by Rowan Keats
Isabail slid slowly to the floor and sat with her back to the tunnel wall. She remained surprisingly calm as she ran through her options and once again came up dry.
Her calm held, despite her desperate situation.
Until the torch began to flicker.
Chapter 9
Aiden hit the ground and rolled. He heard the heavy rumble of the iron portcullis dropping in its frame and prayed he’d rolled far enough. When it hit the ground an instant later and he still lived to note it, he grinned.
But he had no time to rest on his laurels. More archers had flocked to the walls, and although Cormac was doing his best to keep them at bay, if Aiden didn’t move quickly, one of them would find him, even in the dark.
He scrambled to his feet and darted for the bushes. He rolled behind a tree trunk just as an arrow drove into the heel of his boot.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, snapping the shaft of the arrow at the base of the arrowhead.
“Are you wounded?” asked Cormac.
“Nay,” said Aiden. “But my finest pair of boots are ruined.”
Cormac laughed. “Well, that ought to have been enough fuss to get Niall into the dungeon, but how in bloody hell are we going to get them out?”
“We’re going to start a fire.”
From his spot behind a dead elm tree, Cormac tossed him a scandalized stare. “You’re going to set Dunstoras ablaze?”
It was a shame, to be sure. “Any damage to the keep can be repaired in time. Kin can never be replaced.”
Cormac’s shoulders sagged. “Aye, you’ve the right of it. Tell me what you need me to do.” He spied an archer between two parapets and lobbed an arrow neatly between the stones. The man fell.
“Nothing more than you’re already doing,” Aiden said. “Shoot a well-placed arrow.”
“Over the wall and into the haystack, perchance?”
“Aye,” said Aiden. “I emptied the farrier’s oil lamp onto the hay, so one arrow or two ought to do the trick.”
“Well played,” acknowledged Cormac with a nod of his head. “But we need a flame to lob over the castle wall, and all the wood in sight is as wet as a sow’s teat.”
Aiden dug into the pouch at his belt and pulled out his flint and a little tangle of sheep’s wool. “Keep the vultures on the wall off my back, and I’ll make you a fire.”
“Done.”
Working quickly and behind the protection of a broad-trunked maple tree, Aiden struck his flint with the blade of his dirk repeatedly, causing spark after spark to fly into the loose knot of wool in his hands. When the wool began to smoke, he lightly blew on it. The glowing threads burst into flames. Placing the burning bundle in a divot between two roots of the tree, he carefully added the straw he’d stuffed in his lèine to the flames, fueling them to greater strength. He yanked several strips of cloth from the hem of his lèine, wrapped them around the arrowhead from one of Cormac’s arrows, then set the linen alight.
“Don’t miss,” Aiden warned Cormac. “I’ve enough for three arrows. Four at most.”
Cormac snorted. “Miss? I don’t know the meaning of that word.” He nocked the burning arrow, then let it fly.
It sailed high into the air before beginning its descent, a radical drop not unlike the dive of a falcon onto its prey.
The moment the flame appeared in the night sky, the soldiers on the wall begin to shout a warning to those gathered in the close. Fire could have terrible repercussions in a keep—many of the inner buildings and supporting braces were crafted from wood—and there was a desperate edge to the soldiers’ voices.
They needn’t have worried.
The arrow landed, but no fire ensued.
“You missed.” Aiden said, handing Cormac a second arrow.
“Not possible,” he responded. “Perhaps the hay is wet.”
“Nay, it’s not,” Aiden disputed. “You missed.”
The bowman nocked the second arrow and freed it to the midnight sky. There was another chorus of shouts as the arrow began its descent, this time ending in laughter.
“I told you your aim was off,” Aiden said, handing Cormac a third arrow. His small fire was fading without new fuel. He wrapped a fourth arrow, trying not to consider the possibility of failure.
Cormac nocked the third arrow.
