16. A Poison Tree
A Poison Tree
Tennyson crouched against the southern wall of the keep, regaining his breath as he gazed out over the expanse of forested hills.
The cliff he’d just scaled was lit by a gap in the gathering clouds, and he looked back down the path he’d taken, searching out alternate routes.
The contrast of cool shadows from the skeletal trees made for a dramatic composition, a snapshot of bare rock and branch against the misty winter canvas. If Louna were here—
He shook himself and stood, keeping his hand against the stone wall for balance.
There was a strip of even ground before the edge of the bluff, but he wasn’t sure how solid it was, and he didn’t want to leave any footprints in the snow.
The castle overhangs had left enough bare earth for him to tread, if he was careful, and he took his time now.
“Where’s the dungeon?” Tennyson asked.
“I don’t know that it’s really a dungeon,” Lindsey said.
He paused, and there was another faint sound of jangling chains as he moved.
“The whole place was cut into the rock, but it looks more like a store room than a dungeon. There aren’t any real cells.
I’m in a locked room with empty shelves, no windows.
It was hard to tell inside the castle, but I’d guess it’s toward the west side of the keep, underground. ”
That meant Tennyson wouldn’t be able to sneak in from outside. He’d have to do it during the masquerade after all. “How many guards have you seen?”
“There’s at least one outside the room,” Lindsey said. “I can hear him if I put my ear to the door. I don’t know where the rest are.”
Tennyson continued his search along the side of the wall, listening to Lindsey with one ear and his surroundings with the other. “We’ll need a distraction to draw them out of the dungeon,” he said. “More than the masquerade. The guards will want to make sure no one wanders down from the party.”
“What are you thinking?” Lindsey asked.
An indent in the wall ahead drew Tennyson’s attention, and he edged toward it curiously. There, set into the stone wall and blocked by a pile of drifted snow, was a door.
“I found an entrance on the southern wall,” he said, kicking some of the snow aside.
Anyone looking would know a person had been there, but with the absence of footprints leading to it, they would assume that the door had been opened from the inside—if anyone saw it at all.
The layer of ice around the frame spoke to a least a few days’ worth of disuse.
It may have been longer. Maybe nobody even knew about this door, tucked away in the back of the keep and facing the cliff.
Unsurprisingly, it was locked. Tennyson ran his fingers over the frozen handle, then kneeled in front of the door, cupped his hands around the lock, and breathed into it.
Soon, he had melted enough of the ice to insert the lock picks he always kept in his back pocket, and he began the careful process of feeling for the inner tumblers.
“Someone’s coming,” Lindsey said in a low voice.
Tennyson froze. “Do you need me inside?”
“Standby,” Lindsey said.
There was a pause, and Tennyson renewed his attack on the lock. Louna would have had this open by now. He’d had plenty of practice breaking into places, but most of the time he actually broke in. He wasn’t as skilled with this side of things.
The muted sound of an opening door grated through the earbud, and there was a grumbled command Tennyson couldn’t hear. “A sandwich?” Lindsey said. “Seriously? This is a castle. You don’t have any mince pies or roast goose sitting around in the kitchen? How about some mead?”
“Shut up.” The man who’d answered, presumably the guard, sounded young—early twenties, if that. He spoke in accented English, and his voice got louder as he continued, as though he’d stepped closer. “You better be thankful you’re getting that. We didn’t want to feed you.”
But Hartmann would—at least for now. Even if Harlow changed his mind about keeping Lindsey alive, Hartmann wouldn’t act until the castle was cleared of witnesses.
He was cautious, meticulous; he prided himself on leaving no evidence behind him.
As long as there was a chance of anyone else noticing anything, he would wait.
That gave Tennyson an idea.
“You gonna uncuff me?” Lindsey asked, jingling his wrists.
“You can eat like that,” the guard said.
Lindsey gave a frustrated sigh. “Then at least let me hit the head.”
“What?”
Lindsey didn’t answer, but he must have gestured, because a moment later the guard snapped, “There, in the corner.”
“Come on, man, I’m not using a chamber pot,” Lindsey said. “This place has gotta have a toilet somewhere. I’m cuffed, aren’t I? What am I going to do?”
“You’re going to eat your sandwich and shut up,” the guard said.
“Wait, wait,” Lindsey said, as the lock finally clicked open under Tennyson’s pick. “Just tell me one thing. Why are we here? I was supposed to go to trial today, and now I’m—”
He grunted, cut off by what sounded like a punch to the abdomen, and Tennyson shoved the door open. “I’m coming,” he said. “Hang on.”
