Chapter 3
Chapter Three
“ W ould you please put me down?” Tired of being hauled around like a sack of potatoes, Lucy turned her head and blew the tangle of hair out of her eyes.
That gave her a much better look at Scottish Ancient Warrior Number Two, although glimpsing the cold, dark face belonging to Dorchad made her regret that.
With his gleaming black hair hanging in perfect spikes over his forehead he could have modeled for any major fashion brand, except for his face.
He had flawless features that for some reason seemed almost demonic, and made her wonder if staring at him too long would drive her crazy.
“Quiet,” was all he said when she repeated her request.
He was the scariest-looking man she’d ever seen— even more so than the laird—but the sound of his voice seemed to echo in chilly whispers in her head.
On the way into the castle they passed a lot of other big, dark men who carried swords, daggers and in a few cases long bows.
The archers wore quivers stuffed with arrows, but at their hips, not on their backs.
Everyone seemed surprised to see the chieftain carrying her, but they all looked away as if pretending not to have noticed her.
No one stopped Dorchad or asked who she was or why he was lugging her around like this, which worried Lucy a little more.
A few murmured “Chieftain” and bowed their heads as they passed, like Dorchad was someone important.
The chieftain carried her through two gates and into the castle, which seemed to be a labyrinth of stone passages and arched doorways with heavy wooden doors bound by black iron hinges.
Everything looked suitably medieval, although very dark and rather grimy.
The torches that burned had been shoved into rusty metal sconces, and so much dust and dirt had been pounded into the cracks between the floor stones that it now had nowhere to go, and formed dry puddles everywhere.
A faint smell matched the interior décor, and made her think of both an overflowing septic tank and a stagnant pond filled with algae, which made her stomach churn.
Is this really fourteenth century Scotland?
Lucy hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud until Dorchad stopped and said, “What now?”
“More of the same—oh, really, can’t you let me walk?” she asked quickly. “I don’t want to retch on your, ah, blood-stained trousers. Also, don’t you think it's time to change and do the washing?”
He said nothing in reply, and continued on, striding through a door that two other ancient warrior types opened for him.
These two eyed Lucy like she was naked and under the influence, which worried her a little more.
They were too big to fight off, and if this guy really intended to lock her up, she’d be virtually helpless.
Or what if the wanker intends something else?
“You’ve got the only key to the dungeon, I hope?
” When he said nothing she wondered if kicking him would get her a broken leg.
Instead she opted for a show of respect.
“Chieftain, I know you work for that big bad-tempered demon I met by the water, and you’re just carrying out his orders, so no worries.
” His silence made her add, “It won’t kill you to talk to me, you know. ”
He stopped and jerked her up so that he held her in front of him with her feet dangling well above the floor. “Shall I add your blood to my trews?”
“Don’t bother.” Lucy tried to sound nonchalant, but hanging from his fist made that rather problematic, especially as she had to wheeze the words.
He set her on her feet. “Walk.”
They followed the passage to some stairs, which she climbed down in front of him.
At the bottom she stepped into a long, wide stone basement of sorts with the curving walls lined with torches.
They illuminated ten-foot-tall cages filled with mounds of darkly stained straw on each side of the main room.
The stagnant stink of decay seemed more intense here, as if the place were the source of the stench.
On the back wall of each cage were thick chains attached to rungs embedded in the stone, which were attached to heavy cuffs of thick metal.
Those are shackles for the prisoners, Lucy thought, more intrigued than horrified.
“He wasn’t lying about the dungeon, then. Hang on,” she added as he pushed her into the first open cage. “This is an island, and I can’t swim, so you don’t have to chain me up. There’s no way I can escape, right?”
The chieftain glanced past her before he shook his head .
“That’s very kind of you, thanks.” Maybe he wasn’t as bad as she’d thought. “Can I ask you for–”
“You need hold your tongue, else you tempt me to cut it out.” He started toward her, backing her up until her shoulders hit the wall.
His voice went from a shiver-inducing, endlessly echoing whisper to a lower, even scarier purr.
“Remain silent, and you shall be given slops later.” He leaned in so that his cool breath touched her face.
“Make noise, and you may dine on straw until the new moon.”
