CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MYSTERIES AND MEETINGS
MYSTERIES AND MEETINGS
The light leaking through the long slit of window changed from the barest beam to a pale glow. It slid across the floor and settled on the eyelids of the huddled form under a cloak in the center of the flagstones.
Duncan rubbed his eyes and then sat up, every muscle stiff and aching.
“I really get myself into messes, don't I?”
Duncan said it aloud, turning his head and feeling his neck click. Every part of him ached and his head was sore from sleeping in the cold, pillowed on his arms.
He stood groggily and wandered to the door. It was locked. He had expected that. He sighed. I wonder if his lordship plans to starve me to death.
One way to find out.
“Hello?” he shouted through the door, surprised at how faint his voice was.
If he thought about it, he was not surprised. He hadn't eaten since the cheese at lunchtime yesterday and he was feeling exhausted. He rattled the handle of the door, seeking to rouse someone.
“Hello?”
He kept it up for about two minutes – diligently beating on the door, rattling the handle, calling out through the wooden panels. At length, he heard footsteps. Someone drew a key of a chain and set it in the lock, then turned. The door opened.
“I'm here, ye can stop the bellowin',” a guard grumbled. He reached around the door for the bucket.
“Am I to expect breakfast?” Duncan asked courteously. The guard – a man perhaps ten years older than Duncan himself, looked at him.
“Just a minute,” he said, quite politely. He closed the door and left.
Well, that went well, Duncan told himself ironically. You have a chance to escape – or at least get information – and you really use it well, don't you?
He sighed. He put his back to the wall and slid down it, feeling defeated and miserable. He had come here to find the pearl. Now he was, thanks to his own misjudgment, locked in a turret, probably destined to be starved at his lordship's leisure.
“Fine hero you are,” he told himself sadly. He felt wretched. He knew the melancholy was not helped by being so hungry, but that didn't help. He felt like a complete fool.
He had sat there for some unknown time, lost in his own depression, when he heard the key.
He stood up hastily, wincing as his head whirled.
The guard appeared again, looking severely chastened. “Lord Duncan...” he began.
“Well, don't just stand there, man! Let me see him! I've not got all day, and our guest needs repast.” A voice demanded from somewhere behind the guard. Cultured and arrogant, this was a young voice, a voice used to command.
Duncan stared and, a moment later, a young man appeared.
Dressed in a long green cloak and brown tunic and hose, the man looked as if he had been planning a day hunting in the woods. He had red hair that reached his shoulders and brushed to shine. His long, slim face was serious, mouth down turned. He looked vaguely familiar to Duncan, though he could not think of why.
“Lord Duncan,” the man said formally. “I apologize for your...current circumstance. My father was...remiss,” he said carefully. “The situation has been rectified. If you would come with us now?”
Duncan stared. He had the presence of mind to incline his head in a bow. “My lord. It is a pleasure to meet you.” He held out his hand. He had not known there was a son, though he ought to have guessed there was one.
The young man blinked. Then he smiled. “Apologies. Now I am remiss in courtesy. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Alf.”
Duncan took his hand, shaking it firmly. Alf was a Nordic name. One of Alf's parents must have come from the Ostmen; the descendants of Nordic invaders. Nevertheless, he liked the look of Alf.
“Pleased to meet you, Alf. I am Duncan.”
The youth smiled. “Yes, I know. Our guard informed me. Had he not, I shudder to think what would have happened. Now come. I have prepared better lodgings than this.”
Duncan, blinking, amazed at his change of fortunes, followed the young lord down the cold turret stairs.
They turned into a long hallway, this one paneled and warm, and then to a small room.
Alf waved Duncan ahead of him, and then entered after. They sat down at a table – the room was comfortably appointed with a large bed, two chairs, a low table, and a fire roaring in the grate. As Duncan tried to compose himself, Alf clapped his hands.
“Well, then! Bring it in! His lordship has waited long enough to break his long fast!”
A servant appeared with a tray and set it down, then backed nervously away. Duncan stared at the food and tried to ignore it, failing dismally.
When the servant had gone, a guard locked the door behind them. Duncan looked at Alf, a question in his tawny eyes.
Alf shrugged lightly. “I apologize. I cannot very well free someone my father imprisoned, however much I wish to. I can ensure our high-ranked prisoners are kept somewhat better than serfs, however.”
Duncan blinked at him. “I owe you thanks,” he said cautiously. He desperately wanted to eat, but did not want to break courtesy by eating before his host did.
Alf looked at him, and then shook his head, tutting at himself. “Well, we should break our fast! Try the ale...small beer, but not bad. Most refreshing for this time of day. Warming, too.”
Duncan nodded. He lifted an earthenware cup to his lips and drank, feeling his mouth suddenly less dry. With no more ado, he fell on the meal, eating oatcakes and cold duck as if he had never seen a meal in his life before. He felt as if he hadn't.
His new captor ate sparingly, watching him with some amusement. When Duncan was sure he could speak without feeling lightheaded, he spoke.
“My lord, I...”
