It was impossible to avoid stepping into the cobwebs or the small puddles of water that had formed over time. At one point, her mind was so busy with thoughts of her husband, that she had lost count of her steps. Cursing under her breath, she pursed her lips together and pushed forward. The tunnel came to an abrupt end and she knew she had missed her mark, but by only a few paces.
“Wheest,” she whispered. “I miscounted. We must go back a bit,” she said as she wriggled her way around the wall of people and led them back down the tunnel. She breathed a sigh of relief after finding the small branch in the tunnel that she needed. Just a few steps in, she felt around for the torch and prayed it would still light after all these years.
Fishing in one of the packs, she pulled out the stone and struck it against the flint. Sparks flew and after several attempts, the pitch finally lit. An eerie glow fell over the tunnel as she held up the torch and counted heads.
“Are ye no’ worried someone will see the torch?” Peter asked with wide eyes.
“Nay,” she told him. “We be well underground, at least thirty feet. Ye couldna tell, but we’ve been goin’ lower and lower below ground. Unless the ground above has fallen into the tunnel, we’ll be safe fer a time.”
Without saying another word, she turned and continued the journey. The tunnel wound and twisted for a time, before they were finally going in a straight line. After more than a half an hour, they finally reached their destination. Stairs carved into the earth led upward.
Aggie turned around to speak to Ian and Peter. “These stairs will take us up and into the forest. There be a heavy wooden door, covered with earth. I’ll need ye to open it verra carefully. I’ll have to douse the torch now.”
The men did not wait for further instruction. They made their way to the stairs, unsheathed their swords and carefully ascended the earthen stairs. Aggie pulled Rose and Ailrig in closely before smothering the flame with dirt from the walls.
Time seemed to have slowed as they waited for the sound of Ian and Peter lifting up the wooden door. The images of Frederick hurt, wounded and alone came flooding back, twisting at her heart, and making her lose focus.
Aggie, ye must concentrate on what ye need to do. Frederick needs ye.
Thirty-Two
COLD WATER SPLASHED across Frederick’s face, rousing him awake. His mind was muddled from lack of sleep as well as the pain that burned in his right hand. Once he shook the fog away, he remembered where he was. Eduard Bowie’s dungeon. And Eduard Bowie was standing before him.
“I told ye the rules before, Mackintosh,” Eduard said cheerfully. “No sleepin’.”
Were Frederick not shackled to the wall, hanging by his wrists—with his right hand most assuredly broken—his feet shackled as well, he would have killed Eduard Bowie. He would have made it his final act on God’s earth.
How long had it been since last he slept? Two days? Three? Frederick could not begin to guess, but he could remember. He’d woken way before dawn lying next to Aggie, wanting very much to reach out and pull her close. But fear of undoing all they had accomplished these past months barred him from such action. As yet, she had not given him permission to do such things. And he refused to make such advances without it.
Aggie had begged him not to leave, but he wouldn’t listen. He was thinking of their clan, their people. The hunt was necessary if they were to survive the upcoming winter. He wished that he could turn back time and crawl back into their big warm bed and hold her against his chest. When he closed his eyes, he could almost smell the marigold soap she used to wash her hair. Jesu! How he missed her.
A hard slap to his face brought him back to the present time. “I asked ye a question, Mackintosh!” Eduard said through gritted teeth.
Frederick forced a chuckle through his parched lips. “I didna hear ye. I was busy tryin’ to figure out how I’m goin’ to kill ye.”
Eduard didn’t find his statement nearly as amusing. He shouted over his shoulder to someone behind him. “Bring me the Whore’s Bath.”
Frederick hadn’t a clue what the Whore’s Bath was, but something told him it had nothing to do with water.
THE FARTHER AWAY from the keep they rode, the more Aggie’s faith in God was restored. It had been hours since they had made their way out of the keep and into the forest where Ian’s men waited with horses. She was not about to question the good luck they seemed to be having. Certainly someone back at the keep would have noticed them all missing by now. The sun had risen hours ago. Either Mermadak had left before he realized Aggie and the others had or he didn’t care. She had to believe it was the latter, for so far it appeared as though no one was following them.
