“We would not get far,” the knight replied. “Or travel quickly enough to evade pursuit once they lent chase.” He gave Duncan a look. “It cannot be that deep.”
Duncan thought of the height of the motte and was not so certain of that. The conduit might narrow too much for them at some lower point, and they could be trapped within a sewer for good. He might have argued more but one of the sentries shouted from the curtain wall.
“Hoy!” that man cried. “An intruder has entered the keep from the back portal! I see his tracks in the snow.”
“Drop the portcullis!” shouted another. “He will not leave this place alive.”
The gate could be heard to creak, then the iron spires fell to the ground to secure the bailey.
Marie strode to the bailey and raised her voice imperiously. “An intruder? In our keep? Find him immediately!” The guards and sentries scurried to do her will, even as she barricaded the view of the stable’s interior. The horses nickered and tossed their heads, sensing the agitation of the men.
“No other way,” Bartholomew said quietly, then arched a brow. “After you.”
Duncan growled disapproval, but lowered himself into the hole. It was not that tight a fit, being almost arm’s length in diameter. It was wrought of a column of fitted stone, and he was reassured that the walls would be more stable that way. Duncan could not discern the bottom beyond a glimmer in the distance and was unsure of its depth. Bartholomew knotted a rope around the end post of a stall, then cast it down into the hole. Duncan gripped the rope, braced his feet on the walls of the sewer and rappelled himself down into the darkness.
Zounds, but the stink only grew stronger.
Darkness closed around him, the circle of light above him blocked by Bartholomew’s figure. He heard the knight drag the wooden trap over the top, then the scrape of the knight’s boots on the stone walls above. There was muffled shouting from the bailey, and he moved more quickly.
They had to reach the bottom before the rope was discovered.
Nay, they had to be through the sewer and in the forest before the rope was discovered. He hoped Lady Marie could keep her husband’s men at bay.
Then his boots splashed into muck. To his relief, it came only as high as his knees.
Which meant the outward passage must be higher than that. He flattened himself against the wall as Bartholomew dropped into the mire beside him, then slid his hands over the wet walls.
Oh, they were thickly coated with a substance he did not wish to feel on his hands. Perhaps there was a blessing in the darkness, for he could not see what surrounded them.
Though the smell was sufficient to leave no mystery.
“Here,” Bartholomew whispered, then guided Duncan’s hand to the gap in the wall. It was of similar diameter, but a horizontal bore, with a slight downward slant. At the far end of it, he could see light again.
He grimaced, then climbed into the tunnel, crawling forward on his hands and knees. At least there was only a handspan of filth in the tunnel, but Duncan hastened on, fully anticipating that some soul would cast some mess down the sewer. The last thing he wanted was that tide rising beneath his plaid.
He swore when he reached the grid hammered over the end of the sewer, and gave the metal bars a hard shake. Bartholomew joined him but a moment later and peered though the bars.
“We are on the other side of the keep,” he murmured. “See how this drains into the river?” He nodded with satisfaction. “My tracks in the snow are on the other side.”
Duncan gave the bars another shake. “We are not away yet, lad.”
“Nay, we are not.” Bartholomew peered at the bolts that secured the iron grid in the stone. “The mortar is chipping,” he noted, picking at it with a finger. It crumbled beneath his touch, but not enough to loose the grid.
Duncan pulled his dagger from its scabbard and stabbed it into the crumbling mortar surrounding the bolt closest to him.
“That is fine steel!” Bartholomew protested in shock.
“And my life is well worth losing the hone of the blade,” Duncan muttered.
“True enough.” Bartholomew pulled his own dagger and hacked at the mortar on his side. It was not long before they had loosened two of the four bolts. Bartholomew gestured for Duncan to move aside, then he kicked at the grill with his legs. Duncan did the same, the pair of them alternating until the grid broke free and tumbled down the slope to the snow-covered moat.
They waited a moment, fearing it might have been seen, but no alarm was cried. Without further ado, they climbed out the hole, each helping the other. Again, they waited against the wall for a sign of discovery, and when there was none, they bolted toward the forest.
One of Duncan’s boots crashed through the ice on the moat, and he bit back his cry of dismay. Bartholomew seized his arm and fairly dragged him to the opposite side. They crawled on to the bank but did not dare to linger. Duncan refused to consider how readily the hounds would track them, much less when he might be cleanly garbed again.
First they had to escape.
He only breathed a sigh of relief when they had taken fifty paces into the forest, but Bartholomew did not slow his pace even then. Duncan was aching from head to toe, but he would not delay their retreat.
