One man swung aside the tapestry, revealing a narrow door. The other man produced a set of clinking keys and unlocked the door. Inside, a cold, cobwebby hallway opened, stone stairs leading down into darkness. Thomas stepped inside and heard the door close and lock behind him. That left him in darkness.
Well, almost darkness. The occasional torch was set into the wall to prevent people from falling down the staircase and breaking their necks at the bottom. This was not, of course, the only way into the dungeon. There was a main door into the dungeon, and this way was designed for important men to sneak down to visit important prisoners in the middle of the night.
Thomas didn’t like to imagine what all the secret ways and hidden doors in Keep MacPherson had been used for over the years.
Stepping into a large, circular stone room at the bottom of the staircase, he shook away those thoughts. The entranceway was hidden by another tapestry, this one small, narrow, ragged, and faded to a mixture of greys and browns. The jailor glanced up at his sudden appearance and gave a slow nod of acknowledgment.
The jailor, Brom, was something of an enigma. He was a young man for a chief jailor—not even thirty, by Thomas’s guess—and he was, aside from that, unable to speak.
A mute chief jailor seemed almost ridiculous. Thomas had never been able to ascertain whether Brom could not speak because of a missing tongue or something else. The man had never opened his mouth to reveal whether he had a tongue or not, and it certainly wasn’t anyone’s business.
“A new prisoner should have been brought,” Thomas said bluntly. “One of the soldiers, Gregor.”
Brom glanced down at a ledger spread open on the desk, running a grubby finger down a column of neat writing. He could read and write, and personally, Thomas thought that the man was the best chief jailor he’d ever had. Nobody had escaped during Brom’s tenure here.
Brom nodded, tapping a name. He tapped a blank column beside it to indicate that no charge had been logged and made a brief writing gesture with his hand.
That was how he communicated, gestures and meaningful looks. So far, it seemed to be working well. He was tall, well-muscled, and handsome underneath his shaggy black beard and the grime that stuck to everyone who worked in the dungeons, no matter how often they washed. He had ivory skin, thick black hair, and a set of large blue eyes that sometimes made people look twice. Plenty of the maids and serving girls giggled as he went past, batting their eyelashes at his broad back.
Thomas nodded. “Aye, write down the charge, please. Assault with intent to harm. He attacked the healer’s apprentice to make things worse.”
Brom shook his head in disgust and scribbled a brief note. He glanced back up at Thomas and made a series of quick gestures: a tap to his eyes, pointing towards Thomas, then a tap to the name on the ledger.
Thomas nodded again. “Aye, Brom. I’d like to see the man. Take me to him.”
Brom rose from behind the desk and set off down one of the dark corridors, gesturing for Thomas to follow him.
The secret passage—and indeed the regular way into the dungeons—would lead a person directly into the circular stone room where the jailor resided. Every prisoner and anyone who wanted to visit a prisoner would have to go past the jailor’s desk. From there, dark corridors branched off like spokes from a wheel, each one leading to rows of cells.
The dungeon of Keep MacPherson was functional and nothing more. Thomas had no intention of torturing his prisoners with truly vile conditions. Brom was a stern jailor, but not one that would hurt the men and women under his control for enjoyment. It was cold down here, but the prisoners had blankets, at least, and weren’t permitted to wallow in their own filth for too long.
Brom led the way down one of these spokes, vanishing into the darkness. Thomas drew in a breath and followed him.
He hated the dungeons with a passion. They were too dark and cold, to say nothing of the rodents and insects that clustered in every corner. He tried not to look into the cells they passed by, either.
Thomas knew that he was a fair laird. The men and women who were imprisoned down here were there for good reason. Murders, assaults, thefts, and conning their vulnerable neighbors out of their belongings. Still, it wasn’t pleasant to look into the eyes of a man you’d sentenced yourself.
So, Thomas kept his eyes fixed on Brom’s shoulders instead.
Brom stopped abruptly before a particular cell and gestured.Here.
Thomas gave him a nod. “Thank ye, Brom. I’ll nae be long.”
Brom glanced shrewdly at the man in the cell and back to Thomas. He nodded, then returned back along the corridor. The darkness swallowed him up almost immediately. Thomas listened for receding footsteps, but for such a large man, Brom apparently trod quietly.
“Gregor,” Thomas said once the dungeon seemed still again.
There was a rustle in the gloom of the cell, and a man rose from the pile of straw in the corner, his blanket held around his shoulders like a shawl.
“Me Laird?” Gregor gasped, stumbling to his feet. “I’m so glad to see ye.”
Thomas raised his eyebrows. “Are ye?”
“Aye. I’m keen to get out, Me Laird. Please. I’m sorry that I left my post.”
Thomas sucked in a breath, regaining his composure. “Do ye believe that ye are here because ye left yer post?”
Gregor had certainly seemed a little inebriated when Thomas had prevented him from attacking Emma. Had he forgotten what had happened?
