by Rowan Keats
“Good,” Bran said, leaning in closer. “Then this is what we shall do. . . .”
* * *
It was obvious the guards had been warned that Wulf might make an attempt to escape. The evening meal was delivered by two guards, one of whom carried a razor-sharp halberd. Wulf was asked to step into view, but well back in the cell, before they unlocked the door. But the challenge only made him even more determined to secure his freedom.
As he ate his meal, he lay on the bed, walking through several options in his head. He’d barely eaten half his stew when someone quietly approached his cell door. The torches in the corridor flickered as the person passed, but there were almost no sounds of booted feet. Just a slight pad on the wooden floor.
Wulf sat up.
He could see a dark shape through the window of his cell door. Tall and lean, almost certainly a man. “Who goes there?” he asked.
The man didn’t answer the question, but he did respond. “Apparently, you’re a prisoner of some import. The nephew of a laird, or some such. I’m here to gather your last requests. What final tastes of life would you enjoy before they string you up?”
Wulf surged to his feet. “I need nothing. Begone.”
“Don’t be so hasty, lad,” said the man on the other side of the door. Wulf could see him better now. Golden shoulder-length hair and a firm chin. An unfamiliar face, but the tabard he wore confirmed he was a guard. “They intend to part you from this world. Why not part them of some coin before you go? Request anything at all—a fine meal, French wine, a brocade tunic, or a new pair of boots. Name your desire and I’ll see it granted.”
“I want nothing.”
“Think of those you leave behind. The one who comes to collect your remains. Do you not want her to benefit?”
The image of Morag taking his body home to Dunstoras, walking the pony with a shroud-covered form in the back of the cart, came clearly to mind. Although his intent was to escape, if he failed, would he not want Morag to claim as much as she could?
“Leather boots, then,” he said. “And a fur-lined cloak.”
The man on the other side of the door chuckled. “That’s a fine call, sir. I’ll make arrangements straightaway.”
And then, as silently as he’d arrived, the man disappeared.
Wulf closed his eyes and pictured Morag the way he always wanted to remember her—lying in his arms, her face flushed with passion, her eyes half-lidded with utter contentment. What a night they’d had. A thousand times more satisfying than the many dreams he’d enjoyed while lying next to her. She had fit so perfectly against him. Her soft body, so sweetly curved and generous in all the right places, had far exceeded his imaginings. But it had been her throaty cries of his name as she found her release that shook him to the core.
For the first time, his name had sounded just right to his ears. He was Wulf MacCurran, Morag was his woman, and they were meant to forge a life together.
But first he had to escape this cell.
Wulf paced the floor, picturing the two guards who’d delivered his meal. The halberd was a formidable weapon, with a sharp ax fastened at the end of a long pole. Compared to a simple pike it was expensive to produce, but very effective in beating back attackers. The long pole kept the guard out of range, and the ax made approach near impossible. The man with the food would be easy enough to subdue. Wulf’s size would be an advantage there. But the pole . . .
His gaze fell upon the flagon of wine standing on the table, and the pewter cup alongside it. A cup that was small enough to hide behind his back, and solid enough to break a man’s nose.
He smiled.
Now, that might work.
* * *
“You said nothing about a wig last night,” snapped Morag’s father. “How do you expect me to find such an item?”
“Hush,” Morag said, nodding to the people around them who’d stopped to stare. The market was very busy as vendors set up their stalls in the predawn gloom, so surprisingly few eyes had turned, but it was enough to alarm her.
Parlan realized his error, and despite the true nature of his anger, added loudly, “No one carries figs this time of year. Expect to be disappointed.”
The curious eyes dulled and conversations around them resumed. Morag released the breath she’d been holding. “Assuming we can find a wig, I think it’s a fine plan for gaining entry,” she said. “But I’m unclear on how I’ll escape the castle myself.”
