by Cathy MacRae
He’d avoided the dungeons in his father’s castle because of the desperation and hopelessness he’d seen in the prisoners’ eyes. How much longer until his own eyes echoed the same despair? His time was running out. Whether at another’s hand or by the ravage of time and mistreatment, he would soon lose hope.
He recoiled from the idea. He would not allow his life to be discarded so easily. His foster father had taught him to use his mind to solve problems, to seek solutions beyond brute strength. ’Twas how Donal MacLean, a Scotsman, held his small but important keep in the midst of Saracen aggression.
Despite the throb in his head, Phillipe turned his thoughts to plans of escape.
Metal clanged in the distance followed by a few half-hearted shouts. It did not appear the men in Sis prison had much vigor—or hope.
Moments later, the thud of feet on stone caught his ear. Relief and surprise washed over him as the familiar form of his manservant appeared. They waited as the gaoler unlocked the cell door and motioned Peter inside. He closed and relocked the gate then shuffled down the hall, leaving Phillipe and Peter alone.
“How fare ye, My King?” Peter whispered.
Phillipe spread his hands, the chains manacled to his wrists telling their own story.
“I am glad to see ye enjoy good health,” Phillipe countered. “I feared all those in my service would be put to the sword. It does my heart good to see ye hale and hearty.”
Peter shrugged. “I am but an old man, and of little interest to anyone. My Queen has been most generous in placing me in her service. My status is much reduced, but I do not yet fear for my life.”
“Have ye word of my guard? John and Hugh?”
Peter shook his head. “I am sorry. I have heard naught.”
Phillipe swore beneath his breath. He feared they had given their lives in the ill-fated ride to Antioch. Yet another crime to lay at Baron Konstantin’s feet.
Peter drew a cloth-wrapped package from beneath his cloak. “I have this for ye.”
The smell of fresh-baked bread cramped Phillipe’s stomach, nearly choked him with the sudden surge of saliva in his mouth. Ignoring the drag of his chains, Phillipe thrust his hands toward the offering. Peter quickly unwrapped it and broke the loaf in half. Scarcely pausing to breathe, Phillipe consumed the fragrant offering.
He swallowed the last bite with difficulty. Peter produced a small flask and popped the cork. With a grin of thanks, Phillipe guzzled the mild spiced wine then wiped his mouth with the back of a grimy hand.
“I have only a few moments more,” Peter whispered, glancing over his shoulder to the empty corridor. “I bring word from the Queen.”
Phillipe stilled, the bread and wine settling heavily in his over-loaded stomach.
“Tell me.”
“The rumor is ye will not live to see a trial.”
Phillipe nodded impatiently. He hadn’t believed Konstantin would drag him through such a public display. Not one in which his father, the powerful Prince of Antioch, would be certain to attend.
Peter leaned in closer. “She overheard a plot to have ye killed, here, in prison.”
Phillipe understood. His warder and any who’d come in contact with him would simply disappear, and the details of the unlamented King of Cilicia’s death would neither be confirmed nor denied. Baron Konstantin—and he was certain the baron was at the bottom of this plot—would conveniently wash his hands of the act. Even if war ensued, Phillipe would still be dead and no longer king.
“She is distraught. I promised I would bring ye word. Though I do not know what can be done.”
“She is well? They have not harmed her?”
“Nae. Baron Konstantin treats her as a daughter and has striven to tease her from her worry by plying her with sweetmeats and bangles.”
“She is only nine, but has the heart of a warrior. Sweets and trinkets will not suffice.”
“Ye speak truth, My King. She is a rare flower.”
Phillipe rubbed his chin, his short beard bristling beneath his fingers. “I never intended to leave her. I thought . . ..” He gave a short, derisive laugh. “It hardly matters, for it seems I will soon leave this life, and what I do no longer affects her. I thank ye for telling me of her. Knowing she is being cared for helps somehow. Of the plot to kill me—I must think on this. Be on my guard.”
“The baron spoke of poison. A violent death would pose too many questions. Poisoning may seem as many things.”
