Adrian understood his feelings. With so little of their family left, neither could easily spare a brother. But Richard made no attempt to talk Adrian out of this dangerous plan, for a clandestine rescue represented the best chance of getting Meriel away from Guy before she was further injured or killed. Adrian could no more have held back from going than he could have voluntarily chosen to stop breathing.
But one did not speak of such things. Keeping his voice light, Adrian said, "Alan, do you have any last requests for Richard to execute?"
Alan de Vere, attired much the same as Adrian, shrugged his broad shoulders. "Avonleigh will revert to Lord Theobald. Anything personal can be sent to my brother William at Beaulaine in Wiltshire. Just do what you can for Meriel."
That last comment was unnecessary, for Richard would do whatever was possible to free Meriel. If Adrian were dead, Guy would likely lose interest in her and she could be freed by payment of a moderate ransom. At least, Adrian devoutly hoped that would be the outcome.
As Adrian and Alan left the house, Richard gave his brother a quick, rough hug. "For God's sake, be careful, you foolish bastard!"
Adrian punched him lightly on the shoulder. "I'm foolish, you're the bastard, remember?"
Alan tactfully pretended not to notice the byplay. Other families' rituals were often obscure.
The weather was wet, somewhere between drizzle and mist: poor for climbing but excellent for concealment. Leaving the village, Adrian and Alan made their way around the castle to the upriver site where Turbet the fisherman waited.
It was a short journey, and the current was strong enough to carry the small boat to the foot of Chastain Castle without paddling sounds which might carry across the water. Turbet left his passengers on a thumbnail of rocky beach at the base of the bluff, then let his boat drift a bit further, concealing it under a nearby willow that grew horizontally above the river.
Having worked out their plans earlier, there was no need to speak now. Adrian stripped off his cloak, then his boots, for bare toes gripped better than leather. He also left his sword with Alan, but retained his dagger in case a welcoming party greeted him above.
Grim faced, he began to climb. The first part was relatively easy, up a bluff of earth and stone with numerous holds. Then the angle increased sharply, as did the number of smooth stone expanses that offered no handholds at all.
Adrian's world narrowed to the fierce and unremitting concentration required to climb. Even the knowledge that Meriel was somewhere inside was only a distant thought, of no current significance. Reality was stretching one's hand up a rough surface until questing fingers found a narrow crack, and the trembling strain of shoulder muscles forced to support the whole weight of a body. It was the coarse brush of wet stone against one's cheek, the slow shift of weight onto an uncertain foothold, the necessity of instant retreat if it broke away.
Three-quarters of the way up the cliff, a fragile ledge crumbled away in a flurry of gravel after Adrian had already committed his weight to it. Unable to maintain a grip on the wet stone, his fingers broke loose and he began sliding across the rock face.
An instant from disaster, he twisted his body like an acrobat, using what little leverage he had to hurl himself sideways toward a scraggly bush that had found a precarious home in a crack. He managed, barely, to catch the thin branches. The bush started to tear loose, but held long enough for him to find better support.
As pebbles rattled down the rock, Adrian clung to the cliff face for a long minute, shaking with reaction from the near fall. Surely anyone above must hear his heart pounding. In spite of the cold, he was sweating as hard as if he had just spent an hour in sword practice.
Then he resumed his laborious progress. Twice he retreated when he ran out of holds and needed a new angle of attack. But eventually—how long had it taken? how much precious time had been consumed?—he reached the narrow ledge of cliff at the base of the castle wall.
After Adrian hauled himself onto the grassy turf, he allowed his shuddering muscles a few moments to recuperate from the strain, knowing that the worst of the climb still lay ahead. The sense of time wasting away got him to his feet.
Silently he explored the length of ledge. It did not run all around the castle, just along a stretch of the river side. Doubtless the folk in the castle considered it inaccessible, which was why the rugged little tree he had noticed earlier in the afternoon had not been cut away. Careless of Burgoigne.
