Chapter 3 #2
“I turn the meats on the spits, of course.” Seumas tucked a hand inside his ragged shirt to scratch his ribs. “Chieftain Dorchad shallnae bid the smith make shackles for you, you ken. ’Twas a jest he made.”
“With that mug of his, how could anyone tell?” Avoiding that man once she got out of here made it to number one on her to-do list. “Why wouldn’t he have the shackles made?”
“The MacRune dinnae lock up females,” the boy said. “They use them for their pleasures."
Implying she had rape to look forward to, Lucy thought. Yet while both Tair and Dorchad had manhandled her, neither one had behaved like rapists. “How long have they kept you locked up in here, Seumas?”
“Since the evening meal last night, when Cook called me to bank the roasting fire and saw me gone. He sent Seneschal after me, and that one’s as quick as a hunting dog.” He wrinkled his nose. “I couldnae help myself, Mistress Lucy. Cake, ’tis my weakness. ”
No matter what time they lived in, all kids liked sweet things, she thought. “How long do you have to be locked up down here?”
“Och, I hope no’ another night,” Seumas said, his expression turning glum. “’Tis cold, and the rats shall soon come out and plague us.”
Lucy glanced around the piles of dirty straw around her boots. Odd that there were no roaches or any sign of vermin. “You’ve seen rats running about in here?”
“Aye, many,” the boy said, gesturing from one side of his cell to the other. “I would beat them off with my boots, only Seneschal took them from me.”
The boy was really quick with his answers, almost as if they were rehearsed, Lucy thought. “Why would he steal your boots?”
“So I’d suffer.” Seumas eyed her and quickly added, “Cook may send for me in a few hours to help with cooking the evening meal again, for I’m the only spit-boy. Or mayhap he shall hire another and leave me here to starve. Such is our lot.”
That wasn’t going to be her bloody lot, Lucy thought, and then she noticed how closely the boy was still watching her.
Something was off about this situation; because of her work she knew all about how to give a particular appearance to an area.
In reality the dungeon looked much dirtier than it was; in her cell, it hardly smelled at all and the straw appeared to have been mixed with soil.
If the kid was acting, he was doing a pretty good job of it.
When he reached up to scratch the side of his neck, she saw that his palm and fingernails were black, matching the marks on his face.
It suggested that he’d rubbed the soot on his skin, maybe to make her believe he’d been stuck down here for a while.
Had someone staged all this to convince her that she was in danger? Was any of it real?
“Do your parents know you’ve been thrown in the dungeon, Seumas?” she asked.
“I’m an orphan, Mistress Lucy.” He sniffed and shifted into a patch of torchlight as he wiped his sleeve over his dry eyes.
He was definitely older than twelve, Lucy thought, noting some details like the shadow of a beard on his jaw, and the shortness of his arms and legs compared to his head and torso.
He’s a little person, not a kid, and I’m being swindled.
“Maybe you don’t have to wait that long.” She tested the door to her cell, making the bars rattle, and then inspected the lock, which seemed fairly simple, with just an internal latch.
As she pulled one of the small clips she wore from her hair and bent the end out, Seumas made a surprised sound. “How do you ken to do such? ”
“My father’s assistant taught me,” she said as she inserted the clip in the lock, and began delicately turning it to try to force the latch.
“He worried that I might get snatched and held for ransom someday. I also know how to get out of handcuffs and things like car trunks. Those are the dungeons in my world.”
Seumas nodded, but it was obvious from his expression that he didn’t understand her. “’Twas a wise and kindly thing he did, I’ll wager. You should bid him serve as your man.”
“He’s a pensioner now.” It made her smile to think of James, who had retired five years ago to a rural town in Scotland, where he had a small cottage and a garden she had designed for him.
If she ever got back to her world, she’d have to tell him about her adventures here in this weird place.
The sound of the latch giving made her tug on the bars, and the door swung open. “Blimey, that worked.”
The boy shook his head as she walked over to his cell. “Dinnae release me, Mistress, I beg you. I dinnae wish a beating for avoiding my punishment.”
“If that’s what you want, mate.” Lucy inspected the interior of his cell with a few glances. At the back was a panel painted to look like the wall stones, which she’d bet was a door. “Do they thrash all the children here?”