Alf smiled. “I am sure you want to ask why I am here. I was intrigued when my father's steward told me of your proposal. While my father is principled, he is also wandering in his mind. I myself was most interested. In what you had to offer.”
Duncan had been lifting a slice of loaf from the tray. He set it down.
“You are interested?” he asked.
“Yes.” Alf leaned back, scraping long red hair off his high brow. He looked quite comfortable, leaning on the velvet cushions behind him. “An alliance with the MacConnoway would suit me very well. And if you wish to borrow troops to secure your hold on Dunkeld, well?” he raised a shoulder. “We have troops to place at your disposal.”
“You do?” Duncan stared at the young man. He was confident, as Duncan had guessed. Confident and scheming.
“We have. The Duncraigh's have no shortage of armed men. You are certainly aware of this?” Again the raised shoulder, the gaze under hooded eyelids.
Duncan nodded.
“Well, then. We can agree on, say, forty of our troops? Probably more than you need. But the more I assist you, the more, I am sure, you can assist me.”
Duncan cleared his throat. “Assist you?” he asked. “In what undertaking?”
The young man smiled. “In taking back what is mine.”
“Yours?”
“The MacDonnell lands. I want them. They belonged to a distant ancestor of mine. Since the death of their heir, Lord Thomas,” he continued, looking at Duncan in a strange way, as if he knew his involvement there, “there is an empty space there, waiting to be filled. I will be the man to fill it.”
Duncan gave a surprised gasp. “You want my assistance in conquering the MacDonnell?”
“Yes,” he agreed smoothly, rolling his shoulder where a cloak draped it, completely at ease. “I think it is right that friends help each other, yes?”
Duncan cleared his throat again, uneasily. “Perhaps,” he said.
Alf smiled. “Ah! But you do not trust me, perhaps. And nor, despite my dismissal of my father, do I trust you.” Duncan stared at him, and Alf continued, lifting a cup of ale. “I have to agree with my father's statement that a man who betrays his brother
is no man to trust. So I wish to know your sincerity in this.”
“You do?” Duncan went pale. In his experience, there was one of two ways to determine whether or not someone was sincere. Test them, or torture them.
“Yes,” the younger man said. Then he laughed. “The way I have in mind is not so taxing, Lord Duncan,” he said, smiling. “In fact, it requires nothing of you. Well, almost nothing.”
Duncan looked at him. He put down his cup of ale, leaning forward, hands clasped. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“Do you have any familiarity – excuse the wordplay – with witchcraft?”
Duncan stared at him. “Witchcraft?” He thought of Alina and her aunt, Aili. They were the closest thing he had met to what people often called witches: observant, wise women with an intuition that was uncanny.
“Yes. Witchcraft,” Alf said patiently. “Well, if you have not, now is the time to test your faith. So to speak.” He chuckled.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, my aunt is a witch. You will face her. If she decides you are genuine, I will believe it.”
While Duncan stared at him, Alf stood, rising gracefully to his well-booted feet. “Well, then, Lord Duncan. I must say it was a pleasure to meet you. I am off on a hunt now. I will return in the evening to discover the truth of what you say.”
Having said this, Alf walked to the door and, with no further explanation, left, saying something to the guard on his way out.
Duncan sat very still for a long while after he had gone. He shook his head. This was all becoming far too much for him. Mysteries, incarceration, now witchcraft.
All I ever wanted, Duncan thought sadly, turning to look into the fire, was a wife I love, healthy children, and a chance to support my brother in managing our home.
He closed his eyes feeling as if, somewhere, someone was mocking him and his simple dreams. At this moment, they were so complex. So completely out of his grasp.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
A DESPERATE MEASURE
A DESPERATE MEASURE
Alina looked up at the ceiling. The morning had dawned hours ago, tracing beams of orange and then gold across the pale, vaulted expanse. Shivering despite the cloak that covered her and the fire that burned in the grate beside her, Alina shook her head to clear it.
Lord Camry had given her his terms. Either marry him, or be disgraced.
She closed her eyes, resting an aching head in the palms of her hands. The trouble was that she had made it childishly easy for him. No one knew why she had left the castle. All they knew was that he had found her in the woods. While most of the locals loved her for her healing skills, many of them, particularly the churchmen interested in keeping people loyal to their own method of healing, denounced her. All Camry had to do was tell someone he had found her casting a spell in the woods, and she would be as good as dead.
And even if he was not so cruel, simply saying I have spent two nights here in his castle, unchaperoned, would ruin me forever. No one would marry me. If she was lucky, her uncle would allow her to retire into a convent, helping her to find one accepting of her. If she was unlucky, he would send her out of the castle to seek her own way.
Either way, she would face a life of hardship and unpleasantness, and possibly mistreatment and death.
“I'm not sure which I prefer,” Alina said wryly to herself. “Being mistreated on the street, by the sisters at the Abbey, or by him.”
The choice was surprisingly hard. If she were lucky, on the street she might find shelter and someone to protect her from men's violence and lust. There was no one to protect her from either lust or violence of Lord Camry.
She thought about the way he looked at her and shuddered. There was something about his predatory nature, about his bullying arrogance, his belittling ways, which all disgusted her. She could not marry him! To do so would debase her beyond anything she could dream of.
