparked back to life, and as Kenna drifted off to sleep, she whispered to the dog, ‘I cannot care about him, I cannot, or my heart will break.’

***

‘Why am I here? Who gave you leave to take me? Am I to be ransomed? You do know who I am?’

Silence. The man continued to spin his knife, tip-down, on the table where he had been sitting for the longest time, just staring, seeming to have no particular purpose other than to taunt his prisoner and throw a piece of mouldy bread his way. His dog padded up to the bars and pushed a wet snout against Conall’s hand, looking for scraps.

‘I am Conall Campbell. Would you at least tell me your name?’

‘Euan.’

‘Listen, my clan is powerful and rich and ….’

‘Aye, you are a big man, important, heir and future Laird to the Clan Campbell of Dunslair and Clan MacLeod of Cailleach. And now you are a prisoner of Clan Moncur.’

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