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THEY RODE UNTIL THE darkness made it too difficult to see, then stopped for the night in a small clearing, built a campfire and untied him just long enough to let him eat. Two of the men went off by themselves and were arguing, but the only words he heard clearly were “Laird Brodie” and “lass.” Then he spotted something very odd. One of the men sitting not far from him wore clothing clearly of Macoran colors. He thought he recognized him, but could not remember his name.
Stefan’s hands were tied again, although not as tightly as before and he thought he had a good chance of escaping once his captors went to sleep. But wolves howled, kept spooking the horses and few got any sleep at all. When the chances of escape looked bleak, he thought about the feeling of having Kannak in his arms. He slowly relived every second of their brief but precious love and committed it to memory.
*
FROM THE CREST OF A hill the next afternoon, it was obvious this hold was twice if not three times the size of the Macoran village. Dozens of horses grazed in a meadow behind the village. Beyond that were cattle and farther still, a large herd of sheep; a sure sign of a prosperous clan. Stefan looked for an avenue of escape and decided to run east – If he managed to get away.
They at last walked their horses into the Brodie courtyard and the men pulled him down off of his. The large, square, three story keep cast a long shadow over most of the courtyard, already a crowd was gathering and the old man standing in the doorway of the keep was obviously not pleased. He set his glare on one of the men, who quickly climbed the steps and disappeared inside.
“Ye dare disobey me?” said the old man before he closed the door.
It was not hard to guess who the elder was for his hooked nose reminded Stefan of Agnes Macoran. The rest of his captors and the other clansmen who gathered stared at the door, paid little attention to Stefan and just let him stand there. But some of the women couldn’t seem to take their eyes off him. If he’d thought of it, he might have flirted with one or two hoping they would help him escape, but he didn’t think of it. Instead, he was trying to guess why his captors were accused of disobeying.
The voices inside the keep got louder and then the door burst open and the warrior marched back out. He pointed at Stefan, ordered him taken away and then demanded the other Macoran be brought inside.
Instead of leaving Stefan tied up somewhere outside, they put him in an empty cottage, unbound his hands and put guards outside his door. The window was small, too small for him to crawl through, there was no furniture and he could do nothing but sit down on the floor. Exhausted after little sleep the night before, Stefan soon lay down and went to asleep.
For four days, Stefan watched what little he could see through the small window. Twice a day he was given a scant meal and he asked questions each time, but all he learned was the name of the clan – they were indeed the dreaded Brodies whom Jirvel said surrounded the Macorans on what should have been her wedding day.
The Brodies, he decided on the first day, were preparing for war. Their horses were made ready, the men sharpened their swords, and new arrows were quickly crafted. But war did not come. There did, however, come a great shout from the courtyard on the third day. He doubted he would ever learn what that was about.
Day and night he worried. Did Kannak make it home safely, what would they do without him to work the land and did they think him dead? He took to trying to send a mental message to Kannak each night before he went to sleep. “I am alive, Kannak.” He had no idea if such a thing was possible, but it was all he could do. He wondered what had become of his horse. The large brown spot on its rump made it distinctive and surely if the Macoran’s saw it they would know it was his.
Sometimes he tried to understand why the black stallion seemed to appear just when they needed it most. Was the stallion truly a gift from God as Jirvel said? He found some measure of comfort in the thought that God, by virtue of the black stallion, was watching over the woman he loved and her mother.
On the fifth day, the door opened and instead of bringing him a meal, two men bound his hands again and took him out into the bright sunlight. He was put on an unfamiliar horse, joined with six other bound men and a guard of twenty took them out of the Brodie village. This time, the Macoran he spotted the night of his capture was also bound. He looked hard at the herd of horses as they passed by, but his was not among them and he suspected the mare had already been bartered away.
They did not have to travel but half a day to reach a wide glen and when the Brodie guards handed their charges over to guards from yet another clan, a pouch of money was also exchanged. It did not take long for Stefan to realize he had been sold.
The irony was not lost on Stefan. For generations the Vikings captured many Scots, both men and women, carried them away and sold them as thralls to other nations. So by that right it was only fair Stefan would find himself sold into slavery. Nevertheless, the knowledge did not lessen his panic. Where were they taking him?
