Page 61 of The Falcon Laird
“I am aware the gate is broken,” Gavin replied. Hastings had dispensed with a greeting, and there was no reason for him to express false politeness. “A smith is working on it. Until the repair is completed, a new set of wooden gates has been installed.”
“Of what use is a new gate that is wide open? And the drawbridge is down,” Hastings snapped. His gaze skimmed over the workmen in the courtyard, past scaffolds, pulleys, and various canvas tents set up as workshops and barracks. He scrutinized the charred stone of the gatehouse. “You are expected to hold it against the Scots, Faulkener, not open it to them.”
“Should I have barred the castle against you?” Gavin asked smoothly. “Of course the gate was open. We saw your approach.”
“Look at the damage here. Any fool could take this place,” Hastings muttered.
Gavin cocked an eyebrow. “Any fool, Oliver?”
Hastings glared at him. “I do not mean my escort. What allegiance are these men? Scots all?”
“Most have declared their support for King Edward. They take guard duty in shifts, since we have no garrison. They protect their handiwork.” Glancing around, Gavin noticed the sudden quiet, as if the workmen had melted away into the misted corners and doorways around the courtyard. The busy tumult of an hour earlier had been replaced by a new tension.
“At least you have begun the repairs, although the king has promised to send funds for the expenses. When will the work be completed?”
“I hired the workmen but a month ago,” Gavin said. He knew the policies of Edward Longshanks well enough to know that he would not receive any funds for the work without repeated requests; and Gavin did not intend to ask. “They are making the most essential repairs first. The castle will not be completely repaired for several months, perhaps into next year.”
“King Edward is anxious to send a garrison here. You must prepare space for three hundred men within a fortnight.”
Gavin tilted a brow. “Only if they care to sleep in the courtyard with the masons and carpenters. The soldiers’ barracks were in those two towers on either side of the gatehouse. The towers were structurally damaged in the fire and must be torn down and rebuilt. That will take a year at least, even if we hire twice as many men. For now, we have space enough for ten or fifteen people on one floor of the great tower. But as I said, there is some space in the courtyard.”
“Christ’s tree, man, you know the king’s orders! Kilglassie is still vulnerable. Tell your laborers to speed up the work.”
“The damage was extensive. Proper repairs will take time.”
“We have no time to wait. King Edward wants at least two thousand men in Galloway. And Kilglassie is more important than you know. The most recent rumors place Bruce near here. The Earl of Pembroke is viceroy in Scotland now, and he has ordered the manhunt to center in this area.” Hastings glancedover his shoulder as two men dismounted and approached. One wore full mail armor, but his solid build was dwarfed beside the tall, enormously heavy man in long robes who walked alongside him.
Hastings turned, gesturing toward the larger man. “Faulkener, this is Philip Ormesby, chief justiciar of Galloway by King Edward. He is in charge of collecting taxes and rents from the Scottish people.”
Ormesby held out a meaty hand. “Should you need funds to complete repairs to Kilglassie, Sir Gavin, send me word at Carlisle. We can tax an amount to see it done.” He smiled, grayed teeth glinting behind full lips, and inclined his head. Gavin saw the tonsure beneath the man’s heavy woolen hood.
“You are a priest, sir,” he commented. He had not missed the elaborate gilt braid on the cloak, or the expensive cut of his robes; this priest had taken no vow of poverty.
“I said vows at Oxford and taught law there for ten years before the king saw fit to use my abilities properly.” He smiled, and Gavin recognized the sly quality that he had sometimes seen in high-ranking clergymen, both in Paris and in the English court. A sense of greed and lust seemed to propel such men into powerful positions.
“And Dungal Macdouell,” Hastings said, nodding toward the second man. “He is a local chieftain who has declared for the English cause. He headed the ambush at Loch Ryan that defeated Thomas and Alexander Bruce and three hundred rebels.”
“Macdouell,” Gavin said, inclining his head.
“We need to talk,” Hastings said. “Show us to your hall.”
“It is full of carpenters and scaffolding at the moment,” Gavin said. “If you need a private space, the solar is finished. Come this way.”
Hastings turned to his sergeant. “Wait with the escort until we are done,” he said. “See that the men are fed. There are kettles over those open fires. Take what is in there.” He gestured across the courtyard, where Dominy and Moira stood beside two huge kettles of bubbling stew.
“That food was prepared for the laborers,” Gavin said. “But if you ask politely, the ladies may find enough to share with your men.” He looked toward Dominy, who nodded. Beside her, Moira scowled and turned away.
As they walked through the courtyard and into the tower, Gavin pointed out the repairs in progress. As the group pounded up the stone steps toward the upper level, Gavin found himself hoping that Christian had left the bedchamber. He intended to tell Hastings that she was still alive, but he wanted to spare Christian the man’s initial and inevitable displeasure.
But even before they reached the laird’s bedchamber, Gavin could hear the notes of the harp. Christian was still there. Muttering a silent prayer, dreading the next moments, he pushed open the door.
Startled, Christian droppedher hands from the harp and rose to her feet when the door opened. She glanced nervously at Fergus, who had come looking for her when the English knights had first arrived in the courtyard. He maintained a somber expression, folding his hands calmly as he stood near her.
Gavin entered, followed by three men whose shadows seemed to darken and swallow the space of the room. She stood by the fireplace, as yet unnoticed in the dim, shuttered room. But Gavin glanced toward her immediately, as if he knew she would be there.
Hastings stepped in just behind him. Christian’s heart pounded when she saw him, and fear rose like bitter wine in her throat. She stayed still, though her legs nearly faltered beneathher. Gavin watched her steadily while the other men came into the chamber.
Hastings closed the door and turned. “Christ’s blood, it is dark as a pit in here,” he muttered. He had not seen her, and Christian clenched her fists against the black memories that flooded over her. His grating voice brought back dark flashes of the cage and of his treatment of her there. She closed her eyes and placed a hand on the harp pillar to steady herself.
