“Temper, lad,” Duncan murmured.
“I should leave you behind,” Bartholomew retorted in an undertone, though he would not do as much. “When last did a prisoner refuse to be saved?” He dropped the trap door in place again and turned the key in the lock. He raised his voice as he pushed Duncan forward. “Do not be so fool as to test me again, knave,” he said in a louder voice and shoved Duncan into the bailey.
As he had anticipated, the sentries on the parapet turned to watch. Bartholomew continued to push Duncan or drag him by the rope, and Duncan stumbled repeatedly in the snow, as if weakened by his ordeal.
Bartholomew hoped the other warrior pretended to be in worse shape than he was. If Duncan could not run, they would not manage to flee the gates. The other man certainly smelled foul, and his plaid was stained. There was a mighty bruise upon his cheek, but Bartholomew was encouraged by the glint of resolve in Duncan’s eyes.
The sentries jested and pointed, enjoying Duncan’s situation more than could be admired. One crowed that he would see Duncan at his execution.
“Did you have the chance to defend yourself in his court?” Bartholomew demanded quietly, for he did not see how it could have been done so quickly.
“What court?” Duncan muttered and spat in the snow. “This one knows naught of justice. You can see the mark of it on all his holding. Pity the poor wretches condemned to live beneath his hand.”
Bartholomew said naught to that, but unlocked the door to the chapel and cast Duncan through it. The other man contrived to fall through the portal and land on his knees, which amused the sentries greatly.
Bartholomew shut the portal behind them and abandoned Duncan, making haste for the hidden reliquary.
“Where do you mean to hide it?” Duncan asked. He did not move from his spot inside the door, as if conserving his strength. Bartholomew tried to not think overmuch about it.
“I will suddenly develop a paunch, the better to resemble the knight whose tabard I claimed,” he said
Duncan grinned than, he looked most tired.
“Are you sufficiently hale?” Bartholomew had to ask.
“I have been better, lad, that much is certain. Fear not. I will not slow you down.”
Bartholomew nodded and struggled to fit the key into the lock. The helm would provide an admirable defense against arrows, but he could not see clearly. How backward was this realm that the knight’s visors were not hinged? He cast off the helm and fitted the key into the lock with ease. He turned it, opened the sanctuary and stared at its emptiness with shock.
“What is amiss?” Duncan asked.
“It is gone!” Bartholomew turned to face his companion, uncertain what to do. The portal to the bailey opened in that moment, and Duncan gasped. There was not time to shut the cupboard and don his helm both, and Bartholomew managed neither before Lady Marie swept into the chapel.
She took one look at him, then gestured to the maid who must be following her but as yet out of sight. “I will pray alone this morn,” she commanded, shut the portal, and leaned back against it.
Silence crackled in the chapel. Bartholomew returned Marie’s gaze, and Duncan looked between them, clearly uncertain what to expect.
Then Marie smiled and strolled toward Bartholomew. “Now here is a tale,” she said softly, and not without satisfaction.
Did she know about the reliquary at all?
Did she know its location?
Would she reveal them?
A thousand possible lies flicked through his thoughts, not a one of them convincing, and his heart stopped cold. Duncan remained on his knees and perhaps he prayed in truth.
The lady swept past the older man, her confidence clear as she approached Bartholomew. “I believe you might find my offer of assistance more savory on this day, sir,” she purred and offered her hand to him.
Bartholomew hesitated only for a moment before he took her hand and kissed it. Would she truly help them escape?
Could he truly give her what she desired?
His moral code fought against his awareness of what he knew she wanted of him, but survival had to be worth some sacrifice.
Lady Marie’s could have been higher, to be sure.
Chapter Ten
Duncan was tired and he was sore, he was hungry and more than impatient with the hospitality of Haynesdale. Still, those were not the sole reasons he found the lady’s solution unsavory.
He stared at the black hole of the sewer and sighed. “No other way?” he muttered.