They had made the decision to head in the direction they believed Frederick and the men would have been yesterday. Thus far, there had been no sign of them, which meant one of two things. Either Frederick and his men were still alive and well or the Bowie had reached them at the point they had set out.
Bowie lands butted up against McLaren lands to the southwest. When Frederick left three days ago, their plan had been to begin hunting in the north and work their way around to the west. When Ian had taken them as far west as he thought they might be, he ordered them to halt.
Aggie and Rose brought their horses to stand on either side of Ian.
“What is it, Ian?” Aggie asked.
“We’ve gone as far west as we can go,” he said as he wiped his brow on his sleeve. “We’ve seen no sign of them. I fear we do no’ have enough men nor enough time to search every square inch of yer lands, Aggie.”
In truth, she had been worrying the same thing. There were only the eight of them, including a nine year old boy who was doing his best not to fall asleep on the back of Rose’s horse. Worry crept in, but she refused to allow it a strong hold. “What do ye suggest?” she asked as she looked at the horizon.
“The Graham keep be to our east. I want to send a few of our men to ask fer help. They could be there by nightfall, if their horses hold out.”
The extra help would be needed. If Frederick and his men had been captured, then she would need help securing their release or escape. If he were dead, she planned on laying siege to the Bowie keep and killing every last one of them. Either way, they could not continue on without extra help.
“Aye,” she agreed. “Send yer men, Ian. We can rest a spell, but I do no’ want to wait for them to return. Mayhap we should continue on to the southwest?”
She felt relieved when Ian agreed to continue on.
THE SOUND OF another human being screaming in agony might make most men feel ill at ease. But for Eduard Bowie, it was music to his black heart. Where most people took delight in listening to the twitter of birds, or a bairn’s laughter, or the melodic harmony of a harp, Eduard Bowie found pleasure in the wretched cries of pain. And to hear another human being begging for mercy or death, why those sounds elicited delightful sensations in his groin and turned his skin to excited gooseflesh.
One man’s—or woman’s—torture was Eduard Bowie’s pleasure.
Torture was often used to elicit a confession or, in times of war, to gather information. Eduard wanted neither of those things from Frederick Mackintosh. He was torturing the man for the sheer pleasure of it.
Admittedly, Eduard felt some amount of admiration for the Mackintosh. The man had held on to his dignity far longer than most. But, as Eduard had learned over the years, every man had a breaking point. Frederick Mackintosh was no different.
“Have ye figured out why I call this the Whore’s Bath yet, Mackintosh?” Eduard asked as he twisted the screws a bit tighter, feeling another jolt of excitement course through his veins as he did so.
Frederick screamed a slew of curses, his breathing harsh and rapid. Sweat ran into his eyes and dripped off the end of his nose. The pain was beyond intense, it was unbearable. He could not have answered Eduard’s question if he had known the answer. Instead, he called Eduard every filthy name he could think of.
As Fred
erick hung by his wrists from the wall, Eduard had place each of his feet between two thick blocks of wood that resembled oversized thumbscrews. Pressure on each foot was gained by turning large screws that, when done properly and long enough, would crush nearly every bone in a man’s foot. But to reach the point of breaking bones took hours, or days, depending on Eduard’s mood.
“Me mother, ye ken, was a verra religious woman,” Eduard said as he turned the screw ever so slightly. “She was always goin’ on about Christ sacrificin’ his life fer us. One of her favorite stories was how Mary Magdalene washed Jesus’ feet.” Eduard laughed as he took a step back. He cocked his head to one side as if he were an artist admiring his work.
Frederick, he could tell, was doing his best not to retch or beg for mercy. Eduard appreciated that for it would make the next few days all the more pleasurable for him. His groin ached with excitement. Above stairs, in his private chamber, waited a comely young lass who served him without question or complaint. She’d learned early on that neither would gain her his mercy. Besides, he had needed only to threaten once to cut out her tongue in order to exact the silence he wanted. He had trained her well, to only speak when spoken to, to do everything he demanded and to do it without question. The wait was difficult, but soon, he’d be above stairs doing all manner of sinfully wicked things to her.
