A mist of blood and spittle sprayed out of Gawain’s mouth. When he managed to stand up, the left side of his face was already turning purple. Resolute in his hatred, Gawain simply shook his head and punched Caillen hard in the stomach. If he had expected to wind his brother and cause him distress, he had not bargained for the fact that years of hoisting foresails and climbing Jacob’s ladders had made the muscles on Caillen’s stomach rock hard. His brother, although knocked back by the force of the blow, suffered no injury.
They faced off once more, and this time there was no circling or stepping back. This time they would stand up to each other until one of them fell down and stayed down. It became obvious to Emer that Gawain was getting the worst of the deal. Caillen’s fighting skills were not strictly limited to the sword and musket. He knew how to handle himself in a skirmish. He was alternating his punches from Gawain’s face to his stomach with ruthless pugilistic precision. Gawain was holding his own, but at the expense of his face and body. He was panting desperately, trying to catch his breath and rally with a flurry of punches after Caillen landed another blow in his stomach, but he was blocked for the most part.
Gawain had so much to prove. He wanted to show his brother and his father he was not just some under-dog, to be cast-off whenever the elder son came home. He lashed out at Caillen and caught him unawares. His fist connected with his brother’s cheekbone, and the skin under the eye burst open.
Caillen stepped back, raised a hand to his cheek to feel the blood, and then his face became murderous. Before he could close with Gawain again, Emer stepped in between them.
“That’s enough! Ye’ve both done some nice handiwork on one another, but now it’s time to draw the line. I hate to break this up, and I would love to sit here and watch ye slaughter yerselves, but yer faither’s in danger, and we need to find a way to get out of here before the poor auld man has to face the Sutherland men on his own. Agreed?”
Chapter Thirty
For a split moment in time, the three captives stood together. Gawain, his face bruised and bloody, was panting like he had run a marathon, but there was a certain look of satisfied triumph there as well. Emer, stern and determined, the shy dreaming girl of the castle keep gone forever. And Caillen, his one eye half-shut from Gawain’s blow, a dawning look of respect on his face for the other two people in the room.
“Sit down, ye fools,” Emer demanded, “I have something to tell ye.”
She guided them to where a group of wooden crates lined the walls and sat down. Gawain and Caillen obeyed. Emer looked at the men sitting on either side of her and sighed. She untied the kerchief she had been using as a fichu around her neck under her cloak, tore it in half, and handed one half to each brother. They each had so many cuts and bruises, they did not know where to start. Caillen pressed his half of the kerchief to his cheek gingerly, trying not to wince when he touched there. Gawain buried his face in the cloth and did not look up for a long time.
But Emer knew he was listening.
“The pastor in Nethy told me about an escape route, a secret one. Have ye heard folks speak of such a thing, Gawain? Anything ye can do to help us locate it, even if ye dinnae think it’s important, could be of use.”
For a moment, Emer thought Gawain had decided not to listen to her or help, but then he said in a muffled voice, not raising his face out of the kerchief, “I’ve been spending a lot o’ time in Sutherland’s library – thought I should learn as much as I can about the estate seeing as I was going to run it one day – I read something about a hidden underground tunnel put in around the time Catholics and Lutherans were arguing.”
It was the news Emer had been waiting for. As nice as it was to know Pastor Dougal had been right about a chapel tunnel leading to the cellar, it was far nicer to know Gawain was finally feeding her the correct information.
She heaved a sigh of relief, “If we can find the secret door on this side – in the cellar – I ken it takes us out from underneath these pestilent walls and leads to the chapel.”
“Who told ye this?” Caillen asked.
Emer was far too tired and hungry to hold a grudge against Caillen. She replied, “The pastor in Nethy is Laird Donal’s brither,” on seeing Caillen begin to frown, she amended, “he was one o’ the men who saved yer faither after he fell down the mountain cliff. He’s nae longer a mercenary soldier; he gave up that life to join the church. It’s his gold being used to rebuild Nethy.”
The brothers knew their father had suffered a bad fall in his youth. They had never bothered asking him who had found him on the mountain, and more importantly, they had accepted his explanation about falling off while riding a bad-tempered horse.
So far, Emer could see her words were making sense to both brothers.
“Gawain, Laird Maclachlan - ye say there are nae guards posted at the door. So, let’s get busy moving all the crates and casks away from the walls and start looking for that secret door.”
After Emer said this, there was a pause as everyone thought about the tedious task in front of them.
“D’ye think they will bring us water or food?” Gawain enquired hopefully from inside his kerchief.
Emer pressed her lips firmly together. It was up to Caillen to reply, “Dead men dinnae need food or water, brither.”
He sounded resigned about not having sustenance, and Emer could only marvel at Caillen’s discipline. He had not eaten in over two days.
Gawain finally lifted his head out from the kerchief, saying, “I’m sorry I tried to get ye let go, Emer. I went to Mistress Burroughs and told her I’d found ye drinking in me chambers, and that’s why ye hit yer head. She went to me brither to tell him ye had to go, and he said over his dead body would ye be going anywhere. It was only afterward that I lied to ye about the assassin – it were Campbell who fired off the arrow,” he turned to Caillen, “I hid the letters in her bedchamber.”
Emer understood why Caillen felt the need to beat his brother around the face occasionally. Caillen said, “This is blethering, brither. If we dinnae get out o’ here, we will be gibbet meat for the crows after faither surrenders. Let us leave mad ravings, demented plots, and obsession to our host, shall we? Seeing as it’s one of the symptoms of his disease.”
Gawain looked relieved; he seemed to have been forgiven. The three prisoners set about dragging every crate, cask, and barrel away from the walls of the cellar. They had to hurry; the daylight was already starting to fade and the shadows to lengthen. If it was a hidden door, they needed to find it while the grey light could still filter through the window grates.
There was not as much hauling and dragging as Emer had first supposed. All the containers were empty and easy to shift around without much effort. Even so, the cellar was long, stretching from one side of the lodge to the other. It took them over three hours before all the cases and crates had been pulled away from the walls enough for the rapidly dimming light to show them the foundation stonework.
“Ye men each take a length, and I’ll take the two widths,” Emer said, “If ye want an idea of how the chapel is situated, ye can jump up and look out the window grate.”
“So that’s what ye were doing,” Caillen said, but Emer ignored him.
At first, it seemed to be a futile task. If there was a doorway, hidden or not, it stood to reason Laird Donal would know about it, especially if his brother did. There was a faint hope his disease had caused the knowledge to slip his mind, but as they moved along the walls, tapping jutting stones and scraping off flakes of whitewash here and there, they felt hope start to drain away.
