Cassian (The Immortal Highland Centurions #2) - Jayne Castel Page 0,57
is wait,” Fyfa had replied with a confidence that awed Aila. “Longshanks will never keep hold of this place … just as he will never break the Scottish spirit.”
The discovery had been so exciting that Aila hadn’t been able to keep it to herself. Jean’s eyes had gone as wide as moons when she’d heard the tale the following morning. Yet now, at the mention of the secret door, the maid wore an odd, almost guilty look.
Aila was just about to question her about it when Cassian cut in. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’ve seen it. The door is hidden behind a gorse bush part way along the wall.”
Cassian stared at her. His expression was difficult to fathom, although his eyes gleamed. He was already planning ahead.
Breaking eye contact with Aila, Cassian turned back to the other occupants in the solar. “Follow me. Quickly!”
“Wait … but shouldn’t we fetch our cloaks and belongings?” Lady Gavina asked, her voice shaky.
“Take a cloak and nothing else,” he replied curtly. “If we’re going to make it out of Stirling Castle, we have to go now.”
XXV
THE WAY OUT
THE FOUR WOMEN followed Cassian down the hallway. He didn’t lead them back to the main stairwell, past the guards, but instead in the opposite direction—to a service stairwell used by servants that led down to the kitchens.
The same one that Comyn had taken when he’d met with them.
Now that Cassian knew of the secret way out of the castle, he moved with purpose down the dimly lit steps. They were perilously narrow, yet he didn’t slow his pace.
Edward would be summoning his guards. There was a real risk they wouldn’t even make it to the Nether Bailey before they were caught.
Cassian was focused now. Nothing else mattered but getting these women safely away from Stirling. They would have to leave the other men of their escort, and their horses, behind. But there was no time to warn the warriors, and horses would only hamper their escape.
The kitchens were busy, a cacophony of shouting cooks making final preparations for supper. Servants hurried to and fro, carrying tureens of stew and baskets of bread.
A couple of them noticed the party that appeared from the service stairwell.
One of the cooks nearest the stairs—a big man with a florid face and a harassed expression—scowled. “What are ye lot doing down here?”
“Just passing through,” Cassian replied, ushering the women ahead of him across the floor to an archway. “And if you have any love for your fellow Scots, you’ll forget you ever saw us.”
The cook’s expression tightened, his mouth thinning. A moment later, he gave a reluctant nod and turned away, before bellowing across the kitchen. “Fergus! Stop yer idling!”
“Where does this passage go?” Lady Gavina whispered to Cassian when he joined them.
He flashed her a grim smile. “To the eastern side of the inner-bailey, a short walk to our destination.”
“We’ll never make it!” Jean’s voice echoed shrilly against the surrounding stone.
“Lower yer voice, Jean!” Lady Elizabeth snapped. She then turned to Cassian. “She has a point though, Captain … we’ll not reach the door without being spotted.”
“We won’t,” Cassian agreed, drawing his sword. The dull scrape of steel filled the cramped tunnel. The light of the nearby cressets gleamed against the pointed, double-edged blade and its bronze handle. The women’s gazes settled upon the blade, and then Lady Elizabeth’s brow furrowed.
Cassian’s mouth lifted at the corners as he suppressed a smile. They’d expected him to carry a claidheamh-mòr—a great Scottish broadsword, not this shorter, thinner blade. He wielded a gladius hispaniensis—a Spanish sword made of folded Toledo steel. The weapon had been with him for many long centuries.
Noting the doubt upon the women’s faces, Cassian flashed them all a tight smile. “Fear not … a blade like this is ideal for fighting your way out of a castle.”
And it was. His gladius had been forged for use on the battlefield at close quarters, to cut and thrust with while holding a shield in the opposite hand. He never went into a swordfight without it.
Cassian led the way toward the heavy wooden door that would take them into the inner-bailey. “Keep a few yards behind me till we reach the door,” he instructed. “I’ll likely need to clear a path for us.”
He glanced over his shoulder then, his gaze finding Aila’s.
Her round face was pale in the dimly lit tunnel, her grey eyes huge and dark. And yet she wore a resolute, determined expression that he welcomed.