Chapter Seventeen #2
It took a few moments to get her breathing under control, blink away the instant moisture she’d die before she admitted to, and calm her heartbeat enough to listen. The thing wasn’t moving. It was just a thing, covered over with something in order to make it less noticeable to the casual eye.
She got to her feet, although everything on her legs was weak and shaky and complaining over the use, and walked over to it.
Perhaps it was an extension of the tower, although that didn’t make much sense.
Perhaps Langston had his craftsmen sculpt great lion statues for up here, too, to give them employment, so they could feed and clothe their families.
Perhaps it was any number of things, except what it was: a heavy woolen blanket, in the same colors as the walls.
Lisle ran her hands over the weave, done so tightly she couldn’t get a fingernail beneath it, and attached with something to the stone at her feet, so that it couldn’t be removed…
or couldn’t be removed easily. They’d used the heaviest of wool strands to weave this blanket.
Her hands knew that. There was little give to the fabric, no nap, little more than strength and durability.
Such a textile was useless as anything except a floor covering. She had even seen it used as walls.
Her fingers smoothed across what felt like wire, and that’s exactly what it proved to be, once she put her tongue to it to be sure. No man ordered a blanket woven with wire in it, and if he did, what would such a thing be good for?
Lisle knelt, forcing the cloak to do its job as a covering for her knees, and tried to pry part of the blanket up from where it was attached. It was nearly impossible, although there was a gap of a foot or so between the spikes that were driven into the stone to secure it.
She ran her fingers along the rounded top of a spike.
It would take a man with great strength, using an implement with a hook, to pull these spikes out and expose whatever was hidden.
And since there was no dearth of strong men about, posing as everything from servants to groomsmen, that meant there was probably a lot of these hook things hidden in the chapel…
unless, of course, it was normal for a laird to put a carpet-covered thing atop his castle wall.
Lisle stood, still running her hands along it, although the covering didn’t move enough to define anything except a massive object the size of a horse belly.
She sighed. Even if she possessed the strength to get one of the spikes out, she hadn’t anything to do it with, and there was nothing she could use to put the spike back in.
All of which was moot next to the fact that the moon was out fully now, the ground had misted to the point that any number of things could be hiding far below her, and she wasn’t getting any nearer her own chamber.
She looked that way and could see her pathway, although it looked like she might have to climb over a closed portcullis on the way.
Lisle started walking, and she hadn’t gone twelve steps before another thing loomed out from the far side of the walkway, stopping her and making her run her hands over it, and then go to her knees, with exactly the same results as the first time.
She stood slowly, looked up, and narrowed her eyes.
There was another one twelve paces off, and past that, another, and then another.
She still didn’t know for certain what they were, but excitement was growing as she suspected it.
They might be cannons. That meant he had lots of cannons.
She didn’t know much about what they looked like, but the tentlike drape of the thing could easily conceal not only a cannon, but cannon balls beneath it, as well.
The only thing he’d need was the gunpowder.
Cannons required powder, and to make such a thing required buildings and fires and workers, and all kinds of things that probably looked a lot like dye sheds for producing blue dye.
Her heart was pounding, and it had nothing to do with any drumbeat.
It was the excitement. It was the discovery. It was the shock.
The ability to get such a thing done, and do it beneath Sassenach noses, was staggering.
He’d had to do it over time. He’d had to make it look like he was importing any number of other objects; things like chunks of marble for carving lion statues, or enormous spans of wood to make church doors, hyacinth plants for dye, or any number of other foreign-looking objects that a free-spending, notoriously foolish, English-leaning laird wanted to own.
That way, none would have noted or checked closely what he was bringing in, or if they did check, they’d see nothing other than what they were supposed to see.
What did he tell her? Beachdaich. Observe.
See beyond her eyes and ears and what she thought was knowledge.
Lisle couldn’t stop her own mind, and she ran from cannon to cannon, pushing on one to see if there was any give to the thing, and finding it just as substantial and sturdy as a cannon should be.
She was laughing before she got to the portcullis, after counting more than fifty of them.
