MYSTERIES AND MEETINGS
The light leaking through the long slit of window changed from the barest beam to a pale glow. It slid across the floor and settled on the eyelids of the huddled form under a cloak in the center of the flagstones.
Duncan rubbed his eyes and then sat up, every muscle stiff and aching.
“I really get myself into messes, don't I?”
Duncan said it aloud, turning his head and feeling his neck click. Every part of him ached and his head was sore from sleeping in the cold, pillowed on his arms.
He stood groggily and wandered to the door. It was locked. He had expected that. He sighed. I wonder if his lordship plans to starve me to death.
One way to find out.
“Hello?” he shouted through the door, surprised at how faint his voice was.
If he thought about it, he was not surprised. He hadn't eaten since the cheese at lunchtime yesterday and he was feeling exhausted. He rattled the handle of the door, seeking to rouse someone.
“Hello?”
He kept it up for about two minutes – diligently beating on the door, rattling the handle, calling out through the wooden panels. At length, he heard footsteps. Someone drew a key of a chain and set it in the lock, then turned. The door opened.
“I'm here, ye can stop the bellowin',” a guard grumbled. He reached around the door for the bucket.
“Am I to expect breakfast?” Duncan asked courteously. The guard – a man perhaps ten years older than Duncan himself, looked at him.
“Just a minute,” he said, quite politely. He closed the door and left.
Well, that went well, Duncan told himself ironically. You have a chance to escape – or at least get information – and you really use it well, don't you?
He sighed. He put his back to the wall and slid down it, feeling defeated and miserable. He had come here to find the pearl. Now he was, thanks to his own misjudgment, locked in a turret, probably destined to be starved at his lordship's leisure.
“Fine hero you are,” he told himself sadly. He felt wretched. He knew the melancholy was not helped by being so hungry, but that didn't help. He felt like a complete fool.
He had sat there for some unknown time, lost in his own depression, when he heard the key.
He stood up hastily, wincing as his head whirled.
The guard appeared again, looking severely chastened. “Lord Duncan...” he began.
“Well, don't just stand there, man! Let me see him! I've not got all day, and our guest needs repast.” A voice demanded from somewhere behind the guard. Cultured and arrogant, this was a young voice, a voice used to command.
Duncan stared and, a moment later, a young man appeared.
Dressed in a long green cloak and brown tunic and hose, the man looked as if he had been planning a day hunting in the woods. He had red hair that reached his shoulders and brushed to shine. His long, slim face was serious, mouth down turned. He looked vaguely familiar to Duncan, though he could not think of why.
“Lord Duncan,” the man said formally. “I apologize for your...current circumstance. My father was...remiss,” he said carefully. “The situation has been rectified. If you would come with us now?”
Duncan stared. He had the presence of mind to incline his head in a bow. “My lord. It is a pleasure to meet you.” He held out his hand. He had not known there was a son, though he ought to have guessed there was one.
The young man blinked. Then he smiled. “Apologies. Now I am remiss in courtesy. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Alf.”
Duncan took his hand, shaking it firmly. Alf was a Nordic name. One of Alf's parents must have come from the Ostmen; the descendants of Nordic invaders. Nevertheless, he liked the look of Alf.
“Pleased to meet you, Alf. I am Duncan.”
The youth smiled. “Yes, I know. Our guard informed me. Had he not, I shudder to think what would have happened. Now come. I have prepared better lodgings than this.”
Duncan, blinking, amazed at his change of fortunes, followed the young lord down the cold turret stairs.
They turned into a long hallway, this one paneled and warm, and then to a small room.
Alf waved Duncan ahead of him, and then entered after. They sat down at a table – the room was comfortably appointed with a large bed, two chairs, a low table, and a fire roaring in the grate. As Duncan tried to compose himself, Alf clapped his hands.
“Well, then! Bring it in! His lordship has waited long enough to break his long fast!”
A servant appeared with a tray and set it down, then backed nervously away. Duncan stared at the food and tried to ignore it, failing dismally.
When the servant had gone, a guard locked the door behind them. Duncan looked at Alf, a question in his tawny eyes.
Alf shrugged lightly. “I apologize. I cannot very well free someone my father imprisoned, however much I wish to. I can ensure our high-ranked prisoners are kept somewhat better than serfs, however.”
