The next largest was for the chapel within the keep.
The fourth opened a portal in the curtain wall near the chapel.
The final key in his possession was the large plain key to the dungeon that Father Ignatius had given him earlier. Bartholomew considered the fourth key and recalled the layout of the keep.
The chapel was on the far side of the bailey. Bartholomew had not noticed the door in the wall near it, but he had not been seeking it. It might be the easiest way into the keep.
He eased around the perimeter of the keep, remaining in the shadows of the forest. He moved only when the sentries were turned away, for he could not rely upon the bare trees to hide him completely. The snow fell more quickly, making the world seem silent.
That only meant that sound carried farther. He could hear the footfalls of the sentries, for example.
On the far side of the keep, Bartholomew hid behind a tree, waiting for the sentries to turn their course toward the front gate. If he made any sound on this flight to the wall, they would discern him and raise their bows. Once against the wall, he would be out of their view again. He peered around the tree and eyed the distance. It was a good hundred paces, all devoid of cover. Snow covered it all like a blanket of white, disguising any small obstacles. There was a depression before the sides of the motte rose to the curtain wall, and he wondered how deep the moat was on this side. He had to believe it was frozen.
The guards paused to chat directly over the door. One gestured to the forest and Bartholomew slipped behind the tree again, fearing he had been discovered. He heard the other laugh, then the grind of heels on the walkway. They had parted ways and each were pacing a solitary circuit back toward the gates.
Bartholomew took a deep breath and ran.
He eyed the parapet as he reached the moat, then said a prayer as he took the first step. He slipped down quickly and feared that he would be plunged into icy water—then his boots slid on ice. He was up to his knees in snow, but at least the moat was frozen. He slid across it, unable to keep from disturbing the snow, scrambled on to the opposite bank, and slipped. He slammed one knee on the lip of stone that confined the moat and closed his eyes at the pain. There was no time to linger, though. He limped onward, wincing as he barreled up the steep slope and fairly tossing himself against the curtain wall.
He was panting, and sweat ran down his back. He stood there for a long moment, but there was no cry of discovery.
To Bartholomew’s dismay, his path from the forest was abundantly clear. The sentries would not fail to see it when they reached this point on the curtain wall again. That was sufficient to send him hastening on. He eased along the wall to the door, fitted the key into the lock and turned it, wondering what he would find on the other side. He kicked the snow away from the bottom of the door, drew his knife and opened the door cautiously.
It gave into a corner beside the chapel, one tucked into the shadows beside the armory. In truth, Royce’s armory was no more than a lean-to, with the only closed wall being that of the curtain wall behind it. It was hung thickly with armor and weapons, and he guessed that a smith might set up a forge just outside it when necessary. The array of armament cast many shadows, though, and gave him places to hide. The stable had a wall on this side with a door, so the steeds could not reveal his presence. The bailey was beyond, empty and wide, a space he had to cross to reach the entry to the dungeon. He closed the door behind himself and eased into the armory to consider his course.
A warrior stood at the portal on the far side of the armory and clearly was not vigilant about his duties. The man yawned as he tugged up his gloves. This one was sturdy in build, though it was unclear whether sloth or indulgence was at root. Bartholomew wondered how loyal the men employed by Royce were to their lord baron. He certainly did not discern many signs of enthusiasm or dedication. He considered the man’s helm, which disguised his face, and his tabard, marked with Royce’s insignia.
The wyvern rampant of Haynesdale.
Bartholomew picked up a length of rope as he moved stealthily through the shadows of the armory, and then a bolt for a crossbow. He crept up behind the other man, then flung the bolt into the armor at the left. The man spun at the sound, his blade at the ready, but Bartholomew jumped him from the other side. They scuffled but Bartholomew had surprise on his side. He knocked the warrior hard on the head so that he lost consciousness, then stole his helm, his knife and his tabard. He left the warrior trussed in the armory, a length of his own tabard knotted over the man to silence him.
He took the man’s cloak and fastened it over his shoulders, holding it closed to disguise that he was more trim than his victim. Garbed as a knight of the household, Bartholomew crossed the bailey openly. He ensured that his pace was steady, as if all was routine. One sentry hailed him by name—Hermann—and he waved a greeting in reply, for the sound of his voice might reveal him. He was glad to step into the shadow of the hall, but scarce took the time for a reassuring breath.
Bartholomew went directly to the dungeon. He unlocked the portal and kicked the rope ladder into the space. “Hurry yourself, varmint,” he growled. “You are given one last chance to say your prayers, but any protest will see the baron’s mercy withdrawn.”
“Mercy,” Duncan repeated, his disgust clear. “What does this man know of mercy, much less justice? I decline to be dragged to a priest to ease his fears!”
Bartholomew strove to keep his frustration from his voice. “I command you, prisoner, to hasten yourself.” He peered into the shadows below, only to find Duncan glaring up at him, the other man’s expression most stubborn.
“And I command all of you to hasten yourselves to Hell,” Duncan retorted.
Bartholomew gritted his teeth. He glanced about himself, but there was no one else in view. “Duncan,” he muttered. “Hurry!”
Duncan took a step back, then peered at him with suspicion. “Who are you to call me by name?”
Bartholomew swore. He hauled off the helmet and savored Duncan’s surprise. “Hasten yourself, worm!” he muttered, glad to see that the other man finally heeded his command. Duncan climbed the ladder, and Bartholomew found it somewhat satisfying to push him into the wall and bind his hands behind his back.
“Temper, lad,” Duncan murmured.
“I should leave you behind,” Bartholomew retorted in an undertone, though he would not do as much. “When last did a prisoner refuse to be saved?” He dropped the trap door in place again and turned the key in the lock. He raised his voice as he pushed Duncan forward. “Do not be so fool as to test me again, knave,” he said in a louder voice and shoved Duncan into the bailey.
As he had anticipated, the sentries on the parapet turned to watch. Bartholomew continued to push Duncan or drag him by the rope, and Duncan stumbled repeatedly in the snow, as if weakened by his ordeal.
Bartholomew hoped the other warrior pretended to be in worse shape than he was. If Duncan could not run, they would not manage to flee the gates. The other man certainly smelled foul, and his plaid was stained. There was a mighty bruise upon his cheek, but Bartholomew was encouraged by the glint of resolve in Duncan’s eyes.
The sentries jested and pointed, enjoying Duncan’s situation more than could be admired. One crowed that he would see Duncan at his execution.
“Did you have the chance to defend yourself in his court?” Bartholomew demanded quietly, for he did not see how it could have been done so quickly.