She knew it was the truth, and she didn’t have to check with anything other than her instinct.
That’s what he’d told her to do, too. Neart aithnich.
The power of knowing. That’s what it was.
The laird of Monteith was outfitting and supplying an army…a Highland army, and he was doing it right beneath the nose of Captain Robert Barton. And the very best way to guarantee that no one looked closely enough to discover it was to make certain Barton never looked closely.
Lisle’s hands shook with the excitement…
and something else, something that wasn’t going to get her over the portcullis easily.
She didn’t want to look at it too closely.
It was enough to know what he was doing and that he was no traitor.
He was too late, but that didn’t seem to matter. Langston Monteith was a fool.
No man could change history. But he was a Scot fool, and that meant the strange, fluttery kind of feeling in her belly that was transferring to her breasts and showing the tulip’s failure at their job again had a reason and a rightness to it, making it impossible to temper. She used neart aithnich for that, too.
Lisle looked up the iron bars of the portcullis, saw there wasn’t much to use for a grip, even if her arms supported the effort, and then she had to see if she could squeeze beneath it.
That proved easily done, and she knew she was going to have to alert him to this.
A slim lad could easily shimmy between the spikes at the bottom of his gate.
He needed to put up wire of some kind to make it impregnable.
Lisle stood on the opposite side of the gate, looked back where she’d just been, and if she didn’t know where the things were, she’d have trouble seeing them. What was she thinking? She never would have seen them…just as Langston wanted.
Langston sat atop Saladin and watched without one expression on his face as the prisoners were cinched together and counted.
When Barton had first greeted him with the news, his stomach had roiled with it.
That was his fault. He’d put himself through too many lunges and squats, and too much swordplay, and too many push-ups, and too lengthy of a run over muddy bogs of ground.
All of it to temper and hold in check the male reaction he was afraid he was going to sufer the moment he’d seen her. And all of it had failed…miserably.
He sat atop Saladin and willed strength into his arms to continue holding the reins, and his legs to stay sealed to the stallion’s heaving sides.
The ground mist helped. It was cooling horses flecked with foam, and helping him stay alert when he most needed to.
Captain Barton hadn’t had to ride this viciously.
The little band of men didn’t look capable of running, and the rangers already had them under heavy guard.
He knew Barton rode like he did because there was something about the man that heightened his enjoyment if there was torment and torture involved, and this little, ragged group of MacDonalds was going to do exactly that for him.
Langston looked over their heads at the depths of forest they should have had the intelligence to hide among, opaque white fog that was enveloping trees and muting night sounds, and looking a lot like her little lawn chemise had when he’d first seen it, made transparent by the firelight and showing a form any sculptor would have to dream about in order to bring to fruition.
He groaned and moved on the saddle to make the leather creak and cover it over. What he’d most feared was happening. He’d lost his heart, and with it his mind. She didn’t know her power. She didn’t know a lot of things, but what she did know was dangerous.
“I suppose we’ll have to march them to MacCullough Hall, although the dungeons are in use. Blast! I should never have had the gunpowder stored down there.”
“May I make a suggestion, Captain?” Langston said smoothly, and moved the stallion forward with the twinge of his knees.
Captain Barton’s face glowed with the sheen of moisture. It wasn’t from sweat or the mist. It was the excitement. Langston hooded his eyes. “Monteith Hall has very good dungeons. Very strong irons. Lots of moisture. Lots of dark, dank, rotting walls. It’s got something else, as well.”
“And what would that be?”
“Time.” Langston said the word softly and waited.
“Time for what?”
“To fatten them up, of course.”
“Have you lost your wits? Who fattens up prisoners?”
“Healthy prisoners last longer. Torment further. And they’ll make the journey to London in fine shape. Makes it much more amusing to judge, hang, and then quarter a healthy man than one already dead on his feet. Trust me.”
“Why should I?” Captain Barton said. “For all I know, you’re one with them. Fatten them up? You’re daft.”
