Alex peered down the stock of his crossbow. “So what's your answer?”
“I cannae do that,” the kitchen master pleaded. “I haven't the authority to go to the dungeons … but I can see ye out from the castle. I can help ye escape.”
“He lies!” The outburst came from the tall thin man, who stood well back from the fray. “He uses captives from the dungeons as slave labor – chains them to a counter and has them prepare food.”
Alex had heard that voice before. He lowered his bow. “Duncan?” he said, astonished. “Can you really be Duncan from Mr. McRae's farm?”
“The same.” Duncan bowed his head in greeting. “I'm glad to have caught up with ye at last, Alex. We must tell the professor the good news.”
“The professor?” Alex repeated.
“Aye, Professor Macintyre. Ye know him, do ye not? He tells me ye've met in the airplane.”
“Oh, yes … of course.” Alex's head was spinning. “The professor is here?”
“Aye, he and I have had quite the trials and tribulations since we embarked on our quest to find ye lot.” Duncan broke into a wry smile. “We both needed to assume positions at this castle – not an easy thing to do, let me assure ye. I used my knowledge of growing vegetables to gain the employ of the kitchens, where I'm to ensure the finest of foods are bought and prepared for the castle lord and visiting nobles and dignitaries. The professor, on the other hand, has become the castle lord's fool.”
“A fool?”
“Aye, and a fine job he does entertaining Lord Hesselrigge with his clever witticisms. It's a position with some prestige, and it gives him the run of much of the castle. We were hoping ye'd all get rounded up by Hesselrigge's men so we could take ye all to the kitchen as slaves one day and, from there, find a way to escape into the caves.”
“One day! Don't you know? Annie and Willie have been accused of being rebel spies. Out in the courtyard, Hesselrigge's men are putting up the gallows. They're to hang tonight!”
Color drained from Duncan's face. “No! That cannae be –”
“The lad speaks true,” the stable master said. “I was told of this firsthand by the master builder.”
“We have no time to waste then.” Duncan prodded the kneeling kitchen master. “We must compel this bag of dirt here to order the captain of the guards to bring the captives to the kitchens.”
“Ye must know it's not that simple,” the stable master said. “We cannae all be wandering about the castle without being challenged.”
“The kitchen master and I can,” Duncan replied. “And so can ye and Don-Dun, if ye put on the slain guards' armor. Alex we can bring along in irons.”
The stable master looked with distaste at the dead guards. “There's no point in this,” he said. “We're in enough trouble already for killing the kitchen master's guards. Freeing captives will only seal our fate.”
“Not so,” Alex interrupted. “When William Wallace captures this castle, he'll reward the people who fought against Hesselrigge.”
The stable master impatiently slapped his loose glove against the palm of his other hand. “This castle is impenetrable – not even Wallace and his band of brigands can take it.”
“With our help they can!” Alex replied.
“Oh, this is good!” the stable master said. “Now we are to somehow help overthrow Hesselrigge altogether. This is turning into a farce. It's not as if Wallace's men stand waiting for us outside the castle gates.”
“But they do. I spoke with William Wallace only yesterday. He and his men will attack the castle at dawn tomorrow.”
The enormity of what Alex said filled the room.
Don-Dun broke the silence. “Forgive me, Alex,” he said gently. “But it's not every day that I meet a lad who comes from a future time, when ships fly in the air, and now claims to not only be on speaking terms with Wallace himself, but also to know what he will do on the morrow.”
“Far-fetched, perhaps,” Duncan said. “However, at this point, it seems to me that ye stand nothing further to lose and everything to gain.”
Don-Dun sighed. “Well, I guess this is no time for half-measures.” He turned to the stable master. “Help me with this, will you?”
The stable master grudgingly propped up a dead guard so Don-Dun could pull off the armor. It was sticky with clotted blood.
Don-Dun grimaced. “We'll need to rinse this armor in a trough before we put it on. What say ye?”
The stable master shrugged. Taking up an armload of bloody armor, he followed Don-Dun down the ramp, leaving the two dead soldiers crumpled on the floor.
