by Alex Dylan
Melisande dropped to her knees and covered her ears, trying to block the sound of his broken voice forming ugly pictures in her mind.
“Whatever disguises we might hide behind, there will always be someone who discerns what lies beneath. Mark A’Court has found us both. I don’t care what happens to me. This life was always borrowed. But I will fight to save you. Give him the necronomicon. You must.”
“No, I will not surrender the book. It would be like surrendering my own father,” Melisande insisted.
“So, you will burn it just as they burnt him?” countered Rodrigues. “They will kill you anyway, but only after they have tortured you for weeks, after they have twisted you and torn you open on the rack. Look at me.”
She turned her head away from him. He dropped his voice and spoke softly, letting his words caress her.
“Look at me, Mele.”
She grimaced, her eyes screwed as though in pain, yet helpless to stop her lambent gaze from resting upon his scarred face. Not a Lockerbie lick. Something far deadlier; a Judas’s kiss.
“I can’t let them do this to you. You must give me that book,” he pushed her. “Let me save you.” Melisande moved closer to the fire and tore out a handful of pages from the sacred manuscript. She brandished them in her fist, glowering at Rodrigues.
"This is my choice to make, my writings and life’s work also. If my father is in here, then so am I, and like him, I have the right to choose the manner of my own death.
“I was a fool to ever trust you. So, you have sold yourself to them at last? And like the merchant you are, you have fixed a price on me too. You had courage once. You dared to think differently. I loved you for that. I thought you still had the flame within you, but you’ve given your strength instead to Heughan and he blazes like you once did, angry with the world, with the king, with killing. He’s not afraid to stand up against tyranny and not afraid to make the world his own; a new world even. If you are weak, you are finished. There is no weakness in me,” she said proudly.
She threw the pages into the fire, which crackled greedily.
“Stop!” cried Rodrigues, reaching for the flames. “Stop! Without it you will die a horrible death.”
“Let them burn me; I will not feel it!” she shouted back.
Rodrigues drew himself up and loomed towards her. “No, my girl, you won’t feel it, for I will kill you myself. I will not see you suffer.”
Rodrigues stared at Melisande, but she was not looking up at him, she was transfixed in her own gaze. Rodrigues turned to see Heughan standing in the room, his cloak drawn back and his sword in his hand.
“Face me, Spaniard,” said Heughan heavily.
Rodrigues hesitated before smiling a welcome. “Heughan! There you are! As I foretold, you know the secret way to my lady’s chamber. And her heart perhaps? Are you fit, lad? Come and get some fire in your bones,” he gestured to the blazing hearth. “You and I are going to need it tonight.”
“You were waiting behind the curtain, Heughan, I could feel you there,” said Melisande quietly.
“Not Heughan,” interjected Rodrigues. “Too many demons lurking behind curtains, aren’t there, lad?”
“How much did you hear?” she said.
“Too much,” said Heughan. “I’m not interested in your private squabbles over books and history. But Hamish, Roddy? He was one of my own. I want to know what happened and why, because killing you, my friend, will be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
Rodrigues wanted to step back but he could not. He knew better than most what Heughan was capable of once his blood was roused; he had driven him to it many times. It had been his salvation on more than one occasion.
“Calm, Heughan. Put away your sword; you don’t need it yet. Hamish was not the man you thought he was, not for a while since.”
Rodrigues reached carefully into a pouch on his hip and pulled out a small signet ring. He offered it open handed to Heughan, who took it, rubbing the marking with his thumb. Even before he looked, he could feel the rose engraving and knew it to be Mark A’ Court’s seal.
“I took that off Hamish’s body,” said Rodrigues.
“You found him dead?” said Heughan.
Rodrigues stood silently, staring at Heughan, wanting him to work it out, unable to find the bald words to tell him the truth.
“You found him dead?” repeated Heughan. “Where?”
Rodrigues swiped the back of his fist across his dry mouth, he looked around for wine but there was none.
“No. I took that off his body after I had killed him,” said Rodrigues, looking straight ahead, standing upright as he acknowledged his crime, his hands pleading a surrender.
