The Tunnel
Ewan grasped Shona’s hand. There was no possibility he would allow her anywhere near the cesspit. As the indignant crowd surged out of the hall, sweeping Mungo along in its midst, he opened his mouth to tell her so.
“I’ll nay stay here,” she said before he could speak.
The determination in her gaze quickly persuaded him it would be useless to argue. “Come on then,” he replied lifting her down from the dais, “but only as far as the tower.”
She grinned. “Aye. The cesspit’s a job for menfolk.”
He chuckled as they hurried to follow the crowd. “Ye’re a feisty lass, Shona MacCarron, and I love ye for it.”
When they reached the tower they discovered Fynn had already lifted the grate off the opening at the base of the stairway, despite his handicap. “Steps,” he told Ewan, nodding into the blackness.
The foul smell normally masked by the cover sapped some of the enthusiasm from the mob. They hung back, evidently content to wait and see what happened next.
“The Camron said the stench would protect them,” Shona said.
The stink made his belly roil, but Ewan accepted his responsibility. “I’ll lead, with Fynn. David will take three men up to the roof. Walter, watch over Shona. If aught happens to me…”
“Nay,” Fynn replied, one foot already on the top step. “I claim the right to go first.”
Accepting that he was unlikely to win an argument with his stalwart kinsman, Ewan kissed Shona, then leaned his forehead against hers. “We’ll find her,” he whispered.
“Just make sure ye come back to me,” she replied hoarsely.
“I will,” he promised. “Though I may not smell so sweet when I return.”
The breath hitched in her throat as she stepped back to stand with Walter.
David quickly chose his men and started up the main staircase.
Ewan inhaled deeply, accepted a torch from a bystander, and followed Fynn into the slippery abyss.
*
“He’s a decisive man,” Walter rasped. “He’ll make a good laird.”
Shona couldn’t form a reply. Ewan thought she was feisty and courageous but, in reality, fear held her in its grip. She doubted they would find Jeannie alive, and dreaded even contemplating a future without the man she’d at first done her best to thwart.
Two MacCarron warriors arrived carrying a chair on which sat a very red-faced Kendric.
“Put me down here,” he shouted, brandishing his crutch. “I’m a useless old mon. Have to be carried everywhere. Better if I died.”
Shona hunkered down next to her uncle and took his hand. “Ye’ll survive this ordeal,” she reassured him, “and those responsible for it will be punished.”
“Nay doot about that,” he replied, snarling at Mungo who’d been forced to his knees near the door.
“Ewan and Fynn have gone down into the pit,” she told him, swallowing the lump in her throat. “David is making his way to the roof.”
Kendric grunted. “So if he’s still in yon tower, Ailig is trapped.” He glared at Mungo. “Is he still there?”
“Aye,” Morley admitted sheepishly. “I had to leave to get food for Lady Jeannie. That woman eats like a horse.”
A spark of hope sprang to life in Shona’s heart. Mayhap her aunt was still alive.
*
Ewan held the torch high, though the fetid air had robbed it of much of its flame. He wished there was a rope to hang on to as he followed Fynn down a dozen or so slippery steps. The alternative was to lean his shoulder against the slimy wall. Mayhap it was just as well since his other hand kept his plaid clamped firmly over his mouth and nose. The familiar smell of the wool was preferable to the stench. It was regrettable but the beloved plaid would have to be burned with the refuse once this escapade was over.
He thought to make some flippant remark about not expecting to be creeping cautiously into a cesspit when they’d left Roigh, but that would necessitate taking a breath, and he doubted Fynn was in the mood for jests. The descent was difficult enough with two good hands.
He risked inhaling when his kinsman announced they’d reached the last step. “Looks like the tunnel divides into three up ahead,” Fynn growled.
Even with the failing light of the torch, it was possible to make out that the two passageways veering off to the left had been constructed much later than the black hole that likely led down to the cesspit. “I’ll wager the steeper one leads to the hidden chamber,” Ewan said. “The other likely ends up outside the walls.”
The mystery of the Morleys coming and going undetected was unraveling.
Fynn didn’t hesitate and after a few paces along the steeper tunnel they arrived at another winding staircase, scarcely wide enough for a man.
Ewan blew on the torch to rekindle the flame when it threatened to flicker out. “We might end up feeling our way,” he growled.
“Aye,” came the reply. “But there is a rope affixed to the wall here. On the right—luckily.”
Once again Ewan had to give his dour kinsman credit. Even in dire circumstances he could make light of his handicap.
They climbed the staircase, drawing their daggers when they heard a commotion above them. “He’s heading for the roof,” Fynn exclaimed.
Hampered by the narrow confines of the stairwell, they hurried as fast as they could to an uneven landing, where a small wooden door stood open. Sweating and out of breath, Ewan suspected Fynn was correct and didn’t hold out much hope of finding Lady Jeannie, at least not alive, but he entered the small, windowless chamber nevertheless.
Blankets lay scattered about. The only furniture was a small table and a couple of stools. The stale air in the confined space reeked of human waste, rotten food and rodent droppings, but it was a relief not to discover a corpse. Still, his hackles rose. It was no fit place to imprison a lady.
“She’s not here,” he said, but suddenly realized he was talking to himself. Fynn was already on his way to the roof.
He tossed away the useless torch, sheathed his weapon and climbed up the remaining steps, heaving himself through the small grate just after his kinsman. Daggers drawn, they scanned the empty battlements, panting hard. “He’s up here somewhere,” Fynn growled. “The grating had been removed.”
Ewan worried there was no sign of David and his men. “We’ll check the sentry boxes. Ye go to the right, I’ll go…”
“There she is,” Fynn yelled, pointing to the parapet on the east side of the tower. “The bastard’s going to push her over.”
Ewan’s heart raced. Wrists bound and mouth gagged, Jeannie perched atop the wall, wedged between two crenellations, her backside out in space.
Ailig was nowhere in sight.
“Wait,” Ewan cautioned, but Fynn paid no mind and rushed to save Jeannie. She shook her head vehemently, the wonky eye focused on something out of sight.
Suddenly, Ailig stepped out from a dilapidated sentry box and swooped towards Fynn, prodding his chest with the point of a sword, forcing him to walk backwards to Jeannie. “She’ll ne’er belong to a freak,” he menaced.
Ewan suspected Morley hadn’t seen him in his rush to attack Fynn. He crept forward cautiously, afraid his kinsman and the woman he loved would fall to their deaths before he could reach them.
His heart leaped into his throat when David surged from behind one of the iron chests. Bellowing a war cry, the youth unsheathed his sword and took a mighty upward swipe at Ailig’s extended arm.
The evil grin left the wretch’s face as his severed hand and the sword flew over the battlements. Shouts of warning followed by a loud gasp rose up from the crowd below.
Fynn lunged, skewering Ailig with his dagger. The brute’s eyes crossed as he collapsed to his knees and died in a gurgling heap at Jeannie’s dangling feet.
David put up his sword and secured Shona’s aunt while Fynn removed the gag and slit the rope binding her hands. She slumped into his embrace, weeping.
Ewan slapped David on the back. “Well done, lad. Ye saved the day.”