by Emma Prince
Niall’s stomach leapt to his throat. He jerked his gaze to Mairin. Her eyes had gone wide and her mouth slack. She darted a glance at him, her features pulled with shock. He gave her an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
“They reveal that you have been plotting with that Scottish vermin behind my back for months,” Edward continued. He held up one of the missives. “You even had the gall to demand that the Bruce…what was it? Ah yes. That he ‘come to our aid, and to go with us in England and Wales’ and ‘live and die with us in our quarrel,’” Edward read.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze from the parchment to Lancaster, his eyes filled with barely restrained venom. “You signed them ‘King Arthur.’ As if you were not only already the sovereign, but that you would lead my country to some mythical sparkling glory. Tell me, Cousin, was Pontefract your Camelot, or was it Dunstanburgh?”
Lancaster’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow, but he could not form a response.
“I hear that you reserved a chamber at the top of this tower for a special purpose,” Edward went on, casually setting the treasonous missives aside. “You imagined that after your successful rebellion, you would imprison me there, I gather, until after you’d had yourself crowned. I wonder what you would have done to me after that?”
Edward leaned forward in his chair, his lips drawing back from his teeth. “Since you fancy yourself a King already, Thomas, mayhap you should spend your last night on this earth in that special chamber—along with your lackeys—before you meet the fate you would have so eagerly doled out to me.”
He waved a dismissive hand at Lancaster, Audley, and Badlesmere. Instantly, the guards began dragging the three noblemen toward one of the spiraling staircases leading from the hall.
“Nay, you cannot!” Lancaster bellowed. “Please, Edward, listen to me! I—”
His voice, along with Audley’s pleas for mercy, cut off as they were dragged up the stairs.
Niall stood stiffly, waiting for word of their own fate. He held no hope of being able to convince Edward to grant them leniency, not even for Mairin. This was not a trial. Edward had already judged them all traitors by their actions.
Now that Lancaster was gone, Edward’s features slid back into impassivity.
“Take the others to the dungeon until tomorrow morning,” he said, his voice almost bored as he waved them off like a gnat.
They were hauled toward a different staircase, one that spiraled down rather than up. Niall struggled to stay close to Mairin, earning him a swat to the head. But he managed to position himself next to her, at the back of the group of commanders.
One of the soldiers plucked a torch from a wall sconce as they began descending into the belly of the castle. As they wound their way lower, the stone stairs grew slick with moisture and moss. Dank, cold air seeped up from below. The torch cast leaping shadows against the walls, but didn’t touch the deeper darkness farther down.
Mairin began to pant, her breaths growing audibly ragged. She swiveled her head this way and that, chasing the skittering shadows with her wide gaze.
Damn it all. They would be deposited into cells, then the soldiers would retreat—taking the torch with them. And Mairin would be cast in utter, complete darkness.
“It will be all right, Mairin,” he lied. For speaking, one of the soldiers swatted his head again. He turned to the man. “Please, I am begging you. Convince your companion to leave the torch down here.”
The soldier narrowed his gaze on Niall. “Why? Are you plotting something?”
“Nay,” Niall said hurriedly, “but my…my wife doesn’t like the dark.”
“And I don’t like traitors,” one of the other soldiers replied, drawing chuckles from the rest.
The stairs ended and the ground leveled out. The torch revealed a corridor of a half dozen cells framed in stone, with an iron door set into each.
Lancaster’s commanders were all shuffled into the farthest cell down. The men holding Mairin and Niall forced them to move, heading for the same cell.
“Please,” Niall said again. “At least put us in our own cell. She will panic, surrounded by strangers in the dark.”
Proving his words, Mairin began to shudder in the soldiers’ hold. “Nay, nay, nay…” she groaned as they shoved her out of the circle of light cast by the torch and toward the already crowded cell at the far end of the dungeon.
“What if it was your wife?” Niall demanded, desperation slicing through his voice. “What if these were her final hours? I am not asking that you forgive us, only that you show a sliver of mercy for her suffering. I beg you.”
One of the soldiers hesitated at that. He glanced at Mairin, who shivered and shot her frightened gaze over the black corners of the cell like a wild animal in a trap.
“There’s no harm in putting them in another cell,” he murmured to the one who held the torch.
The torch-carrier sighed and rolled his eyes. “Very well. But I won’t leave the torch down here. They can stew in the dark for their last night on this earth.”
The others seemed satisfied with that, so one moved to a cell closer to the stairs and unlocked the door with a rusty squeal. Mairin and Niall were shoved inside, and the door slammed behind them.
Instantly, he drew Mairin into his arms. Her fingers sank into his tunic, her gaze riveted on the receding torchlight. The soldiers mounted the stairs, chattering excitedly about events they’d get to witness tomorrow—there was bound to be at least one drawing and quartering given all the King’s treasonous prisoners, and mayhap even more.
As their voices drew higher up the stairwell, so did the light.
“Oh God,” Mairin whispered. “Please, nay.”
Her fingers turned to claws on his back, her body pulling taut with fear. Niall wanted to tear down their stone prison with his bare hands. He wanted to howl until God himself heard him. But all he could do was hold Mairin tight as she shuddered and moaned, watching the light fade.
