Chapter 1

Mid-June, 1623

At least the dungeons were peaceful. Cold, and a bit damp, to be sure, but quiet. Here, Arguen had endless time to think, with no one to interrupt her. Down in this dark, deep cell, no one glanced at her and shuddered, hurrying along the corridor to get away from her. Even the dungeon rats were kinder than the humans.

Arguen turned her head to let whatever little sliver of sunlight there was shine on her face through the aperture in the stone. From what she could tell, it was a lovely day out, with no sign of rain–quite the change for a Scottish midsummer. She closed her eyes and imagined what it would be like to be out, to feel the wind on her face, rippling her petticoat as she looked out across the sea. If Arguen was anything, she was patient, and she would bide her time. Douglas had promised to free her, after all. And then she could stand at the edge of the sea for as long as she wanted.

***

Late May, 1623

Arguen hurried along the dimly lit corridor to Lady Marianne’s chambers. The poor woman had been complaining of pains for some time, but as she had just begun increasing, it could not possibly be time for her to give birth. Arguen had assisted with enough births to know when the time was right. The basket of herbs and vials bumped against her hip as she walked briskly, weaving through the stone corridors until she reached her destination. The walk had been strangely quiet–it seemed most people were still downstairs enjoying the festivities. For that, she was thankful. These Highland men could get crude and handsy with enough drink, and a young, unmarried woman such as herself could be a prime target.

Lady Marianne bade her to enter as soon as she knocked, and Arguen was surprised to see her in such a state of undress and disarray. Marianne’s golden hair was loose with no cap to cover it, and sweat plastered small strands to her forehead. She had evidently attempted to remove her own bodice and overskirt, as both hung unlaced on her small frame. Her green eyes were wild with fright, glistening with unshed tears, and her delicate hands clasped and unclasped her shift.

“I thought perhaps it was time. I felt such a pain, and I was told the midwife is assisting someone else.” Her usually even, authoritative English voice was fragile, reminding Arguen of a piece of fabric fraying at the edges. For a moment, Arguen felt sympathy for Marianne. The lady of the castle was clearly upset and frightened, desperate enough to call upon the healer she so despised.

“Nae, lady. Ye said it yersel–too early for the bairn to arrive. ‘Tis likely the quickening. Rest and a good hot tea should do it,” Arguen answered as evenly as she could. Though Lady Marianne had made known her dislike for Arguen, the healer knew it was best to work hard with her head down. That was the best way to honor her mother–work hard and share her gifts with those who needed help.

“How can I rest? The babe is coming; I know it!”

“M’lady, ‘tis impossible. Let me help ye undress and lay down.”

Marianne said nothing, but nodded, allowing Arguen to help her unlace the rest of her bodice and overskirt. The lady of the house laid down on the imposing four poster bed, propped up against the pillows, and rubbed her growing belly. Arguen busied herself with her ingredients. Soon the pot hanging above the fire in the hearth would be boiling, and the remedy to soothe the lady’s discomfort would be ready. Arguen was silent as she worked, adding the herbs–mainly peppermint to ease the pain and chamomile to aid sleep–as Marianne occasionally groaned from her place on the bed.

“Arguen, I’m deeply sorry,” the lady said after a few moments.

The healer halfway turned from her place at the hearth to address the lady. “I beg your pardon, mistress?”

Marianne heaved a deep sigh, rubbing a hand over her stomach. “I know that I have treated you abysmally. I could have been kinder to you, and now that you offer me help, I…” her voice faltered as she winced, “I see I was wrong. You are very gracious to assist me now.”

Arguen stirred the boiling water and herbs thoughtfully. “Nae, lady. Yer the new mistress of the castle. Cannae be easy tae travel from yer home and marry someone ye barely ken. Besides, ‘tis a healer’s duty. We help all, no matter who they be.”

“A noble calling indeed,” whispered Marianne.

A few more relatively silent minutes passed, the only sound being the crackling of the fire and the muffled voices from deep down in the great hall. After a great whine from Marianne, Arguen strained the water and herbs and poured it into a tankard.