He unslung the rope, tied one end around the trunk, then tugged. It bent a little, but held. He decided it was strong enough to bear Alan's weight.
Softly he mimicked the cry of a bittern, a water bird more nocturnal than most. Adrian doubted that he would fool a real bittern, but a moment later he heard his brother-in-law echo the call from below, so he tossed the rope out, wincing at the noisy rasp of hemp against stone.
The rope quivered as Alan tied on a bundle containing swords, cloaks, and Adrian's boots. Alan tugged twice when it was secure and Adrian pulled the line up slowly, hand over hand, grateful that it didn't catch on the way. After detaching the bundle, he tossed the rope back down. It took about ten minutes for Alan to walk his way up the cliff, the line looped around his waist for safety, his arms and shoulders straining with effort.
When his companion reached the top, Adrian untied the rope, then rewound it and pulled the coils over his head again. Wasting no words, Alan braced his arms against the wall and Adrian used his brother-in-law as a ladder to give himself a six-foot head start.
Then he began the painstaking process of working his way up the wall. Whichever lord of Chastain had built this section of the castle must have stinted on paying his masons, for the stonework was very coarse. In some places the mortar had crumbled away. Poor maintenance as well as poor masonry.
Nonetheless, as Adrian's fingers and toes slipped, broke, and bled on the wet sandstone, he knew this was the most difficult climb of his life. He was never afterward quite sure how he had managed it, but divine intervention seemed likely.
When he finally got his fingers over the edge of an embrasure, he gave a sigh of what turned out to be premature relief. Before he could pull himself onto the battlements, he heard the sound of footsteps sauntering along the wall walk. Apparently divine intervention had been withdrawn, leaving him to his own devices again.
For an infinity of time Adrian hung against the sandstone face of the wall, all his weight supported by his hands. He occupied his time praying that the watchman would not notice his clutching fingers, or choose this spot to look down at the river. His luck was in, for the leisurely guard noticed nothing and continued his progress, doubtless thinking his duty unnecessary for no one would be fool enough to attempt the castle on this side.
Though Adrian would have preferred to wait until the watchman was farther away, his numb fingers were on the verge of failing so he dragged himself up into the embrasure. He crouched there for a moment, listening and watching, but heard no signs of alarm.
According to the laundress's map, he should be above the piggery, and judging by the smell, she was right. He stepped down onto the wall walk. Keeping low so his figure would not be silhouetted against the night sky, he dropped the rope to Alan and they repeated their earlier actions, this time with the rope anchored around a merlon rather than a tree as Alan came up.
While waiting, Adrian had donned boots, sword, and cloak, and wiped the earth from his face, since inside the keep it would look suspicious. When Alan had reached the top and put on his own cloak, they made their way to the nearest stair, still keeping low. The rope, invisible in the shadows, was left tied to the merlon. While there was a chance that it would be discovered, that faint risk was offset by the much greater likelihood that they might need to use it to escape in a hurry.
Once they reached ground level, they raised their hoods against the drizzle and walked upright, as if they had every right to be in the inner ward. Since he had some familiarity with the castle, Alan took the lead.
/> As they passed the stables, a door screeched and a man ambled out in front of them. Alan raised his hand in a vague greeting. The man responded with the same gesture, then turned and relieved himself against the wall, completely incurious.
Adrian's senses tingled with the heightened awareness that danger always brought, but there was no alarm, no sign that their intrusion had been noticed. With rising excitement, he began to think if they might actually succeed.
He forced himself to stay calm. Climbing the wall was the hardest part physically, but locating Meriel held the greatest risk of disaster. And to the east, the dark was less dense than it had been.
* * *
The watchman looked longingly at the sky. The drizzle had ended and the sky was noticeably lighter. Soon his watch would be over, saints be praised, and he could have some food and sleep. A waste of time having him patrol the back half of the castle wall. If he were posted at the main gate or even above the postern, he could have felt he was doing something worthwhile, but this night would have been better spent cuddled up with the new kitchen maid.