Lady Marie had ushered them to the back of the stables, one at a time, using her cloak to disguise them from view. Bartholomew had already cast aside his stolen helm and had opened the wooden trap placed over the hole. The smell was pungent and strong enough to bring a tear to Duncan’s eye. The mingling stink of kitchen waste, dung from the horses, and slops less than inviting.
“No other way,” Lady Marie insisted. “Be quick!” She stretched to kiss Bartholomew’s cheek. “On the first day that the sky is clear after the snow,” she whispered. “Meet me at the old mill after midday.”
The younger knight nodded once, his expression grim. The lady strolled through the stables to her waiting maids.
Duncan looked at the open square of the front gate, yearning for a cleaner solution. “Could we not detain another guard, lad?” he asked, even as Bartholomew shed the borrowed tabard. “Or one of us walk out the gates?”
“We would not get far,” the knight replied. “Or travel quickly enough to evade pursuit once they lent chase.” He gave Duncan a look. “It cannot be that deep.”
Duncan thought of the height of the motte and was not so certain of that. The conduit might narrow too much for them at some lower point, and they could be trapped within a sewer for good. He might have argued more but one of the sentries shouted from the curtain wall.
“Hoy!” that man cried. “An intruder has entered the keep from the back portal! I see his tracks in the snow.”
“Drop the portcullis!” shouted another. “He will not leave this place alive.”
The gate could be heard to creak, then the iron spires fell to the ground to secure the bailey.
Marie strode to the bailey and raised her voice imperiously. “An intruder? In our keep? Find him immediately!” The guards and sentries scurried to do her will, even as she barricaded the view of the stable’s interior. The horses nickered and tossed their heads, sensing the agitation of the men.
“No other way,” Bartholomew said quietly, then arched a brow. “After you.”
Duncan growled disapproval, but lowered himself into the hole. It was not that tight a fit, being almost arm’s length in diameter. It was wrought of a column of fitted stone, and he was reassured that the walls would be more stable that way. Duncan could not discern the bottom beyond a glimmer in the distance and was unsure of its depth. Bartholomew knotted a rope around the end post of a stall, then cast it down into the hole. Duncan gripped the rope, braced his feet on the walls of the sewer and rappelled himself down into the darkness.
Zounds, but the stink only grew stronger.
Darkness closed around him, the circle of light above him blocked by Bartholomew’s figure. He heard the knight drag the wooden trap over the top, then the scrape of the knight’s boots on the stone walls above. There was muffled shouting from the bailey, and he moved more quickly.
They had to reach the bottom before the rope was discovered.
Nay, they had to be through the sewer and in the forest before the rope was discovered. He hoped Lady Marie could keep her husband’s men at bay.
Then his boots splashed into muck. To his relief, it came only as high as his knees.
Which meant the outward passage must be higher than that. He flattened himself against the wall as Bartholomew dropped into the mire beside him, then slid his hands over the wet walls.
Oh, they were thickly coated with a substance he did not wish to feel on his hands. Perhaps there was a blessing in the darkness, for he co
uld not see what surrounded them.
Though the smell was sufficient to leave no mystery.
“Here,” Bartholomew whispered, then guided Duncan’s hand to the gap in the wall. It was of similar diameter, but a horizontal bore, with a slight downward slant. At the far end of it, he could see light again.
He grimaced, then climbed into the tunnel, crawling forward on his hands and knees. At least there was only a handspan of filth in the tunnel, but Duncan hastened on, fully anticipating that some soul would cast some mess down the sewer. The last thing he wanted was that tide rising beneath his plaid.
He swore when he reached the grid hammered over the end of the sewer, and gave the metal bars a hard shake. Bartholomew joined him but a moment later and peered though the bars.
“We are on the other side of the keep,” he murmured. “See how this drains into the river?” He nodded with satisfaction. “My tracks in the snow are on the other side.”