I will escape, she thought wildly. I have to.
She leaned back on the chair, thinking hard.
Lord Camry had locked her in here. It was a serviceable room – comfortable and pleasant. There was only one window – a high one, carved in the stone wall. She could not have reached it and even if she had wished to, to leap through it would be death this high up. She had been brought a meal in the morning and, as of the previous day, an invitation to join Camry at luncheon, which she had refused. The light outside the window had cooled somewhat since then, and she judged there were perhaps six hours between the present hour and supper.
That means I have perhaps four hours of sunlight left.
Alina closed her eyes. Let her mind form a plan. At length, she stood. She knocked on the door.
“Milady?”
A maid – Greere – appeared. Alina recognized her from when Camry brought her up here, ordering her to assist Alina in any need she mentioned. She was fairly sure that was the woman's name.
“Greere,” Alina said, hesitantly. She saw the woman's face soften at the use of her name. “I hunger terribly. If you could fetch me something to eat? Perhaps some oatcakes? Or just a little gruel?”
Greere looked worried. “Of course, my lady! His lordship would be vexed if he thought I'd starved ye!” She curtsied deeply, and retreated. Alina looked around the room.
While the maid was gone, she ran to the wall. She swallowed a feeling of guilt at deceiving the maidservant, but she knew she had no other choice, if she wished to escape this fate.
She looked up at the wall, resuming the search. The stonework was covered in tapestries, the designs fine work in gold and red. She tugged on one, a large one which was easily twice her height, showing magical beasts in gold and red on a white ground. She had no idea how much time she had and she pulled again, heart thudding in her chest.
When it came loose in her hand, trailing dust, she felt a surge of elation and gratitude. That part, at least, was working.
She ran lightly to the door, terrified of missing a moment. She stood there, heart thumping. Her plan relied on timing to have any chance of working. She stood with the vast tapestry in her hands, threads digging into her fingers with the pressure.
At length, she heard footsteps on the stone stairs.
The maid turned the handle, and then pushed the door back slowly.
“My lady?”
She looked around the room, confusion showing on her face. She took a step forward, tray in hand.
Alina drew a breath. Quick as lightning, she stepped behind the woman, lifted the tapestry and dropped it downward, aiming for her head. It landed where it had been intended to, and covered the woman, effectively trapping and blinding her for a while. As long as it took for her to escape its heavy folds.
“What? Ugh! Get it off me!”
Alina dashed through the door, hearing Greere coughing and shouting from below the tapestry. She had no time to feel guilty, only hastily to pray Greere would not get blamed, and then she ran lightly down the hallway.
She felt her mind burst into urgent action. I have so little time!
This way, she told herself, going toward her right. She remembered turning right from the solar to reach this place the previous night. That meant that if she wanted to avoid that part of the house, she should go right again when she left here. She headed down the hallway on her right, feet fast but not running, to avoid attention. She walked quickly and quietly over stone flagging, heart in her mouth.
Calm, Alina, she told herself, feeling her heart thumping. She heard two men laughing in one of the rooms and stiffened, but it was only two guardsmen, watching their companions over the rail as they sparred in the courtyard. She moved on.
Calm, Alina. Her hand was on her heart, schooling her breath and its wild beating.
She reached the top of the stairwell. Here, she had a decision. She could head down, which would take her to the courtyard and the great hall, or she could go right again, which led to another turret. She had no idea which way to go. Along the hallway, she heard fee
t. Probably the men at arms, coming out of the gallery-room.
She bit her lip and made a choice. Go right.
The courtyard was full of sparring men who would certainly notice a lady and question that, and his lordship might yet be entertaining in the great hall. The kitchen would have been good, but the servants would probably stop her. The turret, however, might have a window, or a door.
She walked along the hallway to the turret, booted feet clicking on the stone.
Calm, Alina. Alina, calm. Breathe in, then out. In. Out. Her heart thudded and her palms were soaking. She walked down the corridor at top speed, looking left and right. She reached the stairs she ran.
She cannoned into someone.
She screamed.
She looked up.
Facing her was Lord Camry.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A PEARL
A PEARL
“Enter.”
The voice which called out from the other side of the door sounded ancient. Not human. Duncan, standing outside it, Alf at his shoulder, bit his lip, realizing he was sweating.
This is nonsense, Duncan. You know people are full of superstition.
Still. The corridor was dark, now. Alf had returned late from his hunting, meeting with Duncan when the sun had begun to set. The corridor they were in was well kept, clean and warm. Yet the fear was in Duncan and would not leave.
Alf smiled, shoulder raised in a shrug. “Well, you heard,” he said encouragingly. He inclined his head towards the door where Duncan's hand stayed perhaps three inches from the handle.
Duncan bit his lip and lowered his hand. Pushing the door open, he stepped forward and on to meet whatever waited for him beyond.
He blinked. The room was dark. The light came from a single candle, placed on a long, dark wooden table. After the bright torches of the hallway, the place was pitch dark and his eyes took a moment to adjust to it.
The Highlander’s Challenge (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Page 16
