ENTERING THE FORTRESS
“Now. Remind me of what we discussed earlier?”
“Very well.” Blaine replied. His voice was low, and Duncan bent closer to hear him. They were in the shelter of a rocky defile, the wind fitful around them, the night dark. “We will head to the gate together, and then part. I'm tae let ye go alone.”
“Yes,” Duncan said quietly. “And where will you go?”
“Round the back. To the rear gate.”
“Yes,” Duncan nodded. “Good. We'll have to do something about this,” he said, running a hand from shoulder to feet, indicating himself. He felt worried, but also strangely light, as if nothing mattered and he was happy to live or die.
Blaine stepped back, looking at him. They had a single pine-pitch torch with them, the flame ragged in the fretful wind. It showed him Duncan, clad in a velvet jerkin and linen hose of the sort a workman would labor a year to purchase.
“Yes,” he agreed.
Duncan bit his lip. “Right.”
Without saying another word, he and Blaine exchanged cloaks. It was cold outside, and the thought of taking off his clothes was unpleasant to say the least. However, as they rode, he and Blaine had developed a plan and it required him to dress somewhat poorly. They would swap their clothes.
Shrugging out of his jerkin, Duncan clenched his teeth, trying not to shiver in the icy air. He rolled his shoulders, the cold leaching the strength from their muscle. The light from the pitch torch Blaine had wedged in the ground gleamed. It shone on his skin, outlining it in orange-red. He looked down at his body, noting the flat stomach, wide chest, sinewy forearm. Not too bad, he thought wryly. Will the youth's clothes fit?
They did. Just. With some effort and dangerous pulling at the seams. Blaine shrugged on the hose and tunic easily. He laughed.
“By! Duncan, milord. That shirt'll ne'er hold.”
Duncan bit his lip. He didn't want to laugh. The youth's shirt spanned his chest from side to side. He could see it straining across himself, and worried it would burst. He felt like lead poured in a mold – straining at the seams. The trousers were achingly-uncomfortable, the legs shortened above his ankles.
Blaine, opposite him, looking debonair in the richer jerkin, was staring. His face was lively with mirth and he covered his mouth, trying for politeness. He failed.
“Cor, sir! You look awful.”
“I am aware of that,” Duncan looked down, distressed. He bit his lip and chuckled. “Well, one thing is certain – I must be the least fortunate beggar for miles around! I look like I've not had new clothes since I was a lad.”
Blaine frowned at him. “I'm not that short, sir.”
Duncan laughed. “No. I'm just taller than you are.”
They both grinned. Blaine thumped him and Duncan put a hand on his head, pushing him back playfully. They wrestled a moment, and then Blaine lifted the torch.
“I'll be away now, milord. Godspeed and blessing.”
“With you, too, Blaine.” Duncan agreed firmly. He watched the youth walk to the edge of the rocky outcrop and to the moors beyond. He waited, watching him in his new suit of clothes. I understand now, more than ever, why Broderick thinks highly of him.
Sighing, shivering in the cold, he counted to thirty and then followed his young companion out across the grasses.
The wind made him shiver. It was cold here out of the shelter of the defile.
As he walked, he thought about the future. He could not help feeling nervous. Their plan hinged on him entering the castle undetected, being given shelter for the night. He would have to find the sword that night, and escape through the rear gate, or risk being discovered.
He had to do it. He had to complete the tasks. If he did not, he could not marry Alina. Memories of her, with her soft lips, her warm body, her soft breasts against him as they lay together, set fire inside him. He could find the strength within him to do this if he remembered what it meant.
Alina. He built an image of her in his mind, imagining what it would be like to return and kiss her again, feel her close. Kiss those plush lips, so moistly warm, and stroke her soft hair.
Lost in thoughts of her that fired his loins and lit his mind, he did not notice he had walked onto a path. He only noticed, in fact, when the light appeared pooled before him on the ground. He looked up and saw a gate.
“Who goes there?”
He had reached the gates of Tallhill fortress.
He bit his lip, almost swearing. Then he faced the guard. He bent so that, stooped, he looked up into the man's face. The wind whipped around him, making him ache with cold. He cleared his throat.
“I's no one, master! A beggar, so I am! Has the lord Blackwood a crumb tae stave off death?”
The guards pressed closer. Two men, one bore a lantern and the other rested on a pike. They had a kind of lazy arrogance which said they were the masters of this place and disinterested in his kind.
“Please, masters,” Duncan said, making his voice break. He looked down.
“What're you carrying?” the man asked. He snatched at Duncan's cloak, tearing it loose to expose his back. Duncan looked at the ground. If he had looked up the man would have seen murder in his eyes.
Holding his rage, Duncan wheedled. “Oh, milord. Do give me my cloak. I've nothing beneath it. Only meself, as you see.”
The other guard laughed. “Come on, Camry. The bastard's wearing laddie's breeks...” the chuckled, gesturing at Duncan.
The other guard laughed too, hooting with mirth. “How old are those? By! I've not seen the like anywhere afore...wee scaffy bastard.”
Duncan clenched his fists at his sides. He had never felt so mocked, so belittled before. He swallowed hard. He thought, shamefacedly, of beggars he had ridden past, tossing a handful of coin if he felt magnanimous, or simply ignoring them. He had never thought about what it might be like to be part of a group who garnered contempt or pity. However, now was not the time to think of it.
“Aye!” he said, grinning slyly. “I've no' clothes but these, what I've had ten year or more. Me da' threw me out at ten, said I were too daft for farmin'.”
The guards laughed again. Then he noticed one of them change from mocking to a kind of roughened pity.
“Aye, come on, you,” he said roughly. “Ye's harmless enough. Go tae the kitchens. Get some soup.”
The other guard looked strangely at him, but then shrugged. “Aye. Fair enough.” He muttered it, turning away. He reached for the bar across the door and lifted it, swinging it aside. The guard with the torch looked at him.
“Come on, you,” he repeated. “In ye go!”
Duncan, kneeling on the grass, looked from one to the other with apparent disbelief. “You what?” he said slowly. Keeping his eyes vacant, he grinned at them as if they had floated from the cathedral roof.
The two guards exchanged a glance. They shrugged at each other. The one with the spear stepped up.
“Come on,” he said emphatically. He clouted him lightly with the end of it, making him stumble forward onto all fours. “In ye go. Dinnae wait about.”
Duncan scrambled to his feet, shuffling to the door.
“An' take yer coat,” the first guard, the one with the torch, said, carelessly. “It's surely lowpin'.” he tossed the cloak at Duncan.
He took it and pulled it around him, grateful for warmth. Then he looked up at the castle tower opposite him. This was it! He was in.
He could barely believe it.
The ruse had worked. He was in.
Shielding himself from the livid light of torches bracketed to the castle's front wall, he walked quickly and silently, hugging the wall and its darkness, to his left towards where the kitchens probably were.
No one challenged him and he kept his head down. He hoped Blaine was where he ought to be. He would have to be quick and hope that he knew where to find what he was after.