Duncan gave the bars another shake. “We are not away yet, lad.”
“Nay, we are not.” Bartholomew peered at the bolts that secured the iron grid in the stone. “The mortar is chipping,” he noted, picking at it with a finger. It crumbled beneath his touch, but not enough to loose the grid.
Duncan pulled his dagger from its scabbard and stabbed it into the crumbling mortar surrounding the bolt closest to him.
“That is fine steel!” Bartholomew protested in shock.
“And my life is well worth losing the hone of the blade,” Duncan muttered.
“True enough.” Bartholomew pulled his own dagger and hacked at the mortar on his side. It was not long before they had loosened two of the four bolts. Bartholomew gestured for Duncan to move aside, then he kicked at the grill with his legs. Duncan did the same, the pair of them alternating until the grid broke free and tumbled down the slope to the snow-covered moat.
They waited a moment, fearing it might have been seen, but no alarm was cried. Without further ado, they climbed out the hole, each helping the other. Again, they waited against the wall for a sign of discovery, and when there was none, they bolted toward the forest.
One of Duncan’s boots crashed through the ice on the moat, and he bit back his cry of dismay. Bartholomew seized his arm and fairly dragged him to the opposite side. They crawled on to the bank but did not dare to linger. Duncan refused to consider how readily the hounds would track them, much less when he might be cleanly garbed again.
First they had to escape.
He only breathed a sigh of relief when they had taken fifty paces into the forest, but Bartholomew did not slow his pace even then. Duncan was aching from head to toe, but he would not delay their retreat.
Indeed, he did not doubt that if they were captured again, neither of them would survive the day.
* * *
Bartholomew was not certain how far they had run, but he did not think it was enough. Duncan was limping, though that man struggled on, and he wished he had Anna’s knowledge of the forests. Which was the best direction to flee? Where might they find a haven? It was clear that Duncan could not travel much farther. Bartholomew might have led the other man back to the refuge of the villagers, but he was uncertain of his direction in the snow, as well as aware of Anna’s protectiveness of her fellow outcasts. He did not doubt that Royce would hunt him and Duncan and did not want to bring danger to those who had shown him hospitality. Were there more hidden caves? Could he find one?
They reached a stream that looked familiar, though he would wager that all streams looked much the same. Some slight sound prompted him to glance over his shoulder at the surrounding forest.
Then he froze in place, for in the shadows behind them, he could discern Anna. She had loaded the crossbow and aimed it at his chest. She was dressed again in man’s garb, her chausses and tabard simple and dark of hue. Her hair hung down her back in a dark braid and her expression was accusatory.
He recalled all the warnings he had ever heard of the wrath of a woman scorned and took a step back.
“Come, lad,” Duncan said, with a glance at the sky. “If we hasten, we can put good distance between us and the keep before they can lend chase.”
“Nay, Duncan,” Bartholomew said quietly.
The older man turned and followed his gaze. He whistled through his teeth even as Anna took measured steps toward them. Her gaze was steely and her aim unwavering.
Bartholomew licked his lips. “I did not wish to awaken you this morning.”
“Because you will leave,” she charged. “You pause only for your comrade and now would leave forever.”
Bartholomew had no argument to make against that.
“Surely, you did not imagine he would stay,” Duncan said, looking between the pair of them. “Come, lass, his fortune lies away from this place.”
“Does it?” Anna challenged, which puzzled Bartholomew. “You did not tell them,” she said to him, fury in her tone.
Duncan sat down heavily. “Tell who what?” he demanded with impatience.
“He is the lost son of the last Baron of Haynesdale,” Anna declared.
Duncan regarded her. “How do you know?”
“He bears the mark of the true son.”
Bartholomew’s blood went cold. “You cannot know…”
“I do.” She glared at him.
Duncan rubbed his brow. “How do you know, lass?”
“He was marked by the smith, my father, so that he could not identified no matter how much he changed or how many died.” She glared at Bartholomew, her vexation with him clear. “You mean to abandon your legacy!”
