Sword Dance

by Marie Laval

  She let out a shuddering sigh. No, he didn’t love her. He would probably insist on sending her back to Algiers as soon as they returned to Wrath, if not sooner, and she would never see him again… She blinked the tears back. She would not think about that now. There was still the day to come. And the night.

  She ducked under the water to wet her hair, then grabbed hold of the soap to give it a good wash. After her bath she dressed in her blue gown, brushed her hair in front of the fire, and experimented with new ways of plaiting and styling it into a complicated chignon – anything to pass the time. She glanced at the mantel clock and let out a dismayed sigh. It was only mid-morning. What else could she do to keep busy?

  The dancing costume she had worn the night before caught her eye. She picked it up, her face burning again as she recalled how Bruce had torn it open and sent the buttons flying all over the room. There was something she could do, something mind-numbing that would keep her occupied. She managed to hunt most of the buttons down, then she rang the service bell to ask for a needle and some thread, and spent a tedious couple of hours fixing the dress.

  Midday came and went. A servant girl brought her some soup and bread but she wasn’t hungry. The day turned greyer and darker, with flurries of snowflakes blowing in the cold wind. The clock rang one, then two. And still Bruce did not return.

  Rose put the costume aside, rubbed her weary eyes and laid down on the bed. If only she could rest a while, perhaps Bruce would be back by the time she woke up. She curled into a ball, but too many anxious thoughts swirled inside her mind and it felt like a long time before she drifted off to sleep.

  She wasn’t in her room at the Kirkhouse Inn any longer but on the cliff top near Wrath. Ribbons of mist coiled and floated around her, leaving beads of freezing, salty dew on her skin and hair. Something wasn’t right. Wrath Lodge stood dark and forbidding in the distance. No light glowed at the windows, no smoke rose from the tall chimneys. It was empty, abandoned, filled with shadows and death.

  The sound of a galloping horse resounded in the distance. As it got closer she felt the ground beat like a heart under her feet, and she recognised it. Tall, black, magnificent and wild. It was Shadow and it was heading straight for the cliff edge. Help him, dancing girl, or he’ll die. The voice she’d heard before spoke her warning once more, and terror squeezed Rose’s heart into a tight ball. She called Bruce’s name but he didn’t stop, he didn’t even slow down. He merely glanced at her before urging Shadow into the void and being swallowed up by stormy, dark waves.

  Rose woke her with a start, sat up, her hand pressed against her pounding heart. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She glanced around the room, filled with the grey shadows of dusk. It was a nightmare. She hadn’t really touched the cold layers of mist on the cliff, heard the crunch of frozen snow under Shadow’s hooves or seen the quiet resignation in Bruce’s eyes before he jumped to his death.

  And yet it felt so real…

  An impulse pushed her to get up and search her bag for the gold chain to which she had clasped Bruce’s medallion. She almost cried with relief when she slipped it around her neck, tucked it under her dress and felt its cool weight against her overheated skin. As long as she wore it, nothing bad would happen to Bruce.

  The thunder of horses’ hooves on the cobbles and men’s voices shouting at one another resounded outside. She rushed to the window to see a handful of riders dismount in the courtyard. One of them, a stoutly built man in a dark grey coat turned towards his companions and barked an order. Even though it was getting dark and she had only seen him once before, she had no problem recognising his brutish features.

  It was Morven.

  The man next to him attracted her attention. Dressed in a long brown coat, he had dark hair and a mean scowl on his face. She’d seen him before, but where? It could have been at the Nag’s Head at the ceilidh, or in Porthaven during the riots.

  Then she remembered. She had seen him at Wrath Lodge. His name was – she frowned – Mc-Something or other. McNeil, yes, that was it, and he worked for Bruce. But what was he doing here with Morven and his gang? Hiding behind the curtains she tried to catch what the men were saying, but their accent was too thick and they spoke too fast, and she didn’t understand a word.

  As they walked towards the stables, McNeil said something which made Morven laugh out loud. He gave him a slap in the back, the way men do when they are friendly with one another.