“Here, drink this. It should help ease the pain so ye can sleep. Both ye an’ the bairn will be grateful,” Arguen said, gently holding Marianne up off the pillows so she could drink properly.

After a few timid sips, Marianne groaned. “I want this babe out.”

“Careful what ye wish for,” Arguen advised. “Fate has a funny way o’ twistin’ things.”

“Is that a threat, Arguen?” There was a playful lilt to her tone, but as Arguen looked up, she saw that the usual cold edge in Marianne’s eyes had returned.

Arguen gave a half-feigned soft laugh. “Nay. Willnae do good. ‘Tis a mere observation.”

“A wise one.”

“Well, when ye’re born wi’ silver hair, ye’re just that much wiser.”

Marianne snickered at that, but pain flashed across her face, quickly chasing away any amusement. Arguen bade her drink the rest of the tea, and cleaned up around the chamber while she did so.

“Oh, dear, you musn’t trouble yourself,” Marianne urged between sips, “Do we not have chamber maids for that purpose?”

Arguen gave a wry smile as she folded Marianne’s overskirt and placed it in the trunk at the foot of the bed. “Aye, we do, but ‘tis a night of merriment. I think all maids will be movin’ slowly come morning.”

Marianne smiled and looked into her cup. Was that amusement Arguen saw? Arguen had managed to melt the lady’s heart enough to crack a smile?

“You must be pleased to have your brother back home.”

“Aye, I am. Douglas is all the family I have since the incident.”

“I am so very sorry for your loss. Please accept my condolences,” Marianne said. It sounded almost sincere, and Arguen was genuinely surprised, though she tried not to show it.

“I thank ye, mistress. I do miss them terribly.”

“Can you not count Malcolm and I as family now?”

Hearing his name from her mouth like that–simpering, dripping with poison–made Arguen’s blood boil, but she had to stay her temper. Where else would she go if she could not stay here at Bruckstone Castle?

“Aye, mistress. I can do that.”

Marianne nodded and set the mug on the table beside the bed. “Thank you for your assistance tonight. May I call on your services again, should I need them?”

Arguen nodded as she gathered up her herbs and vials by the hearth. “Of course. As I told ye earlier, healers help all. No matter who they be.”

Lady Marianne gave one last thank you before dismissing Arguen, who was grateful to be gone. When Malcolm had married her, everything at Bruckstone Castle had changed. It was as if a draft of cold air had crept into the castle and never left. All the laird’s guards seemed to be walking on eggshells, not to mention the various servants, even the tenants on nearby land. Lady Marianne had made it known that she was the new authority and would not be questioned. A fine thing, to be sure, since Malcolm’s father was still technically the laird of Bruckstone, but even he would not dare defy Marianne.

English bastards, Arguen thought to herself. As long as she never said it aloud, she could think whatever she pleased, could she not? She was so busy in her own thoughts that she didn’t notice Malcolm until she nearly ran into him head-on.

“Ye best watch yer step, Miss. If ye keep yer head in the clouds, ye’ll float away,” he offered. Even he had changed. Once merry and witty, he now seemed a shell of his former self. The wit in his words was hollow.

“Och, no chance. I prefer the view from above.”

“Careful. Ye sound a heretic.”

“Malcolm, no one’s a Catholic anymore,” she jested, though rather unsure whether he was teasing or not..

“I ken, I try to poke fun. My wife, is she…” his voice trailed off, his hazel eyes wide and full of hope. Hope for her life or her death? Arguen secretly wondered.

“Too early for the babe. ‘Tis likely she felt the quickening. Both she and midwife Joan say ‘tis too early.”

Malcolm nodded, his face unreadable. Arguen supposed the son of a laird needed to be that way–stoic and unbothered. Neither quickness to anger nor slowness to action were desirable traits for a future laird. He seemed to know the responsibility he carried.

“Braw, that’s very fine. The Lord did say be fruitful and multiply.”

