The Night Side

by Melanie Jackson

  His seemingly undirected rambles took him in this new direction, previously unexplored because of the ruggedness of the coastline, but now made attractive because of this very discouraging geographical unpleasantness. The path soon disappeared and he was obliged to carry on, using both hands and feet to find his way over the slimy stone intrusions while water drooled down upon him from the sullen sky.

  It seemed ridiculous to persist in this quest with the weather worsening overhead, but an inner sense, honed through years of watchfulness, told him there was still some means of egress into the castle that he had not discovered. Many ocean-side fortifications had secret passages leading to sea caves where boats could be stored, in the event that sudden and clandestine evacuation was necessary. He would not be content until he had ruled out the existence of such an architectural vulnerability at Noltland.

  After a short distance, something that remotely resembled a path again appeared, and Colin was able to resume his standard bipedal stance. A few careful steps around a particularly large boulder and he came across the place Tearlach had once mentioned. It was a drochaid, a causeway leading to a tiny deserted islet, Eilean am Meadhan. Mostly buried under rusty seaweed and still in the grip of the fearsome white tidal waters, churned to new heights by the oncoming storm, it was slowly coming exposed as the tide reluctantly retreated the last few hand widths from the ancient gray and red stones.

  Colin grunted in satisfaction: where there were causeways, there were often moorings.

  He turned and examined the rocks about him. The high-water mark, barely visible with the rain coming down, told him that at the tide’s zenith there would be plenty of room for a boat with an average draft to navigate to the shore, if it remained tucked up to the mainland until it reached the naturally occurring jetty jutting out from the cliff face.

  A soft inhuman moan behind him drew Colin’s attention. Mostly invisible from the shore, and completely invisible from the sea because of overlapping boulders, was an entrance to a cave. The violent tidal retreat was causing it to exhale in an eerie manner.

  “Aha!”

  Hair rising along his neck, Colin followed the line of tattered seaweed up to the cavern’s dark mouth. There he paused and cursed himself for not having had the foresight to bring a lantern.

  Not long deterred by this oversight, he soon recovered his temper and began thinking sensibly. He had a quick hunt around the entrance, seeking out high ledges where a lantern might be stored, and presently was rewarded with the discovery of an oilskin bag that rendered up both a lantern and flint. The lantern’s shallow well seemed nearly empty, suggesting either that the last visitor had been careless about refilling it before he came ashore, or else the passage from the castle was a long and possibly complicated one, which had consumed most of the unpleasant-smelling oil in the reservoir.

  It took some doing, because the sea and wet wind were both set against cooperation, but Colin finally managed to set the wick alight. By then the ocean had surrendered as much land as it cared to and was beginning to double back on its treacherous course.

  Colin muttered several more bad words but made haste into the cave’s interior. The walls were wet to just past his head, but barren of tidal life, something he found curious. The tide must run too quickly to permit any of the usual crustaceans and limpets to make their homes there. A quick touch of the glassy smooth wall confirmed his theory and also argued for extreme caution. Any tide that could polish the walls of a stone cave smooth to the height of a man was not something to be navigated frivolously. Still, he had a few minutes yet…

  He walked quickly to the back of the cave and discovered three channels opening off of the main chamber, all adequately large to serve as a passage for a man or even a pony. He began an exploration of the passage on the right, but halted when he discovered that it also branched. Both forks headed downward, putting them below the level of the cave. Water would pour through them at a breakneck rate when the sea arrived at the cavern mouth. Anything caught in the wrong passage at the incorrect time would be forced into the bowels of the cliff and drowned in the darkness. It was quite likely that no body would ever be found.

  It was also more than possible that the passage had been laid with traps. Usually the Scots did not bother with such subtleties, but Noltland’s builder had obviously not been the usual, straightforward variety of man. Those horrible gibbets positioned right outside the bedchamber windows proved that. Who could guess what subtle tortures he might have indulged in while building the castle?

  Colin muttered again, this time combining curses into a new and unusual pattern and adding some particularly rude Flemish phrases. He wanted to go on, but he had nothing with which he could mark the walls to ensure his safe return if he grew disoriented underground, not even a rope to lay down a short trail. His lantern was also feeling very light now, and its flame was fading.

  He couldn’t risk exploring, not with the greedy sea already on the turn and being driven by the weather. He and Lucien would have to come back at low tide tomorrow. Colin would have preferred to have MacJannet with him, but with the man’s bad leg, such rough exploration was out of the question.

  The day was not a complete loss, however. Colin was certain now that there was yet some other secret entrance to the castle that he had been unable to find from the castle’s side. He could do nothing else about it today, but he would find it on the morrow and see that it was finally sealed. After that, Frances and George would be fairly safe from outside attack.

  MacJannet had been correct in his prediction that the men would begin their return that day. More than a dozen arrived before the storm loosed itself on the land, and a handful more before the day ended. They came heavily laden with packs and some even with loaded ponies. They were, on the whole, rather thin, and many bore new scars, but were happy in spite of their defeat by the English, the king’s death, and a minor skirmish with a band of overbold Gunns who were hunting in the area.

