And where was Ernest?
DARKNESS.
Why was all so…dark?
A tug on Ernest’s thigh and he groaned, felt cold wet stone beneath his cheek, a blinding ache to his nape, and the scent of dank iron and musty earth in his nostrils – ancient and foul.
Where the hell was he? A droplet of water struck his temple, so tentatively he lifted his head and heard a skitter of feet.
Rats.
Vast slabs of centuries-old stone lay beneath his chest, grimy and gritty, the fragrance of mould and rot undeniable, the crawling sensation that overtook one’s skin indisputable.
The castle dungeons.
He flung himself over, accustomed his eyes to the dim light. The dungeons were embedded within rock and stone, but high, narrow windows faced the moat and allowed air.
But why was he…
It all came gushing back – Mary and the horse, her accomplice with that smell… He clutched at his aching head, thoughts chaotic, unable to order them.
His spectacles were at least unbroken, and he gazed once more at the high-up windows and gathered, by the slant of light upon the wall, that dawn had long since broken and that Hebe could have awakened, alone and…
Lurching to his feet, he fingered his sore nape, discovered a bloodied gash and staggered to the cobweb-ridden chair abandoned by the wall, crashing upon it with a groan.
He’d been left in the principal chamber where the prisoners had once been chained, a pair of manacles dangling by the stone staircase, a rusted cage of despair at the far end, the door removed years back after Ernest had locked himself in.
Cautiously, he dragged himself to a tap in the corner. It must’ve been years since its last use but bar rust it should work, connected as it was directly to the moat. Groans and creaks echoed the walls before a gush of mud thudded out, followed by murky water. He allowed it to run more or less clear and then drenched his face, thoughts ordering with the icy cold.
Standing tall, he twisted the tap off as scenes of these past weeks ricocheted in his head – that bloodied bird in the maze and the gunshot in the forest. It all had to be connected but why?
To frighten Hebe off?
Had she seen something?
Pain fired through his head and he stumbled to the stone staircase with too much hope in his heart that the attacker had been witless enough to leave the dungeon door unbarred.
He lurched up the many rough steps, twisted the wrought iron handle and shoved but although it turned with ease, the hefty wooden bar on the other side merely rattled its presence.
Bloody hell.
A rising despair trampled the pain of his nape.
Trapped. He was trapped in this damn place, and although he had no doubt that eventually someone would think to look in here, that he could survive for many days due to the water…
Hebe had obviously stumbled upon something in one of the stables… Something that had disrupted Mary’s plans, and devil knows who her accomplices could be.
What they might do…
To Hebe.
To Lord Jack.
He drove a fist to the stone wall.
But other than the door, there was no other way out of–
Not entirely true.