At the mention of such intimacy, Arguen blushed and tried to change the conversation. “I think these next months will be quick, and ye’ll have a bonnie little bairn soon enough.”

“Aye, thanks tae ye and midwife Joan. I dinnae ken what we’d do without ye.”

“Och, ye’d get on. There’ll always be healers.”

“But none such as ye,” Malcolm added, looking sincerely at her, holding her gaze for longer than was comfortable.

Arguen cleared her throat and took a half step back. “I oughtta be goin. And yer wife’ll want tae see ye.”

“Aye. I bid ye good night then.”

Arguen nodded and curtsied before scurrying away to the chamber that she shared with one of the maids. That had been another provision when Marianne took control. One look at Arguen’s silver hair and curious blue eyes made the new mistress decide the healer could not be trusted, and she made up some story about how Arguen’s chamber needed to be converted to a proper withdrawing room.

But she couldn’t complain. If she was to properly honor her mother’s memory, she could not soil it by slandering the future mistress of the castle.

The other maids were not yet back from the party, from the looks of it. Arguen sighed and put her basket with herbs and vials in the trunk at the foot of the bed before undressing herself and taking down her hair. Long ago, she’d learned to twist it up into a bun to avoid the suspicious looks she received from other people. But she couldn’t blame them. A child with silvery hair was a rarity indeed, and many wondered if perhaps she was not of this world. Stories of the fair folk, curious sightings at the abandoned kirk, and heavy fog rolling in from the sea made for fantastical stories around the fire at night. Arguen was no fae or witch. Her blue eyes came from her mother, and although she didn’t know where the silver hair came from, she knew it had to be ancestral. Within minutes of her head hitting the pillow, she was asleep, too tired even for dreams.

***

It wasn’t the thunderclap or the bolt of lightning right outside Arguen’s window that woke her, although it certainly helped. No–the entirety of Bruckstone Castle awoke to blood-curdling shrieks coming from one of the towers. The chambermaid with whom she shared the room, Fiona, looked at Arguen with sheer panic.

“What d’ye think that is?” she asked, her voice small.

Every nerve in Arguen’s body was alert, and a sinister chill crept up her spine. “Lady Marianne,” she answered automatically.

Just then, a heavy knock sounded at the door, but the person on the other side didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, Douglas burst in, his face drawn and paler than normal.

Fiona yelped at the sudden entrance and covered herself with her quilt, but Douglas and Arguen paid her no mind.

“Douglas, what be the meanin’ o’ this?” Arguen asked.

Douglas swallowed nervously. “‘Tis Lady Marianne. She’s in a bad way and the midwife is still gone.”

Arguen felt her heart race. She hadn’t given anything bad to Marianne–peppermint and chamomile were completely harmless. Had she mixed up the herbs by accident? She shuddered. That wasn’t like her. She’d always been able to keep a cool head and treat her patients accordingly.

“She needs yer help,” Douglas continued.

Arguen shook her head. “I’m no midwife, Douglas.”

“Och, it doesnae matter. She thinks it’s time, and she needs help.”

Arguen took a deep breath and threw on her robe and slippers before hastily packing her basket with the supplies. Douglas led her through the winding corridors of the castle with his lantern. Castle residents opened their chamber doors and looked out, confused, whispering to one another at the strange shrieking noises. Arguen was mostly able to ignore them. She needed to focus on the task at hand, and figure out how to help the mistress.

When they arrived at Lady Marianne’s chamber, Malcolm was outside, his chestnut hair strewn about wildly as he paced, wringing his hands. “Thank heavens ye’re here. Marianne thinks ‘tis time.”

Arguen opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off by another shriek beyond the door.

“Malcolm, we both ken ‘tis impossible,” she said as gently as she could.

Malcolm ran a hand through his hair and huffed. “Och, I ken. But she’s convinced.”

“Can ye do naething ta help?” Douglas asked.

Arguen’s jaw tightened involuntarily. “I’ll do me best. I promise naething.”

That was confirmation enough for Malcolm, who opened the door to the horrific sight that was Lady Marianne and her bewildered lady’s maid.