  There was fresh rejoicing at Noltland, but also order as Frances oversaw the tearful preparation for yet another feast. Colin watched her with pride as he greeted the returning Balfours.

  The men did not know what to think. They were not inclined to welcome into their midst a man who was half English and half MacLeod, and who had also had the temerity to marry their late laird’s daughter without asking anyone’s permission. On the other hand, they knew that they had Colin Mortlock to thank for their liberation and for looking after Noltland while they were locked in futile battles in the South.

  Which wasn’t actually the case. Frances had managed the deed quite nicely on her own for many months, but Colin didn’t correct their misconceptions and neither did George. He hadn’t instructed the lad in what to say, but the boy was canny enough to sense that a united male front was what was needed to carry the day in the face of so much skepticism and, in some cases, outright hostility.

  George did his part well, but it was plain that the men were dismayed at the small and rather unhealthy boy who was the new laird. They looked from Colin to George to the bishop’s men and then back again, their minds plainly busy with uneasy thoughts that would have to be sorted out once the celebration of homecoming was over. They did not make formal declarations of allegiance, and neither Colin nor George pressed for one.

  Colin had explained to the boy before they went downstairs that it was possible his uncle still lived, and therefore he might not actually be the rightful heir to the title of laird. George had digested this news in thoughtful silence, not volunteering his thoughts on the matter. So sober and reflective had he been that Colin had felt moved to hastily reassure the boy that whatever happened, he—and Harry—would always have a place with Frances and him.

  George had looked up and smiled fleetingly, but made no comment other than a soft-voiced thank-you. Colin found himself agreeing with Frances’s sometime comment that the boy was too much within himself and needed more recreation. If he were left too long in his own somber company,
his personality might be permanently overshadowed by gloom. It made Colin more determined than ever to rid the land of their would-be assassin, so they could safely depart from Noltland before the winter stranded them in the North.

  MacJannet circulated easily among the men, as did Lucien de Talle, but the weary soldiers said, to a man, that they knew nothing of Gilbert Balfour’s whereabouts, or whether he even lived.

  This was disappointing, but in other respects Colin was pleased with what he saw. The men were obviously taken aback by George’s age, and therefore it was highly unlikely that they had known anything about him. That in turn decreased the odds that any of them had had a hand in trying to eliminate him. It was something Colin had to consider carefully, for any of them made a great suspect in this piece of villainy. Anne Balfour would likely aid a family member, and they could very well know about secret passages into the castle.

  Colin was used to pretense and feigning untrue emotion, but he was fairly certain that this new and inconvenient feeling of love and protectiveness would have forbidden him from breaking bread with any man he suspected of harboring lethal ill will for either George or Frances. It would probably have also forbidden him from letting any suspected villain live. And that would probably upset Frances. Most ladies did not care for bloodshed at the table.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Nothing in his life

  Became him like the leaving it; he died

  As one that had been studied in his death,

  To throw away the dearest thing he ow’d,

  As ‘twere a careless trifle.

  —William Shakespeare, Macbeth

  Colin and Frances finally had time for a private discussion after the castle’s inhabitants retired to bed. While the Balfour men were being reunited with their loving wives and going to their rest in welcoming arms, Colin and Frances were still arguing about future plans, matters of trust, and eavesdropping.

  The latest words of accusation and disappointment still hung in the air between them, waiting for something—perhaps words of forgiveness—to dissipate them when the moon began to set.

  At last breaking off from the battle of gazes, Frances glanced over at the pillow beside her, the bolster on which Colin—her husband, lord, and master, she reminded herself—was supposed to rest, and saw a small sheet of parchment tucked beneath it.

  “Frances,” he said softly. “Perhaps this is not the moment—”

  Hands suddenly trembling, she lifted the paper and read:

  To Frances

  It is a short time since I kissed you,

  And from that morn lov’d you true;

  Your graceful form and raven hair,

  May with a fabl’d Diana compare;

  Your voice, so honey sweet,

  Still on my heart does seem to beat;

  And ‘twas the first wish of my life,

  To win thee for my wife;

  Deign, ma belle, a sign to send,

  And may your heart my plea defend.

  She looked up at Colin, her eyes wide. It was a bad poem, but the sentiment behind it was lovely beyond expectation and a gift she had not expected. Her hurt and anger began to drain away.

  Her lips parted, but before she could speak there came an urgent knocking upon their door. Three short knocks, a pause, and then two more.

  Colin went immediately to the chamber door and drew back the bolt. MacJannet, carrying a lantern and his sword, slipped inside.

  “The boy’s gone and there’s blood on the chamber floor. A few drops only, but—”

  “And the hound? Where is Harry?” Colin reached for his own sword, donning it along with some cloak of purpose that made him look suddenly hard and tall, and showed Frances clearly the difference between annoyance and true rage in her husband. She would never mistake one for the other again.

  Suddenly the Colin in her chamber was a stranger to her.

  “He’s been locked up below with a bone. Probably lured there by our traitor. I suppose we are a bit late in bricking up the last passage.”