The kitchen master's eyes darted towards the stable doors.
Duncan blocked his way. “Just try it – truly, I would like ye to try it. It would give me such pleasure. Or would ye like to call for the guards? It would be the last sound ever to come from your miserable throat.” Teeth gritted, Duncan raised his dagger.
“No … please … spare me.” The kitchen master collapsed at Duncan's feet, covering his head with his hands.
Duncan's lip curled. “Ye have no idea how hard it has been, Alex, to have been the servant of this cowardly specimen of inhumanity. If ye saw how he treated the poor, hungry, and tired slaves he brought up from the dungeons … nonstop work with no food or rest … the only thing keeping the slaves going was the constant threat of having a finger or a hand cut off by this monster….” Duncan paused. “I'll no give ye more details, m'lad,” he added, a catch in his throat, “except to say that to not fall into despair, I had to keep telling myself that surely this isn't the essential state of humanity; surely this is only an abhorrent example of what we are capable.”
Alex heard the clink of armor and the pounding of heavy feet. He was sure it was Don-Dun and the stable master, but, nonetheless, the sight of two fierce armored guards clanking their way up the ramp gave him a fright.
Don-Dun removed his tight-fitting helmet and twisted awkwardly in his armor. “How on earth do they wear these things all day? I cannae even pull my shirt out from down my backside.”
“Well, I'm not going to help ye with that!” The stable master snorted. He took the manacles from his belt, fastened one end loosely about Alex's wrist, and promptly gave him a shove.
Alex fell and glared up at him. “What did you do that for?”
“Practice.” The stable master pulled Alex back up. “I'm the mean guard, remember?”
“How could I forget?” Alex rubbed his wrist. “Are you done practicing?”
“Almost.” The stable master gave Alex another shove. “Remember to keep a still tongue in your head.”
Alex stayed as far out of the stable master's reach as the manacle chain would allow.
“On your feet, vermin.” Duncan pulled the kitchen master up by the back of his shirt and pressed the dagger point against the small of his back. “Feel that? Here it will be, awaiting the slightest wrong move on your part. Make sure ye say and do all the right things, or they'll be your last.”
Don-Dun held open the stable door. Alex's heart soared. They were off to the dungeons to free his friends.
21
TO THE DUNGEONS
The kitchen master led the way, Duncan close by his side holding the dagger concealed against the small of his back. The stable master and Don-Dun clinked along behind them, dragging a scurrying Alex, who was ever watchful of catching a cuff from the stable master's heavy glove.
They passed under an ornate arch. Through narrow slits on each side, Alex caught glimpses of the sea and the harbor and realized they were traveling through the covered bridge that spanned the chasm from the blockhouse to the castle.
Along the way, they drew curious looks, but no one tried to stop or question them. Feeling cheerful, Alex wondered who would have believed, just this morning when he left Mrs. Bruford's cottage, that he would actually make it this far. He no longer anticipated his own death with heavy resignation. He had to succeed – the lives of his friends depended on it!
O
nce inside the castle, Duncan led them through dimly lit chambers. A curtain flung open in a nearby alcove, and a well-dressed blond man seated at a table with three soldiers glared at them.
Duncan pulled the kitchen master in close. “If they suspect us, ye'll be the first to die,” he hissed. “Remember that.”
The blond man rose. “Well, if it isn't the kitchen master. Where be ye off to this fine day?”
Alex's heart sank. Although he was cleaned up, his hair neatly combed back, the man was unmistakably Rorie – the traitor they had discovered in the soldiers' camp at Loch Karins. Alex hid behind the stable master.
The kitchen master held his back arched from Duncan's dagger. “We're off to the dungeons for some more kitchen workers,” he grunted.
Rorie and his men stood before them to block their way. “Since when do ye pick your own kitchen slaves?” he asked.
“Oh, ye should have seen the last scrawny bunch they sent us, Sire,” Duncan said hastily. “Couldn't get any work out of them – even after the kitchen master cut off a finger or two with his cleaver. One even went mad and played with two dead cocks, pretending one was Lord Hesselrigge and the other William Wallace….”