“I tried to help her, miss! She complains of pains in the belly and says she thinks the babe is coming. I was not entirely sure what to do!” Marianne’s English lady’s maid said. The poor girl’s eyes were wide like a wild animal’s. Her ladyship writhed on the bed, holding both hands on her stomach, gritting her teeth as if to keep the pain at bay.

Arguen was rather afraid herself. She’d seen this sort of ailment before, and she knew what came next…it was a stillbirth, only so much earlier than most, and the babe would be much smaller. Sometimes, it would not even resemble a babe. Marianne had just started showing, so Arguen wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. But she couldn’t let that be known. There is naething more alarming than an unkempt healer, her mother would have said. And that was true. Even if she had no control over a situation, she had to feign it, for the sake of her patients.

Arguen took a deep breath, mustering as much confidence as she could. If there was one thing she was good at, it was feigning coolness under pressure with no real basis. “Boil some water on the hearth. Fetch me fresh linens, quick as ye can. An’ remain calm. We dinnae ken what’s amiss, but we cannae lose our heads,” Arguen said to the English maid, who nodded and skittered away. Douglas and Malcolm left as well, perhaps thinking it was best to leave the healer to her work. Arguen approached Marianne’s bed, steeling herself for whatever it was she was about to see.

Instead, Marianne snarled and grasped Arguen by the front of her shift. Her grip was surprisingly strong for a woman in distress, and it threw the healer off balance. “What did you give me?” the lady hissed.

“Peppermint to soothe an’ chamomile to help ye sleep,” Arguen answered as calmly as she could manage, holding up her hands in surrender.

“Do I look to be asleep?” Marianne snarled again, letting go and falling back against the pillows when a particularly terrible cramp hit her.

“Nae, mistress. But I think what is happenin’ to ye is beyond the power of a healer,” she offered.

Marianne glared daggers at Arguen. Usually those emerald green eyes were stony and rather cold, but tonight they simmered with molten anger. The lady gritted her teeth to deal with her pain, but all Arguen could picture was a wild animal caught in a snare, gnashing its teeth.

“So you knew this would happen?” Marianne asked, though it sounded more rhetorical.

Arguen shook her head vigorously. “Nae. I thought it might be the quickening. Many women feel such pains at this time, but yers are too severe for something as simple as that.”

Marianne groaned again and threw off the quilt covering her body. Arguen tried not to audibly gasp when she saw the linens and Marianne’s mess of a shift. Blood stained the white linens like a cardinal in the snow. The red was so stark against the white that Arguen had trouble focusing on anything else for a few seconds. What was more; the blood seemed to have come from Marianne’s most intimate parts.

“Move. I have to piss,” Marianne snarled. Arguen snapped into action at that moment, and took the chamber pot out from under the bed so the lady could easily access it.

“I’ll…I’ll fetch ye some fresh linens. But Lady Marianne, listen tae me–”

Marianne squatted to relieve herself and let out a pained gasp. “Why should I listen to you? Your potions caused this.”

Oh no, thought Arguen. When people spat out that word, and blamed the healer for medicinal abnormalities beyond their control, good never followed. “Nae, I simply tried to comfort ye. Listen to me–when ye…” Arguen hesitated to find the right words for a moment, “when ye try to–” she motioned down at her own intimate parts, “ye may see some blood. Clusters of it. And it’s likely that…” she took a deep breath.

Marianne was still squatting over the chamber pot. “Likely that what?” she hissed, that icy English accent enunciating every syllable.

Arguen swallowed again. “That…ye may not…have a bairn this autumn after all.”

Marianne’s lower lip trembled, and her green eyes became glossy with unshed tears. “I’ll not…have a child?”

The healer inhaled a deep breath through her nose to calm herself. “If this is what I think, then nae.”

It didn’t seem to register in Marianne’s mind. For a few moments following Arguen’s assessment, nothing happened. The air was terribly still, and the tension between the two women was so thick, a knife would have trouble cutting through it.