Melisande saw the change in Heughan’s complexion. She felt the shadow pass across his face as much as saw it. His legendary eyes were dulled. Images of the cards tumbled through her mind.
The Hanged Man. Betrayal.
The Chariot. Pulled apart in different directions.
Two of Swords. Painful choices.
The Fool.
Rodrigues spoke again, back in control of himself and Heughan. “He was spying for Mark A’Court, Heughan. You sent him to look for the enemy, but it was always his mission to meet those troops and to guide them into position; he manoeuvred the massacre. We played right into his hands.” Rodrigues looked at Melisande, “Hamish silenced Kerr to implicate others. You, Heughan, Adam – he didn’t care who got the blame. The whole point was to create so much confusion that we would no longer trust one another.”
“He had this on him too,” Rodrigues handed over a reiver’s kerchief. Heughan knew from the colour that it belonged to the Johnstones.
He looked up at Rodrigues. Rodrigues said nothing. They exchanged unspoken understanding; Hamish had been their scout, led them raiding into Liddesdale, led them into ambushes and finally, double-crossed them at the Beeftub.
Heughan crumpled the kerchief and offered it into the flames.
“Hamish was one of our own, Roddy. Who could apply that sort of pressure to make a man betray everything he believes in?”
Rodrigues caught Melisande’s eyes. He smiled sadly. “Everyone has their price. You reminded me Hamish was from Annan. That’s Sim’s territory. Perhaps he was always Sim’s man. Perhaps he was threatened. Perhaps someone else promised him something more. Perhaps he saw an opportunity. Likely, we shall never know.”
“Enough. Enough,” said Heughan softly. “He’s gone. He can’t hurt us anymore, and we have work to do, all of us.”
He held out his hand to help Melisande up. She thrust the book into his hands instead.
“Keep it safe, my love, for us both,” she said, speaking to Heughan but looking into Rodrigues’s eyes. “Guard it as it will guard us. Keep my secrets from those who would seek to harm me or use them against others.”
Heughan took her book reluctantly and frowned as Rodrigues watched him tuck it into his jack. “What do you want me to do?” said Rodrigues. “Shall I make sure Melisande gets to safety? She should not be here.”
“No, stay close to me,” said Heughan. “I’ve watched your back many times; tonight I need you stronger than ever. We are going to break out the boys. All of them.”
“What? Are you mad?” scoffed Rodrigues. “That’s not the plan we made.”
Heughan’s laugh was hollow. “I’ve just changed a few details, that’s all.”
“But how?” asked Rodrigues.
“John Johnson’s pomegranates are going to help us make a bigger hole in the Castle walls. Mele, you better make sure the fire in the stables is a big one; we need as much time as you can give us.”
“You can rely on me.” She gave a ghost of a smile as he hauled her up from the floor.
Rodrigues watched her loading a basket with grenadoes, each one a small pottery jar, most with a tight cork lid and a braided wick protruding slightly from the top.
“Heavens! You’ll blow us all to kingdom come, woman!”
Heughan barely smi
led at all. “In which case, you’ll be in good company, you old sinner,” he said.
Melisande left her quarters with all the appearance of calm normality. From somewhere distant in the Keep, she heard bursts of laughter and the thrum of social voices. Snatches of sound seeped from the stones; the rap of platters being lifted and replaced, the chink and splash as jug connected to cup and liquid flowed, the muffled sounds of many conversations all fighting to make themselves heard above the noise of food and digestion. The party had returned from the horse races, then. Phillice would be Sorcha’s alibi. She breathed out a sigh of relief that she hadn’t realised she had been holding.
Rodrigues and Heughan hurried down the hidden staircase. They were held tense in the writhing dark at the foot of the stairwell. Heughan felt Rodrigues was smiling in the shadows behind him.