Langston chuckled. “Very well. Kill them with the march. Arrive in London with nothing. Don’t say I didn’t speak with you about it. I have no love for my fellow countrymen. It’s because of them I have to work so much harder than I’m used to.”
“You? Work? What work would that be?” Captain Barton asked.
“Why, spend gold, of course. If it weren’t for these wretches, and their uprising, I’d be spending much more of my time counting it than having to spend it buying up useless bits of land.”
The MacDonalds at their feet were shuffling and straining, but there wasn’t much else coming through their gags and the ropes about them. Langston looked down at them without a hint of emotion on his face.
“I suppose I should thank you, actually,” Langston continued.
“For what?”
“Ridding my ground of such vermin.”
“Vermin, are they now?”
“They’ve never shown other, have they? I heard a rumor there were MacDonald clan hiding near Loch Shin. I suppose I should thank you for going in and finding them for me.”
“We didn’t find them.”
“You’re ruining your own legend, Captain. Never admit such. It makes you sound like a man of nonaction, rather than one of action.”
“We didn’t need to go in after them. They were on the move. Something about joining up with another clan.”
“I can see the wisdom of that. Being a MacDonald is very bad for one’s health at the moment.” Langston laughed at his own words. No one else joined him.
“There’s rumors of another clan, one with strength and power and pride. That’s what they were moving toward. They wanted to join.”
“Good heavens! Where?” Langston asked.
“No one seems to know, at present. They’ll say more under torture.”
“Good for you, Captain. We’ve got to stop the hellions before they rise again. We can’t afford another bloodletting like last time.”
“That’s all right, Monteith. ’Twas mostly Highland blood that got let. I look forward to it, actually. There’s too many of them about still.”
“Captain, I am also a Highlander,” Langston replied smoothly.
“I keep forgetting. You’re so much different, but as you’ve reminded me, you are a Highlander. That being the case, I can’t possibly turn the prisoners over to you, Monteith.”
Langston would have been clenching his jaw and biting his own tongue if he allowed himself the emotion. Lisle had too much power. He was exhausted, and his mind wasn’t working, as well as a slew of other things.
“Very well, Captain. Have it your way. I wouldn’t give them a state bedroom at MacCullough, though. I spent an awful lot of gold getting those redone in the English fashion. I’d hate to see a MacDonald wretch in them.”
The Captain sighed. “There are outbuildings.”
“Too luxurious. These are prisoners. Worse, from my standpoint, they’re MacDonalds. Why, a live MacDonald is worth less than a sheep.”
“What’s a dead MacDonald worth, then?”
“Good sheep grazing land, of course. Why do you think I purchased it? Civic pride?”
This time, Captain Barton joined his laughter. There was a rumble of noise coming from the group at their feet, although after several of the soldiers shoved musket butts into them, they settled back down.
“Monteith has dungeons still?” Barton asked.
“But of course. I don’t have gunpowder to store, Captain,” Langston replied.
“And you’ll not treat them too well?”
“I promise to fatten them up. Nothing more. I doubt I’ll even check on them.” He shrugged. “Good Lord, why would I? They brought this on themselves, you know. Stupidity has a price. I insist they pay it.”
“I don’t want them too fat.”
“There’s no such thing, Captain.”
“What?”
“There’s no such thing as too much health or too fat of a prisoner. Trust me. I already know all this. I learned it through my partner.”
“Your partner keeps prisoners, does he?”
“Of a sort.”
“He know much about torture and torment, does he?”
“Only if he has to, I assure you.”
The Ccaptain chuckled. “I think I like this fellow better the more I hear about him.”
“Don’t let words fool you, Captain. Solomon deals in slavery.
Afrikaners. Very good profit. Very good cargo…
if you keep them healthy. He makes twice as much as any other slaver, just because he knows the goods at the other end are what people pay for.
The goods on the other end, Captain. London.
The courts. Trust me. A healthy man bleeds better, lasts longer. Makes a better spectacle.”
“I vow, Monteith, you make even me acceptable to these barbarians, if the other option is yourself.”
Langston chuckled, tightened his hand on the rein, and convinced himself it was to keep them from slipping.