Phillipe nodded. Poison could mimic many deaths, and who could say Phillipe hadn’t simply died of his head wound, or of guilt over his alleged theft? Too many questions would remain unanswered. And only one person would be required to place the poison in his stew. A person who would likely not live to tell the tale.
Peter glanced down. He shifted his balance from one boot to the other as if weighing his thoughts.
“Please, Peter. Do not hesitate,” Phillipe said, grimness catching his words. He cleared his throat. “If ye have more on your mind, this is the time to tell me.”
“My King, I would help ye escape if I could. I fear the path from here to outside the castle is fraught with danger, and freeing ye from this cell and your chains is only the beginning.”
A chill of hopelessness threatened Phillipe. It was only slight comfort his young wife took an interest in his welfare, for she was too easily controlled by the baron, and a nine-year-old’s voice—though it was that of the Queen—mattered little. The only other person concerned for him was Peter. Phillipe wasn’t certain of Peter’s age, but he’d been white haired when he and Phillipe had arrived in Cilicia two years earlier, and his frail form and stooped shoulders did naught to inspire confidence.
Little more than a glance was needed to see the dungeons beneath Sis Castle were impregnable. The tunnels and steps were carved from the stone of the mountain, and echoed with the cries of those long dead. Men who had clearly been imprisoned for years populated the tiny, windowless cells lining the main passage. He had no knowledge of how deep he’d been entombed in this vast prison beneath the castle, but he suspected his cell was nowhere near the surface.
“I cannot stand idly by . . ..” Phillipe broke off. His words echoed off the cold stone and his wrists and ankles felt the weight of their fetters. There was little he could do except stand idly by.
“Merde!” He rattled his chains, fists clenched. He pivoted, pacing within the constraints of his shackles.
Three paces.
Turn.
Three paces back.
“What are my chances for escape?” He shook his head to stop Peter’s answer. Not the question he’d meant. “What are the weakest spots in the baron’s plan? How can I use this to my advantage?”
Peter shrugged. “If the poisoner fails to do his job, if he does an incomplete job . . ..”
Phillipe cut him off with a wave of his hand. “He won’t refuse. Can’t. If I don’t die, his entire family would be at risk.”
“True enough.”
He sent Peter a piercing look. “What if there was an antidote for the poison?”
“I would first have to know what he plans to use. Assuming I could do this, what would ye then do? They would simply try again.”
Phillipe grew still. A voice from his youth slipped through his mind. A young woman he’d once loved—before fate forced them on separate paths. She’d been fascinated with the dark arts of the Hashashin order, relating to him the subtle art of poisons on more than one occasion.
They are tricky things, poisons. What appears to have no effect on one person can cause irreparable harm, even death, in another. We know many poisons from which no one recovers. But there are others with more sinister reputations.
The memory of black hair and almond eyes hit his gut like a direct punch. Why remember Arbela at a time like this? She’d left the Holy Land years ago, and it was unlikely their paths would ever cross again. He’d learned to put her from his mind.
Or so he’d thought.
Yet
he remembered the way her eyes lit as she spoke of her findings. A passion he’d once yearned to have turned on himself before he’d learned of his fate to marry Isabella. It was his fervent wish Arbela’s life took a far different journey than his.
Aconitum. A beautiful flower shaped like monk’s hood. Its name comes from an ancient village in the north once called Akonai. The cave there is said to be the entrance to Hades and is guarded by a Molossian Hound, a robust and fierce animal trained for combat. ’Tis said it is from his spittle the poisonous flower grows.
How like Arbela to be fascinated with such a story.
Aconitum? Phillipe wracked his memory to recall the plant. Monkshood? Wolfsbane?
His lips thinned. He gripped Peter’s shoulder. “Listen to me. I believe I may have a chance, slim though it may be. I will need your help. May I count on ye?”
Peter nodded. “With my life, My King.”
* * *
Phillipe paced the floor, the rubbish worn thin beneath the trail of his bare feet. He did not believe Konstantin would waste much time putting his plot into action. Would Peter be able to do what was required of him? So much rested on the shoulders of one elderly man.