His tone seemed light, almost caressing, as if he were flirting instead of trying to frighten her—not that he had to try very hard.
Lucy obviously couldn’t bargain with the guy, who might just possibly be the devil, so she just nodded.
When he caught her chin with his hand and lifted it to peer into her eyes she suddenly understood the lesser-known first part of the Nietzsche quotation about gazing into the abyss.
He who fights monsters may take care lest he thereby become a monster.
“I’m in the pink and covered with bling,” she told him, using her father’s scathing tactic of careless mockery. “You can go on with your day now. Lovely meeting you.” Wanker , she added in her head.
He stared at her as if deciding something, and then said in a nearly ordinary-sounding voice, “The year, ’tis thirteen hundred and fourteen. You’ve come to the Scottish highlands. Why dinnae you ken the time or place here?”
Well, that explained Tair’s confusion with half the things she’d said; she really had landed in Scotland in the fourteenth century. She must sound like she’d come from another planet to them. Should she be honest about that?
Nothing ventured, Lucy thought, squaring her shoulders.
“Someone or something brought me here from America in the twenty-first century. It’s a country that won’t come into being for another three or four hundred years.” Probably not a good idea to mention her British dad to a Scotsman. “All I want is to go home.”
Dorchad watched her face without blinking, as if waiting for her to say it was all a bad joke and she had some real reason for dropping into his laird’s arms.
“Can you at least help me go back to my time?” Lucy finally asked. “I don’t belong here.”
“I cannae return you to your America,” he finally said.
“The laird shall decide your fate. Should you prove troublesome, Mistress, I shall attend to you myself.” He glanced down at the blood spatter on his trousers, and then met her gaze again as his voice shifted back into that cold, whispery, nightmare-inspiring register. “Do you ken my meaning? ”
Absolutely she did. Lucy had never had a panic attack, but it seemed like she was on the verge of one. Giving this man any show of how much he terrified her, however, would not work to her benefit. Nor would she cower. She had a few shreds of pride left.
You’re not going to browbeat me into submission, you evil wanker.
“No worries. Would you ask the laird to drop in and see me sometime soon?” She managed to keep the perfect note of breezy disinterest in her tone. “I’d like to remind him that I helped him, and maybe get some better accommodations. You know, like a broom closet or potting shed.”
“Our lord’s too busy to waste his time.” Confusion flickered across his menacing features. “How could a wench like you aid the MacRune?”
She considered telling him, but she didn’t want to give up what might be her only leverage. “Sorry. Won’t toss a spanner in those works. Ask your boss.”
Dorchad’s eyes narrowed. “Dinnae toy with me, Mistress.”
“My name is Lucy, and I wouldn’t dare. This is your world, not mine, remember?” Telling him that was in a weird way like acknowledging it to herself. “The laird knows more about it than I do. Go talk to him.” Wanker, Wanker, Wanker.
As if he heard her silent litany his mouth flattened, but he finally turned his back on her and walked out of the cell, slamming the door shut.
The lock engaged with a heavy latching sound, but he didn’t look back at her or the cell.
A moment later he was gone, and then she heard a strange, brief scraping sound.
“You’re a brave one,” a young voice said from the other side of the cells.
Lucy peered at the shadowy chamber across from hers, and saw a skinny kid who looked about twelve years old watching her.
He came over to the bars, and the light from the torches revealed his ragged garments.
He had tangled long brown hair around a face with black streaks running from his brow to his chin.
Other than being pretty grimy he didn’t look too bad, considering where they’d locked him up.
He clutched the bars with loose hands, so he didn’t seem to be scared.
What kind of people were these MacRunes, that they threw little boys in dungeons?
“Why are you in here?” she asked.
“Seneschal caught me eating a honey cake,” he said.
Lucy frowned. “You get locked up for having a sweet?”
“You do if ’twas meant for the laird.” He grinned, giving his narrow face a foxy look. “I’m Seumas, the spit lad. Why do you wear mannish garments?”
“Because a dress would be bothersome when I work,” she said. At least the boy didn’t have any wounds or bruises that she could see. Did they beat their children, too? “My name is Lucy. What does a spit lad do?”