A crashing sound echoed up the stairs toward them, drowning out Tor’s words.
“Enough,” Cam said, waving a dismissive hand. “I will deal with the MacKenzies first before they destroy the place. Then we will discuss this further.”
“Yes, my Laird.”
Cam headed downstairs quickly, though he made sure to lock the door to his chamber first. He had plenty to worry about. A killer was on the loose. A rival clan was smashing up his great hall. A mysterious villain was sweeping across the highlands. Plenty to worry about indeed. And yet, as he descended the stairs, the thing he kept thinking about, was how the pale skin of Rachel’s chest looked when he burst in on her, how it looked just like moonlight on the loch on a perfectly still night.
Chapter Seven
On the west side of Castle MacGregor there was a sheer wall of forty feet. It had been built over generations, the newer stone hewed into blocks that left no room for fingers to grip. No enemy could scale such walls during a siege. The lowest levels were older, darker stone, roughly cut, some mere boulders that had been heaved into place back when the castle was founded.
The MacGregors didn’t care for the looks of the lowest levels of stone, hidden as they were behind thick undergrowth that had built up over many years. The higher levels were neater, smooth, imposing upon the surrounding countryside, stone that said we are here and we will not be moved.
At the base of the castle, thick briars and rose patches twisted and wove together, creating an impenetrable natural defense against attack. Pitch might burn it but in approaching, enemies would be stuck on the cruel inch long thorns, to be picked off by archers that trained every day to be sure never to miss their mark.
In the thickest patch of bramble, there was movement that night. While Rachel Fisher lay down for her first night’s unsettled sleep, and Cam dreamed of the past in the room beside her, the castle guards paced along the battlements, looking out into the pitch black night for any sign of the barefooted man. One man alone was moving at the foot of the castle, making his escape.
Far below the guards, the brambles moved again. There was a rustling sound deep in the undergrowth and then a scrape as a door was forced open.
The door was hidden behind thick layers of ivy. Few denizens of the castle knew about it. One of those who did was forcing it open from inside, knowing that if he did not hurry, his absence would be marked, and from then on suspicion would grow about him. He had taken a risk shouting out in the hall that the virgin should be sacrificed just as he had taken a risk whispering in so many ears the tales of the barefoot man, undermining the Laird, sowing the seeds for what was to come.
He had not been careful for so long to throw it all away in one night. He had waited until the castle had settled for the night before making his move. If he had his way the meeting would have been arranged during the daytime, when he could have slipped out of the castle with the farmers and returned without arousing suspicion. Still, if he was back before light, all should be fine.
Most occupants slept together in the great hall, few of the inhabitants of the castle had their own chambers. It was not unusual for there to be coming and going as guards shifts ended and new ones began. The older clan members might be up three or four times in the night to visit the garderobe. Thus, no one thought it unusual when one more person got quietly to his feet and tiptoed past them, cloak wrapped around him to keep the chill out as he headed outside.
Once in the courtyard he had kept to the shadows, avoiding the eyes of the guards making their rounds. He held his hood close to his face, rehearsing what he would say if caught.
He needn’t have worried. The guards were busy watching for threats outside the castle. Word of a murderer in their midst had reached them all but they had bigger things to worry about during the dark. If they failed at their watch, the entire clan would be slaughtered. Their job was not to seek the killer in their midst. That job had fallen to Tor and he had yet to find any substantial clues to the identity of the killer.
The man in the hooded cloak made his way past the armory and into the stables. The horses stirred but the grooms slept on as he passed by like a whisper in the wind. The furthest stall was empty. It hadn’t been used for decades, ever since the Laird’s horse threw him and rumor grew that the stall was cursed. Grooms had heard strange noises coming from within, like bones creaking together when there was no wind to be heard outside.
Once inside the stall, the hooded man knelt down and lifted handfuls of old straw. Underneath were cracked flagstones that looked far more solid than they were. He curled his fingers under the central flag and, with a grunt of effort, lifted it into the air, laying it down quietly on top of the piled up straw.
Beneath the flagstone was the original floor of the stable. The solid rock surrounded a trapdoor that hadn’t been used for a very long time. The hooded man pulled a key from his pocket. For a moment the moon appeared from behind a cloud and shone through the high stall window, catching the key in the light, flashing an intricately carved M that was marked into the metalwork.
With a turn of the key the trapdoor was unlocked. The man lowered himself through it, vanishing from sight.
He dropped to the ground with a splash, landing in the wettest and most ancient escape route of the entire castle, long forgotten by all but a select few. He was taking a risk that the old drainage tunnel would be discovered. He grimaced as the stinking water soaked through his boots. Glancing up, he looked at the open trapdoor.
If one of the grooms were to awaken and glance into the stall before he could return there was no hiding it. He would just have to hope the doctored ale he had provided them would ensure they slept deep and awoke none the wiser in the morn.
Ducking his head, he made his way through the tunnel in darkness, hands held out either side, brushing the damp walls to help him balance.
He passed a left turn, and then a right. He ignored them both, moving forward until he reached the door at the end of the tunnel. With a shove he got it open enough to squeeze through into the undergrowth on the other side.
As quietly as he could, he eased his way through the brambles, catching his cloak on the wicked thorns several times and having to tear himself loose before he was out in the open. He paused, listening hard for any sound of the guards up on the battlements. No one was there.
The numbers of guards had been reduced by half, a large quantity needed to keep an eye on the MacKenzies who were not happy about having to spend the night there against their will.
It was touch and go for many hours whether things would descend into anarchy. That had only been avoided by two barrels of Cam’s finest wine making its way out of the stores and down the necks of MacGregor’s guests.
The liberal doling out of wine helped the hooded man. He had not touched a drop but the rest had, their sleep the sleep of the well soused. Many would pay with heavy heads the next morning but not him. He was far wiser, and about to become far richer.
When he was certain no one had seen him emerge he crept away.
It took two hours to get to the meeting place. When he arrived he wasn’t sure if he was too late. There was no one there. The stunted oak was there, looking as ugly as ever. He walked around it twice before looking up at the sky, hoping the moon would emerge and help him work out the time. It remained hidden behind the clouds, the wind having died as he walked to the meeting.
He stopped, feeling certain someone was behind him. Spinning, his skin began to crawl. No one there. He turned again and leaning against the trunk was a man taller than him, his face also hidden behind a hood. His cloak did not reach the floor, it ended at his ankles, revealing a pair of bare feet that seemed to become part of the trunk of the tree, as if the man was there but not there. It had to be a trick of the light. They were just feet and he was just a man.
