The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [123]
As though the remark had conjured him, a dim figure appeared suddenly on the far side of the old bailey, waving. They walked—at a normal pace, lantern swinging low at Fraser’s side—to the archway where Tom was waiting, his round face pale with excitement.
“This way,” he breathed, and directed them to a set of shallow stone steps leading up to the walkway lined with arrow slits. “There’s another stair at the far end, as goes down to the river gate,” he whispered to John as he passed. “I didn’t see any guards, but I hear voices.”
John nodded, taking hold of his dagger. He hoped, for assorted reasons, that they weren’t going to have to fight their way out.
“Should you leave the lantern?” he whispered, climbing close behind Jamie. Jamie shook his head.
“Better not,” he said. “I may need it.” Jamie stepped out onto the walkway and strode at what Grey considered an agonizingly slow pace. Grey and Tom Byrd followed like goslings. As they approached the bend of the wall, Grey heard voices from somewhere below and half-halted, only to be prodded on by Tom.
“Go on, me lord! We daren’t stop,” he whispered.
Feeling desperately exposed, Grey matched his step to Fraser’s slow stride. He glanced quickly down and saw an open doorway across the courtyard, light spilling from it. The guardroom, it must be; he glimpsed several soldiers and could tell from the sudden hush, followed by laughter, groans, and exclamations, that they were dicing.
Just let someone throw a double six, he prayed.
Around another bend, out of sight, and he breathed again, blood hammering in his ears. The dark below was silent, though he could still hear the guards behind them.
Fraser’s plait hung down his back, unclubbed. It swung gently between his shoulder blades, a snakelet of gold light from the lantern vanishing up the smooth auburn strands into darkness. Suddenly Fraser stopped, and Grey nearly ran into him.
He heard the Scot draw a long, deep breath and saw him cross himself. Jamie turned toward Grey, bending to bring his mouth near Grey’s ear.
“There’s someone below, at the gate,” he said very quietly, his breath warm on Grey’s cheek. “We’ll have to take him. Try not to kill him, aye?”
And with that, he threw the lantern into the courtyard. It landed with a loud clank and went out.
“Fumble-fingers,” said a sarcastic voice from below. “That you, Ferguson? Drop something, didja?” A man came out from the niche at the foot of the stair; Grey saw him as a squat, thick shape against the dark stones. Fraser took in a great lungful of air, vaulted the low wall, and leapt feetfirst from the walkway, startling Grey so badly that he nearly followed inadvertently.
Fraser had struck the man a glancing blow in falling on him but enough to stop his wind for a moment; the two of them writhed on the stones, no more than gasps and grunts to mark their struggle. Grey rushed down the steps, heedless of the clatter.
“Tom, get the gate!” He rushed to the struggling figures and, seeing that the shorter man had momentarily got astride Fraser and was punching him vigorously in the head, picked his moment as well as he might in the dark and kicked the short figure with great force in the balls from behind.
The man rolled off Fraser with a horrible noise, and the Scot got to his knees, breathing like a grampus. Grey was already on his own knees, groping the guard’s clothing for anything usable. The man had neither pistol nor shot but sported a sort of short sword, rather like a Roman gladius. Grey wondered at this unorthodox choice of weapon but took it anyway, pausing to administer a silencing kick in the belly before following Fraser into the niche.
Tom had got the gate unbolted. The Shannon lay just within bow shot, its sullen waters dark as pitch.
Fraser was limping badly; the fall hadn’t done his bruised arse any good. He was also cursing roundly under his breath in Gàidhlig, by which Grey deduced the object of his wrath.
“Bloody hell,” said Tom, moved either by excitement or example. “Where is he? He’s