The Gatekeeper
Shivering uncontrollably, Corbin gritted his chattering teeth. He’d scoured the environs without finding a single place to shelter. The sun would go down soon and he’d never spent a night outdoors. Despite the long trek, his feet still felt like two blocks of ice. The robe had chafed every inch of his skin, making it difficult to walk quickly.
Panting hard, he came to an abrupt halt when the gatehouse towers of Caerlochnaven loomed ahead. There was nothing for it but to seek shelter there. He’d be denied entry if he waited until it was completely dark.
He wasn’t concerned Maxwell might recognize him. They’d met only twice in skirmishes when both were clad in full armor and steel bonnets. He doubted he’d even recognize himself in his current condition.
But Kyla MacKeegan would know him if she had been taken to the castle.
Just contemplating those glorious red tresses warmed him.
Distant voices on the air drew his attention to a large group of men and horses approaching from the south. It was now or never.
He picked up his pace and almost collided with a burly fellow who appeared out of the darkness of the gatehouse tunnel.
“Forgive me, my son,” he panted, pulling the hood to cover as much of his face as possible.
The guard took him by the elbow and peered at him. “Ye look done in, Brother. Are ye lost?”
“Aye, an accident…our boat…”
“Ye’d best go to the hall and get warm. They’ll take care o’ ye there.”
The hall was the last place Corbin wanted to be, but he had to get indoors. “I dinna want to trouble the castle folk,” he whined, parroting the man’s brogue, “just a wee mouthful o’ grub and a warm fire.”
The man scraped his beard. “Weel, I’ve pigeon pie and ale in my wee nook. And a brazier. A bit o’ company wouldna go amiss. Name’s Hamish. Follow me.”
The wee nook turned out to be a cramped hole in the wall. But, saints be praised, there was a brazier. Corbin held his hands to the glowing heat, pleased the disgusting muck of the abbey’s fields in his fingernails only added to the authenticity of his disguise.
Hamish chattered on, but Corbin was too immersed in the rebirth of his frozen body to pay attention. Pungent odors assailed his thawing nostrils—male sweat, stale food, and rodent droppings. His gaze fell on a pallet, strewn with rumpled linens. He wondered if Hamish dwelt in this place, squirreled away like a bear in its cozy winter den.
He managed to hold on to a tumbler of ale thrust into one hand and a piece of pigeon pie in the other. He wasn’t fond of pigeon pie, but he wolfed it down like a man who hasn’t eaten for months.
“Sit thee doon,” Hamish said with a chuckle, indicating a rickety three-legged stool.
Corbin complied. If the flimsy stool had held Hamish’s considerable weight…
The gatekeeper picked up a torch and lit it from the brazier. The acrid smell of smoke rendered the fetid air even more difficult to breathe. “I’ll be back shortly,” he said jovially. “Horses approaching, nay doot the laird back from the Firth. Terrible business.”
Corbin stopped chewing, alarm skittering up his spine. “A mishap?”
But Hamish had already lumbered out into the dark tunnel. Corbin could only hope he didn’t mention his guest.
When meager light filtered into the bolthole, he assumed the fellow was lighting torches. Minutes later, the clatter of horses’ hooves echoed off the tunnel walls. Then hushed male voices, too indistinct to hear what was being said.
Corbin itched to creep to the open door and peek, but the risk was too great. After a short while, the sounds receded, the gates thudded shut and Hamish returned, shaking his head.
It wouldn’t be wise to show too much interest, but this was an opportunity to make use of the monastic disguise. “I sense ye’re troubled, my son,” he oozed. “Can I be of help?”
Hamish bit into his pie. “Nay,” he replied with his mouth full, “but the poor wretches they fished out o’ the river might need a few words said o’er their bodies on the morrow.”
Corbin’s revulsion at the lack of manners fled as a maelstrom of confused thoughts swirled through his brain. He could have kicked himself when the first words out of his mouth were, “The river?”
Hamish evidently didn’t deem the question odd. “Aye, the Nith. Two lads from the Hebrides. Drowned when our laird was forced to fire on their birlinn.”
The adder slithering in Corbin’s belly calmed. “Dear, dear,” he gushed, hoping he’d made the popish sign of the crucifix correctly.
Hamish got to his feet, stretched and patted his privates. “Ye can sleep on yon pallet. I’m off for my regular bit o’…” He stopped abruptly, and removed his hands. “Sorry, Brother. Er…I mean…”
Corbin struggled not to smile. A glance at the questionable pallet quickly banished his amusement. “I appreciate yer generosity. God will reward ye.”
The red-faced gatekeeper paused in the doorway. “Almost forgot. They found a third body.”
The adder hissed again. “Oh?”
“Laird Maxwell reckons ’tis the sexton from Darling Abbey. I shoulda thought to have ye come out and confirm it.”
Corbin again cursed himself for an idiot when he replied, “But I’m nay from Darling Abbey.”
Hamish stared at him for what seemed like an eternity, then grunted and left, scratching his bald head.