Then, everything happened at once. Marianne let loose a gut-wrenching sob, accompanied by the blood that the healer had warned her about. Arguen rushed to her side and cast one of Marianne’s arms about her shoulder, and held her by the waist with the other arm so that Marianne was supported. Arguen began to pray to whoever in the heavens was listening as Marianne sobbed and gasped.

Almost as quickly as it started, it stopped. Arguen could feel the relief in the room, but she knew it wouldn’t last for long.

“Mistress?” she asked, as Marianne’s chest heaved with the effort. “Mistress, I need to heal ye.”

The lady of the house nodded absentmindedly as Arguen helped her into bed, the side without bloody linens. The healer began to clean up the area, but stopped dead in her tracks when she caught a glimpse of what was in the chamber pot. A small red blob, almost humanoid looking, lay at the bottom among the other fluids. Arguen’s stomach turned, and she held a hand over her mouth to keep from retching.

“I want to see it,” Marianne said, her voice hollow as she looked over at Arguen.

Arguen felt her heart drop to her stomach. “Nae, mistress. ‘Twill only hurt ye tae see.”

“Bring it to me,” Marianne commanded, uncaring.

“Mistress, I beg ye tae–”

“I am not asking again.”

Arguen heaved a deep sigh and brought the pot over to her. Marianne struggled to turn, but peered in. One, two seconds was all she needed. Afterward, her already rather pale complexion blanched, and she promptly turned to the side and retched over the bed. The healer waited for Marianne to say something–anything–to scream at her or cry over her loss–but all she did was lay there and fix her gaze on the ceiling.

At that moment, a knock sounded at the door, and Arguen rushed over to let the person in. It was Marianne’s English lady’s maid with the fresh linen scraps. “I have what you need–took me some time to find them,” she said weakly.

“Thank ye. D’ye have a strong stomach?” Arguen asked, fixing the girl with her most authoritative look.

The maid nodded.

“Braw. Mistress is very unwell. Her bed linens an’ her shift need changing, an’ I need tae clean up the mess. Can ye handle that?”

Marianne’s maid nodded and went about her duties quietly and quickly. When Arguen took the pot for disposal, Marianne stopped her.

“I want to keep it.”

Arguen looked on the lady with pity. “Lady Marianne, ‘tis best tae let yersel heal. Keepin’ it helps naething.”

“Did you not hear what I said? I want to keep it,” she ordered, each word staccato.

Arguen and the maid stole a skeptic, furtive glance at one another.

“As ye wish, mistress,” Arguen conceded, and left the pot on the windowsill. The water on the hearth was boiling well now, and she knelt down to make her tea and poultice. Yarrow root tea to ease the inflammation; and a witch hazel poultice to apply to Marianne’s sensitive areas to stop any more bleeding that may occur. To heal her heart, however, would be another matter entirely, something mere herbs could not accomplish. Arguen smashed the witch hazel in her mortar and pestle, almost mesmerized by the stringy yellow buds. With a little water, it would make a poultice to help with any bleeding. Arguen worked silently as she wrapped the mixture in the linen scraps that the maid had brought. The yarrow root steeped in the hot water as she worked on the poultice. Soon enough, Marianne would be able to feel some relief. Arguen had made damn sure that she used the right herbs. Not that she hadn’t earlier this evening–but Marianne’s words about her “potions” earlier had her questioning even her own work ethic.

She pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind as she approached Marianne’s bedside with strips of linen, the poultice, and a steaming cup of yarrow tea.

“Mistress, if possible, I need ye to spread yer legs. This poultice will help ye wi’ the bleeding.”

Marianne simply laid there, looking at the ceiling. Arguen looked over at the maid, whose bewildered expression matched her own.

“Yer ladyship? I need tae heal ye,” Arguen coaxed.

Marianne let out a low chuckle, one that sent unpleasant shivers up Arguen’s spine. “Careful what you wish for,” she said icily. “You said that to me earlier this evening. If I didn’t know you better, I’d say it was a curse.”

