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"An exaggeration." Ella shrugged. "Suffice to say that Connor Douglas is taller than maun. And a good few inches taller than that despicable twin of his. Nay, ye can't tell it at a glance, lad. 'Tis impossible to predict how tall a mon stands when he's scrunched down so."
"And wide," the boy said as he scrutinized Connor. "'Tis said The Black Douglas's shoulders are so wide that Bracklenaer's doors had to be widened to allow him to pass."
Ella snorted and clucked her tongue. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. Do ye believe e'erything ye hear, lad?"
"Aboot The Black Douglas, I do," Simon announced proudly. Ella was sure she heard more than a smidgen of admiration in the boy's tone, and saw more than a wee spark of admiration light the gaze the boy ran fondly over Connor's supposedly sleeping form. "'Tis exactly like him I want to be when I'm a mon full grown. 'Tis exactly like him I shall be."
"Does that mean we can look forward to seeing ye warming the dungeon in Bracklenaer in, och! say another score or twa?"
"Nay! A Maxwell is not so easily caught by their enemies. The ballads praise The Black Douglas's cunning and quickness. I'm of a mind that if such were true, I'd not be looking at him now."
"Och! lad, believe me, if the fight were a fair one, 'tis true, ye'd not be having the pleasure of seeing him now. Unfortunately, such wasn't the case."
Simon's frown deepened thoughtfully. The man upon whose shoulders he perched again demanded he move his leg, but Ella did not think the lad heard, so intently was he looking at Connor. "Are ye telling me The Black Douglas was taken unarmed? He dinny e'en put up a fight?"
"How could he? He was ne'er given a chance. E'en the fist of The Black Douglas's is nae match for Gordie's broadsword, lad." Ella took a step toward the door and, lowering her voice as though afraid she'd awaken her cousin, whispered confidingly, "They dinny tell ye? Yer brothers Gordie and Roy took Connor prisoner whilst he slept."
Ella suppressed a smile; the boy's horrified expression did not disappoint her.
"Nay!"
"Aye!"
Connor stirred, and the cell grew abruptly silent.
Through the shield of his lashes, Connor watched the boy slip his right hand through the bars. The lad's knuckles looked youthfully pudgy as his fingers opened.
Ella, God bless her quick-thinking Douglas heart, coughed noisily to mask the sound of the object the boy dropped clattering atop the hard, cold stone.
"Ne'er let it be said that a Maxwell won unfairly," the lad said with a maturity that belied his bairnishly rounded cheeks.
"Fair or nay, that a Maxwell did win this day is all that matters now," the man holding the boy grumbled. Simon had only a fleeting second in which his glance volleyed meaningfully between Ella and the object hidden by the shadows near her feet before the man stepped away from the door, hauling his youthful burden with him. "Now, get ye down, lad, a'fore I end up with me shoulders permanently stooped from bearing ye."
"A Maxwell has nae need to cheat, don't ye ken?" the boy argued, his voice fading a bit as the man set him down on his feet. "We can win against the Douglas fairly. Just ye wait and see."
"What's that ye say? Lad, have ye learned so little from yer da? There's naught unfair or shameful aboot finding yer enemy's weak spots and taking him down by them."
"Mayhap," the boy murmured. "But there's much to be proud of in taking yer enemy a'ter a fair fight. For example, were I the one who'd come upon The Black Douglas this morn instead of Gordie and Roy..."
The boastful ring of the boy's words faded. A pair of receding footsteps—one's stride long and sure, the other's short and quick as it hurried to keep st
ep—indicated the man was escorting his young charge away from the cell door and down the shadow-strewn hallway.
Connor forced his suddenly alert muscles to keep their reclining pose when he would rather have bolted to his feet and satisfied his curiosity by inspecting the object the youngest Maxwell had left behind. Prudence held both his and Ella's impatience in check until they heard the thunk of a door closing in the not too far-distance.
Assured they were alone, Connor opened his eyes and pushed to his feet. By the time he reached his cousin's side, Ella had already retrieved the object.
"Och! Connor will ye look at this. 'Tis a skean dhu, and quite a fine one." She turned the small dirk this way and that, holding the weapon up as though trying to get one of the dreary gray rays of sunlight that managed to sneak in through the window to glint off the small emerald embedded in the short, thick hilt. The steel blade was squat, but sharp and nonetheless deadly.
Connor's gaze shifted between the dirk and his cousin. Did she have any idea the value of the object she held? Nay, he doubted it. Gently, as though reaching out to take the hand of a long-lost and treasured friend, he took the weapon from her. "Show some respect, lass. 'Tis not just any skean dhu."
"Surely ye dinny mean...?" She tipped her red head and looked at him quizzically.
"Aye, surely I do, " he said, and as his gaze lifted from the dirk to meet Ella's, he grinned broadly. "'Tis the one Colin stole from me near a half score ago. The one our da gave to me upon his deathbed."
Connor held the dirk up, his gaze admiring it respectfully even as his brow frowned with the memory. The weapon was small, but the symbolism of it was weighty indeed. The dirk was a weapon the real Black Douglas, James, friend of Robert the Bruce, had taken into many a battle with him, a weapon that had been tucked into the boots of all the lairds of the Douglases of Bracklenaer since.
Until the weapon had been entrusted to Connor's care, that is.
