Page 131 of The Speed of Lightning
Calum’s gut twisted. He needed no further explanation—he knew what Lachlan meant, though none dared speak it aloud.
Murdoch shook his head, his voice breaking. “No. No, no, no, no.” He bent forward, pressing both hands to his face as though he could blot out the words. “No, not my Aoife. Not Aoife. No. No. No.”
Lachlan set a hand on his shoulder, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry, Doc.”
Murdoch didn’t answer. Slowly, he straightened, eyes vacant, jaw trembling as he swallowed back whatever remained of him. He turned, opened the door without a word, and walked away.
For over a minute the room held its breath. Then Hector spoke, voice low but cutting.
“Calum, I’ll let you up, but you cannae go storming off alone. Freya still lives. She will be taken outside the walls of Ardtornish. That, though it seems cruel, is a blessing. There will be a crowd—another blessing. We have all day and the night to plan. And we will bring her back. Do you hear me?”
Calum nodded. The men eased off.
He rose, his knees shaking, staring at the door where Murdoch had disappeared. He couldn’t lose her; if he were to face whatever lay in front of him, he couldn’t lose Freya. He turned back to the map, pointing to the one-mile stretch of sound that lay between Mull’s northern coast and Lochaline’s shore.
“Go fetch Balder MacSorley.”
A few minutes later, Balder eased into the room, his eyes casting around to all the glum faces. “Reporting, Cù Cogaidh.”
Calum raised an eyebrow. “Do you remember the summer the MacLeans and MacSorleys swam a race through the Corryvreckan?”
True to form, Balder’s face lit up with barely disguised swaggering. “Aye, Cù Cogaidh, the MacSorleys took it handily. We flew through that whirlpool with every last bit o’ our supplies, and still came out a full minute ahead of the nearest MacLean. First cut o’ the hog was ours—thick, juicy, and well earned. Poor Erik MacLean—leg cramped halfway through and down he went like an anchor. I near swallowed half the gulf laughing.”
Hector locked eyes with Calum, a half smile lifting his face. “How do you feel about swimming in March?”
Chapter 39
ARDTORNISH CASTLE - MARCH 13, 1387
Eyes swollen from weeping, throat raw, face throbbing, Freya leaned against the stone wall of the cell barely wide enough for her shoulders. A narrow slab served as her seat, cold seeping into her bones. No torch burned, no window broke the dark. Two paces before her stood a barred iron door. Fastened to it was the writ of execution she had read and reread in stunned disbelief, the tolling of distant bells proclaiming that dawn was only minutes away.
She was one of only two prisoners in the Ardtornish dungeon. They had left them unguarded—every man sent to Lochaline to prepare the scaffold. Yet God, in His mercy, had given her one kindness. Pressed against her breast, hidden in her chemise, was the ballad Calum had written for her.
Calum.The memory of his smile, his whispered prayers, the strength of his arms drawing her close each night, brought fresh tears down her battered face. For one brief night she had known what it was to be his own. And because of him, she had come to know the Lord. She would live on in the next life—in a kingdom not of this world, a kingdom that would never end.
Remembering the words she had prayed that holy night when Jesus saved her in the river, Freya prayed again to the One she now knew was listening. “Take care of Calum, and Bog. Guard them, protect them. Send someone to love him, to fill his home with joy and children. Let him always remember that I love him. And let me die with honor.”
“Are you praying, love?”
Freya startled, lifting her head toward the voice. “Cota Liath?”
A wry chuckle answered. “Please—call me Brian.”
She sniffed through her blocked nose. “Are you hurt, Brian?”
Chains rattled in the dark. “Yes. My hands are broken. My nose is broken…my heart is broken.”
She shuffled closer to the barred door and pressed her forehead to the iron. “Aye, I was praying.”
He sniffed. “Then offer one up for me?”
A tear slipped down her cheek. “Aye…but you could speak to Him yourself.”
A heavy breath rattled out of him. “I haven’t prayed in years. Feels too late now.”
Freya curled her fingers around the cold bar, searching for words. “But…your voice is rich, warm, steady. It would comfort me to hear you pray, even if you didnae mean it.”
A long silence stretched, then another wry chuckle. “Clever girl. All right then.”
