“With his learning how many of his men have shifted their loyalty to his nephew,” she said, her voice tense, “he will do whatever is necessary to ensure that this time, Cailin is dead.”
Odhran gave a somber nod.
Something Cailin had left knowing. Yet, with only three men, they could travel fast. She prayed ’twould be enough tokeep them safe.
The elder tsked. “Lass, fretting willchange naught.”
“I know.” She unfurled her fingers, picked up a stick, and tossed it into the flames. Another burst of sparks shotinto the night.
“I tell you, he is gone,” an angryvoice charged.
Shoving to her feet, Elspet turned and found the person speaking was the smaller man who’d gotten into the skirmish earlier.
Two of Taog’s men hauled the knight forward before the Romani leader’s men at the fire. “Tell them,” the larger of the two ordered.
Anger filled the younger knight’s eyes, and a streak of blood smeared his brow. “I was going to.” He jerked his arm away. “’Tis Sir Malcolm. I was gathering firewood when I saw him making to slip away. I tried to stop him, but he hit me over the head with a piece of wood. Once I came to, I hurried back to tell you as quickly as I could.”
She fought the rising panic. “Where is he going?”
Worry filled the young knight’s eyes. “To Tiran Castle to warn the earl that Sir Cailin and two others are sneaking into the castle to free the master-at-arms.”
Heart pounding, she stood, turned to the senior man, one of the two who had dragged the young knight forward. “We must warn Sir Cailin, Taog,and Sir James!”
“We canna catch up to them now,” the large Romani warrior said grimly, “but mayhap we can capture Sir Malcolm before he reaches the castle.”
Fear tore through Elspet as she nodded, and she prayed he was right. “I will meet you at my horse.”
The Romani warrior moved before her, his size leaving her within his shadow. “I am under orders. You will remain here, where you willbe protected.”
He shouted out commands, overriding her protests, and within moments several riders gallopedfrom the camp.
Chapter 13
The foul stench of blood and death permeated the secret tunnel, the air raw with the moans of the injured as Cailin lifted a small torch and moved forward behind the dungeon walls. “Can you see Sir Petrus through any of the hidden peepholes?”
“Nay,” Taog whispered behind him.
“Nor I,” Sir James said a few paces away. “They must have moved him.”
The ominous drip of water plopped from above, and Cailin pushed on. Within the meager light, through the thin slits in the stone, he made out the smaller cells, each holding several men. “Blast it, I had hoped to be long gone from TiranCastle by now.”
“We would have been,” Taog agreed, “if we hadna lost time digging out thesecret entry.”
“A move I should have expected my uncle to make, one nay doubt he ordered since learning of my return to Dalkirk land.” He shook his head at his lack of forethought. “’Twas sheer luck Gaufrid hadna sealed that branch of the tunnel when Elspet and I visited the stronghold. God help us if he discovers we are here.”
Cailin made to step forward, then paused. In a cell along the far wall, an elder lay sprawled on the floor asleep, his gray hair tangled with smears of blood and dirt. His gaunt features evidence of his lack of food, his filthy garb of neglect.
Thoughts of his father flickered to Cailin’s mind. If he’d lived, he would have been about the same age. God’s blade, what had the man done to earn such despicable treatment?
He squinted through the dim light at the other prisoners locked within the surrounding cells. Their garb, though plain, was in good repair, and a pitcher of water was available, along with extra blankets in each corner.
A stark contrast to the elder’s empty cell. ’Twas as if the old man had earned his uncle’s personal censure. Whatever the reason, no one deserved to live in such squalor. Once he seized Tiran Castle, he’d find out the crime committed. If but a petty charge, which Cailin suspected, knowing Gaufrid, he’d ensure this elder was released.
“I see Sir Petrus is in the last cell,” Sir James whispered, having moved ahead.
Cailin crept to where the knight stood, secured his candle into an indentation in the wall. His jaw tightened as he took in the torchlit scene.
Within the wash of light, the master-at-arms was shackled to the wall. Blood matted his hair, and swollen cuts and bruises marred his muscled body. Only a vile scoundrel would subject anyone to such torture.