Bartholomew was well aware of how Duncan looked at him in curiosity. “So this is why you insisted upon the Haynesdale road,” the Scotsman mused. He considered Anna anew. “And this is why Fergus says you are bound to his fate.”
“I am?” Anna asked in surprise.
Duncan smiled. “It was why he bought the kirtle, he said, for he saw you in his dreams.”
This appeared to fluster Anna. “I do not believe it. No one can see the future.”
“Fergus can,” Duncan insisted. He eyed Bartholomew, then spoke to Anna again. “What is this tale you tell of my companion?”
“It is no tale. It is truth. Haynesdale is his rightful legacy.”
“What do you know about it?” Bartholomew demanded.
“Everything! You are the lost son returned. You are the hope of all those people, who begin to despair that justice will ever be restored.”
“It is not that simple…”
“It is cursed simple. You are the rightful baron!” she cried, interrupting him. “You bear the mark of the signet ring, impressed into your flesh by the smith when you were but a boy, at your mother’s command.” Duncan blinked at this revelation and Bartholomew’s neck heated. Anna took another step closer. “How dare you abandon us to this tyrant and evade your responsibility?”
Bartholomew ground his teeth. “I have no choice, Anna.”
“You have every choice, and you make the sole bad one!” She lifted the crossbow higher.
“Anna, you must understand.” He exhaled when it was clear she did not. “I make the sole possible choice. I must appeal to the king and the king’s justice to see this matter changed.”
She did not relent. “You should take Haynesdale for your own first.”
Bartholomew flung out a hand, his temper expired. “And what merit of a deed would that be? What would be the difference between me then and every other villain who simply steals what he desires for his own?”
“Might makes right,” Anna argued.
“Nay, never that.” He marched toward her, ignoring the crossbow in his anger. Indeed, he pushed it aside with a fingertip. “Do you not think I have seen the effect of such choices? Do you not think I have seen grown men steal food from children to sate their own needs? To steal whatever gold they lust to hold as their own, regardless of who rightly claims it? To savor a woman, whether she wills it or nay, simply for the sake of the
ir own lust?” He flung out his hands and his voice rose. “What is the difference between us and barbarians, if our word has no value, if we cannot be relied upon to do what is right, if we do not cede to a higher justice?” He shook a finger at her. “What then is the point? I will not be as those fiends I have seen in Outremer. I will not take simply for my own desire. I will not disregard law and order and justice and truth, simply because it is not convenient for me to do as I have pledged.”
“Amen,” Duncan said quietly, but Bartholomew ignored him.
“And if it means that I shall die without the seal of my father’s holding in my hand, so be it. I shall die an honorable man.”
Duncan nodded approval of this sentiment.
Anna was less convinced. “Is it not just as foul to turn one’s back upon wickedness?” she insisted. “Or to abandon those in need of your aid?”
“I do not abandon you. I seek recourse by the only honorable means.”
“Kill Royce before you go, then!”
“I will not do as he has done.” Bartholomew glared at Anna, furious that she could not see the merit of his choice.
She glared back at him, evidently just as angry that he refused to do as she desired.
Suddenly she lifted the bow again and aimed once more at his heart. Bartholomew reached for his knife, though he knew he could not draw it in time. Indeed, her bolt was loosed before the blade was clear of the scabbard. It sailed over his shoulder, fairly nicking his ear as it flew past him.
He had a heartbeat to believe that she had missed.
Then he heard it sink home.
Bartholomew spun in time to see the victim raise a hand to his wound.
The assailant wore the baron’s colors. The bolt had caught him at the base of the throat and he bled profusely. His eyes were wide and he fell slowly, first to his knees and then fully to the ground. His loaded crossbow dropped to one side, released from his loosened grip.
His companion fled through the forest, no more than a flickering shape in the distance. His boot falls faded from earshot with all speed.
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