Together, they watched Melisande walk past the empty smithy to the stables. Everyone who could find the smallest excuse to do so would still be enjoying the attractions of the fair and so the Outer Ward was unusually quiet. The forge was banked down but still alight. She barely paused, simply brushed her hand in passing as though checking the heat of the fire, but they caught the glint as she lit a glowing taper, cupping it within her free hand. She glanced towards them and brought her fingers to her lips as if to blow them a kiss. As her breath kept the flame alight, she seemed too to carry the smoulder in her eyes.
When she reached the stables, Melisande put down her basket and wedged the taper firmly between two planks as she busied herself corralling the horses into the farthest byre.
She made sure the horses were safe before she trickled a line of gunpowder along the back of the nearer stalls, ending it in a small pile of the pottery jars, covering it with a mound of hay. Hay with heather and common bog grass. A country boy and sedition, as she had foretold. She smiled to herself. She lit the fuses with the taper and hid behind the wooden stalls. Time slowed down and expanded the thinking space. She fretted that the guards would be coming; they would surely hear the horses were restless. With the uncanny sense of animals, they could anticipate the danger and were kicking out at the boards of the stalls. Melisande dared not look; she knew not to go back to the grenadoes, she just had to be patient.
Just as she was about to start taking out the horses regardless, there was a rumble and the ground vibrated beneath them. The roof in the far stall came tumbling down, the straw caught alight. The horses panicked, whinnying with fear and the bigger horses broke from their tethers, pulling them away from the stalls. Melisande was dragged out into the yard. She picked herself up from the dirt and debris and ran back to the stables, took hold of two shocked animals and led them out.
In the stables, hungry flames caught hold of the dry support timbers, quickly blackening them and turning the stables into an inferno. Horses were screaming in fright, thumping against the stalls, desperate to break free. The fire was spreading. It jumped across the Ward with the agility of a hare, catching at the adjacent huts. “Fire! Water!” went the cry.
The captain of the guard began to organise a chain gang to carry the water, screaming orders into the confusion, adding to the noise and heat. Fire was the monstrous enemy. They had to stop it from reaching the armoury or blundering into the close-packed buildings of the city. They had to contain it before it was interpreted as a distress signal north or south of the border. Fire legitimized your fight. It needed to be kept under control.
Ross appeared at the top of the Keep ramparts, buckling on his baldric and shouting orders into the brawl of noisy action. Men scattered in all directions, whether they heeded his commands or not.
Heughan saw further fires light up the back wall, causing more confusion. Men were screaming and running to three walls at once, fighting enemies they couldn’t see. Ross bellowed into the bedlam, trying to wrest control from the panic and chaos of the rout.
Heughan and Roddy entered the fray together. Trotting at the same pace as the others, they mingled with the horses, taking a couple in hand and leading them away in a route that skirted past the West Tower.
Heughan needed to get beyond the armoury and the cellar entrance to the back of the dungeons and down to the gunpowder. They had agreed Rodrigues would approach the front entrance of the West Tower and snatch the keys from a no-doubt panicked gaoler. The gunpowder would blow the reivers a route to freedom but they wouldn’t get far if they were shackled. They needed the keys.
Heughan released his horses as he saw the top of the steps, slapping them away to find their own freedom. He launched himself into the darkness and stumbled down the first few steps till he found his feet. He could see in the dim light of the passage the barrels lined up against the back wall, we only use it to store the wine now. He kicked the end barrel hard. The lid lifted and out came a sweating Desmond.
“Where the feck were yer?” he said. “I’m dying in here.”
“Ah whist man, you’ve still got breath enough to complain. Now get the charges laid.”
Desmond scampered away into the gloom with boards on which were mounted rows of the pottery jars, tapping them into the wall. He worked quickly, knowing they had little time. Heughan took a hammer from Desmond and ran to the end of the passage. He started tapping up more boards.
“Heughan, no!” hissed Desmond. “Not around both sides.”
On the other side of the wall, Adam stirred. Instinctively, he looked up. He had no god, not anymore, but the heavens were more inviting than the cold hard floor of the prison. He wondered if he should pray. The words wouldn’t come. He closed his eyes and thought of his family. He smiled and found some comfort.
