* * *
About the same time,in a far and dark corner of Dunlaidir, two heavily cloaked figures huddled in the dank chill of a long-empty storeroom.
A damp undercroft in one of the castle’s most neglected towers, once used to house all manner of goods but now filled with little save dust and cobwebs.
Murky light fell through two narrow air slits, faintly illuminating the scowling face of one of the two figures. “Your regrets come over-late,” the figure said, taking up a position at the storeroom’s heavy oak door. “My patience thins.
“So heed me well. If you are caught escaping, and dare utter my name, I shall see every man, woman, and child who bear a drop of your blood, put to the sword.” The speaker thrust out a warning finger. “You have my solemn oath on it.”
The other, a thick-set man of squat stature and reeking like a cess-pit, grimaced. “You have every right to be angry,” he said, “but the attempt was doomed from the start. How could we know the young lordling would choose that moment to visit the jakes?”
“How, indeed?” The other man’s voice remained cold. “Nor do I care. If you would stay in my peace, and your lord’s, then I warn you not to fail again.”
The stocky man patted his sword-hilt. “On my life, I swear I won’t.”
“Your life, aye. That is as sure as a buzzard rides the updraughts,” the other said, and cracked the door just enough to peer out into the fog-hung morning.
Turning back to the dung-crusted figure, he continued, “Word is that he brought a special dispensation from the Bishop of Aberdeen allowing them to wed with all haste. See to it he never gains the chance.”
The squat man shuffled his feet on the hard-packed earthen floor. “Men say the saints watch o’er him, keeping him from harm.”
The other gave a snort of contempt. “He is cunning, naught else. And wise enough to know your liege will be aware of his moves. He will make a careful circuit of the walls when the day of his nuptials dawns. No doubt of the village as well, if Sir Hugh and his men fail to appear.”
“How are we to dispatch him if we aren’t there?”
The figure by the door let out a long, slow breath. “You will be there. But not in full knightly regalia as he will expect.”
Opening the door just wide enough for the other to slip through, the dark-cloaked figure swelled with the scent of victory. “Tell Sir Hugh to send his best men to hide behind every bush and tree. I will assure the one-eyed whoreson passes close enough to be cut down.”
The other opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the figure by the door gave him a rough shove, hurling him into the bailey’s rain-misted gloom.
“Go now,” the figure called after the hurrying man. “My salutations to your lord.”
Chapter 11
“Must I repeat myself times without number?” James Keith grasped the armrests of the laird’s chair and glowered at those unfortunate enough to be within sighting range. “You badgered me before my bath, now I’ve scarce washed the dung from my limbs and you’d harry me anew.”
Anger glittering in his eyes, he slammed the flat of his hand onto the high table’s scarred surface. “I’ve been defeated once this morn, would you see me beaten down by a hail of questions as well?”
Dunlaidir’s few remaining men-at-arms, so sparse in number they barely filled the nearest trestle tables, exchanged glances but said nothing. Marmaduke’s own men, urged by the young lordling to join him at the dais end of the hall, stared at their trenchers or reached for their tankards.
Ill ease hung in the air, palpable and thick as the smell of wood-smoke and soured ale. Two of the Keith men feigned coughing spells. Others shifted in their seats, clearly uncomfortable.
“For the last time, there was only one,” James ground out, anger rolling off him in black waves.
Sir Marmaduke watched him from the shadows near the bottom steps of the turnpike stair. As casually as possible, he folded his arms and leaned one mail-clad shoulder against the tapestry-hung wall.
The young lord’s anger didn’t surprise him, but his avoidance of meeting the others’ eyes, made his pulse quicken with alertness.
A sharply honed warrior’s instinct, ignited because James only averted his gaze when stating he’d seen but one intruder and not two as he’d originally claimed.
“’Tis plaguey sad when the new lord shies away from matters of such grave import,” groused a stern-faced man-at-arms at one of the tables.
“New lord …faugh!” someone else scoffed. “The whelp would sooner open the hall door to the English than draw steel on ’em!”
“It would require more than steel to defeat a man as cunning as Hugh de la Hogue.” Sir John, a tired-looking noble of middle years, glanced over his shoulder at the grumbling men-at-arms. “He is merciless, gives no quarter to any who dare to challenge him. God the Father himself would be hard-pressed to help those Sir Hugh chooses to ruin.”
He slid James a dark look. “If the dastard so desired, he’d slight this holding with a fury so fierce naught but a few scattered stones would remain.”