Duncan blinked at him. “I owe you thanks,” he said cautiously. He desperately wanted to eat, but did not want to break courtesy by eating before his host did.
Alf looked at him, and then shook his head, tutting at himself. “Well, we should break our fast! Try the ale...small beer, but not bad. Most refreshing for this time of day. Warming, too.”
Duncan nodded. He lifted an earthenware cup to his lips and drank, feeling his mouth suddenly less dry. With no more ado, he fell on the meal, eating oatcakes and cold duck as if he had never seen a meal in his life before. He felt as if he hadn't.
His new captor ate sparingly, watching him with some amusement. When Duncan was sure he could speak without feeling lightheaded, he spoke.
“My lord, I...”
Alf smiled. “I am sure you want to ask why I am here. I was intrigued when my father's steward told me of your proposal. While my father is principled, he is also wandering in his mind. I myself was most interested. In what you had to offer.”
Duncan had been lifting a slice of loaf from the tray. He set it down.
“You are interested?” he asked.
“Yes.” Alf leaned back, scraping long red hair off his high brow. He looked quite comfortable, leaning on the velvet cushions behind him. “An alliance with the MacConnoway would suit me very well. And if you wish to borrow troops to secure your hold on Dunkeld, well?” he raised a shoulder. “We have troops to place at your disposal.”
“You do?” Duncan stared at the young man. He was confident, as Duncan had guessed. Confident and scheming.
“We have. The Duncraigh's have no shortage of armed men. You are certainly aware of this?” Again the raised shoulder, the gaze under hooded eyelids.
Duncan nodded.
“Well, then. We can agree on, say, forty of our troops? Probably more than you need. But the more I assist you, the more, I am sure, you can assist me.”
Duncan cleared his throat. “Assist you?” he asked. “In what undertaking?”
The young man smiled. “In taking back what is mine.”
“Yours?”
“The MacDonnell lands. I want them. They belonged to a distant ancestor of mine. Since the death of their heir, Lord Thomas,” he continued, looking at Duncan in a strange way, as if he knew his involvement there, “there is an empty space there, waiting to be filled. I will be the man to fill it.”
Duncan gave a surprised gasp. “You want my assistance in conquering the MacDonnell?”
“Yes,” he agreed smoothly, rolling his shoulder where a cloak draped it, completely at ease. “I think it is right that friends help each other, yes?”
Duncan cleared his throat again, uneasily. “Perhaps,” he said.
Alf smiled. “Ah! But you do not trust me, perhaps. And nor, despite my dismissal of my father, do I trust you.” Duncan stared at him, and Alf continued, lifting a cup of ale. “I have to agree with my father's statement that a man who betrays his brother is no man to trust. So I wish to know your sincerity in this.”
“You do?” Duncan went pale. In his experience, there was one of two ways to determine whether or not someone was sincere. Test them, or torture them.
“Yes,” the younger man said. Then he laughed. “The way I have in mind is not so taxing, Lord Duncan,” he said, smiling. “In fact, it requires nothing of you. Well, almost nothing.”
Duncan looked at him. He put down his cup of ale, leaning forward, hands clasped. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“Do you have any familiarity – excuse the wordplay – with witchcraft?”
Duncan stared at him. “Witchcraft?” He thought of Alina and her aunt, Aili. They were the closest thing he had met to what people often called witches: observant, wise women with an intuition that was uncanny.
“Yes. Witchcraft,” Alf said patiently. “Well, if you have not, now is the time to test your faith. So to speak.” He chuckled.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, my aunt is a witch. You will face her. If she decides you are genuine, I will believe it.”
While Duncan stared at him, Alf stood, rising gracefully to his well-booted feet. “Well, then, Lord Duncan. I must say it was a pleasure to meet you. I am off on a hunt now. I will return in the evening to discover the truth of what you say.”
Having said this, Alf walked to the door and, with no further explanation, left, saying something to the guard on his way out.
Duncan sat very still for a long while after he had gone. He shook his head. This was all becoming far too much for him. Mysteries, incarceration, now witchcraft.
All I ever wanted, Duncan thought sadly, turning to look into the fire, was a wife I love, healthy children, and a chance to support my brother in managing our home.
He closed his eyes feeling as if, somewhere, someone was mocking him and his simple dreams. At this moment, they were so complex. So completely out of his grasp.