  MacJannet’s words struck fear into Frances’s heart, driving away all other emotions. “George is gone?” she whispered. “He has been taken?”

  “Roust the household and free the hound.” Colin’s voice was harsh. “See that everyone is armed. We go to hunt.”

  “Anne Balfour?” MacJannet asked.

  “I’ll deal with her.”

  As MacJannet slipped from the room, Colin turned and gave his wife a short look, which she could not interpret in the dim light. It was cold enough to chill her, yet she knew none of the anger was directed at her. “Bolt the door behind me and do not leave the chamber.”

  “But,” Frances began, pushing the covers from her trembling legs. “I must come. It is George—”

  “This may be a trick!” Colin answered. “We can’t know how many are in the castle. We may soon be overrun. They have one prisoner. Let us not be generous and give them two.”

  It seemed for an instant that he would leave on those words. But then he took the three steps to her side, and pulling her close, he kissed her briefly.

  “Don’t let our possible last words be angry ones,” he murmured. Then: “Say you love me—and then bolt the door behind me.”

  “I love you,” she answered, not thinking whether this reply was true or not, only knowing that she needed to answer him at once.

  “And I you, Frances.”

  It wasn’t until he was gone that the full import of what he said entered Frances’s mind. But once there, the seed rooted quickly.

  Last words…We may be overrun.

  I love you.

  And I you.

  “Mon Dieu!”

  Frances stood for a moment, trembling with fear and cold, and also the beginnings of rage. Then she made her decision. Instead of reaching for the bolt, she turned toward her pannier, reaching for her heaviest club. She tarried only long enough to thrust her feet into her shoes and then she was out the door.

  No one was going to take George and Colin from her, not while she had breath left in her body! She had waited too long for happiness!

  Colin stood over a weeping Anne Balfour. Her lips were bloodless and he had seen overboiled tripe with better color.

  “I did not know he would take the boy! I thought the plot at an end when I left the note telling him of your marriage.”

  “How many of our enemy have you let inside, and which clan are they? The Gunns?”

  “Nay, I cannot—”

  Colin raised his sword, his face and voice as cold as the iron in his hands. “You’ll name them now or go to Hell with your soul dyed in sin.”

  “’Tis Iain Dubh of the MacDonnells,” she choked out, stricken eyes on the sword above her. Knowing the MacLeod’s history with this man, she clearly expected to be struck down for naming him to the laird’s cousin.

  “Why, Anne? Tell me why,” Frances whispered, coming into the room. The fingers that held her club were as white as her night rail. “George never did you any harm. He is just a boy.”

  “I did it because I loved him,” Anne wept, dropping her face into her hands. Clearly, she did not mean George. “And he said he would not marry me if I did not let him in…But it is only Iain Dubh and his brother, I swear. No other was with them. He promised. He said he would not hurt the boy—just take him away.”

  “No other was with him then,” Colin answered. “But who knows how many may have followed once the tunnel was opened. And you are a stupid woman if you believed that George’s life would be spared. Why should it be?”

  Anne Balfour wept harder.

  Colin raised his sword again, prepared to strike, but then paused.

  Lucien de Talle entered the room, his sword also drawn. “Finish it,” he said harshly.

  “Nay, we may need her. It is possible that she may have some useful knowledge. I’ll question her later.”

  Lucien digested this and then finally nodded. He turned on his heel and left the chamber. His voice
called back: “They went to the dungeons. There is a trail of blood on the stairs.”

  “I know,” Colin answered. “Start looking for a passage in the east wall.”

  “Make haste! Or we shall go without you.”

  “I’m coming! Frances, stay with her,” Colin said, turning to Frances as he lowered his voice. “Do not get close enough for her to grab you. I’d not put it past her to stick a dagger in you if she can. Bolt the door behind me—and this time do as I say! If she tries to leave the chamber, kill her. If we don’t find the passage I shall return to fetch her. Be here.”

  Frances swallowed once but she did not flinch at the commands. She managed a nod.

  “I’ll find George, Frances. I swear it. You must have faith, cherie.”

  The door closed sharply behind Colin, and this time Frances did throw the bolt. “It is not about faith,” she whispered, listening to the many footsteps hurrying by in the passage. “It is about love—and duty.”

  “He promised! He promised! He said we should escape together,” Anne wept, still huddled on the floor. “We would go away tonight.”

  “Be still!” Frances ordered, swinging her club hard and making the air whistle with menace. Rage made her voice shake. “Weeping solves nothing. He has abandoned you. You are lost. But George may not yet be dead. So you will tell me now: what was this plan you made? Where might they have taken George? Where is this secret passage you opened for them?”

  A shocked Anne looked up. Whatever she saw in her kinswoman’s face frightened her into tearlessness.

  “I do not need to wait for Colin to question you,” Frances warned softly, again swinging her club.

  “It’s in the cellar—in the cave maze.” Anne’s voice quavered.

  “Get up!” Frances ordered. “You will show me where this passage is. Does it lead to the sea as Colin suspects?”