Aiden watched him, his heart thudding heavily in his chest. There was no better marksman among the MacCurrans than Cormac. If he could not land the arrow true, then no one could.
Cormac closed his eyes, then loosed the arrow.
“Are you mad?” Aiden snarled. “You didn’t even aim.”
The bowman opened his eyes and watched the arrow’s trajectory. It went up, high over the castle wall, then down hard and fast toward the earth. As it landed, Aiden heard a host of panicked shouts from the soldiers. There was a brief bloom of orange light behind the wall, and he dared to hope. But a few moments later, it died.
Echoes of congratulations rang out among the soldiers as they praised one another for their efforts in putting out the blaze.
“Where exactly did you spill the lantern oil?” Cormac asked quietly, holding out his hand for the fourth—and last—arrow.
“The lantern was hanging at the edge of the roof. I tugged it free as I rolled off into the hay and tipped the oil into the hay before I leapt to the ground.”
“Around the middle of the pile then,” Cormac said, nocking the arrow.
“Aye,” Aiden said, holding his frustration in tight check. Interfering with Cormac’s concentration would not be wise. He had to have faith that the bowman could complete the task. The little fire in the tree root flickered and died. Aiden sucked in a deep breath and held it.
Cormac closed his eyes again, but this time Aiden said nothing. The arrow shot into the sky, but Aiden’s gaze did not follow it. He locked his gaze on Cormac’s face and listened to the shouts of the soldiers instead.
The swell of shouts grew louder, and he knew the arrow was on its way down. He heard panic rising in their voices, then a soft whoosh, followed by loud screams for water.
Cormac opened his eyes and smiled.
Aiden followed his gaze. Bright yellow flames leapt above the castle walls in the direction of the stables, and the attention of all—even the archers—was captured by the drama taking place inside the close.
Someone screamed for the animals in the stables to be freed, and he knew the fire was threatening to spread to the wooden horse stalls. He grimaced. MacPherson’s men were an undisciplined lot if they couldn’t douse a fire with reasonable haste. To his relief, the captain of the garrison ordered his men into lines shortly thereafter, and within minutes, there was an organized disbursement of water from the well, and the fire was wrestled under control.
Niall sank to the ground next to him.
Aiden noted blood on his brother’s lèine and frowned. “Trouble?”
“Nothing a few MacCurrans couldn’t handle,” said his brother with a grin. “Fear not. It’s not my blood. I freed every lad I could find. Twelve men in all.”
The rescued men joined the other warriors, amid great smiles and hearty pats on the back. When the hunting party approached Aiden, the looks turned sheepish.
“Our apologies, laird,” Hamish said to Aiden. “We should have been more diligent. MacPherson’s men had never come so far down the glen before, and we were caught unawares. It won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t,” Aiden acknowledged. “I cannot afford to burn any more of my castle.”
Under a volley of arrows aimed at the keep walls, they slipped back into the depths of the forest and headed back to the old hill fort.
* * *
The torch sputtered and died.
The room was pitched into darkness.
Isabail’s heart leapt into her throat. She’d never
been in such a complete absence of light or sound. The stone wall at her back, which only seconds before had seemed solid and comforting, now felt cold and pressing. Each breath she drew provided less and less satisfaction, and she worried that she might suffocate.
Although she knew it was pointless, a scream rose in her throat, and she pounded her fist against the great stone portal.
“Help!” she cried. “Help! Please help me!”
* * *
It was near dawn when Aiden and the others returned triumphant to the encampment. The rescue of the captured men sparked an impromptu celebration that lasted until well past sunup. Only after he had consumed a well-deserved horn of ale and broken the fast did he withdraw to his chamber in search of Isabail.
When he entered the room, he found it empty. The brazier was cold, and there was no evidence that Isabail had passed the night.
The vixen had no doubt disobeyed him and laid her bed in her old hut. Had Aiden not been so weary, he would have sought her out and dragged her back to where she belonged. But her punishment could wait until after he was rested. Aiden dropped onto the pallet and, in a few short moments, found sleep.