Doubtless Lord Guy was nervous about the other earl being camped in the village, but so far there had been no fighting, not so much as an exchange of arrows. Still, if the other earl, Warfield, didn't get his wife back soon, there might be hell to pay. The girl was a sweet, pretty little thing.
A pity she was caught like a bone between two dogs. One dog was more than enough. Look at how Guy had chewed up their good Lady Cecily.
The watchman leaned against a merlon and looked down. The mist had lifted enough so that he could see the river, which was as quiet as one would expect at an hour when good Christians were abed. But the kitchen would be at work soon, and by the time he went off watch, there would be hot fresh bread.
Already anticipating, he straightened up. As he did, his knee brushed against a ridge more yielding than the sandstone merlon. Curiously he touched it. Then his blood chilled as he identified the unmistakable prickle of hemp.
Peering over the battlements, he saw that a rope dropped to the narrow ledge below. By Christ's blocked bowels, someone had either got into or out of the castle!
An escape wouldn't be so bad, but if one of Earl Adrian's men had managed to get inside, at this very moment he might be opening one of the gates to let his fellows in. Even if such a plan failed, there would be a very slow, very unpleasant death in store for a watchman who had been insufficiently observant. Arguing that there was too much wall for one man would be futile when Lord Guy was in one of his rages.
Running as fast as his middle-aged legs could manage, the watchman warned the guards at both gates to beware of possible attack from inside. Then he went to wake the captain of the guard with the unwelcome information that there might be an enemy within the keep.
* * *
The door at the foot of the northeast tower opened with an excruciating squeal. Worse, when they entered, Alan tripped over a man sleeping in the small vestibule. The sleeper came half-awake with an oath but subsided when Alan muttered a gruff apology.
The laundress hadn't mentioned possible occupancy, but the castle had lifted the drawbridge when day workers from the village were inside. Now they must be bedded down in any corners they could find.
Feeling their way along in the thick, choking darkness, they found the staircase that led to the lower level. Once they had gone down several turns of the spiral, they stopped and Alan struck his flint and steel to light the candle he carried. With light, they were able to move more quickly and soon outside the storeroom that the laundress had said was used for prisoners.
The storeroom was locked. The two men looked at each other, wondering if Meriel might be inside. Then a deep cough, unmistakably masculine, was heard on the other side of the door. Meriel might also be inside, but by unspoken consent they began looking for the smaller stairwell that led to the dungeon.
* * *
The captain of the Chastain guard always slept with his hauberk arranged so it could be donned instantly, and he did that as soon as the watchman woke him. As he belted on his sword, he ordered the watchman to alert the other men-at-arms to turn out and begin searching the keep. The captain went himself to wake Lord Guy, who would forgive a false alarm more readily than he would forgive not being notified of possible intruders.
The night candle showed that the countess slept as far from her husband as was possible. The captain, a long-time Chastain retainer, preferred not to think about that. He shook Lord Guy's shoulder and the earl woke quickly.
"A rope has been discovered tied around a merlon above the river," the captain said succinctly. "One or more men might be in the castle. The gate guards have been alerted and the men-at-arms turned out to search."
Guy swung his legs over the side of the bed. "It's Lord Adrian," he exclaimed, his face exultant. "Make sure Sir Vincent is woken, he'll want to be in at the death."
"It's surely one of Warfield's men," the captain agreed.
"No, it's Warfield himself. He came to get his wife, the lackwit, I can feel it in my bones." The earl struck his own wife in the shoulder to ensure that she was awake. "Help me with my hauberk. This time I will put an end to him, as I have been longing to these dozen years!"
Her eyes wide with alarm, Lady Cecily helped her husband into his armor. Then Lord Guy and the captain of the guard left to find and destroy the interlopers.
* * *
"I want the whole of Shropshire to know we have wed," he cried, pulling the bell rope. As Great Tom boomed, she had laughed and pulled the rope of Little Nell, whose soprano chime added a high clear sweetness to the glorious sounds of celebration. She had felt pure joy, pure love, absolute certainty.
