Page 4 of Highland Dove

The sound of the Englishman’s boot heels clicked against the stone in the underground chamber, echoing loudly as the guard made his way toward them. The sound of dripping water from a crack in the ceiling reverberated in Duncan’s ears, becoming louder and making even his shallow breathing sound like a windstorm now. The scent of musty air and death filled his nostrils. His stomach turned and a shiver ran up his spine. They’d barely been given much to eat at all in the last few weeks. Both of them were gaunt and hungry. Plus, their surroundings weren’t fit for a pig, let alone the captured sons of a Highland chieftain.

The English only emptied the chamber pots once a week, and only when they happened to remember. Even the rats stopped coming by since the place smelled so foul and there wasn’t a crumb to be found anywhere. Duncan hated the English for the way they’d been treating him and his brother. And right now, he felt as if he also hated his own clan for not sending someone to save them. How could Clan MacLean leave them in this horrible situation?

The guard’s head snapped up and his eyes opened wide as he spotted Duncan outside the cell. “It’s the prisoner,” he called out to his friend. “He’s escaped!”

As the guard fumbled for his sword, Duncan’s efforts were finally rewarded. The makeshift key turned in the lock, and Duncan pushed the door open for his brother. Quickly spinning on his heel with his fist raised, he managed to knock out the guard. The Englishman fell to the ground in a heap with the bottle of whisky still clutched in his hand. He had never even drawn his weapon. Slowly, the man’s fingers opened, releasing the bottle as the guard lay there unconscious. A gurgling sound drew Duncan’s attention downward as the whisky flowed from the bottle and the heavenly scent filled the air.

“What’s going on?” shouted the second guard, coming after the first.

“Fast, throw me the spoon!” Angus begged for his brother’s help, reaching out although his arms were still shackled to the far wall.

“Nay,” Duncan answered, bending down to pick up the bottle of whisky. He almost laughed when he saw the astonished look on his brother’s face.

“Duncan? Ye’re no’ really leavin’ me here to die, are ye?” he gasped. There was a distinct hint of a tremble in his voice that raised an octave as he spoke. Angus was probably the fiercest warrior of the clan and had never been frightened of anything in his life. That is, up until now.

“Dinna fash yerself,” Duncan told him with a chuckle, taking a quick swig of whisky before reaching down to unclasp the ring of keys from the unconscious guard. He tossed the keys to his brother through the open door. “Use this, it’ll be easier.” Taking another draw from the bottle, Duncan reveled in the feel of the whisky burning a path down to his belly, bringing him back to life. A satisfied sigh slipped from his lips.

“Thank ye, Brathair,” said Angus in relief.

Duncan collected the guard’s sword as the second guard moved closer, struggling to unsheathe his sword, but with little results. The Englishman’s actions were slow. Confusion filled him because of being inebriated. He walked in a staggered line toward the cells, having trouble just standing. Duncan’s eyes flashed down to the bottle in his own hand, wondering how much whisky the men had drunk.

“Got it,” came his brother’s cry of jubilation as he released himself from his chains and hurried to the door. “What are ye doin’?” he asked, his eyes moving from the guard on the floor to the one fumbling to find his sword. “Kill them, Duncan. What are ye waitin’ for?”

“Blethers, Angus, one man is unconscious and the other is too well in his cups to even draw his blade,” spat Duncan, taking another swig from the bottle. “I canna kill unarmed men.” Duncan was a strong, fearless warrior like his brother, but he also never provoked a man or killed one if he could not defend himself in a fair fight.

“Well, after what they did to us, I dinna have any qualms about takin’ their lives. Give me the sword and I’ll do it.” His brother reached for the weapon but Duncan held it to the side.

“Nay.” Duncan pushed away his brother’s hand, using his hand that gripped the bottle. He took one last swig of whisky before using the bottle, bringing it down hard atop the second guard’s head. The bottle broke and the remaining whisky splashed out. The man’s eyes rolled back in his head and his body went limp. His knees buckled beneath him. Then he fell full-force atop his friend, unconscious as well.

“Nay!” bellowed Angus, eyeing up the broken bottle. “I would have liked a little of that whisky. Couldna ye have used the hilt of the sword to hit him instead?” He looked so forlorn that it almost made Duncan laugh, but he didn’t. However, he did regret wasting the precious whisky.

“Help me drag them into the cell. We’ll lock them inside,” instructed Duncan.

“I still think we should kill them,” complained Angus with a shake of his head. Moving his large frame quickly, he confiscated the second guard’s sword and dagger. Then he dragged the man into the cell as Duncan did the same with the other. “Ye’ve become soft sittin’ in that cage for nearly the past month, Brathair. Ye’d better hope I dinna tell Faither and the rest of the clan that ye let our captors live.”

“It’s Christmas Eve today,” Duncan pointed out. “Besides, I dinna care what our clan thinks after they did naught to save us.”

“The English also killed twelve of our best warriors unless ye’ve forgotten.”

“I ken, and that hurts me deeply. But that, Brathair, was in battle.”

“But it wasna a fair fight.”

“Still, they all had a means of protectin’ themselves.” Duncan’s eyes roamed back to the guards. “I canna kill unarmed men durin’ Yuletide, no matter who they are. It just doesna seem right.”

“Och,” spat Angus. “Now is a fine time for havin’ morals. Ye realize ye are talkin’ like a scared wench again!”

“Stop complainin’. I got us out, didna I?” With the guards inside the cell, Duncan slammed and locked the door.

“We’re no’ out of here yet,” Angus reminded him. “And for all we ken, there could be ice and snow out there. Or did ye forget that it’s winter? That is goin’ to slow down our travels back to Scotland. Especially if we’re bein’ chased by those English curs!” Angus made a face and spit through the bars at the guards who stirred slightly and started to moan.

“All that matters is that we get back to Scotland,” Duncan told him. “I am supposed to wed Mari on Hogmanay and I still intend to do it.”

“Ye really think she will have waited for ye?” asked his brother, looking at him as though he thought he’d gone daft. “After all, we’ve been gone for three weeks now. Since the clan didna come for us or send the ransom, that tells me they’ve given up hope. I’m sure they must think we’re dead.”

“Nay, I dinna believe they’d leave us here to die. Somethin’s no’ right,” said Duncan. Slipping the dagger into his boot, he headed for the door with the sword clutched tightly in his grasp. “Mari never would have let the others stop lookin’ for me. She would never have given up hope of findin’ me again. We’re in love!”

“She’s back at her own clan and probably doesna even ken that we’d been captured,” mumbled Angus, hurrying after him. “Eideard gave us bad information and has probably lied to her as well. Besides, even if she does ken, it’s been so long that she surely thinks we’re dead by now.”