Bran shrugged. “There’s an element of risk, to be sure. But the king is a renowned family man. If you appeal to him directly, and explain the nature of your involvement, you will walk out of the castle without challenge.”
“You are mad,” Parlan said. “No one will believe she is an old cobbler.”
Bran gave a crooked smile. “Perhaps. But unless you’ve a better plan, my idea stands. Time is short.”
Morag’s father tightened his lips and said nothing.
“Let’s be off then,” Bran said. “You’ve each got your tasks. I’ll find the wig. Meet back here at noontide.”
Parlan set off for his workshop, clearly reluctant. Morag grabbed Bran’s arm before he disappeared into the crowd. “I understand why I’m doing this, and I understand why my father is doing this, but I don’t understand why you are willing to risk life and limb, Bran.”
He returned her stare. “I’m not the one freeing a condemned man from Edinburgh dungeon.”
“No,” she agreed. “But you sneaked into the castle last night disguised as a guard to arrange Wulf’s last requests, and you’re fetching the tools I’ll need to appear as a cobbler. What do you gain?”
“Coin,” he responded. “You promised me a fat purse.”
“You earn good coin here in the market, with little risk. I find myself unconvinced of your reasons for aiding me.” And for some reason, Morag knew it was important that she understand.
He peered into her face, then shrugged. “If you must know, then here is the sorry tale. My brother died in Edinburgh dungeon. It happened a number of years ago, and I blame my youth for my lack of conviction, but I had the chance to save him, and I did not.”
His cocky smile faltered.
“He was a cutpurse. Like me, but not as gifted. He was nabbed in the market, around this time of year. He was sorely abused by the guards, and I promised I would free him, but I lost my courage. Never made the attempt. Three months later he caught consumption and died.”
Morag squeezed Bran’s arm. She did not know what to say. She did not condone theft, and she generally believed that those who committed crimes should pay. But such a tale did not reflect justice, and it was hard to see his brother’s death as right. “That’s how you know the corridors of the castle.”
“Aye, and the route to the postern gate.” He wagged a finger at her. “Don’t think you can swindle me out of my coin because of a sad tale, though, lass. If I earn it, you must pay.”
“I’m a woman of my word.”
He smiled. “So I’ve heard.”
* * *
When the closest guard slid the tray of food onto the table, Wulf struck.
With an aim perfected by months of hunting in the glen, he pitched the pewter cup at the second guard’s head, hitting him square in the face. The tip of the halberd dropped and Wulf rushed in. He snatched the weapon from the disoriented guard’s limp hands and jabbed the first guard in the gut with the blunt end, robbing him of breath and sending him to the floor.
A solid thump on the head knocked both men out, and only moments after the key had turned in the lock, Wulf was free. He dragged both men across his cell to the pallet, tied them with strips of sheet he’d torn during the night, and gagged them for silence. Best he give himself plenty of time to escape; he had no knowledge of the castle layout, and it might take time to make his way to the outer wall.
With any luck, these two would not be missed until the next meal.
Wulf donned one of the guard’s tabards and slipped into the corridor. Lit
torches hung in wall brackets every few feet, and he moved quickly until he reached a cross-corridor.
Which way?
He glanced down each of the three possible routes. All he saw were more torches. No stairs to indicate a way out. Choosing decisiveness over knowledge, Wulf turned left and strode down the hall.
* * *
Morag’s father handed her a thickly pillowed vest.
“Put that on first,” he said, his expression clearly reluctant.
The garment added large lumps to her shoulders, back, and chest, making it a chore to tie the closures at the front, but Morag managed. When she was ready, he held up a large dark gray lèine. She lifted the hem and, with his help, wriggled into the wool tunic. She surfaced flushed and hot, feeling like she was swimming in cloth. “Surprisingly heavy, all this.”
Her father grunted, but said nothing. Instead, he held her hand as she slid her feet into large men’s boots that were stuffed with cloth. Because she could no longer bend enough to reach her toes, he tied the bootlaces. To keep them from falling off as she walked, he tied the last loop around her ankle.