Meriel awakened abruptly from her sleep, the sound of bells still ringing in her head. No, not bells, a voice, a familiar beloved voice, calling her name. "Meriel," came the cautious whisper, "are you down there?"
"Alan?" she gasped in disbelief, sure she must be dreaming. She looked up and saw a square of flickering light where the trapdoor had been lifted.
"God be thanked," he said, exuberant but still muting his voice. "Move back while I lower the ladder."
She stepped aside and a moment later the ladder dropped to the dungeon floor. "Do you need help climbing up?"
Before Alan had finished speaking, Meriel was halfway up the ladder with no backward glances. Alan lifted her the last several rungs, pulling her into a crushing hug.
Half-laughing, half-crying, Meriel hugged him back, her eyes hazy with tears. "How did you find me? And how in heaven's name did you manage to get in here?"
"It's a long story," Alan replied, "and it must wait until we are outside."
He released her and Meriel turned toward the door, then halted in her tracks with a horrified intake of breath. At first she thought the dark figure behind the candle was a Chastain man-at-arms who would try to stop them.
Then she recognized him. Even with his gilt head covered, Adrian of Warfield was unmistakable. The flickering candlelight played over the elegant bones and planes of his face, and twin flames reflected deep in ice-gray eyes. The Earl of Shropshire had come to reclaim his property.
Her husband watched her, utterly expressionless. "I will not harm you, ma petite," he said, his words so low that she could scarcely hear them.
The cold face was that of her tormentor, the soft voice that of her lover, and Meriel stood paralyzed, torn between fear, longing, and confusion. At her reaction, Adrian's expression became even colder.
Breaking the charged silence, Alan laid an encouraging arm around his sister's shoulders. "Lord Adrian scaled the cliff behind the castle. Now we must be off the same way before it gets any lighter. Here, put this on." He handed her a boy's hooded mantle of coarsely woven wool.
Alan was right, there was no time to waste on confusion. Meriel donned the cloak, then followed the earl up the winding steps, her brother right behind her.
As they climbed, her eyes were fixed on the back of her husband's
mantle as it swung from his shoulders and swirled in the draft that blew down the stairwell. How strange that she could have described in intimate detail the lithe body beneath the dark fabric, yet she could say nothing at all about his soul.
At the next level, Meriel shot an agonized glance toward the storeroom as they hurried past. Forcing the lock, rousing fifteen people, then escaping down a rope would be time-consuming and dangerous. The older folk might be physically incapable of leaving by such a route, and trying would risk the lives of her brother, her husband, and herself. But she felt like a traitor for leaving Benjamin, Sarah, and their household behind.
They made their way up the second stairwell. Just below the top, Adrian reached back and whispered, "Take my hand."
After she hesitantly did so, he doused the light. In the thick darkness, his hand was the most potent reality, warm and strong as he guided her up the last few steps. She forbade herself to think beyond that. Better to pretend that it was Alan leading the way. This was not the time to worry about what Lord Adrian would expect of his wife in the future.
At the top of the stairs they made their way slowly across an entryway. Meriel sensed that at least one person slept there, but no one woke or challenged them. Adrian released her hand and opened the door, which swung in with a threatening creak.
Outside it was on the verge of dawn, light enough to see a hand held before the face. Already there would be people working in the kitchens, and very soon the whole castle would be awake.
Adrian turned left and they hastened single file along the wall of the keep. Then they rounded a corner, and Meriel saw the fires of hell racing down at them.
Chapter 21
After her husband left, Cecily dressed herself, convinced to her very marrow that the old enmity between Warfield and Burgoigne was about to be resolved. Incredible that Warfield would have climbed into the castle in a mad, doomed attempt to save his wife, yet she believed that Guy's guess was correct. Warfield was said to be fearless, and likely he believed none of his men would care as much for his wife's life as he himself did.