Page 99 of The Falcon Laird
Christian climbed more slowly and with greater caution than Gavin had used, training her eyes ahead until she finally saw Gavin’s booted feet at eye level. He bent down and grabbed her wrists, pulling her up beside him.
Cold wind whipped at their hair and clothing, and sunlight poured down over them. Far below, the surface of the loch, rippled by winds, looked like glittering dark silver.
“This entrance was designed as deliberately as the other one,” he said. “Both are hidden from sight, and yet both are accessible from the loch. The rungs were purposefully placed.”
“I wonder why,” she said. “There is but one underground hall, which my family has used for generations. Why this second entrance here? It does not make good sense for it to connect to the well.”
“We’ll soon know,” Gavin said, turning. He entered the crevice, holding her hand as she followed him. A few doves fluttered out as they entered, depositing their greetings on the rock ledge. “Watch your head, my lady, and where you walk. The birds have been here for generations. Without a broom.”
“Ech,” Christian said, stepping carefully on the crusted stone floor. They moved through a wide corridor, carved like the others below Kilglassie, with rounded walls scraped out of solid rock. Bright morning sunshine filled the corridor to a depth of several feet, illuminating the interior. Walking ahead, Gavin suddenly stopped.
“God’s bones. It truly is a dovecote,” he said. Christian looked up. On one side of the wall, small niches had been hand cut into the rock to form rows of compartments. In the nooks, a few doves still slept, while others sat calmly, cooing deeply and peacefully in their tucked throats.
“Ach, my wee doves,” Christian said softly, approaching them. “You’ve been living here all this time, and we did not know it.” She made a low coo in her throat, and two birds looked up, ruffling their feathers before relaxing again. Beside her, Gavin turned around, studying the space.
“I do not understand,” she said. “Why would my ancestors build this, if they had to climb here to pick doves for supper?”
“Mayhap they never had to climb,” he said. “Look.”
She turned, and saw, in the opposite wall, a massive door, similar to the one that led to the vast underground storage chamber. Its surface was scarred with bird droppings, but beneath that layer she saw the spiraling patterns of iron and brass over dark wooden planks. “It is very, very old, that door,” she said in a hushed voice.
“Aye so,” Gavin murmured, and turned again. Ahead of them, with the dovecote to the left and the door to the right, the tunnel continued into shadows. “That must lead into the castle,” he said. “To the wall of the well.” He walked slowly forward and she followed. The tunnel narrowed where rubble formed a pile on one side. Ahead, they saw a wall of dressed blocks.
Gavin crouched down and pressed against the blocks until one shifted. “Aye, look—the well!” he whispered. “The mortar has been weakened in places, most likely from the fire last summer.” A few of the blocks had slipped askew. Christian dropped down beside him and saw a wedge of darkness, heard the trickle of water, and heard faint voices.
“The English soldiers,” she whispered. “They must be in the bakery!”
“The lads said that Hastings intended to search the well.” Gavin frowned, listening, then stood. “I do not relish bursting through the well wall just now to get into the castle,” he said wryly. “We’ll wait, and hope they do not remove that loosened block.”
“I want to open that door,” she whispered, standing.
He turned. “If we can. It looks as if it has been sealed for centuries.”
They walked back toward the door, which appeared to be about ten feet tall, its top edge just below the level of the stone ceiling. Gavin tried the massive iron latch, but found it locked. He began to twist it.
Christian stood on her toes and stretched her arms up, feeling with her fingertips into every crevice beside the carved stone doorframe. Then her fingers hit cold iron. “The key!” She drew it out.
Gavin laughed, shaking his head without comment, and stuck the key in the lock. After some earnest shoving on his part, the door swung wide. Behind it was a large, dark, open space.
He went through the doorway. “There are stone steps just here,” he said, taking her arm and drawing her forward. “Go careful, now.”
Christian stepped down to face utter blackness, relieved only by the wedge of light that spilled in from the dovecote corridor. A layer of dust stirred up at their entrance, making her cough. The sound echoed as if in a cave.
As Gavin moved ahead, holding her hand, she saw something glimmering, overhead and to the sides, but could not identify it.
“Here,” he said suddenly, “what is this?” He knelt, and she knelt beside him.
In the deep shadows, his hands explored a small pile of objects carefully. “A sword,” he said, hefting something massive in his hand and setting it down. “A box, a small casket of somekind. It is locked.” He briefly jiggled the latch and laid the box aside. “And here are some smaller things—brooches, I think, and other jewelry. A few rough stones. Perhaps this is your treasure, my lady.”
Christian heard the clink of lightweight metal and stretched out her hands. She felt a jumble of cool surfaces, smooth, bumpy, intricately decorated. “The treasure of Kilglassie is real, Gavin!”
“Ah,” he said, reaching forward. “This object here feels like—aye, an oil lamp. And still full. Christian, I’ll need a piece of your linen shift.”
“What?” she asked, confused. He repeated his request, and she tore off a piece of the hem and handed it to him.
He stood, picking up the sword, and quickly scraped the blade against the stone wall. Blue and white stars flew through the darkness. He scraped again, until he caught a few sparks on the dry cloth he held. Blowing quickly, he fed the spark until it smoked and caught flame. Then he touched the burning linen to the wick on the old lamp.
Holding the blazing lamp high, he looked up. Christian stood, and turned in a slow circle.