And when they were sunk into total darkness, Niall turned her face into his chest to muffle her screams.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Mairin’s heart pounded so loudly in her ears that she could barely hear her own cries of terror.
Distantly, she felt Niall’s hand in her hair. He was murmuring something, but she couldn’t comprehend his words.
It was happening again. Her nightmares had turned real. It seemed she was fated to be held captive inside a cold, dark prison with no escape, no hope.
Through the maelstrom of fear breaking over her, she knew—she wouldn’t make it to first light tomorrow morn. Already she felt her mind tearing asunder under the weight of the blackness pressing all around.
The events of the last few fortnights had made her believe that she was strong, that she was overcoming her fears bit by bit. She’d managed to cross back into England. She’d been surrounded by men who spoke with the same accent as her captors, and had somehow found the strength to carry on.
And she’d fought and defeated Bruin, proving not only her fighting skills but her bravery in facing one of her tormentors. Even if her other captors still lived, and even if she encountered another one of them in the future, she’d told herself she wouldn’t be afraid. If she could best Bruin, she could best any of them—or any of her fears.
How wrong she had been—how naïve and foolish. The darkness still owned her. It suffocated her, brought her to her knees, just as it had all those years ago. She was still that frightened lass she’d once been. No amount of training or fighting or shows of bravery could change that. She was still broken.
She gritted her teeth against another scream, but she couldn’t stop the low keening that rose in her throat. Her knees shook so badly that they could no longer hold her up. She began to crumple, but Niall’s strong arms held her up.
Niall.
He still murmured reassurances against her hair. She closed her mouth against her panting breaths and strained to make sense of what he was saying.
“…you to hold on, my love,” he rasped. “I’ll find a way out of here, I swear it.”
“Th-there is no way out,” she moaned. “It is just l-like before—naught but frozen dirt and stone and…and d-darkness.”
“Nay, it isn’t like before,” Niall said, his voice pinched with urgency. “Before you were alone in that cellar. But now I am here with you, Mairin. Do you hear me? I am here. And I will never leave you.”
She swallowed against the sour bile in the back of her throat. Ye are no’ alone, some sane, calm voice whispered in the back of her head. Niall is here. He will never abandon ye in the dark.
She lifted her head from his chest, searching for his eyes, or even just the faintest outline of his features in the black. But there was naught. The darkness was so complete that she couldn’t even tell if her eyes were open or closed.
A wave of dizziness crashed over her, making her feel as if she were spiraling into a never-ending pit. She cried out and clutched for him, praying that he could anchor her in the storm of blackness battering her.
“I am here with you,” he said again, his voice low and close. His arms were like bands of iron around her, holding her steady, mooring her. “Listen to my voice. Feel my heartbeat next to yours. I will never leave you, Mairin, my love.”
She fought against the hot, acidic panic coursing through her body, twisting her stomach and choking her breath. Niall is here. I am no’ alone. With each shuddering gulp of air, she forced herself to note just how real he was, even though they both remained shrouded in pitch-blackness.
The warmth of his breath against her hair. The rough calluses on his palm as he cupped her tear-damp cheek. The solid strength of his arms around her. The thud of his heart beneath her ear.
“You are the strongest soul I’ve ever known,” Niall said. “From the first moment I saw you, I knew it. There was still a spark in your eyes, even after all you’d survived. And when I saw you fight, that spark flamed to life.”
His hands tightened on her. “I know that spark still burns bright within you, Mairin, even now. I need you to find it, fan it, make it blaze once more. I need you to be strong for me—stronger than you’ve ever been before. I can’t get us out of here alone. I need you.”
The smallest seed of hope took root in her throbbing heart then. Niall wasn’t giving up. Not on finding a way to escape. And not on her.
He believed in her. Now she must believe in herself. She had faced the darkness before—for six long years, alone. She had to face it once more. For herself, for Niall, for the love that had grown between them.
She clawed against the pulse of terror thrumming through her, fighting for air, fighting for the strength that had always lived inside her.
“Aye, that’s it,” Niall said as she dragged in first one deep, rough breath, then another. “Come back to me, my love. Come back and fight alongside me.”
“B-but there is naught we can do,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “The stones are a foot thick, the iron bars solid.”
“Do you have a hairpin?”
His question surprised her so much that for a single heartbeat, her fear was completely forgotten. It rushed back all too soon, but it wasn’t as strong as before.
“Nay,” she replied. Her hair had long since fallen out of its plait, which had only been tied with a thin strip of leather anyway.
“We need something to pick the lock.” Even though she couldn’t see his face, she could hear a frown in his voice. She pictured his soft lips set in that serious line, and for an instant, she was buoyed by the beloved image.
Mairin racked her brain for an idea. Her heart was beating faster again, but this time the panic was laced with determination.
A moment later, she sucked in a breath. “I still have one of my throwing daggers.”
Harclay’s soldiers had taken away their swords long ago, along with a dagger Niall carried in his boot. But the soldiers had been so eager to set out for Pontefract that they hadn’t searched their captives more thoroughly.
The feel of the sheath strapped to her forearm inside her gown was so familiar that Mairin had completely forgotten it. One dagger still remained.
