Chapter 31
It didn’t take long to find Father and his men after that. I padded down the last short flight of grimy steps, my nose full of the ripe smell of mildew and unwashed bodies. “Father?” I called softly through the dark. “Where are you?”
“Laurie? Is that you?” came a croaking voice I didn’t recognize. But the voice had used the childhood nickname that only Father used.
I held the torch up and had to stifle a cry.
Father looked dreadful. His hair had grown long and hung matted and dirty over his bruised and blood-encrusted face.
One eye was swollen shut. His clothes were filthy rags now, and the cell reeked.
He shuffled over to peer closely at my face with his one good eye.
“It’s all right, Father. I’m here,” I told him, clutching his fingers through the bars. “Is everyone alive? Where are the others?”
“Two are dead. The rest are there.” He indicated cells along the long row, then winced as he put a hand to his lower chest. Did he have broken ribs?
I swallowed hard. They would surely all be in similar condition. Not fighting shape. It was down to Baron and me to get them all out and to safety. Tonight.
Baron approached with the ring of keys held in his hand. Father struggled to focus on Baron’s features as he began to unlock the cell door. “I know you…” Father muttered, then recognition dawned in his sunken face.
“It was you! You were the one—”
“Chained to your daughter when you came to rescue her, yes,” Baron cut him off crisply. “We’ll catch up later. We have to get out. Now.”
The door creaked open and Father hobbled out of his cell, eyeing Baron suspiciously. I pulled Father’s arm around my shoulder to support him to the next cell.
As Baron worked his way down the row of cells, unlocking each door with quick, silent efficiency, I leaned closer to Father. “Who died?” I whispered, bracing myself.
His face tightened. “Jerome,” he murmured. “And Much the Miller’s Son.”
The words struck like physical blows. For a heartbeat, the hallway tilted. Jerome, steady, dependable Jerome, who’d taught me how to fletch my first arrow. And Much, who always tried to make us laugh, even in the bleakest moments.
A sharp ache burst behind my ribs. I swallowed hard, forcing the sound back down my throat.
There was no air to breathe, no space to grieve.
I nodded, blinking fast until the torches steadied again.
My heart felt raw, like it had been cut wide open, but we had no time for mourning, not while lives still needed saving.
The rest of the men seemed to have fared slightly better than Father. They could at least walk normally, but all had lost a significant amount of weight and had a variety of injuries. I exchanged worried glances with Baron. How could we escape with them all this badly weakened?
“Follow me,” Baron instructed.
He marched off through the empty corridors, checking furtively around each corner before striding on.
The men struggled to keep up his aggressive pace, and I helped Father limp along the best I could.
We ascended two stories, until we were just one level below the main floor.
Baron held up a closed fist, signaling us to halt.
Then he gestured for us to wait while he went on.
He strode into the hall beyond, out of our sight.
“Can we trust him?” whispered Father.
“Shhh. Yes, we can,” I answered, nerves jangling.
“We have to trust him,” murmured Little John. “We don’t have any other choice.”
We heard Baron’s voice ring out, powerful and commanding. “Who goes there?”
A nasally voice replied. “Who goes there?”
“I’m Baron Blackwellson, a senior officer in Prince John’s first battalion of soldiers, the son of the Sheriff of Nottingham!” Baron said authoritatively. I heard several of the men behind me inhale sharply and I flapped my hands at them to stay silent.
“Baron Blackwellson?” the nasally voice repeated. “My, my, I didn’t know you were expected. Is your father also—”
The rest of his question was cut off as we heard a heavy thump. Baron poked his head around the corner. “All clear.”
As Father passed him, he narrowed his eyes. “You and I are going to have a chat later.”
“I’m sure we will,” Baron said hastily, still pressing us on urgently.
He nimbly ran to the front of our column and continued to lead the procession.
Past the now-unconscious guard slumped on the floor, up another flight of stairs, then through the main dining hall.
We were close to the main gate now. But this would be the most dangerous part of all.
I looked at the exhausted, famished men we had in tow and wanted to kick myself.
Baron and I hadn’t thought about the poor state Father and the others would be in when we had made our plans.
We’d assumed that we would be able to rush out, fighting all the way.
But now, even Little John seemed devoid of his usual strength. How had we made such a huge oversight?