* * *
“Laird MacCurran?”
He opened one eye and found Muirne staring down at him, her hands wringing the apron tied about her waist.
“How long have I been sleeping?” he asked, sitting up on the mattress and sweeping his heavy brown locks away from his face.
“‘Tis noontide.”
Perhaps not the sleep his body craved, but it would do. “What is it you seek, Muirne?”
“I fear for Lady Isabail,” she said.
The last cobwebs of his sleep-addled brain were swept aside. “Lady Isabail? Why?”
“She has disappeared,” Muirne said, tears falling. “She’s not been seen since late last night.”
Aiden shot to his feet. “Last night? Why did you not say anything?”
The tears came in earnest now. “She swore me to secrecy. Made me promise not to tell anyone what she was about.”
A cold stillness settled over Aiden. “And what was she about, Muirne?”
“You have to promise me you won’t punish her,” Muirne begged, dropping to her knees and holding her head. “I would never tell you what I’m about to, save she’s been gone for far too long. I’m certain something terrible has befallen her.”
* * *
Her fear was so strong that Aiden’s heart did a tumble in his chest. “Where did she go, Muirne?”
“Into the tunnels,” she whispered. “But I searched for her, and there was no sign. It’s as if she just vanished.”
The tunnels? Aiden’s breath caught in his chest. Dear God. Was it possible she’d discovered the tomb and become trapped inside? He tore out of the room and raced across the close. Diving into the tunnel, he jogged down the narrow corridor to the cave, leapt over the flour sacks, and turned the winch. When it was locked into place, he ran for the end of the tunnel and pushed at the great granite slab.
But it would open only partway. Something was blocking its movement.
“Isabail,” Aiden called. “Move aside. I cannot open the door if you remain there.”
No sound came from the pitch-black interior of the tomb.
“Isabail?”
He leaned in as far as the slab would allow and listened carefully. Was that she sound of her breathing? He couldn’t be certain. “Isabail!” he called loudly.
Still no answer.
Striding back to the tunnel, he snatched one of the torches from a wall bracket, then returned to the tomb. He shoved the torch through the narrow gap in the door, lighting the passage beyond. And spied a hand. Her hand. The long, elegant fingers that were uniquely Isabail’s. She was on the floor directly behind the door. If he forced the door open, he would crush her.
“Isabail, you must move,” he urged. When that didn’t work, he allowed the tightness in his gut to bleed into his voice. His words came out cold and clipped. “Get up, Isabail. Now.”
Even that had no effect.
Her hand lay there, still as death.
Placing the torch in the nearest wall bracket, Aiden steadied his thoughts. To free her from the tomb, he had to move her, willing and able though she might not be. He lay facedown on the stone floor, wedged as far as he could through the opening, and took her hand.
It was cold.
Aiden’s heartbeat slowed. Once before, when he was a wee lad, a man had gotten trapped in the tomb. Not one of his kin—they knew better—a traveling minstrel who’d heard the legends of an ancient Pictish treasure and decided to try his luck. They found his body three days later and buried him in the mountains.
Pushing that thought aside, Aiden tugged gently on Isabail’s hand, pulling her to one side. His position was awkward and the gains he made were slow, but eventually he could see her blond hair through the gap. With the majority of her body clear of the stone slab, he was able to open it all the way.
He snatched her to his chest.
“Isabail,” he commanded. “Wake up.”
Her head lolled against his arm. Was she . . . ? No, he refused to believe she was dead. He bent an ear to her mouth, hoping for evidence of the sounds he’d heard when he first found her. Surely she was still breathing.
The faintest of breaths stirred the hairs at his temple. He surged to his feet, with Isabail’s chilled body clamped to the warmth of his chest, and sprinted for the tunnel entrance.
“Beathag!” he yelled as he entered the busy close. “Fetch me Ana Bisset. Quickly!”