  She couldn’t imagine why Bruce would tolerate one of his men being a friend of Cameron’s factor, nor could she understand why a friend of Morven’s would work at Wrath Lodge. It didn’t make sense, not with the way things stood between the McGunns and McRaes. Unless…

  Her eyes grew wider, her hand flew to her mouth. The only plausible explanation was that McNeil was Morven’s spy at Wrath.

  She had to know, and that meant sneaking downstairs to try and listen to the men’s conversation. She tiptoed down the stairs, lifted a brown cloak hanging from a peg in the corridor and slipped it on, making sure her hair was covered and her face partially hidden by the hood. Thankfully the staff were too busy ferrying tankards of ale from the taproom and plates of steaming mutton stew from the kitchen to Morven’s men who had taken over the dining room to pay her any attention.

  It was almost dark outside and a bitter wind blew a mix of icy rain and snow. Her boots squelched horse muck and mud as she walked across the yard. Once outside the entrance to the stable block, she pressed herself against the wall and listened.

  ‘Where the hell can she be?’ Morven shouted.

  ‘I lost her trace in Porthaven,’ McNeil answered. ‘I had her in my sights when she left the Nag’s Head. Then she was separated from McGunn’s man, and by the time I managed to get out of the mob on the square, she had vanished.’

  ‘She’s only a woman, for Pete’s sake, and from North Africa! How can she survive on her own around here? We need to get hold of that damned journal. Lady Patricia’s health is declining with every passing day.’

  ‘I sent more men out scouting the area around Porthaven. Hopefully they’ll find her soon.’

  ‘Pity I didn’t ask those two idiots to get her bag when they had the chance at Sith Coille.’

  ‘You weren’t to know that McGunn would get to her before you did,’ McNeil objected. ‘The man never ceases to amaze me. I lace his food, his tea and whisky with enough datura to kill an ox, and he’s still standing. He should be dead by now.’

  Rose drew in a sharp breath. Bruce was being poisoned! The nightmares, the migraines and the terrifying chest pains were all down to the datura McNeil mixed in his drinks.

  ‘Much as I’ve enjoyed seeing McGunn suffer agonising pains and terror of tipping over the edge into madness, a shot in the back while he was out riding on the moors would have been quicker.’

  There was the sound of a man spitting on the floor.

  ‘There’s a reason why we want his death to look natural – like his mother’s,’ Morven started. ‘You see…’

  ‘Can I help you, miss?’ A man’s voice behind her made her jump.

  She turned to face a stable lad.

  ‘No, thank you. I’m just…taking a walk.’

  Gathering the folds of the cloak in her hands, she hurried across the yard. She had to be fast and get into the inn before Morven or McNeil saw her.

  ‘Hey you! Stop right now!’ McNeil called.

  Her heart beating in her throat, she started running, slipped on horse muck and barely managed to keep her balance. She was almost at the inn’s front door when a man’s hand slammed against her shoulder and spun her around.

  ‘Well I’ll be damned!’ McNeil flicked her hood off and pulled her against him.

  His lips stretched into a smile, his bushy black eyebrows lifted into perfect v-shapes, which made him look sardonic, almost devilish.

  ‘Miss Saintclair. Now that’s an unexpected turn of events.’

  She tried to yank free of his grasp.

  ‘Take
you dirty paw off me or I scream.’

  He threw his head back and laughed. ‘Go on then, and see if anyone cares.’

  With a panicked whimper, she realised he was right. Even if they were prepared to help her, there wasn’t much the innkeeper and a bunch of stable boys and servants could do against Morven’s thugs.

  ‘So this is where you’ve been hiding,’ he added. ‘Lucky for us we stopped here for a bite to eat. And even luckier for us you were snooping around. What did you hear?’

  ‘Everything! I know what you’ve done to Bru… I mean Lord McGunn. I know you’re poisoning him. You were probably Morven’s spy all along. You’re nothing but a coward and a traitor.

  She stared into his dark brown eyes, and saw only hatred.

  ‘I did what I had to do. He took my woman away from me, turned her head and seduced her than threw her out of Wrath Lodge as if she was a dirty rag. Anyway, why should you care so much about him? He didn’t exactly treat you well, did he? He only wanted to trade you as a pawn - ’

  His eyebrows gathered in a frown and he let out a sneer.

