Chapter 12
Donall the Bold’s anger had simmered for hours.
The echoing tread of many pairs of feet tromping down a nearby stairwell made it boil over. Especially when a small dog’s yaps joined the thump, thump, thump of trudging feet.
So the lady thought to pay him another visit, this time accompanied by her ghoulish graybeards.
Here, in the devil’s own lair where her two minions had dumped him.
A great murky chamber, enclosed on three sides by rough stone walls, but open to the sea on the side they’d entered through. And except for the jumbled mass of rubble at the rear of the cavernous dungeon, it was a place vulnerable to the tides.
The dank walls bore a floodmark line to prove it – a dark stain high enough to freeze a man’s blood.
Equally liver-curdling were the grisly tools of torture scattered about and hung from the walls.
A shudder raced down Donall’s back as he glanced around what he’d first believed to be a sea cave, his gaze taking in ever more implements of horror.
Not a cave at all, his new quarters appeared to be the remains of the bottommost chamber of an ancient broch tower.
The gods knew enough of them dotted Doon’s landscape.
Remnants of a perilous past, the round stone towers provided the island’s earliest dwellers with their last refuge against hostile raiders.
A safe bolt-hole no longer, this broch, or what was left of it, would be underwater if the tide ran fast and furious enough.
Donall closed his eyes and drew a deep breath of the chill and briny air. In truth, it appeared he faced three possible ends…
Death by drowning, or through the dark deeds of Niels, the dullwit giant, and his shadow, Rory. Or, may the gods preserve him, at the hands of a doddering head-chopper too frail to properly wield his ax.
Donall clenched his jaw at being held captive in a place where his ancestors sought shelter.
The view out across the open sea didn’t help his mood.
A line of jagged black rocks broke the surface some distance offshore, emphasizing the futility of an escape by sea, should he manage to free himself of his shackles.
And even if he could, the swift currents and the water’s iciness would get him before he ever reached the rocks and thought to swim past them.
Also unsettling, should his men learn of his – and Gavin’s - capture and launch a rescue, the reef’s sharp teeth would shred any boat’s hull at the slightest brush.
But what galled him most lay at a greater distance than the hazardous rocks.
Feeling cursed, he narrowed his eyes to stare past the reef to the dark outline of MacKinnons’ Isle crouched low on the horizon.
Had he not been seized, and were the Maclnneses not such stubborn fools, he might now be dropping anchor on that distant shore.
Confronting his foes about the murder of his brother’s wife.
The dog barked again, louder this time.
And nearer.
Donall’s nerves snapped to attention, the MacKinnons and their island forgotten. He recognized the dog’s bark. It belonged indeed to Isolde MacInnes’s wee champion. And that meant she’d accompanied her aged advisors.
Angling his head, he strained to hear above the slapping of waves and the ceaseless salt wind.
The sound of his tormentors’ approach came from a different direction than the harrowing ledge the lady’s two henchmen had jostled him along shortly before sunrise.
Not that he cared how his visitors entered the dungeon. What mattered was their prompt arrival. And soon, before he lost the strength to hurl curses at them. He could do little else, fastened as he was to a rusted chain hanging from the ceiling.
“Odin’s wounds!” he roared when his feet nearly flew out from under him as another wave, icy cold and white with foam, swept over the seaweed-draped rock he stood upon.
Nae, standing was too good a word.
He’d been stranded here.
Secured in place to endure chill wind and sea water swirling around him with the incoming tide; then the rank smell of shallow, brackish pools, scum-caked and oozing mud, when it receded.
Amazingly, with his arms stretched taut above his head and his fettered wrists stinging as if Lucifer himself spewed fire on them, he must’ve slept most of the day.
Slept or passed out.
Deep blue shadows now crept along the sea tower’s damp and glistening walls. And unless the tingling in his numb fingers and arms dimmed his judgment, the gloaming would soon be upon them.
Another wave crashed into his legs then and he struggled to recover his balance, his hobbled feet slipping on the rock’s seaweed-slicked surface.
