at all times—had managed to leave.
“None will speak,” Peter told him.
Eric nodded.
“There is obviously a way out through the castle. And, therefore, a way in. I will discover what it is.”
“But have you the strength to force out of them what you need to know?” Peter asked him. He wasn’t an old man, but his features were weathered, lined and creased. Like Eric, he was a natural sailor, brought to shore, and a learned warrior.
There had been no other choice for them.
“Today, I will let them know that this castle will be kept in the name of the Bruce. And that we will discover their secrets. But soon, very soon . . .”
“Soon . . . ?”
“We will begin to even the score in this deadly tournament,” Eric said softly.
When he was done bathing, he donned a linen chemise and breeches belonging to the past master of the castle, found his boots, and made his way down the stairs. He drew out a chair at the head of the great long table in the hall, lifted a booted foot upon the table, startling the poor old steward of the castle into something like apoplexy.
“Yes, I am alive and well,” Eric said. “And very hungry for good bread and meat. Are there such luxuries to be had?”
The old fellow nodded dumbly and started to turn.
“Wait. What is your name?”
“Garth, my lord.”
“Well, Garth, it is good to see you moving, in far better circumstance than that in which we found you here.”
“And you, sir, have apparently weathered the illness as well.”
“I have. Most regretfully, I’m certain, to your number.”
The old man shrugged. “It has made little difference here. Kings and nobles make war. Men such as I merely serve until we die.”
“Not true, Garth. The common man of Scotland is the soldier who will make her free.”
“The common man of Scotland is the one who dies, butchered by the armies, starved out by either side.”
“Langley stood unaffected for many years.”
“Langley could only fall from within.”
Eric arched a brow without replying for a moment. Aye, it was true. Without huge war machines and a massive army moving against it, this castle could not fall.
Except from within. And if there was a way for men and women to escape the walls, there was a way for traitors to slip inside as well.
“God’s judgment,” Eric said after a moment to Garth. “Had we not been imprisoned for the purposes of torture and demise, this death would not have come to Langley. Some might call that God’s judgment.”
“And some,” came a voice from the doorway, “might call it the idiocy of a few stupid men with enough arms to force their way.”
Eric grinned, seeing the priest at the entry to the great hall. “Welcome, Father MacKinley. I was about to send for you.”
“You’re looking extremely well.”
“Yes. The sickness is gone.”
“Is it?” the priest asked. “I have a feeling that an illness far worse festers within your soul.”
“My soul is of little interest to me at the moment, if you will forgive me, Father.”
“Whether I forgive you or not—”
“Let’s not get into a philosophical discussion, Father, on my soul. There are other matters to be discussed. First, Garth, I am very hungry.”
“Aye, sir.”
He turned to leave.
“Garth.”
The man paused, looking back. He was wary, but also worn.
“I have no real liking for bloodshed and death. But if I—or any of my men—are poisoned here, the retaliation upon those here will be swift and any who die at your hands will wish that they had been taken by the plague. You understand that.”
“Aye, my lord. That was made quite clear at the beginning of your illness by your man, MacDonald.”
Eric smiled. Thank God for Peter MacDonald. His right hand. Because of Peter, and this priest, he had lived. When he should have died. When he would have gladly died. He dared not think too long on that fact. Dark clouds seemed to fog his vision when he did so, and the dull pain would begin to thud again, and he wanted to rage, and tear the place apart stone by stone, though nothing would bring back Margot and his daughter.
“Good. Bring food. Father MacKinley, sit.”
Garth left the hall, hurrying to bring food as bidden. As bidden, Father MacKinley sat, his eyes wary.
“So, Father, tell me about the state of affairs.”
“The state of affairs?” MacKinley said. “War, I believe. It has been war here, as long as I remember.”
“Ah, yes, it’s a way of life, isn’t it? Here, Father, you know exactly what I am asking you.”
“I’m sure that you know everything that is going on, and that your man, MacDonald, has brought you up to date.”
“Yes, but I would like to hear your assessment of the current situation at the castle.”
“People have stopped dying. Most of the poor deceased have been burned in great heaps just beyond the walls.”
“Most of the dead.”
“Your wife and child are buried in the wall with the late Lord Afton.”
Eric stared down at his hands for a moment. “There will be masses said,” he murmured quietly.
“There have been masses said. All men are equal before God.”
Eric allowed his mouth to curl just slightly. MacKinley was either a fool or a very brave man.
“Where is your mistress?”
MacKinley stiffened at Eric’s evenly voiced question.
“Gone.”’
“That’s evident. Gone where?”
“Back to her brother.”
“The young widow, returned to England to be a pawn in another advantageous marriage.”
“Gone back to the love and care of her family.”
“When