  ‘Oh I understand. You’ve fallen for the laird of Wrath Lodge, and now you’re hoping for some fairytale happy ending to your romance. Well that’s too bad, miss, because it ain’t going to end well for him. Or for you.’

  Chapter Five

  McNeil hooked his lantern on a peg and pushed her against the wall.

  ‘Stay here.’

  Rose glanced back at the narrow, slippery stone staircase they’d just climbed down, then at the solid door in front of her. She’d never been inside a prison before but this place definitely felt like one with its cavernous stone walls and the massive door with chunky chains and thick metal bars.

  ‘Where are we? Why did you bring me here?’

  ‘Be quiet.’

  While McNeil unlocked the door she glanced at the staircase again. Perhaps she could slip past him, run up the stairs, and…

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he said as if reading her mind. ‘My men are up there. You wouldn’t stand a chance.’

  He unfastened the chains and slid the metal bars off. The door squeaked open onto a dark room.

  ‘In you go.’

  He grabbed hold of her arm and pushed her in front of him, so hard she flew forward and stumbled to her knees. Her fingernails scraped the rough surface of a cold, wet stone floor as she pushed herself back to her feet. The frigid dampness of the room immediately seeped through her clothing. And the smell! A foul mixture of seaweed, brine and mould, it seemed to cling to her hair and skin. She wrinkled her nose and almost choked in disgust.

  She turned round and stared at McNeil’s bulky figure outlined in the doorway.

  ‘What are you going to do with me?’

  ‘You’ll find out in good time, miss.’

  ‘Wait! Please don’t go. I don’t want to be alone in here!’ She started towards the door.

  ‘Who said you were?’ He laughed and slammed the door shut.

  The bars and chains slid back into place with loud clinking sounds. She heard the tapping of his footsteps as he climbed the stairs. Then there was silence, filled by the roaring of her blood, and there was darkness – a velvety darkness, so deep and smooth it appeared to be changing shape like a living, breathing thing.

  In fact she could swear she heard breathing inside the room right now, as if a djinoun was lying in wait in a corner of the room. She heaved a sob, then another. Panic made her heart jump wildly against her ribs.

  Calm down. McNeil lied to frighten you. Nobody’s here. It’s just the wind and the sea.

  She looked around, her eyes searching the darkness in vain. She knew she was somewhere on Westmore estate. She had caught glimpses of the manor house earlier as McNeil dragged her out of the carriage. She had also heard waves crashing against the rocks and breathed the scents of sea and seaweed in the cold wind. Perhaps this was the dungeon of the McRae family’s ancestral keep.

  She took a few tentative steps, her hands stretched out in front of her to feel for obstacles. Something – someone – shifted, slid and dropped onto the floor with a loud plopping sound and Rose stopped dead. Her heart bumped to a stop, her mouth dried up and spidery shivers crawled all over her skin. What if McNeil had told the truth and she wasn’t alone? What if some slimy creature slid its way towards her now? What if McNeil left her in here to rot and she never saw daylight again? She pressed her fist against her mouth to repress a scream.

  There was another dripping sound. ‘Who’s there?’ she called in a weak voice.

  There was no answer. Of course, there was no answer! It was only water dripping from the ceiling. She was alone and her terror of the dark was playing tricks on her, as usual. This time, however, she wouldn’t let fear rule her. She wasn’t an impressionable child anymore. She was a grown woman and she would find a way to get out of this place. Her legs shaking hard she stepped ahead, and at last her fingers touched the uneven, cold and slimy surface of a stone wall. After a few steps she came into contact with a damp and half-rotten piece of fabric giving out a strong whiff of mould.

  Her spirits lifted. A curtain. Could there be a window behind it?

  She pulled the fabric to one side and uncovered not a window but a hard, wooden surface. Another door. Frantic now, she explored the thick wooden surface with her fingers, found a couple of hinges, a metal handle with a lock underneath.

  She pulled the handle down and rattled it as hard as she could but the door was locked. Pressing her ear against it, she held her breath to listen. And heard only the sound of water swashing and the wind whistling.

  This door was her chance to escape. All she had to do was to pick the lock.

