A Price to Be Paid: A Scottish Highlander Romance (Legacy of the Laird Book 2)

Chapter 25

In the quiet and the darkness, Mathe strained against his bonds.

He stretched his hand to the side, straining with his pinky, and felt the tip of his finger reach the opening of his kirtle pocket but no further. He twisted as much as he could and felt the ropes burn against his skin. Finally, the pinky slipped inside the pocket. He curled it around the opening and drew it back, lifting himself from the chair ever so slightly, feeling the jacket twist underneath him, the pocket sliding around his body towards his back.

It was a slow process, made slower by the heavy and stiff leather of the kirtle. Halfway through his labouring, Rodric returned, and Mathe grew still.

“Sorry about that,” the man said. “Now, where was I?” And with that he struck Mathe again and again, raining blows with savage ferocity. Mathe had his pinky firmly in the jacket pocket now, and after each hit, he allowed himself to bounce up in his chair, continuing to slide the kirtle underneath him, moving the pocket opening closer to his bound hand. After what seemed an eternity, his pinky felt the cold steel of the chisel.

“Stop,” Mathe gasped. “Stop. I’ll tell ye.”

Rodric paused. “Maybe I dinnae care to know? Maybe I just want to keep hitting until ye’re naught but a corpse?”

“Dinnae waste yer time,” Mathe said. “My wife hits harder than ye. We’ll be here all night.”

Rodric smiled and shook his head in something approaching admiration. “Still tough, I see,” he said. “Fine. Tell me.”

“The laird threatened to kill me if I didnae help.”

“Mathe, Mathe, Mathe, we both know that’s no” true. Ye walked yerself up to the castle, didnae ye? And nobody held a sword to yer throat when ye met the steward down by the Dundonnell. Ye dinnae look like a threatened man. Ye look like an accomplice.”

Mathe felt himself grow cold. Did they know everything? Did they have a man on the inside, close to the laird? But if so, why all the subterfuge? He suddenly felt powerless, like the man opposite held all the cards, and the fear returned.

“So,” Rodric continued, “tell me why. Why did ye suddenly start coming to the Dog Ear?”

“Sounds like ye already know.”

“I want to hear it from yer traitorous mouth,” the man snarled.

For the briefest of moments, Mathe saw a flash of frustration pass over Rodric’s face, and wondered if maybe he had it wrong. Did the man know as much as he claimed? Perhaps he was down here bluffing; sprinkling in enough truth to make Mathe believe they knew everything, when in fact Rodric was fishing.

He gave a shrug. “I was down here having my way with yer mother, and figured it would be rude to leave without stopping by.”

Rodric sucked in his breath, and once more Mathe saw the vexation in his eyes. The man shook his head slowly and closed his hands into fists. “MacBrennan,” he said, “That mouth of yers is quite impressive. Even if it’s going to get ye into trouble.”

“I said the same thing to yer ma.”

The blows continued, but this time to the face, and Mathe saw black spots appear in his vision even as his ears pinged sharply with each hit. He tried desperately to hold on to consciousness, feeling the world tilt into the grey of nothingness. The only sounds were his own groans, and the heavy breathing of Rodric’s exertions.

And then the man stopped.

Mathe cracked one eye open to see Rodric had turned around and was looking toward the exit.

“The street is crawling with soldiers, Rodric,” a voice called out. “The laird must have sent out the whole barracks.”

Rodric swore. “Are they knocking on doors?”

“No” yet, but they might make an exception for us. Or knowing our luck, they’ll come in to have a drink. Ye need to get up here so things look normal.”

Rodric looked back at Mathe with a frown, before he swore again and left the room. “Dinnae get too comfortable, MacBrennan,” he called over his shoulder as he went. “I’ll be back. And Duncan will look after ye in the meantime.”

Mathe heard muffled voices, the sounds of arguing, and then a moment later Duncan descended. He was younger than Rodric and eyed Mathe uncertainly, stopping at one edge of the room and looking around. He grew increasingly nervous under Mathe’s unblinking gaze and walked idly, picking up goods from the shelf and putting them back, stepping into the room next door and back again.

Mathe decided it was now or never. If there were soldiers in the streets, he needed to get up there and out the door. He twisted his body again and wrapped his pinky around the chisel, drawing it out. He knew he only had one chance at this; if he failed, it would drop to the floor and alert Duncan. Slowly, slowly, he eased it out, getting his hand low so that it would slide out and fall into his palm. He held his breath, feeling his hands grow clammy.