Guards pulled him down off the horse and he watched the Brodies take it back across the glen in the direction of their village. Stefan soon found himself walking, which was not easy with his hands bound together. To his great disappointment, the prisoners were marched west, farther away from the ocean and away from the Macorans.
The new captors were harsh men with whips who said little, fed them little, did not unbind their hands to let them eat and bound their feet as well at night. They forced the prisoners to walk up hills and down again, sometimes on paths and sometimes tramping through the woods. The guards stopped to water their prisoners occasionally, but only because their horses needed water and rest.
Stefan kept an eye out for the stallion but it did not come to help him. When they were on the paths, he watched for other men, even men of yet another unfamiliar clan he could cry out to. But he saw no one. It appeared his captors were intentionally keeping them off the well-traveled paths.
Furthermore, the prisoners were not allowed to talk. If they needed relief, they were told to raise their hands. The guards watched them constantly and more than one man was lashed for not walking quickly enough.
The journey took three more days and by the end of it, Stefan’s legs displayed a multitude of scratches from walking through the foliage and his feet were blistered and bleeding. In the evening of the third day, they were finally halted and what Stefan found himself looking at fascinated him enough to take his mind off his feet. Over the river, other men had begun to build a stone bridge and the first completed section had a high arch just like the Romans were fond of building. It brightened his mood a little. If he had to be a slave, he could at least learn how the bridge was built.
Stefan expected they were to help build the bridge the next day, and he was right. The guards took the seven to the river where they were joined with some twenty other men. Yet there were almost as many guards as there were captives, they were heavily armed and the avenues of escape looked bleak. The slaves were told to fill the baskets with rocks and carry them to the bridge. It was hard work and now instead of just sore feet, his arms and back ached long before the end of the day when they were at last allowed to eat and rest.
Day after day, he did his work and fretted over what had become of Kannak. If she were unwell, he would not be there to hold her hand this time and if a man tried to force her, he would not ... He had to wipe that worry out his mind before he lost it completely.
The portions of food were small and again only given twice a day. On some mornings all they got was a piece of bread. Trying not to think about his hunger was even more difficult than trying not to worry about Kannak.
Night after night he replayed their last moments together, sent his mental message and prayed she was receiving it. When it was dry the slaves slept in the open where the guards could watch them easier, but when it rained they were allowed to sleep under the branches of the trees. Still, he found no avenue of escape. At night the ankle of each man was tied to a heavy shaft of wood with only enough rope to allow him to turn over. As well, the camp fires were kept ablaze, shedding ample light on the captives.
He wanted desperately to talk to the other Macoran, but it was still forbidden, he suspected, for fear they would join forces and rebel. Rebellion, to Stefan’s way of thinking was highly unlikely since the strength of the men dwindled with each passing day.
Twice the guards lashed a man for becoming distracted instead of working and it intensified Stefan’s desire to escape. If only there were not so many guards. He might manage to take a sword away from one of them, but he could not fight all twenty men and win.
There was some measure of solace when he could observe how the bridge was being built, if only for a moment or two at a time. He found the construction genius and wished he could become friends with the builder, but alas, that was not possible either.
Then he became fascinated with one of the other slaves. The elder was a smaller man than most and daily, Stefan noticed, the man thought of something to smile about. Some days it was the beauty of a flower he managed to pick and tuck inside his belt so he could smell its sweet fragrance later. Some days it was the splendor of a soaring eagle or the speed with which a squirrel scampered up a tree. Once, the old man almost felt the lash for watching ducks swim down the edge of the river.
But most important to Stefan was the man’s smile and after watching him more intently out of the corner of his eye, it was clear the old man often glanced upward and moved his mouth as though he were talking to God. The elder was missing two teeth, was dirty, hungry and exhausted like the rest of them, yet his smile warmed Stefan’s heart and he endeavored daily to work beside the old man just to see it.
They worked even when it rained and at the beginning of Stefan’s sixth week as a slave, the old man slipped in the mud and started to fall. Stefan dropped his basket and reached out just in time to keep the old man’s head from hitting a sharp rock.