Anger alone kept him upright. He wouldn’t allow Lady Isolde to see him floundering in the waves. What he would do was taunt her and her pack of ancients until they grew so weary of him they’d be glad to see his back.
Or at least went away long enough for him to discover a means of escape.
“Ho, MacLean!” A man’s voice called from somewhere above and behind him. “Fine new quarters, eh?”
Rory.
Donall jerked his head around. Ready to curse the bastard, his breath caught at the sight before him – the possibilities revealed by the glare of Rory’s hand-held torch.
Unaware that he’d drawn attention to anything of interest, Rory made a sweeping gesture with his torch. “Is our sea tower noble enough for you?”
“It suits me well.” Donall flashed a smile.
Rory glowered. “You lie.”
“Nae, I am a man resigned to his fate,” Donall lied indeed.
“You are a strange one, MacLean.” Rory turned to thrust his torch into an iron loop fastened to the wall.
“Some would say wise.” Donall hoped that was so.
He also kept his gaze on Rory as the lout stood just outside the opening of what appeared to be a low-ceilinged tunnel set halfway up the dungeon’s rear wall. The torchlight showed the passage to be an intra-mural gallery, or corridor, that would run between the broch’s double walls.
Donall was sure of that as all ancient brochs and duns were known to have them.
This broch had other helpful features, much to his relief.
Concealed by dark shadows before, the tunnel’s entrance extended into a jutting rock projection on which Rory now stood.
Clearly illuminated by Rory’s flaming torch, it was a broad ledge that would have once supported the broch’s timber floors and rafters.
Also revealed were crudely carved stone steps leading from the ledge to the mound of rubble against the chamber’s back wall.
Donall fought a smile for there was his escape route – if he won the chance to take it. He just hoped the broch’s partial collapse hadn’t blocked the centuries-old passage.
Either way, he’d try.
Rory’s appearance, and the arrival of the elders just now shuffling out onto the ledge, gave him hope. If such bent old men could use the tunnel, so could he.
As he watched, the worthies assembled themselves in a line, each one glowering at him.
Unless he erred, a few were missing. He didn’t see the eldest, the bent-shouldered wretch with the thick mane of white hair who used a walking stick, or the youngest. The hard-faced one with the booming voice who’d stood before the air slit in his old cell. Isolde had called him Lorne.
Niels the giant also hadn’t come.
Nor was the lovely chieftain on the ledge, though the barks of her dog revealed her proximity.
Donall’s blood pumped faster. He’d know she was near without her pet’s yapping. Why that was so, he didn’t care to examine. He had far greater problems. Choosing to start with the first, he eyed Struan, the MacInnes’s ceann cath.
The lady’s uncle.
Bearded and stony-faced, the barrel-chested war leader gave Donall a cold glare. “Are you ready to confess?”
“Nae, but I greet you!” Donall called up to him. “Why no’ come down for a restorative dip? Cold sea water is good for achy, aged limbs, or so I’ve heard!”
Struan’s face darkened. “Hold your tongue, MacLean, lest I bore it through.”
Rumbles of agreement rippled along the line of elders. One produced a short iron stake the width of a woman’s small finger, and held it high.
“Aye,” he shouted, waving the rod over his grizzled head. “That would teach him manners.”
Struan snatched the stake and ran his thumb over its end. “’Tis blunt enough to purge his arrogance,” he said, slapping the stake against his palm. Returning his attention to Donall, he lifted his voice against a rush of sea wind. “I have always wanted to bore an insolent’s tongue.”
Donall spat into the surf. “Go ahead – if you can stop me from first ramming it up your arse!”
“Bastard!” Struan started toward the crude stone steps. “Those were your last words-”
“Hold, lord!” Rory hurried after him, earning a furious glare from the war leader.
Even so, he went toe-to-toe with the older man, even gripping Struan’s shoulder. “Fond of water as he claims to be, I say we deprive him of it.”
Struan shook off Rory’s grasp. “A parched throat is for petty crimes,” he argued. “The MacLean’s sins call for harsher punishment.”