Arguen gritted her teeth. She was treading dangerous waters here. She suspected this might happen, but she couldn’t let Marianne see her trepidation or annoyance. “Sweet one, I told ye. Some things are beyond the power of a healer. I am deeply sorry for yer loss, but right now, I need tae make sure yer body is taken care of.”

“I never wish for you to touch me again,” Marianne snarled.

Arguen froze on the spot, unsure of what to do. Marianne was her patient, but also acting mistress of the house and Lady of Bruckstone Castle, if proper titles were in order.

“Mistress…” Arguen began again, desperate to make Marianne see reason, but the lady wouldn’t have it.

“My maid will tend to me,” she said in that hollow voice, and turned her head so she was staring at the ceiling again.

Arguen looked over at the maid, who looked frightened as ever, but nodded silently and gestured to the table by the bed. The healer left the tea and poultice there, then gathered up her items strewn about the hearth. When that was clean, she left without a word.

Malcolm and Douglas were waiting in the corridor beyond the chamber. Both looked at her with pleading eyes.

“My wife?” Malcolm asked, looking more like a frightened little boy than the battle-hardened son of a powerful laird.

Arguen heaved a deep sigh, trying hard as she could to hold back tears of her own. “Yer wife is alive. Her maid is tendin’ tae her now. But…” her voice trailed off, unsure of how to break the news to him.

Malcolm’s hazel eyes searched her face. “But…” he prompted.

Douglas seemed to understand, and put a friendly, comforting arm around Malcolm’s shoulders.

“Ye’ll no have a bairn this autumn.”

Malcolm clenched his jaw and nodded. “Can I see her?” he asked, his voice even.

Arguen shrugged. “I’m sure ye can, but whether or not she wants tae see anyone is up tae her.”

Malcolm’s tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip in nervous anticipation. Douglas clapped him on the back, and Malcolm gave them both a doleful look as he walked away.

Arguen and Douglas walked back to the maids’ chambers together. “What happened?” her brother asked.

Arguen shook her head. “Marianne lost the babe. I dinnae ken how. I did all I could.” She related the story to her brother, wiping away stray tears as they walked quickly through the winding corridors of Bruckstone Castle.

“Wasnae yer fault,” Douglas assured her.

“I doubt she’ll see it that way,” Arguen said glumly.

“Ye dinnae ken that. Get some sleep. We’ll reckon wi’ it in the morn.” Douglas tried to hug his sister, but she held up a hand to stop him.

“Nae, Douglas. I’ll just cry more.”

Her brother nodded, gave her a pitiful look, and bade her goodnight once more.

When Arguen was back in her shared chamber, Fiona was fast asleep. As far as Arguen could tell, dawn would be breaking in an hour or so. She set her basket on the windowsill, threw her robe to the floor, and drifted off to sleep without so much as a second thought.

Chapter 2

Dawn’s rosy fingers crept across the sky not long after Arguen had fallen asleep. But no one came to wake her, not even Fiona. It wasn’t until well into the morning that Arguen finally awoke on her own. Birds were chirping outside of her window, and she could smell bread baking from the kitchens nearby. One would hardly know something terrible had transpired in the castle the night before. She rose, stiffly, and began to dress herself. She’d learned to tie her own stays long ago and could make quick work of it now. Her under-petticoat followed with her pocket, then her dark green overskirt and blue jacket. She braided her long, silvery hair on the side and twisted it into a bun, pinning it in place before placing her cap over it, for modesty, and so no one could see her hair and judge her for it.

She was ready to start her day of gathering various plants and herbs in the meadow and forest when a knock sounded at her door. When she opened it, she was surprised to see Douglas standing there, haggard, a forlorn look on his face.

“Douglas, what be the matter?” she asked, genuinely concerned for his health. “D’ye need a poultice? Ye look pale.”

Douglas swallowed. “I…” he stuttered.

Arguen regarded him with pity, then suspicion, then horror. Her heart beat faster, and her stomach lurched. “Douglas, what’s happening?”

Douglas clenched his jaw and closed his eyes before speaking. He didn’t even look at her; his gaze fixed firmly to the stone floor. “Ye…ye are under arrest,” he said feebly.