Morag tested the disguise, bending over as much as she was able and shuffling around her father’s workshop. “Do I look like an old cobbler?”
Her father scowled. “You look like a fool.”
“That,” said Bran from the door, “is because the last bits have yet to be added.”
He held up two long hanks of gray hair and a satchel of cobbler’s tools. Using threads woven into Morag’s own braid, they attached the two skeins of gray hair to her head, and then topped the whole outfit with a black hooded cape. Bran belted the satchel of tools over one shoulder and under one arm, and then stood back to assess the final picture.
“Well?” Morag asked. The back of her neck was damp with sweat.
He wrinkled his nose. “Keep the hood low and avoid looking the guards in the eye.”
“This will never work,” Parlan said.
“It will,” insisted Bran. “Deepen your voice, lass. Pretend you’re a peevish old man like your da.”
Morag practiced walking and talking like an old man until Bran was satisfied, and then she set out for the castle. Certain that her disguise was as shoddy as her father believed, she tensed every time she passed another person. But no one pointed, stared, or shouted fraud, and the longer she walked, the more confident she grew. She walked through the market, right past the weaver she’d shared a stall with for two days, and he failed to recognize her. She even encountered two castle guards who were querying the vendors and passed them by without any bother. She arrived at the castle gate with blisters on her heels, a genuinely cantankerous tone in her voice, and a belief that she appeared to be an old man.
So long as she didn’t look up.
“State your business,” the guard said.
“Making a pair of boots for a prisoner,” she said gruffly.
“Are you now?”
She could hear skepticism in his voice, but she dared not confront him. “Aye.”
“I’ll have to check with the warden.”
Sweat was running down the back of her neck and between her breasts. Her heels were blistered and throbbing. Morag did not need to invent a peevish attitude. “Well, be quick about it. The man swings tomorrow, and boots don’t sew themselves.”
Then she waited.
* * *
Turning left was a mistake. The corridor Wulf chose led directly to the main guardhouse. He realized his error and pulled back sharply before stepping into the room, but he lost valuable time. Retracing his steps to the cross-corridor took longer than he wanted, thanks to the sword wound on his leg, which had scabbed in a manner that made moving awkward, and he was faced with another decision.
Straight ahead or left?
In the brief moment he hesitated, the decision was taken from him. Two soldiers appeared at the far end of the hall to his left. In the brief moment before they looked up, Wulf darted across the open space and down the corridor ahead. He preferred to be out of sight before the pair reached the cross-corridor.
Unfortunately, there were no archways to duck into or shadowed sections of the hall in which to blend. As the boot steps echoed even closer, Wulf was forced to brazen it. With his back to the approaching guard he calmly continued down the hallway. He wore a guard’s tabard—with any luck, they’d pass him by.
He heard boot steps pause at the cross-corridor and tensed with anticipation. Carry on, lads. Carry on.
But it was not to be.
“You there! Halt!”
Cursing the Fates, Wulf ran.
* * *
Today, of all days, the sun decided to make an appearance. Morag stood at the gate, burdened by a thick bundle of clothing on her back and a heavy satchel of tools over one shoulder. The first suggestions of sweet spring weather were untimely.
Morag wiped sweat from her brow with her sleeve, taking great care not to reveal her hands.
What was taking the warden so long? Had Bran been mistaken? Was Wulf not to be granted his last wish for a pair of boots? Was she about to be exposed as a charlatan and a sham? Her feet itched to run. It was all too easy to imagine failure—of being strung up alongside Wulf with the townspeople glaring at her with accusing eyes. Surely if her ruse had been effective, it would not take this long to be granted entry.
Morag swallowed thickly, her throat tight and dry. Despite the powerful urge to flee that cramped her calves, she held her ground. She would never outrun the guard in her unwieldy disguise. Brazening it out was her only real option.