Suddenly, Stefan felt the lash of a whip. The pain made him arch his back and in an instant, he spun around. This time when the guard tried to strike him, Stefan grabbed hold of the whip and yanked the guard to him. He stood a good foot taller than his captor, was enraged enough to kill him and the guard had terror in his eyes. But Stefan worked the whip handle out of the man’s hand, broke it over his knee and tossed it away. He looked to see if the old man needed more help, saw his grateful nod and went back to work.
The stunned guard could do nothing but stare at the blood soaking through the back of Stefan’s tunic. He finally recovered his wits, picked up what was left of his whip and considered its usefulness. He decided there was enough of a handle left to strike Stefan a second time and pulled his hand back.
“I would not attempt it, were I ye, Striker.”
The guard turned just in time to see a monk ride his mule out of the trees behind him. He lowered both the whip and his head. “I am Gowan, father.”
“Striker suits ye better. Have ye not heard the words of the Lord? A lad who be willing to lose his life for another will sit at the right hand o’ God and pass judgment on such as ye when ye have gone to yer just rewards.”
All the slaves stopped working and turned to listen. The riled guard dismissed the monk’s words and yelled, “Back to work, all o’ ye!”
“Where be yer commander, Striker?” asked the monk.
“‘Tis the Sabbath. He be resting.”
“Aye, ‘tis the Sabbath to be sure. ‘Tis the only day I am allowed to ride me mule and see the land, which I consider a good way to rest. Perhaps ye would care to show me where in the Good Book it says these men are not also allowed a day o’ rest.”
At that, the guard frowned. “I dinna make the decisions.”
“Who does?”
“My commander.”
“Then ye will go and fetch him for me.”
“Fetch him? He will have my head if I...”
“I will have yer head if ye dinna.” The monk considered the perplexed look on the guard’s face for a moment. “Might I remind ye, ye build this bridge for the monastery. When the Pope hears...”
In a flash, the guard hurried off and the monk smiled after him. Then he turned a scowl on the other guards who quickly turned away and minded the slaves.
The monk was a rotund man dressed in the usual brown robe. His robe was made of wool with a different, although similar shade of brown down the middle, obviously added to accommodate his growing size. He seemed not at all bothered by the rain and even left his attached hood off his head exposing a touch of gray along the sides of his dark, tied back hair. He was comfortable on his mule, would have difficulty mounting it again and so stayed where he was.
It seemed a long time before the guard brought his commander. Meanwhile the rain stopped, the monk got a good look at the men and by the time the perturbed commander arrived, he was furious. “Cleanliness be next to Godliness, have ye not heard? They need to bathe and bathe weekly. And when was the last time they had a fit meal? What do ye give them to eat, a chunk o’ bread? God said, ‘Man shall not live by bread alone and ye well know it. They are to build a bridge, not die where they stand for lack o’ sustenance. When the Pope hears about this...”
At the verbal thrashing, the commander was visibly shaken and could think of nothing to say but, “Stop the work!” He did not even notice that the slaves had already stopped and the other guards were afraid to yell at them.
“That’s more like it. Now, let them bathe. Ye’ve a river for it, do ye not?”
“Aye.”
“See they wash their clothing as well. I dare not think what sort o’ creatures live in soiled clothing. Cleanliness be next to Godliness and ye well know it!”
“Aye, they will wash their clothing.”
The monk was far from finished and narrowed his eyes. “I see, and did ye bring soap for the lads?”
The commander could do nothing but bow his head. “Nay, father, but...”
“And blankets for the lads to wrap up in while their clothing dries.”
“Aye and blankets.”
“And a fit meal?”
“Aye, but...”
“Ye can plainly see I am not resting this Sabbath, nor will ye, not until ye have seen to the needs o’ these lads. Yer striker there has injured one o’ them and I required medicine for him. See to it. And another thing, since ye neglected their day o’ rest, they will rest tomorrow as well. When the Pope hears about this...”
The commander turned his horse and raced back toward the bridge. When he was out of sight, the monk smiled. “Sit down lads, God did not ordain that tired lads should stand when they can sit just as well.” But the slaves hesitated looking to the guards for permission. “They lay a hand on ye and I’ll see they are sent to the gallows.” That seemed to do the trick and the slaves gladly sat down.