He advanced to the large cooking fire, hoping to warm Isabail’s ice-cold body. The heat from the stoked coals drew beads of sweat to his forehead, but he remained there until Beathag returned with the healer.
“Blankets!” Ana demanded, pointing to the ground before the fire. Women offering blankets appeared swiftly, and when a suitable bed had been laid, she waved to Aiden. “Lay her here.”
He did so, parting with her reluctantly.
Isabail’s face was as white as her hair. Not a mote of color graced her lips or her cheeks—her skin was like marble.
Ana did not ask what happened. She simply closed her eyes and placed her hands on Isabail’s cheek and chest. After a long moment, punctuated only by the heavy thuds of Aiden’s heart, she sat back.
“Well?” he demanded.
Ana lifted her gaze to Aiden and gave him a look he didn’t care for. “She is alive,” the healer said, “but something is wrong.”
“Something is wrong? What am I to make of that? Fix it, then. Heal her.”
The redhead rose to her feet. She cast a glance at Niall, who had shouldered his way through the crowd around the fire. “I’m not certain she can be healed. I saw a similar case once—a child who fell into the pond and was found sometime later.”
“I will not accept that,” Aiden said. “Heal her.”
She nodded. “I will, of course, do my best.”
Her response was too tentative for Aiden’s liking. To him it already carried the suggestion of failure. And the notion of Isabail never again opening her eyes, of never again facing him with stiff shoulders and a brave stare, pinched his chest so painfully he could barely breathe. “If you can heal her bloody dog, you can heal her, too. No excuses. You will heal her. Now tell me what you need.”
Niall stepped forward, his gaze firm and his stance clearly protective of Ana. “Not everyone can be saved. That is God’s will, not the healer’s.”
“Step aside and let Ana do what she must,” Aiden ordered his brother.
“If anyone needs to step aside, it’s you,” Niall responded, remaining at Ana’s side.
“Cease, both of you,” said the healer. To Aiden, she added. “Clear the inner close, and I’ll do everything I can to save her.”
It was an
easy enough request to fulfill. Aiden barked an order to all those hovering in the close, and a few moments later, the courtyard was empty . . . save for Niall, Ana, Aiden, and Isabail.
“You must leave too,” Ana told Aiden.
“Nay.”
Niall grabbed his sleeve. “Come, brother. Let us leave her to her work.”
Yanking his arm free, Aiden cut his brother a cold stare. He’d left Isabail alone, locked in the tomb for hours. He was not about to leave her now. “I said nay.”
Niall and Ana exchanged glances.
“Go ahead,” Niall encouraged.
Ana shook her head.
“All will be well,” Niall said. “You’ve nothing to fear.”
She glanced at Aiden and snorted. “He is full of anger and hate. I have everything to fear.”
“Enough blather,” Aiden said, his gaze falling to Isabail’s pallid face. “If she dies while you debate who stays near the fire, I swear I will run you both through. Heal. Her.”
“This is on you,” Ana said darkly to Niall.
She dropped to her knees and rolled up her sleeves. “I need a bucket of cold water and uninterrupted silence.”
Niall fetched the water and placed the bucket next to her. He gave Ana’s shoulder a quick squeeze before crossing to stand at Aiden’s side.
It would have been a comfort to have him there if his brother’s hand hadn’t been firmly positioned on the hilt of his sword. Apparently, his brother was prepared to take a stand between him and the healer.
The redhead rubbed her hands together, then placed one of them on either side of Isabail’s head. Bowing her head, she appeared to be praying.
Aiden had no issue with an appeal to God for help. For centuries, his family had honored both the pagan gods of his ancestors and the Christian God preached by Saint Columba. But as Ana remained silent and still for painfully long moments, making no effort to bleed Isabail or create a healing poultice, he grew impatient.
“Hold,” Niall whispered. “Look at her arms.”
Aiden’s gaze slipped to Isabail’s arms, but the sleeves of her gown hid them from view. Then he noticed Ana’s arms.