“No,” Lindsey said, sucking in a breath.
“You don’t ask the questions,” the guard yelled, his voice rising pubescently. “You don’t tell me what to do. You killed a Romanian, and as soon as the boss gives the word, I’m going to make you pay for it.”
“I didn’t kill—” Lindsey started, but broke off again as the breath was driven from his lungs.
“Then again,” the guard said, closer to the earbud. “The boss just said we had to keep you alive. He didn’t say unharmed.”
“I’m on my way,” Tennyson said, plunging into the darkness inside the door. It was a stone corridor, unlit and covered in cobwebs, and he raised his hand in front of his face to keep from running face-first into any obstacles.
“Stop,” Lindsey said, in his sergeant voice.
The guard laughed. “Had enough? Ready to beg, soldier man?”
“Lindsey—” Tennyson said, but Lindsey spoke over him.
“Do you know any poetry?” he asked loudly. “There was this one I learned in high school. Alfred Lord Tennyson. You ever heard of him?”
“Shut up,” the guard spat.
“The second stanza is my favorite,” Lindsey went on. “‘Theirs not to make reply, theirs not to reason why, theirs but to hold or die. Into the valley of Death rode the six hundred.’”
Tennyson stopped mid-stride. That was wrong.
Theirs but to do and die, not hold or die.
Lindsey knew that. He always used to joke that Tennyson had a photographic memory for poetry, but Lindsey’s was just as sharp.
It had to be. On missions, they’d endured long hours of waiting between bursts of action, often with no electricity.
There was nothing to do but read and recite.
Stories, poems, and songs became a kind of currency—whenever they met someone new, they traded whatever they had memorized, and repeated it until they’d memorized it themselves.
Lindsey had made a kind of game of collecting anything written by the poets Tennyson and his siblings were named after, and he’d always had a preference for “The Charge of the Light Brigade.” He wouldn’t get any of its lines wrong.
Which meant he was sending a message.
Stay where you are, or you’ll be riding into the valley of Death.
“You think poetry can save you?” the guard said, but he sounded uncertain—like he knew Lindsey was saying more than his words implied, but he couldn’t figure out what.
“I don’t need saving,” Lindsey said. “I’m bored. You don’t recite poetry when you’re bored?”
Another punch made him groan, but he recovered quickly.
“Man, my sister hits harder than you. But go ahead, I got plenty more—you know any William Blake? ‘A Poison Tree?’ ‘The Tyger?’ No? Fine, go ahead and punch me again. But first, what’s your name?
I’m sure your boss will be happy to know you’ve been acting without orders. ”
The guard hesitated. “That’s not…”
“Oh, you think he won’t mind?” Lindsey said. “After he went through all the trouble not to hurt me during transport, even though it would have been easier just to tase me like the others? Yeah, I’m sure it’ll be fine. But just in case—your name?”
“Shut up,” the guard said again, but his voice sounded fainter. “Just eat your sandwich.”
The door slammed, and Lindsey let out a groan that made Tennyson’s half-healed injuries ache in sympathy. “You okay?” he asked uncertainly.
“Fine,” Lindsey grunted. “I wasn’t lying—Liz has a stronger punch.”
“He had backup?” Tennyson guessed.
“He had a gun,” Lindsey said. “And I heard more guys down the hall. He’d have heard you before you could get past them.”
When Tennyson didn’t answer, Lindsey took a breath and spoke in a light tone. “Come on, you don’t think I can take a couple punches? You’re no use if you get caught.”
“He’s right, mon loup,” Louna said suddenly. “We need you for the masquerade. Getting caught now would ruin the whole escape.”
Tennyson exhaled. “How long have you been listening?”
“Only a few minutes,” Louna said. “You said you found a door?”
Tennyson took another step forward, taking the time to listen and feel along the enclosed space. “On the south side of the castle, over the cliff. It’s some kind of passage, but I don’t think it’s been used in a while. I’m not sure where it leads.”
They were quiet then, and Tennyson continued his shuffling search. “I couldn’t help but notice the poems you used,” Louna said, her voice innocent. “An interesting choice, ‘A Poison Tree.’ Any particular reason you picked it?”
Tennyson kept his breathing even, hoping not to give away a reaction. He’d noticed the same thing, but he wasn’t about to bring it up—not now, not when Lindsey had only just started talking.
Louna had no such reservations. “‘I was angry with my friend,’” she quoted, while Tennyson pretended to be too absorbed in his search to respond. “‘I told my wrath, my wrath did end.’”
“Actually,” Lindsey said slowly. “There was a reason I brought up that poem. Or that poet.”