“She be dead now, ye ken,” Eduard said nonchalantly, turning his focus back to Frederick. “I came up with this little device in her honor. I killed her with me bare hands, oh, about seven years ago now.” He smiled at the memory. “It took her a few days to finally succumb to death, poor thing. But I did finally manage to get her to quit spoutin’ Scripture to me!” he laughed heartily at his own jest.
“Well now,” Eduard said as he came to stand just inches from Frederick’s face. “Ye seem to be in a good amount of pain, Frederick Mackintosh. No’ dead like the McLaren wanted,” he shrugged as if it didn’t matter either way what the McLaren had wanted. “Instead of killin’ ye, I decided to ransom ye back to yer family. I imagine it will take weeks for word to get to them that I have ye. I said I’d keep ye alive, fer a price. But I never said a thing about no’ breakin’ any bones or flayin’ yer skin…” he let his words trail off.
Some time passed while he thought of all he could do to the man without actually killing him, at least not too soon. He clapped his hands together, and smiled as he thought of the lass waiting above stairs. “I shall leave ye to yer own thoughts, Mackintosh. While yer down here, sufferin’, I’ll be above stairs enjoyin’ the company of a fine young lass.” He wiggled his eyebrows and quit the room.
Quietly, for he had to focus on not throwing up all over himself, Frederick wished the man to die and go to hell where he belonged. This was, by far, the worst predicament he had ever found himself in. ’Twas also the first time in his life that he felt completely hopeless.
Thirty-Three
JUST AFTER NOONTIME, Ian and the others stumbled on a scene that would forever haunt him. The smell of decaying flesh nearly knocked him from his horse.
“Aggie, Rose,” he said, his voice catching in his throat. “Look away.”
They couldn’t. No matter how horrible the sight before them, neither woman could turn away. Tears filled their eyes, as they sat atop their mounts, the shock of what they were looking at not quite settling in.
Twenty-five men had left the keep just three days ago, looking forward to a hunt and providing for her people. Now, their lifeless bodies littered the ground or hung from trees. The rain had washed away much of the blood, but not all of it.
Ian and Peter slid from their horses. They tied kerchiefs around their faces to help ward off the stench of rotting corpses. Quickly, they set about searching for Frederick, lifting up one body after another to inspect their faces and making the sign of the cross as they went.
It was a very difficult process for both Ian and Peter. They knew these men, considered them more than just comrades in arms. They were friends, some they thought of as brothers. A few of them were Peter’s own cousins. Tears welled as they looked for any sign of life, any kind of light in this dark place.
AGGIE COULD NO longer watch. She turned her horse and rode a good distance before sliding down and retching. Frederick, she was certain, was amongst the dead. There was no way he could have survived, no way any of them could have survived.
Her heart broke, splintering before it shattered to pieces no bigger than dust. It was all over now. She felt Rose and Ailrig at her sides, whispering words of encouragement, telling her that it would, in the end be alright. Aggie knew that nothing would ever be right in her life again. No matter where she went or what became of her or Ailrig, there would never be another Frederick Mackintosh.
They huddled together, quietly sobbing at the loss of so many good men. And what was their crime? That they were not the heartless ruthless bastards that Mermadak wanted them to be? So that he could gain the revenge Ian and Ailrig had overheard him speak of? What crime, what misdeed could anyone have done to lead them to this place?
Hatred, sorrow, disgust all blended together in her belly, turning to another wave of nausea. She fought the current, willed herself to breathe in and out through her nose until the wave passed. Sweat beaded across her forehead and down her neck.
She would never be the same. Nothing would ever be the same. Ailrig will never have a father and she would never have another husband. She pulled her son onto her lap and held him against her chest. “I be so sorry, Ailrig,” she whispered into the mass of dark curly locks. “I be so terribly sorry.” She knew naught what else to say or do.