“Silence!” Rorie held up his hand. “Do not speak unless spoken to, servant!” He tilted his head to see past the stable master. “What manner of captive is that cowering behind ye?”
“A miscreant,” the stable master replied hastily. “Fit for naught but kitchen tasks.”
Alex kept his face averted. Rorie's eyes narrowed and his voice was full of menace. “Well, well, look who we have here. I do believe this captive needs to join the others we have in for questioning.”
“There's nae point in that.” Don-Dun tried to sound casual. “The lad is deaf and dumb, barely more than an animal. We've heard naught from him but a few grunts.”
“We'll see how much grunting he does when we stretch him on the rack.” Rorie laughed. “Indeed, he may have some interesting things to tell us.”
The stable master stood stiffly at attention. “I would be pleased to escort this miscreant to the rack room for ye, Sire,” he announced in an official voice.
“Aye, good idea. Let us all go to the dungeons together.” Rorie turned to the kitchen master. “Ye can pick out your slaves and –” Rorie stopped to eye him suspiciously. “Is there something wrong?”
The kitchen master jerked his head back and forth.
“There's no need to be upset about me taking your captive,” Rorie said with a small crooked smile. “There's plenty more in the dungeons.”
“But none that are as fit, Sire,” Duncan babbled. “There is much work to be done in the kitchens. Lord Hesselrigge will be displeased if we fall behind –”
“Silence!” Rorie's hand fell onto his sword. “One more word from ye … servant,” Rorie spat, “and your tongue will be fed to the dogs. Do not presume to tell me what Lord Hesselrigge wants – he is not concerned with trifles.”
Rorie tapped one of his soldiers. “Go up to Hesselrigge now and tell him we have another of the foreign spies in custody. He may well wish to question this one personally. This one I know to have been in Wallace's camp recently.”
They descended, Rorie's torch flickering shadows down narrow dark spiral steps. The stairs ended in a cold damp alcove deep in the lower castle basements. Beyond an iron gate, a low arched corridor was dimly lit by a long row of smoky torches. There was a steady plink, plink of water dripping somewhere in the distance.
Rorie cupped his hands to call through the bars. “Gate keeper!”
“Keeper, keeper, keeper” echoed back.
Rorie seized a rope that ran between hoops along the wall and gave it a pull. A bell clanged. He gave the rope several more impatient tugs.
Three shadowy figures emerged, the middle one bent and gaunt, half a head shorter than the others.
“Coming, I'm coming, hold your horses,” the bent figure rasped. He shuffled nearer, the lantern in his hand casting eerie shadows. Two heavyset guards followed.
“Who's there?” The gatekeeper's speech was slurred from lack of teeth. He held up his lantern and squinted. “Oh, it's you, Sire,” he said. “What brings ye down here again so soon?”
“We're off to the rack room with another of the foreign spies,” Rorie replied. “The kitchen master is here to pick out some more workers.”
The gatekeeper set his lantern down and held a large ring of skeleton keys to the light. “Let me see now….” He swung one key after another around the ring. “Ah, here we are … no, wait … it's this one.”
“Cm on, man, let me in!” Rorie rattled the gate.
“It's hard, Sire, especially with my eyes.” The gatekeeper fitted key after key into the flat lock before it finally clicked open. He gave the gate a tug.
Rorie shoved it open, the heavy gate screeching on its hinges. He shouldered his way past the gatekeeper, barking orders. “Have the guards fetch the other foreign spies from their cells – that local girl also. Have them brought to the rack room. Keep an eye open for Lord Hesselrigge – he'll be along any minute and will no take kindly to being kept waiting. And get rid of this kitchen master for me.”
As everyone filed past, the gatekeeper raised his hand to catch the kitchen master's attention. “The captives ye want are that way.” He pointed to a side passage. “And this time, go easy with that cleaver of yours. The moaning and groaning I have to listen to when your workers come back is something terrible.”