“Aye, if we displease the laird.” He looked down at his dirty feet. “You shouldnae linger. At the top of the stairs go to the hall at the left, and follow it to a great door at the end. ’Twill lead you to the dock outside the walls. There you may take a skiff to the shore.”
Everything he’d told her again sounded very rehearsed, as if it were a speech he’d often given. Now Lucy was convinced she was being fleeced.
“Thanks for letting me know how to get away.” She walked toward the stairs, stopped and then looked back at Seumas, who had his face pressed to his cell bars so he could watch her go. “Sure you don’t want to come with me, lad?”
He shook his head. “I darenae, Mistress. Fare you well.”
“Cheers.” Lucy walked up the stairs and into an empty corridor.
To the left was one hall, and to the right were two others.
She then glanced at the door immediately to her right and reached out to tug on the latch.
As it opened the boy from the dungeon yelped and fell at her feet.
“Hi again, Seumas. You should have mentioned this. Would have saved me a hair clip.”
He groaned and buried his head in his arms. “Now I shall get a thrashing in truth.”
Lucy heard footsteps as she helped him up, and pushed him inside the space on the other side of the door before joining him and closing it.
That was when she noticed the hole in the door, which was large enough for her to watch two very large men stride past, both armed with swords and carrying torches.
They kept going, and when she couldn’t see them anymore she turned to look at the little man.
“You need to start telling me the truth,” Lucy said. “I know you’re a grown man. Who sent you down there to pretend to be a prisoner and tell me all this, then?”
“’Tis my duty when strangers come to Gealladh. I’m to help them escape.” He gave her a hopeful look. “’Tis a skiff waiting in truth at the dock. None shall prevent you from leaving the island.”
“Right, because they don’t want me coming back, do they?” When he only looked puzzled she added, “Why do they want to get rid of me so badly?”
“None wish to remain among the MacRune, Mistress Lucy. They’re merciless thieving killers.” When she didn’t react he cringed a little. “I cannae tell you more. Please, leave while you can.”
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Lucy said, taking the notebook out of her back pocket. “Let’s go back down where there’s some light. Do you know what a floor plan is? No, okay, how about a map?”
On the way back to the dungeon cells she asked him where the laird would be now, and the best way to reach him without running into the chieftain. Seumas gave her only very brief answers, with hardly any details.
“Look, mate, I just want to go and talk to the laird about all this,” she finally said. “Can you help me out?”
“’Tis a secret I mustnae tell,” he said as he pushed out the faux stone panel, making the scraping sound she’d heard earlier. “After you, Mistress.”
Lucy stepped forward, and then something hit her on the back of the head, sending her pitching forward into darkness.
“ F orgive me, Seneschal,” Seumas said to Sgathan MacRune as he grimaced at the blonde outsider’s still body. “She’s far cleverer than any of the others come here. I reckon she saw through my ruse from the beginning.”
Had she realized that the spit-boy was in truth a grown man? Sgathan wondered as he bent to pick her up from the floor. “You still did well, as ever.”
“I only deceived her when I stayed in the shadows,” the dwarf admitted. “Once she saw me clearly she realized I’m no’ a lad.”
In Sgathan’s arms the woman seemed to weigh little more than a bundle of willow twigs, and yet did not appear starved.
Even in the torchlight he could see the healthy bloom on her flawless light gold skin.
The paleness of her hair shone as clean and bright as it smelled, inviting a man’s touch.
The spit-boy had hit her just hard enough to render her senseless, he was glad to discover.
Her breathing remained even, and aside from a small lump on her head she had no other injuries.
“Return to your duties in the kitchens, lad,” he told Seumas.
“Aye, Seneschal.” The young man bowed and trotted off.
Sgathan carried her across to the cell in which his twin brother, Dorchad, had imprisoned her, and tossed his own tartan on the filthy straw before lowering her on it.
He was not supposed to show any kindness to outsiders, but this wench had such clean, perfect skin he could do this much for her.
She had dressed in a short coat, leine and trews made of strange shades of indigo, green and white so dazzling it resembled snow.
Her trews fit her long legs as if they’d been painted on, and all her garments had finely-worked seams. Her black boots likewise appeared superbly made, from leather so well finished it gleamed.
Webbed cording crisscrossed the front of them, doubtless to secure them to her calves. She smelled as lovely as she appeared .
Could she be the daughter of a noble from another land? Had her sire dressed her as a lad to keep her safe?