IAN AND PETER were digging their way through a pile of five bodies when they thought they heard a moan coming from the within. Neither man believed anyone could still be alive, ’Twas more likely the sounds a body makes as it decays.
With great care, they lifted one body off another and gently laid them off to the side. Neither of them were prepared for what they saw when they reached the bottom.
Rognall, impaled through the belly with a staff, clung to life! He’d been slowly bleeding to death, one agonizing moment after another!
“Rognall!” Ian said as he knelt beside his friend. Peter went pale as he too fell to his knees.
“Water,” Rognall said, his voice barely audible. Peter pulled a flask from his waist and held it up to his friend’s lips. He drank greedily, with most of the liquid spilling down his face.
“God’s teeth,” Ian whispered, unable to believe anyone had lived through this atrocity. His heart ached with grief, for even though Rognall was still alive, he would not live much longer. There were no amount of herbs, treatments or prayers to stave off the inevitable.
“Bowie,” Rognall tried to speak, fighting with his last breaths to tell Ian what had happened.
Ian leaned in and listened. Rognall’s words were clipped and weak. How much of what he said was truth or delirium, Ian couldn’t be sure.
Peter could not hear what Rognall said, for his voice was simply far too weak. He sat, waiting with a heavy heart for Ian to relay their friend’s message.
Time slowed to a crawl as two friends waited for death to come to another. As Rognall took his last breath, tears slid down Ian’s face. Rognall died as he had lived. Honorably and with grace and dignity.
Peter and Ian sat for some time, grieving the loss of their friend. Peter finally broke the silence. “Who did this?”
Ian wiped tears onto the sleeve of his tunic. “The Bowie.”
A CONSIDERABLE AMOUNT of time passed with Aggie, Rose, and Ailrig clinging to one another. Occasionally, the wind would pick up, bringing with it the cloying scent of death. Twice, they stood and moved away before realizing they would never be able to get away from that smell. It was now forever burned into their minds.
“Aggie.” It was Ian’s voice, soft and low.
She could not bear to look up, to see the sadness in his eyes, to watch the anguish that was undoubtedly etched across his face. I
f she didn’t look, if she didn’t listen, then she wouldn’t have to hear him tell her that Frederick was dead.
“Aggie,” he repeated as he knelt before her. “Frederick is no’ here.”
Had she heard him correctly or was it just a wishful dream? Finally, she took the chance to look at him. His face was solemn, his eyes red from crying. “Rognall,” he stopped, cleared the anguish from his throat and began again. “Rognall.” He shook his head, unable to continue.
Peter stepped in to explain what had happened, leaving out as much of the gruesome details as he could. “He lived long enough to tell us what happened.”
She searched his face for some sign of hope. Had Frederick somehow managed to survive?
“They were overrun by Eduard Bowie and some two hundred men, two days past,” Peter explained. “The Bowie has Frederick, back at his keep. He’s holding him for ransom.” Purposely, he left out the part where Frederick had sacrificed his freedom with the Bowie’s promise that no harm would come to his men. It had been a lie.
“How?” Aggie said, shaking the confusion from her head. “How did Frederick live while the others died?”
“The Bowie massacred them,” Ian ground out. “Frederick saw they were seriously outnumbered. The Bowie promised to allow our men to live if only Frederick would surrender,” he took a deep breath. “Frederick could only agree. He had no choice, Aggie. I can only assume he believed the Bowie wanted only him. When he put down his sword and gave himself over …” his words trailed off.
Aggie pleaded with him to continue. “Tell me all of it Ian.”
“They held Frederick back as they began their massacre. They made him watch as each of his men was slaughtered. Our men put up a good fight, but they were grievously outnumbered, Aggie. Rognall was impaled early on and feigned death, hoping he could survive and make it back to the keep.” As he relayed Rognall’s last words to her, his fury grew.
Frederick's Queen: The Clan Graham Series Page 34