“Arrest?” Arguen repeated in disbelief. Suddenly she felt rather dizzy, and had to sit on the edge of her bed for fear of fainting.

Her brother swallowed, attempting to hold back his own tears. “Aye. Lady Marianne…accuses ye of witchcraft.”

“Witchcraft?” Arguen repeated, dumbfounded.

“Aye. She thinks…ye purposely gave her a potion to kill the bairn.”

“Douglas, ‘tis impossible. I tried tae help her, tae heal her. Ye ken this tae be true,” she said, although it was more of a plea for her brother to recognize her innocence.

“Och, I ken, sister. But I…I have tae arrest ye. Take ye tae the dungeons. Lady Marianne willnae rest until ye’re in a cell.”

“Nae, Douglas. Ye dinnae have to do this,” Arguen pleaded, growing desperate.

“I do, Arguen. I’m sorry. I am Chief of the laird’s guard, I cannae disobey him.”

At that moment, another guard appeared at the doorway with Douglas, holding the irons.

“Arguen, I’m sorry. I have tae.”

She considered her options. She could not outrun them, nor could she physically overpower them, no matter what. Douglas had trained her, for goodness’s sakes. He’d be able to predict her every move.

“‘Tis only ‘til the trial.”

Arguen’s stomach lurched again. “Trial?”

“Aye. The laird sent fer a magistrate this mornin’. Could take some time, but he insisted on a trial. He had tae convince Marianne ‘twas the right thing tae do.”

Arguen’s head was swimming. Trial? For witchcraft?

“I dinnae want this,” Arguen said weakly, more to herself than anything.

“Arguen, please. Marianne already wants yer head on a spike. ‘Tis the best we can do now,” Douglas pleaded with her.

Death, or rot in a cold cell? Supposing life was better than an unfair death, she rose. The other guard held out the irons, but she waved them away. “I willnae try tae escape,” she promised. The other guard seemed to understand, and Arguen could swear she saw sympathy in his eyes as well.

The walk to the dungeons was humiliating. Like the night before, servants, highlanders, and castle residents watched as the two guards escorted the odd woman to her cell. Arguen could hear the hushed tones and harsh whispers. High time, always knew she was a witch, would never trust someone like her, she heard some of them say. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she was determined not to let them fall. It would only add to their satisfaction, and she would cling to any dignity she had left.

Arguen entered the cell willingly, and the other guard locked it behind her, leaving her and Douglas alone for a few moments.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, when he was satisfied that the other guard was out of earshot. He began to cry himself, and Arguen held his hand through the bars.

“Nae, Douglas. Ye’re doin’ yer duty. ‘Tis not for me to stop ye.” Now she was crying too, even though she’d fought so hard to keep her composure.

“I’ll get ye out of here, I promise. I’ve a friend who owes me a favor. If I can get word tae him, he’ll keep watch over ye.”

“Douglas, nae. I can bide my time here ‘til the trial.”

“Nae, Arguen. When mama passed, I promised her I’d look out for ye. Ye’re in a cell. I’m doin’ a right muck-up job,” he tried to laugh, but it came out as a sob. “I promise, I’ll get ye out, and ye can escape. I’ll be as quick as I can about it.”

Arguen wanted to believe him, but she also knew the power Marianne held. As the daughter of an English baron, married to a Scottish laird’s son, the alliance was tenuous at best. Neither side could afford to make grievous mistakes. Her own belief in her brother to get her out was almost non-existent, knowing the delicate balance of her position, but she said nothing. She didn’t want to dampen his spirit, already so downtrodden.

“Go,” she whispered. “They’ll think we conspire.”

Douglas nodded. “I promise. Ye’ll be out of here soon.” With one last squeeze of her hand, he left. Arguen took a deep breath and slumped to the floor, finally able to cry freely. No one else was around, as far as she could tell, and no one would hear her. She cried until she fell asleep, but no dreams came. Her mind was black, cold, hopeless. Not even dreams could help her now .

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