Niall’s body tensed. “That could work.”
The hope that had taken root a moment before now began to sprout. She flicked her wrist and the dagger dropped easily into her palm. Even in this black void, the motion was familiar and comforting, soothing her frayed nerves.
“Hold on to me,” Niall said. “I’ll guide us to the bars.”
Mairin wrapped her hands around Niall’s waist, letting his warmth and strength wash over her. He slid one foot out across the hard-packed dirt floor of their cell, slow enough for her to follow his motion on wobbly legs.
Inch by inch, they shuffled across the space. One of Niall’s arms loosened then disappeared from around her. She stiffened, gripping him tighter, but his low voice was like a balm.
“I’m only feeling for the bars so that we don’t run into them,” he soothed.
Dizziness hit her in waves as they continued on, so disorienting was the darkness. But instead of fighting against the black obscurity, she surrendered to it, giving her full trust to Niall. He wouldn’t let her fall. He wouldn’t leave her. His nearness was almost as potent as a beam of light cutting through the gloom.
At last, his hand rasped against the iron bars. He drew her toward them, positioning himself at her back. She fumbled with blind hands over the cold, damp iron, searching for the lock.
“What will we do if we get out?” she whispered.
“We’ll have to determine that when we get there,” he replied. “One thing at a time.”
Trepidation lanced through her at that. Even if she managed to pick the lock with her dagger, they were still trapped well below the castle in pitch darkness. No doubt there were guards positioned at the top of the stairs. And even if they managed to get past them, they’d still have to get through the great hall, the yard, and both baileys before they’d be safe.
One thing at a time, just as Niall had said, she told herself firmly.
When her fingers brushed a thick iron panel in the middle of the bars, her pulse leapt. Carefully, she found the hole for the key and positioned the tip of her dagger into it. She drew in a deep breath, willing her grip to remain secure and steady. Her palms were sweating. If she dropped the dagger and it fell out of their reach, their attempt at escape would be over before it had even begun.
She guided the dagger into the lock slowly, probing for the feel of the pins inside. She had to be delicate, else the blade’s thin, sharp tip could break inside the lock.
There had been no opportunity to try to pick the lock in the root cellar. The wooden door had no lock—rather, they secured her inside with a wooden bar. Besides, she couldn’t have reached the door anyway, for it had been well off the ground.
She’d played at picking locks as a wee lass back at Eilean Donan. It had once been her favorite naughty game to pick open her brothers’ trunks and chests, then rummage through their things. But that hadn’t been in the dark, nor with a dagger held in slippery hands.
Just then she felt the pins shift. She applied a hair’s weight more pressure, and suddenly the lock thunked and the iron grate opened an inch.
She let a rushing breath go just as Niall pulled one in.
“I knew you could do it,” he whispered. He guided her out of the way and swung the door open, then pulled her against his chest once more for a steadying embrace. “The only way out is up those stairs.”
Her grip tightened on the throwing dagger. It was their only weapon against whatever they would face at the top. “I’m ready.”
Niall looped an arm around her waist, and as they had before, they began a slow shuffle toward where the stairs rose somewhere in the dark.
They hadn’t gone three steps when the sound of stone scraping on stone echoed faintly through the black corridor.
“What was that?” Mairin hissed.
“Th
e men in the cell at the other end?”
They both strained to listen for several heartbeats, but Mairin didn’t hear aught other than her own pounding pulse. After a few moments, Niall set them into motion once more.
Unease pricked across her skin as they made their way slowly toward the stairs. The air rippled around her in cool laps, as though someone else moved nearby. Had the men in the other cell managed to escape as well? Or had one of the soldiers remained in the shadows to ensure that—
Mairin’s thoughts scattered when all of a sudden, a hard hand materialized from the darkness and closed on her.
Chapter Thirty-Three
A scream rose in Mairin’s chest, but her throat was so constricted with fear that it couldn’t escape.
She must have gone rigid, for in an instant, Niall lunged at her attacker. Both of them released her, sending her spinning into the black nothingness around them. There was a scuffle, then a grunt of pain.
“Christ, stand down, English,” came a hissing voice.
A Scottish voice. A familiar voice.
“Little Bird, it’s me.”
Mairin pulled in a ragged breath. “Logan?”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Niall demanded. He was suddenly back at Mairin’s side, a steadying arm around her.
“Keep yer voices down,” Logan murmured. “Unless ye want Lancaster’s commanders to ken that there is a secret passageway out of this dungeon.”
Mairin’s mind couldn’t keep up. “What…but how did ye…and why…?”
His hand reached out for her once again, this time giving her forearm a gentle squeeze. “I’ll explain all I can once we’re safe in the tunnel.”
Logan guided her away from the stairs. Niall followed behind, keeping a protective hand on the small of her back. She was so disoriented in the dark that she wasn’t sure how far they’d gone or in which direction, but a while later, Logan paused. The same scraping of stone on stone that had echoed faintly through the dungeon earlier sounded once again, closer this time. A cold breath of air, fresher than that in the dungeon, washed over her. Then Logan was on the move again, leading them into a pitch-black tunnel of some sort.
