Page 91 of Bride of the Mad Laird
They walked the horses along the track through the woods leading to the rear of the castle. As they approached the clearing the prisoners spoke of, he halted, signaling them to dismount. They tethered the horses and set off on foot, their claymores in their hands, searching for the overhang the men had described.
It was well-disguised but easy enough to find, as there was a trail of flattened grass leading them straight to it.
He ducked his head and felt around under the overhanging rock. Within a short span of time what seemed like solid rock yielded under the pressure of his hands and swiveled, exposing a narrow opening leading to... blackness.
“Here’s where we leave our claymores, lads. They’re nay use in the confined spaces and heavy enough to slow us.” He took our his short-sword, and wielded it in one hand, his targe in the other. They left their claymores, well-disguised, under a heap of bracken, and continued on brandishing their claybegs.
Without hesitating they entered the tunnel, feeling their way along the slimy walls, trying not to slip in the foul-smelling mud underfoot.
His stomach churned at the thought of Lyra being roughly forced along this dank passage.
Although they didn't speak, the clank of chainmail and their sloshing footsteps would have been sufficient to alert their presence to any guard stationed there. Fortunately, no voice thundered out of the darkness, and they crept on, until they arrived at the door to the first set of stairs, which was dimly lit by a single torch on the wall.
Again, there was no sign of a guard on duty.
Tòrr sniggered to himself. It seemed the denizens of Duart Castle had become complacent, imagining their secret entry to be so well hidden that there could be no incursion.
They are in fer a surprise.
They ventured on up the stairs, treading as softly as they could, swords drawn, expecting at any second a howling horde of gallowglasses to descend on them from above.
But there was nothing.
Finally, they reached the top of the dank staircase and confronted the next doorway. They shouldered their shields and held their claybegs at the ready, unsure of what lay on the other side of the heavy oaken door.
Tòrr gave a soft laugh. “From here on, remember we are meant tae be part of the castle guard. Although we’re armed, we need tae look as if we belong.”
This would require enormous restraint on his part, as his whole being was on alert, the blood running thick and hot in his veins as he drew closer and closer to his quarry.
Every thought was of Lyra, and his impulse as a warrior was to roar his war cry and surge forward, taking all before him, to rescue her or die in the attempt.
He pushed open the door and stepped out without checking both ways to ensure it was safe to do so.
Anyone seeing him would have assumed they were part of a patrol returning to their next assignment within the castle.
With that they all loosened their posture, and strode forward doing their best to look as if they were familiar with the castle.
Fortunately, his prisoners had provided accurate descriptions of what to expect and after only a few steps, they were confronted with the second staircase. This was the one that would take them up to MacDougall’s private quarters.
They were halfway up the stairs when they heard footsteps approaching. Tòrr signaled them to keep going and they forged ahead, passing the other four men on the way, merely nodding as they went.
Continuing higher, they eventually arrived at a passageway leading to several doors on their right-hand side.
They ambled along the corridor, doing their best to look as if they belonged. Once they came in sight of a door guarded by two men, Tòrr realized they had reached their destination.
Behind this door he would find the laird he sought and, if God was with them, he would find Lyra.
They were well prepared as they walked two abreast along the corridor, Tòrr and Edmund in the lead with Matheus and Jacob strolling a few paces behind.
They passed the two guards, ignoring them and being ignored in return. The disguise was working perfectly.
Behind them, their two men slammed into the guards, their claybegs aimed directly at their hearts. The only sound they made as they were pierced with the sharp weapons, was a soft grunt before they sank to the floor.
Tòrr and Edmund hastened back to help ease the dead men silently to the floor.
Now they had to move fast for if anyone should happen along this corridor the alarm would go up once they caught sight of the two guards lying in spreading pools of their own blood.
Catching their breath Tòrr and his men assembled at the door, their swords in their hands. His prisoners had been unsure as to how many men they could expect to find guarding MacDougall, but they swore there could be no more than six as that was the number the laird liked to have beside him.
