Should, after all these years, the Laird’s Stone choose this moment to perform for her, its tears heralding Sir Marmaduke Strongbow as Dunlaidir’s new master might prove more of a shock than she could shoulder.
Rhona knew her well.
She favored him indeed.
And that knowledge disturbed her almost as much as her reasons for not wanting to.
Chapter 14
“By rope?”
James stared at the sturdy length of knotted rope disappearing over Dunlaidir’s seaward wall. “A horde of flaming firedrakes wouldn’t send me down that cliff on a rope. The drop is sheer with nary a ledge to rest upon.”
Sir Ross stopped tying knots in a second rope and tossed him an amused glance. “Dinnae tell me you’d prefer the latrine chute?”
The other men chuckled. Even the most-times dour Sir John joined in their mirth. “It would be a fast ride down,” he agreed, peering over the wall. “That’s certain.”
James remained silent, his mouth pressed into a tight-lipped line.
“Aye, a swift descent, if a bit smelly,” another of the MacKenzie men, Sir Alec, blustered. A quip that brought broader smiles to all but James.
“Enough.” Marmaduke swept them with a comradely but warning glance.
“No ill will meant, young sire.” Alec gave James a friendly thwack on the arm. “Our blood yet runs high from this morn, is all.”
“And the day is not yet spent. Jesting will not see the latrine chute sealed.” Marmaduke glanced at the line of dark clouds crouching low on the horizon before turning to Ross. “Have you finished with the second rope?”
“Aye.” The Highlander yanked hard on the rope. “It bears enough knots for its purpose and is strong enough to support an ox.”
Marmaduke tossed a glance through one of the wall’s notched openings at the jagged rocks, below. Chill sea wind whipped his hair and whistled past his ears, but he welcomed its salt-laden bite.
The intruders’ round-hulled coracle still bobbed atop the swells and great plumes of sea spray shot high up the cliff. Of his assailant’s corpse, was nary a trace. Only the tiny boat, the roar of the surf, and the dangling rope.
Turning away from the wall, he unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to Sir John. The fourth MacKenzie warrior, Sir Gowan, helped him shrug out of his mailed shirt. Once free of his undertunic as well, he slanted a sidelong glance at James.
The young lord peered over the wall. “You do not expect me to go down the other rope?” A dull red flush began inching up his neck. “I cannot swim.”
“No one is asking you to,” Marmaduke assured him, stretching his arms over his head and flexing his fingers. “The second rope is to lower the satchel and drawplate. I will use the first rope to climb down the cliff. You and Ross need only hold the ropes.”
“Him hold one of the ropes? Best say your prayers if it’s yours.” The gruff voice came from the back of the group of men gathered near and was quickly followed by a round of chuckles.
The Keith men.
“…taking your life in your hands, Strongbow, or rather, leaving it in his hands,” another called out, his booming voice echoing off the thick stone of the seawall.
Ignoring the men, Marmaduke knelt on the stone-flagged floor of the battlements and busied himself securing the satchel and drawplate to the knot-free end of the second rope.
“Have a care holding this,” he said to Ross, then tossed the rope and its weighty cargo over the wall. “I do not want to do this twice.”
Saints, his innards twisted at the thought.
They clenched even more at the possibility James Keith might not have the strength and stamina to support his weight.
Even so, he’d take his chances.
The looks on the faces of Dunlaidir’s household knights left him little choice.
Thus committed, he returned to where the first rope disappeared over the edge of the same crenel opening his assailant had fallen through earlier.