Two days had passed. At least, Phillipe believed so. Timing was dependent on the schedule of his single meal, and it had arrived twice since Peter had left. Once, between bowls of fetid stew, a loaf of bread had arrived, and Phillipe had included a request for a special blessing for the aged man in his prayers that night.
Footsteps sounded in the passageway. Someone threw his bowl at the gate to his cell, the resulting clang echoing off the rock walls. The warden shouted, an irritated command for the uproar to cease. Half-hearted retorts followed then faded.
A shadow fell into Phillipe’s cell. Metal clanged as the lock disengaged, and Peter slipped inside. His eyes met Phillipe’s, the tug of silent questions asked and answered. The warden’s footsteps died away.
“I have what ye asked for.” Peter’s look grew troubled as he unwrapped a parcel he withdrew from a satchel beneath his cloak.
Phillipe stared at the small flask, the emerald green glow of the glass warm in Peter’s hand. Peter closed his fingers around the vial.
“My King, if there is another way . . ..”
“Without a key to my fetters and an army to help fight my way to the surface and then to Antioch, I fear not.”
Peter hesitated then gave a single nod. He handed the flask to Phillipe.
“Wait a bit after I’ve gone before ye take this.”
Phillipe nodded. He had no wish to embroil his manservant any deeper in this deception than was necessary.
“’Tis a foul concoction, though an attempt was made to improve the flavor. Do not linger over it. And I beg your pardon, but do not forget to destroy the vial once the poison is consumed.”
“I will do so.”
“Ye may experience nausea, almost definitely a tingling in your arms and legs. If this works, the woman Lusine will prepare ye for burial. She can be trusted, and I have given her a few silver coins to buy her agreement to help.” He tilted his head, a wry look drawing his lips to one side. “A sound of surprise or distress from her once ye have risen from the dead would ruin the plan.”
Phillipe drew a shuddering breath, turning the green vial over in his hand. Peter touched his arm.
“My King, if there is any other way,” Peter begged, “please tell me. My life is yours to command.”
“Nae. For good or ill, I will take this. I will not succumb to Konstantin’s plot. If I die, ’twill be on my terms, not his.”
“I await word, then.”
“Please see to the Queen. She cannot know I live. I cannot remain here, and she must be free to pursue whatever life is before her.”
“I will do what I can to comfort her, yet not give away your secret. She would insist on coming with ye, and both of ye would be killed. I will not allow that to happen.”
Phillipe stared resolutely at Peter. “Thank ye. May your life be filled with peace.”
Peter bowed his head. “And ye, as well. Until we meet again, my King.”
He turned and called to the warden. Phillipe slipped the tiny flask into the waistband of his loose pants, tugging the ragged hem of his tunic down to cover any hint of a bulge. The warden released Peter from the cell and their footfalls quickly faded.
Phillipe eyed the bowl near the door. How long before Konstantin’s assassin slipped poison into his stew? Could he risk another meal? He’d been unable to eat the food provided by the warden since Peter first told him of the plot against him. His stomach knotted. The thought of forcing down even a bite of the fetid mess threatened a bout of nausea.
Better to anticipate the assassin’s strike than wait. He pulled the vial from his trousers and backed into the shadow of the doorframe. The prison was silent except for the rustle of rats in the straw and the wet hacking cough of another prisoner a few cells away.
He uncorked the bottle and put it to his lips. With a quick flip of his wrist, he tossed the contents back, gagging at the bitter flavor. His stomach roiled in protest, but he kept the liquid down. Moving as far as his chains would allow, he dropped the vial and, using a bit of fallen masonry, ground it into powder then scattered it amongst the straw.
He stood, suddenly dizzy. A numbness began in his fingers and quickly spread up his arms. His legs weakened and he gasped at the slow thud in his chest. Choosing a spot close to the gate of his cell, he sat on the bare floor. His breathing labored and his chin dropped to his chest.
Phillipe slumped to the side then rolled forward, face first, onto the stone.
