Highland Escape - Cathy MacRae Page 0,13
daughter, from rape or murder! ’Tis not right!” Lost to his anger, he rose on his toes, his fingernails biting into the wood of the chair.
“Enough! As long as I am laird my word is law. This discussion is over.” His father’s voice descended into a growl.
Duncan gritted his teeth, wheeled about and stormed from the room.
Anna shifted her gaze from the fresh straw and blanket in one corner to the well-worn but clean chamber pot in another. The room measured approximately ten by ten with a stone floor. She placed her cloak and plaide on the floor next to the blanket and removed her armor. She quietly considered her fate, realizing she hadn’t allowed herself to grieve the loss of her village, home and family. Tears spilled as misery rent a hole in her heart.
I am so sorry, father, Edrick. Misery choked her as surely as a pair of strong hands, leaving her breathless. After some time, her tears ran their course, leaving numbness in their wake.
Later in the evening, someone brought a bowl of more foul-smelling stew, a small piece of bread and pitcher of water.
“Blessed Virgin, how do they stand this fetid fodder?” she muttered crossly. Abandoning the stew, she ate the bread and drank some water, saving the rest for later.
She unwrapped the bandage and checked her wound. It was healing, though the jagged edge interrupted the flowing blue pattern given to her last year by the clan elders. It reflected a symbol of status and coming of age as a warrior, signifying the battles she’d fought. The lines of ink swirled about her shoulders, across her upper back, followed her collarbones and peaked at the back of her neck.
Legend said the intricate swirls and interlocking patterns were unique to ancient Pictish women warriors. The design had taken several sittings to complete and she was proud to wear the blue woad ink, signifying her place among their warriors. The flowing design would be with her as long as she lived, a reminder of who she was—a visible connection to her clan and the past.
By nightfall, cold had crept back again. She coiled her braid around her neck and wrapped up in her cloak and plaide. Burrowing as deeply as she could in the straw, she stared at the deep blue-and-wine pattern of the wool. She closed her eyes, remembering the life left behind at the border, reliving the terrible day of death and fire.
She woke at dawn in a chill. Exercise was the only way to warm herself, and she needed activities to focus on, a schedule to spend her days. She went through conditioning routines to warm her body, then spent a time in meditation. Chilled again, she practiced fighting patterns, routines Master Zhang had drilled into her and Edrick without ceasing. Finally exhausted, she recited Holy Scripture and poetry in English, Gaelic, Latin and French as she drifted off to sleep. She repeated the pattern again that afternoon, ending the day with meditation and reflection.
I did not know I would use this one day, but I thank you, Master Zhang. I will not fall prey to sickness and madness. Though he’d refused to share the particulars of his four years in captivity, Zhang stated his experience taught him that every warrior must be prepared for such a possibility. For all the games of prisoner Edrick and I played, no matter how uncomfortable, no matter how difficult, I know I will survive, and be strengthened by this.
The ache in her heart at the loss of her mentor, brother and father would provide the motivation she needed to stay alive, to remain herself. She would not waste her time wondering what plans the barbarians had for her.
Much to her vexation, her thoughts kept returning to her captor, and Anna cursed her lack of self-discipline. She’d managed to live a score of years without a serious thought for any man—why could she not banish thoughts of the barbarian who held her captive? Zhang once spoke of forging a bond of sorts with one of his captors. Mayhap she experienced something similar.
I certainly do not fancy him, she protested, shaking her head at the thought. Blessed Mother! That would be the height of madness.
The next day was the same. The stew was unbearable. She wrinkled her nose. Do they use meat beginning to spoil? She sighed. I will make do with the morning’s oat porridge and the evening bread and water. Eating this offal would only