Free The Scotsman by Juliana Garnett

flavorless. Catherine gazed glumly at her evening meal. If this was the best fare her captors could offer, ’twas no wonder they coveted English lands. How could people survive on such meager repast?
    Yet, to refuse sustenance would render her weak, and she could not risk that. So she picked gingerly at her food, grimacing a little at the tough, stringy meat that wasnear unrecognizable. Mutton? Pork? Or beef from a scrawny cow? It could be rat for all she knew, but she managed to swallow several bites, followed by a hard crust of the bread and a bite or two of cheese. Watery ale in a small earthenware jug washed it down, and Catherine thought longingly of Cook and the delicious meals brought to Warfield’s hall.
    Closing her eyes, she envisioned a recent feast at her father’s table, conjuring up images of roast pigeons, chickens, quail, oxen, and duck, visualized even the steam rising from hot venison pies and baked tarts. Her stomach rumbled at the enticing memories of savory preserves of nuts, fruits, and spices, and she opened her eyes. Twas sheer torture to think on what was not available, nor likely to be. Pottage seemed her more likely fare in this dismal stone keep so far from civilized food and friendly faces.
    Gamely, she finished every bite of food. If she was to keep up her strength, she must force herself to eat despite how unappealing she found the victuals. After the unsatisfying meal, there was little left to occupy her time, save feeding the last piece of wood to the fire and dreamless sleep.
    Dusk had come to plunge the room into near darkness before she heard the sound of a key in the lock again. Sitting upright on the edge of the cot, Catherine lifted her head to stare toward the door. Not even a fire dispelled the gloom of the chamber, now lit by only a weak ray of light from the narrow window slit. She blinked against the bright ellipse of candle glow as Mairi shuffled into the chamber.
    “Here be light fer ye,” came the gruff comment, followed by the clatter of a wooden candlestick atop the table. The candle flickered, then steadied to cast a rosy pool of light. A rustling sound of cloth accompaniedMain’s terse explanation that the laird had sent up warm clothing and more blankets. “No’ tha’ ye ha’ need of ’em, tucked away as ye are in a room out of the wind.”
    Catherine did not reply. She was far too grateful, and far too stubborn to show it. She sat still until the surly maidservant shot her a sullen look and left with an echoing slam of the door. When she heard the metallic click of key and lock, she rose stiffly to her feet.
    With cold, shaking hands, she lifted a length of warm wool. It was a simple gown such as peasants wore, with no overgarment or decoration, only a leather girdle to lace beneath her breasts. As the gown fell around her shoulders and settled over her hips, comforting warmth enveloped her. Wool stockings and a pair of shapeless shoes were quickly donned, covering skin prickled with cold. Tremors of chill eased as she plucked a pair of wool gloves from the pile and tugged them over her slender fingers. They were rough and scratchy, nothing at all like the soft gloves she usually wore, but that mattered little now. Her priorities were confined to survival.
    She held tightly to that determination in the following days when hours stretched into an endless blur of defiance occasionally broken by moments of stark despair. The Scotsman did not come to her tower room again, and dour Mairi was her only link with the world outside her small round chamber.
    She felt herself diminishing, becoming as colorless and blank as the stones that formed the walls, and had the fanciful notion that if her captor did return, he would not be able to see her. She would be invisible to him, just one of the gray stones that were indistinguishable one from the other—like a spirit trapped in the trunk of an oak, a timeless face peering out at the world and slowly fading into time before