Chapter Four
Castle Narnain
Loch Lomond, Scotland
“Ye poor lamb! To think what ye endured at the hands of that wretched man!” Maggie’s ma clutched her hands to her bosom, dismay rounding her eyes.
The comfort Maggie had expected seemed to suffocate rather than relieve. “I’m home, now, Ma. I dinnae wish to speak of it.”
“Not that we dinnae appreciate ye being . . . home with us . . ..” Janneth fluttered about, searching for the right words. “Howbeit, we’d expected ye to . . . not come home.”
“I scarcely had any place else to go, Ma.”
“Yer da said the earl offered ye . . . to send ye . . .. Would ye nae have been comfortable at the abbey?”
Maggie’s blood ran cold. “Nae.”
Her ma stared at her. Silence stretched between them.
At last, her ma took a sharp breath. “Och, Maggie, ’tis not that we dinnae want ye, but yer da put forth quite an effort on yer behalf. And now all his plans are gone. Gone!” Janneth flipped her fingers through the air as though ridding them of something offensive. She stomped to the window, shoulders rigid as she stared outward. Before Maggie could reply, her ma whirled, her face a mask of tearful disappointment.
“Ye couldnae even give me grandbairns for my old age.”
Her ma’s harangue sliced through Maggie. Her eyebrows shot upward in response to the band constricting her chest. Could her ma not see how much her words pierced Maggie’s heart? Her younger brother Uilleam, already a dashing figure at sixteen summers and away fostering with the MacGregor clan, was certain to give their ma grandbairns one day.
“I dinnae ask to be barren.” The words barely squeaked past her throat.
“Yer da put much pride in yer status, Maggie. After all the trouble he went to, finding ye a decent husband. Not just some Highland chieftain wanting a passel of bairns to fill his crofts, but a nobleman. A nobleman who simply asked for an heir. Ye were supposed to be a lady.”
The accusations her ma leveled rendered Maggie speechless. Not that it was a surprise to discover her da’s ambitions, for she’d known of them for years. But to learn her own dismay over not delivering the required heir to the earl was of no account left Maggie cold. Yvaine was right. She was not welcome in her childhood home. The abbey would mayhap have been the better choice.
A move
ment at the door to the solar disturbed Maggie’s thoughts.
“Och, Janneth,” Dugan MacLaren stepped hesitantly over the threshold then halted. He crossed his arms over his chest and planted a wide smile on his face. “Give the lassie a bit of breathing room. Barely home the day and ye chide her for her shortcomings—for matters beyond her control. If we say the arrival of children is God’s will, is it not also His will if they dinnae?”
Both Maggie and her mother stared at the man as if he’d lost his mind. Maggie knew it was rare for him to side with her against her ma, but to find him so squarely on her side—despite his mention of her shortcomings—was a novelty.
He took Maggie’s arm. “Come with me.” He gave her hand a pat as he placed it on his forearm. The budding warmth ceased abruptly. With the sense of leaving the bubbling pot for the fire, she allowed herself to be led to her da’s solar.
Laird MacLaren released Maggie and motioned to a chair before the large desk that wedged its ancient surface between a shelf filled with all manner of trifles and a window overlooking the loch. To Maggie’s mind, her da’s office with the books and odd trinkets passed down through generations, coupled with the grand view, was one of the best rooms in the keep.
She took the offered seat and managed not to flinch when the door closed with a snick behind her. Her da strolled past and took his place at the desk. He shuffled through a couple of parchments and rearranged the position of the ink well before he glanced up.
His thin smile did not reassure Maggie.
“I am sorry to hear things did not turn out well with the earl. Do ye have anything ye wish to discuss?”
The question clearly made her da uncomfortable, so Maggie merely shook her head.
“Nae. We dinnae suit.”
Dugal spread his hands wide. “Maggie, lass, ’twas more than that. Yer husband declared ye dinnae provide a child within the year, and, as such, were an unsuitable wife for him.”
Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “Why must we discuss this?”
He settled in his chair. Silence dragged its feet. Dugal sighed. “There is the issue of yer dowry.”