“Aye.” Rory glanced at the chain holding Donall’s arms stretched above his head.
Slung over a heavy crossbeam that ran the breadth of the sea tower, the chain’s weighted end rested beneath the white-foamed waves swirling around Donall’s legs. Further weights were stacked beneath the ledge, not far from the steps.
Looking pleased, Rory folded his arms. “I say we hoist him up until his feet dangle above the water.”
“You do us proud, lad.” A slow smile spread across Struan’s face. Then his levity vanished and he nodded once. “See to it!”
“Gladly.” Rory whipped about and made for the stone steps.
Cold dread tightened Donall’s gut when Rory reached the bottom and quickly hefted two good-sized weights under his arms and started toward the water’s edge. But he’d only gone a few steps when chaos erupted among the graybeards.
Lady Isolde was on the ledge.
Her face ashen, she rushed to her uncle, her squirming dog tucked beneath one arm. Before she could reach Struan, Bodo wiggled out of her grasp, sprang to the ground, and streaked down the steps. A frenzied blur of brown and white fur, snarls, and snapping jaws.
“Seize the little rotter!” Struan yelled, his face purpling as he chased the dog, his fist raised in the air. “Come back here, ye pesky bugger!”
Frantically calling Bodo’s name, Isolde pushed past him, almost plunging down the crude steps in her haste to reach her pet first. Heedless of his pursuers, the little dog shot across the rocks, barking fiercely.
And not at Donall, but at Rory.
He lunged himself into the water, thrashing forward through the foaming waves, so saving himself from Bodo sinking his teeth into his legs.
The bugger’s gone mad!
What ails the wee beastie?
…ne’er seen the like.
The elders called out to each other as they tottered close to the ledge’s drop-off to see the spectacle below.
Donall also stared.
Lady Isolde and her uncle, his face mottled with rage, both chased Bodo.
Neither appeared fast enough to catch him.
Bodo raced back and forth along the water’s edge, his hackles raised, floppy ears flying, his barks piercing.
The lass kept trying to grab the little dog while her uncle ranted and kicked at him.
“Quiet!” Struan thundered, pausing to rake the elders with a glare when one of them tittered.
The rest followed suit, erupting in a chorus of chortles and wheezes.
“Decrepit lot!” Struan bellowed and took up the chase again.
Then Rory slogged up to Donall, the weights still pinned beneath his arms. Dropping one, he grabbed Donall’s chain and began securing the first weight to its length. His back to the ruckus, he mumbled, “You willnae hang long. Niels will fetch you down as soon as the rest of us leave.”
“What?” Donall wasn’t sure he’d heard him rightly, for his attention was elsewhere. The tumult beneath the ledge was ending. Isolde now held her still-growling dog. Her uncle leaned heavily against the base of the ledge, his chest heaving, and his face dark.
“Nae need to thank me, ’tis my lady’s orders,” Rory sneered, bending to retrieve the other weight from beneath the swirling water.
The second weight attached, he gripped the chain and began to back away. His own weight straining against his burden, he slowly hoisted Donall higher.
Only a foot or so above the water, but high enough that Donall’s arms would soon be disjointed. A groan of agony swelled in his throat, but he drew on his last strength to quell it. He wouldn’t shame himself by acknowledging the pain.
“…dinnae ken what’s gotten into her of late,” Rory groused.
Or so Donall thought, for the lass and her dog still claimed his interest. Despite the fire shards shooting through his shoulders.
“…left to me, I’d fasten weights onto your feet as well and have done with ye…” Rory’s carping faded as he sloshed away through the water.
The moment he lumbered up onto the rocks, Donall released his groan. But for some strange reason, the flames eating into his shoulders didn’t concern him half as much as the scene on the stair up to the ledge.
Lady Isolde carefully climbed the slippery stone steps, Bodo cradled safely in her arms. Her uncle followed, a still-grumbling Rory on his heels.
But it wasn’t Rory’s fussing that worried Donall.
It was the murderous look Struan trained on his niece’s back as she ascended the steps before him.