She heard the guard returning, and bit her lip.
“Been a bit of a fuss in the dungeon,” he said, “and the warden very nearly denied the prisoner his last wishes.”
A fuss? What sort of fuss?
“But word came from the king himself, and the wretch will have his boots. Come along.”
* * *
Wulf was escorted to his cell. The two trussed-up guards were given a scathing reprimand and sent on their ways before he was tossed unceremoniously into the room. His boot tip caught in the wooden floorboards, and he fell heavily upon his injured leg. Damn his wound. Were it not for that, he might have stood a chance of escaping. But there was no value in bemoaning the Fates. His time was better spent developing a new plan.
He gently massaged his leg around the wound. Despite his rough landing on the floor, the thick scab continued to protect the knitting flesh. He could thank Morag’s tender care for that.
He frowned.
Footsteps echoed in the hall once more.
Wulf leapt to his feet. If the opportunity presented itself, he would make another dash for freedom. Or hobble for freedom, as the truth might be. He grimaced. It mattered not. Either way, he had no intention of dying quietly.
“Stand back where we can see you, ya bleeding cur,” the guard called from the other side of the door.
Wulf glanced around the cell. There was nothing to throw—all extras had been removed from his cell, including the chains. All that remained was the table, his bed, and his blanket.
He fisted his hands.
If they were his only weapon, so be it.
The key grated in the lock and the door swung open. Two guards with halberds and a third with a sword stood at the entrance. He was about to rush the man with the sword, when a hunched old man with long gray hair shuffled through the doorway.
“This here’s the cobbler,” the guard said. “He’s going to take your measurements and stitch you a new pair of boots. You’ll be swinging tomorrow in fine style.”
The guard slammed the door and locked it. “Harm the cobbler, and your belongings, meager as they might be, will be given to his family in recompense.”
The guards marched off, and silence fell.
As he stared at the bent figure of the cobbler, Wulf relaxed his hands. He had no cause to hurt an old man. “Take the measurements if you must,” he said.
The old man straightened and threw bac
k the hood of his cloak.
As a thick black braid and a lovely pale face were revealed, Wulf’s heart tumbled to the bottom of his stomach. No!
Morag should be on the road to Dunstoras, not here, where danger lay in store for her.
She closed the gap between them, shuffling awkwardly in overlarge shoes, and reached for his face with both hands. Her fingers were hot on his skin, her touch fiercely claiming. There were many words she could have uttered—he could see a war of choices in her eyes—but she said nothing. Just pulled his head down until his lips met hers.
The kiss began with anger and a little desperation, but almost immediately it softened into a sweet need that blossomed between them. A tear escaped one of her eyes and rolled down to their lips.
Wulf cupped her head and deepened the kiss. He would take the memory of this kiss with him to the grave. Slanting his head, he pressed his lips against hers and encouraged her mouth to open. It was a salty kiss, and sweet at the same time. He would have let it continue for a lifetime, but Morag pulled away.
Raising her hands to her hair, she untied two shanks of long gray hair from her braid. “We must hurry. I have directions on how to reach the postern gate.”
Wulf frowned. “How will we escape?”
She shook off her heavy cloak, then bent to untie her shoes. “Not we. You. You will depart dressed as the old cobbler. With any luck, the padding I wore will mimic your size and hunching will disguise your height.”
He stared at her. “You expect me to leave you behind in my cell? Never.”
She straightened. “It is the only way to avoid the noose.”
Wulf snorted and took a step back. “You must think me a sorry excuse for a man. When have I ever given you reason to believe I would trade my life for yours?”
Her stare was hard. “My life is not at stake. They will not hang me for your crimes.”
He threw up his hands in frustration. “They’ll still punish you for abetting my escape. I will not leave you locked in here while I enjoy freedom.”
“The risk is low that they will punish me,” she said. “I will simply say you coerced me into donning this disguise and aiding you.”