  Her brother Lucas had shown her how to do it. He had always professed that anyone, young lady or not, should possess basic survival skills which in his view included picking locks, shooting, riding and killing a mountain lion with a knife. Unlike her brother, Rose had never actually killed a mountain lion, or any beast larger than a sand rat for that matter, and she might be a good rider and a moderately competent shot, but she was by no means a decent lock-picker.

  Well, she would have to try and unlock that door, and do it before McNeil came back. Now, what could she use? She never wore hair or hat pins, she wasn’t wearing a brooch, and the necklace hidden under her dress didn’t have a clasp long enough. A wave of despair choked her, until she remembered the Dark Lady’s posy in her pocket and the pin holding the sprig of pine and the ribbon together.

  She took it out, slid out the pin and inserted it in the lock. Her hand shook so much, the pin rattled against the metal. The lock was too stiff, the pin too short. It didn’t even pass all the way through. As she pulled it out, it fell to the ground.

  Tears of frustration stung her eyes. She’d never manage to get that door open, she just wasn’t good enough! As she bent down to retrieve the pin, her Ouled Nail’s necklace shifted from under her dress. Sliding down the baubles along the chain, her fingers patted Bruce’s medallion beneath the fabric of her gown.

  He needs you. Do it for him.

  So she knelt down on the cold, hard floor, leaned closer to the door and started again. She turned the pin slowly, and this time heard a faint clicking. Time faded and even the darkness seemed to recede as she carried on pushing and turning the hairpin. There was another click, then another. Finally she turned towards the right-hand side, pressed the handle down and the door opened.

  With a sigh of relief, she jumped to her feet, leaned against the door and pushed it open onto an underground passage. The door squealed shut behind her, the lock clicking back into place with a metallic sound that echoed and reverberated around her. The air was so cold it cut her throat and lungs. Water dripped from the ceiling and seeped out of the walls to pool on the uneven, rocky floor. Her heart pounding, she felt her way forwards, flinching in disgust as her fingers touched slimy stone walls on either side. Gritting her teeth as she stepped in yet another icy puddle, she carried on
until her feet bumped against a stone step. In front of her was a flight of stairs cut straight into the rock. She straightened up and started climbing. She had found the way out, she would soon escape… Hope swelled in her chest with every step.

  Then she reached the top of the staircase. Moonlight filtered through a sturdy iron gate and thick overgrown shoots that curled and twisted around the bars, casting strange shadows on the walls. She was still a prisoner. Gripping the gate’s rusty bars, she shook them as hard as she could. The gate rattled against the stone flags, but remained stubbornly closed.

  ‘Bedbugs!’ With a moan of despair, she pressed her forehead against the cold metal and lifted her eyes to the cold, dark blue starry sky. She was so close to freedom, she could taste the salty breeze!

  A rustling in the bushes outside the gate startled her. Letting go, she jumped back with a shriek as the shadow of a man loomed closer and blocked the sky.

  ‘Dear God, is there someone in there?’ A burly voice called.

  Rose stepped forward again. ‘Wallace? Is that you? Thank heavens you’re here!’

  ‘Miss Rose? Is that you, lass?’

  She heard the disbelief in his voice.

  ‘Yes! Oh please, Wallace, get me out of his horrible place!’ She pressed her face against the rusty metal gate.

  ‘What are you doing here? That’s the old McRae tower, the one they used as a jail. It’s been abandoned for years.’

  ‘I’ll tell you later, but for now please hurry. Bruce – I mean Lord McGunn – needs our help.’

  ‘Please move back, miss. I’ll get that old rusty gate out of the way. It won’t take long.’

  Wrapping his fingers around the bars, he lifted the gate out of its hinges with the thick ivy creepers curling and hanging around the bars like tentacles, and threw it to one side.

  Rose walked out of the dungeon at last and breathed deep lungfuls of cold, fresh air, delicious after the tower’s foetid atmosphere.

  ‘Here, take my hand, lassie, and hurry. We need to get to my horse before someone spots it. I’ve just come back from the manor house where I spoke to a lass I know who works in the kitchens. She said there’d been a lot of comings and goings this afternoon. Lady Sophia and her mother left for a nearby estate to get ready for the wedding next week. The dancers have been taken to Thurso to board a ship bound for North Africa.’