Heughan lit the fuses and ran full-tilt back along the passage.
“Heughan get back here!” shouted Desmond, extending a waving hand from the tunnel beyond the foundation. He yanked Heughan through the opening.
There was a crash as if the stars themselves were falling onto the earth below and then all the noise in the world disappeared. Without waiting, Heughan scrambled back into the rubble of the dungeon, waving the smoke away. He was standing on somebody, he didn’t want to think who, now just a ragged mess of scorched meat burnt livid scarlet and black. He could see the cloud of dust being sucked out into the night through a massive hole. The back wall of the dungeons was destroyed. So too was the supporting wall, which butted onto the Castle ramparts. Heughan instinctively knew it was wrong but he pushed on; no time to think.
“Come on lads, rouse yerselves! Let’s get out of here!” His words sounded strangely distant even though he was shouting as loudly as he could. He saw stumbling figures coming into focus, he caught hold of them and pushed them towards the fresh air. “Follow the breeze, lads. Out into the tunnel! Come on, the horses are waiting!”
From his left he could see a light, he thought at first it was a fuse, fizzing an orange hole in the soot. It was moving and he realised it was being carried.
“Where are you, lad, where are you?” boomed a voice from the gloom. It was Rodrigues. “I have the keys. Who’s shackled?” he shouted.
“Over here!” Heughan called out, kneeling by two lumps manacled together.
Rodrigues reached him and bent to unlock the fetters. “By Saint Barbara’s head, lad, you’ll bring the Castle down upon us.”
Heughan looked at him. That was exactly what he was thinking himself. “Get a move on, Roddy, get them out,” he replied.
Rodrigues hoisted up one of the immobile figures onto his back. “Give me the other,” he instructed Heughan. Heughan didn’t hesitate; he knew the Spaniard’s strength. He lifted the second man onto Rodrigues’s back and watched him drag himself out through the hole and away along the runnels. Willie was organising men to horses. He helped Rodrigues throw the unconscious over the same horse and had another rider lead them quickly away.
Rodrigues was already on his way back in. He came face to face with Heughan, who was encouraging someone else to limp out. In the half-light their eyes met. The Spaniard clasped his hands on Heughan’
s shoulders and pulled him towards him. He roared at him, a blood curdling sound of encouragement, vast and wide. In it Heughan could hear the love they had for each other, he could see all the nights they had spent under the same moon, riding hard in unforgiving rain, fighting back to back, waiting for boats to arrive on the midnight tide, counting the spoils by a camp fire. They had been parted many times but always found each other.
Rodrigues pushed him away. “Go on, lad, get out of here.”
“Come away now with me, Roddy,” said Heughan. “The rest are beyond our help, I reckon.”
“Best to be certain. I’ll be right with you,” said Rodrigues.
“No, come away now to the horses,” urged Heughan but Rodrigues was already gone.
Heughan handed over his injured reiver to Willie. “Get him away, Willie. I’m going back for Roddy.”
“Heughan, no! The wall’s cracked. We used aye too much powder; the whole tower’s coming down,” Desmond insisted.
“I know. I’ve got to get Roddy out.”
“Leave it!” Willie said. “Roddy will be all right, he a’ways is. He’ll hae a way out.”
“He has to come out this way,” shouted Heughan over his shoulder. He ran down the tunnel to re-enter the dungeon once more. He found himself walking but without making any progress, like wading through the tides against the current. He could see his arms moving but his legs wouldn’t carry him as he felt himself sinking in the Solway sands. He looked down. The land beneath him had liquefied. The sands quickened their grip on his legs and pulled him towards the maw which had opened in front of him. Heughan felt himself falling forwards, could see the tower wall ripping like a tear in silk.
Then there was just parted silence.
The tower had split in two and the outer curve of the wall was falling gently towards him, collapsing oh so slowly, consumed by the hungry earth. He struggled to move, thinking that if he could just run inside and allow the rubble to fall away behind him…the rest of the wall crumpled upon itself like folds of pleated linen crushed by a giant hand.