The chisel slipped, and he twisted desperately, only just keeping it from falling. The chair scraped on the floor. Duncan appeared a moment later and looked over with a frown, but Mathe affected disinterest, looking back at the man without expression. Duncan turned away again and Mathe let his breath out. He had the chisel in one hand now and slowly twisted it around so the sharp end was pointing downwards. He wedged it into the crease where the back of the chair met the seat and levered it up, working the chisel up and down, until finally one of the vertical planks that made up the back of the chair creaked away from the seat. He slipped his hand down to free it and repeated the process on the other side until both hands were free.

Mathe gripped the chisel tight, and put his hands back behind him, as if he were still bound. “Duncan,” he called. “I have an itch that’s driving me mad.”

The man looked over at him and shook his head. “Put up with it.”

Mathe sighed, keeping his hands hidden. “For God’s sake, laddie, even Rodric had the heart to scratch my bloody nose. I think he broke it, so it’s only fair.”

Duncan came over uncertainly. “He did?”

“Aye,” Mathe said, tilting his head and scrunching his nose. “Just here.”

As Duncan reached down with his hand, Mathe suddenly swung the chisel around from behind his back. It connected with the other man’s temple with a sickening crunch, and he fell sideways to collapse on the floor. As soon as he fell, Mathe reached down and untied his legs, then pushed himself up. His body ached, and he paused at the surge of dizziness, before limping over to the stairs. He put his ear to the door and listened, but couldn’t hear anything. Did the door open up to the common room, or somewhere out the back that he’d never seen?

For a moment Mathe considered waiting for Rodric to return, then decided that he might not have time. And besides; what if Rodric called out first, and Duncan failed to answer? Better to move, to fall into action, than to wait. He took one deep breath, then wrenched the door open.

It was the door behind the counter. The windows were shuttered closed and the common room was empty. Mathe saw at once that he’d have no chance of making it into the street; Rodric stared at him with wide eyes, only a few paces away, and the door was on the other side of the room. Mathe tried anyway; he turned from the other man and limped desperately towards the exit, hearing Rodric curse behind him. As he ran, Mathe opened his mouth and let out an almighty shout; a roar, a scream, an inarticulate sound from the depths of his lungs, throwing it out as loudly as he could.

Then Rodric hit him from behind. Mathe fell forward and rolled onto his back, staring up at the man who stood over him. Rodric held a heavy broom in one hand and stared down at Mathe in terrible fury.

“Curse ye, MacBrennan,” he said. “Where’s Duncan?”

Mathe allowed his mouth to twist into a smile but didn’t answer. He knew he needed to buy time.

Rodric cursed again and looked down at his broom, before lifting his foot. Mathe thought the man meant to stomp on him and he braced for impact with a grimace, but Rodric’s foot came down on the end of the broom instead, splintering it. He then raised the shattered end and thrust down.

Mathe squirmed, knowing the makeshift spear was heading towards his gut, and twisted desperately. He pulled his legs up into a crouch, almost an instinctive reaction, and felt the point ram hard into his upper thigh. He cried out in pain as Rodric leant on it, forcing it all the way through his leg, hearing it scrape on the hardwood floor underneath him. The man twisted it savagely as he pushed, before jerking it roughly back out again.

Mathe nearly passed out from the pain. He was vaguely aware of blood pouring from the ragged wound, forcing its way out with each heartbeat, and of Rodric lifting the spear up, the point sitting directly over Mathe’s heart. One more blow, he knew, and Rodric Ross would end it.

The man’s body tensed and he let out a guttural growl, preparing for the thrust, and then Mathe heard a loud bang behind him. Rodric lifted his face.

His eyes grew wide.

And then an arrow suddenly appeared in his chest.

The man staggered backwards in surprise, dropping the broom, and then he collapsed. Mathe remained on his back but looked behind him to see the door was open. A familiar shape stood in the doorway, a bow in his hand.

“Ye alright, lad?” Fergus called.

“Aye,” Mathe replied, then looked back to his leg. He could feel the wetness of his own blood underneath him, and felt a strange sensation, like he was floating away. “I think.”

And then the blackness descended, and he thought no more.