The kitchen master grunted. Duncan's hidden dagger gently propelled him in the direction the gatekeeper indicated.
The others followed Rorie down a central passage with a heavy stench that made Alex think of open sewers. Low barred openings lined both sides. Shocked, Alex saw pale shrunken faces, eyes pleading, float up behind the bars. Behind each barred opening was a damp, dark little cell too low to stand in and no wider than outstretched arms. Inside, curled-up human forms lay under dirty rags, asleep, or too weak to raise their heads.
They came to a large, ornately carved door. On either side, lanterns flicked. They entered the dark room, and one of Rorie's guards lit the wall torches.
Chains hung from rings mounted in the wall, each ending in a manacle. In the center of the room were three wooden chairs: each straight-backed, solid, and hard-edged; each dangling leather straps. Next was an ominous, long narrow table with large straps in the middle, smaller ones at the ends. It was split in the middle and had a wheel with spokes on one side. There was only one thing it could be: a rack.
Alex thought of Annie, Katie, and Willie, and panic surged in his chest.
“Excellent!” Rorie rubbed his hands together. “Let's get things ready for Lord Hesselrigge.” He adjusted the rack to a smaller setting.
It was not long before the door burst open, crashing against the wall. Two soldiers marched in and stepped to either side, each holding their swords straight up in readiness. A dark-haired man wearing a fur-trimmed blue cloak strode into the room. At his heels was the soldier Rorie had sent to get Hesselrigge, followed by a figure awkwardly springing along in a loose gray cloak.
“M'Lord Hesselrigge.” Rorie made a slight bow. Rorie's soldier-henchmen stiffened to attention, as did the stable master and Don-Dun. “Ye instructed us, m'Lord, to call for ye the moment another foreign spy was apprehended.”
“Indeed I did – good work.” Hesselrigge spoke to Rorie, but his eyes were on Alex. “Are the others being brought?”
“Aye, m'Lord. A guard is retrieving them, except, of course, the one you sent on up ahead.”
Hesselrigge paced, lost in thought. Stopping abruptly, he stared sharply at Alex. “Do ye no recognize me, Alex?”
Surprised he knew his name, Alex shook his head. As much as he had heard of Hesselrigge, he felt sure he had never met him.
“Think hard, think back – or should I say think forward to a time on a beach not far from here, when you met an antique dealer and his son,” Hesselrigge continued.
&nbs
p; Alex was puzzled. Think forward?
The man in the gray cloak spoke up, jiggling his weight from one foot to another. “Think forward – that is good, Sire. That would be when one thought follows the other in a forward lineal progression. Thinking sideways – that would be good too; that would be when one thought does not pick up where another left off, but leaps to one side and picks up somewhere else instead. But how would one think backward? People often speak of others as backward thinkers, but what could it mean?”
Hesselrigge turned to the gray-cloaked man. “It means that, like ye, they are fools.”
A fool! Alex looked more closely at the gray-cloaked man, who was making a great show of scratching his head, then rubbing his chin with his eyes rolled to the ceiling. Finally, he folded his hands over his head and stared at the floor.
Alex tried hard to remember the features of the professor he'd met on the airplane. It could be him, but the man on the airplane was a serious professor – this was a fool.
“I have it,” the fool proclaimed. “Thinking backward is when one thought begins at the same place as another, but instead of progressing forward, works its way back to where the thought came from. That would be much harder than either thinking forward or sideways. Think backward long enough and ye will find where all thought springs from, which is far better than to find the conclusion of all thought, don't ye think?”
Hesselrigge laughed. “I think ye are a fool – a fool who knows naught of what he says. When I said think forward, I was referring to forward in time from whence he came.”
“What is time, what is place, m'Lord, but a point of view? Perhaps we speak of the same thing, only differently.”
“Ye have no idea of what I speak,” Hesselrigge snapped. “I mean that this lad has traveled back in time.”
“Same place, different time – same time, different place it's all the same to me,” the fool babbled. “I suppose ye, too, have come from a time that has yet to happen, m'Lord?”
The Battle for Duncragglin Page 18