I helped Father sit and approached Baron. “We need a diversion,” I said quietly.
Baron nodded. “I suppose I could take on the left wing while you lead—”
But I shook my head. “No, it has to be me. The men need you to get them out safely.” Baron looked ready to protest, but I forestalled him. “Baron, I physically cannot support someone like Little John. I couldn’t carry any of them if they needed it. But you can.”
“What is your plan?” he asked.
A smile lit up my face. “Probably something heroic and stupid. You’ve been a bad influence on me.”
Baron exhaled sharply, worry tightening his features. “Laurel…”
“I’ll be fine,” I whispered, touching his arm. “I know what I’m doing.”
He held my gaze for a long second, fighting the instinct to argue. Finally, he nodded. “Then come back to me. Don’t take any unnecessary risks.”
A laugh caught in my throat. “On that, I make no promises.”
He groaned softly. “Of course you don’t. I’ll meet you in the forest to the south.”
“I’ll see you then,” I said. I tugged his coil of rope away from him and looped it around my shoulder.
Then I turned my attention to the men, who were now all waiting for further instructions.
“Go with Baron,” I told them. “He’ll get you out safely.
” I then hurried to the opposite side of the dining hall before they could raise any objections.
I only hoped I could make enough noise and chaos that every guard in this wretched place would be too busy scrambling to notice a mass jailbreak happening right beneath their noses. Baron and the others needed time. I was going to give it to them, no matter what.
I sprinted across the castle’s far side, slipping between shadowed archways and ducking behind stone buttresses whenever a guard’s footsteps grew too close.
The narrow stairwell spiraled upward toward the tallest turret. My boots thudded softly against the stone as I climbed, two steps at a time, snatching a lit torch from its sconce without breaking stride. At the final rung, I shoved at the trapdoor overhead.
A guard stood there, squinting down at my cowled head.
“I’m your relief,” I muttered, keeping my head bowed and my voice gruffer than usual as I pushed the trapdoor fully open.
“What? But—”
He didn’t get to finish. I surged upward, grabbing the front of his tunic and yanking him forward. One twist, one sweep of my leg, and he toppled hard. A single sharp strike to the bridge of his nose sent his eyes rolling back. He slumped unconscious at my feet.
I let out a snort of disgust. I’d almost hoped he’d put up a better fight. I needed something to release the nerves coiled tight in my stomach.
I dragged him aside and slammed the trapdoor shut again. It locked with a satisfying clack. At least now, no one would come barreling up behind me and I had a solidly defensible position. Below me, there was an entire castle to torment.
A grin tugged at my lips. “Time to start a little mayhem.”
I unslung the bow Baron had thoughtfully stolen from his father for me and tore the hem from my tunic, tearing the fabric into strips.
Despite my slight trembling, my hands moved quickly as I soaked the pieces with lantern oil from a hanging pot.
I knotted the slick bits of fabric around arrowheads, one after another, until I’d used all the strips of fabric.
I took a deep breath. There was no more time to prepare. Baron, my father, Little John…they were all waiting on me. They needed me.
I nocked the first arrow and pivoted so the arrowhead touched the torch I’d wedged into a battlement bracket. It hissed as its soaked cloth caught flame. I drew back, aimed for the dead tree in the center of the courtyard, and loosed.
The arrow arced through the night, a streak of fire in the darkness. It thudded into the dry bark and the tree went up like tinder. Shouts rose immediately.
The second target was the drawbridge. The tar they’d treated the wood with earlier in the day was flammable until it dried.
Fortunately for me and unfortunately for them, it was still wet.
I fired twice in quick succession, my bow hand searing from the heat of each flaming arrow.
Tar-treated wood erupted in oily flames.
Below, men began sprinting in a glorious mass of confusion.
Those shouting about the burning tree collided with those running for the engulfed drawbridge or rushing about to find water and douse the fires before they grew.
They scrambled about like the ants of a giant anthill that had been stepped on.
I lit three more arrows and sent them into anything remotely flammable: a hay cart, a pile of scaffolding, even the roof of a storage hut. Panic crackled through the courtyard like a living thing and the shouts grew louder.
Finally someone screamed, “On the turret! The archer’s up there!”