“What have you there?” The guard was a beefy man, and it was at times like this that Rollo was glad of his cane.
“Ale.” He stood, his cramped legs trying to find balance in the wobbling boat. His hired man pulled them close to the stone landing, and Rollo used the cane to make his way from the craft. “For you guards, mayhap?”
Rollo tried to wrench his face into a smile, but his thoughts were only for the blood that flowed too slowly back into his limbs. Damned boats. He despised them.
“What’s this then?” The guard laughed. “You’re lame!” He shook his head in wonder. “Can’t be an easy job of it, hauling ale on feeble pins.”
Rollo found his footing. He tossed his cane up, catching at its midpoint, and swung. He caught the guard behind his ear, and the man fell in a solid heap. “Not feeble,” he gritted out.
Taking the man by the heel, Rollo dragged him under the wooden staircase. He patted down the guard’s coat, plucking a ring of keys from his inside pocket.
“He’ll wake,” he said, returning to his companion. “But we have time.”
Rollo noted the heavy length of rope that his hired man had hauled onto the landing. “Good work. You’re earning your coin, and a bit besides.” He looked back out to the moat, almost completely shrouded in darkness. “Be gone now,” he told him. “Wait on the far side. You’ll see us.”
The sound of Rollo’s shuffling step echoed off the dank stone as he made his ascent. The thick loops of rope cut heavily into his shoulder, but he dare not risk the noise of dragging it.
He headed straight for the end of the hall, knowing exactly where he’d find Ormonde. The Sealed Knot was a clandestine bunch, working anonymously to topple Cromwell and reinstate the true king. But they weren’t so secretive as to watch in silence as one of their own was imprisoned. When alerted that Rollo planned on freeing his friend, an agent had sought him out, pointed him to trustworthy hired help, detailed Ormonde’s position, and all but escorted Rollo to the Tower.
Ormonde was a nobleman, and his cell was actually quite an accommodating affair, with a settee, fireplace, and small desk. “How’d you know where to find me?” he asked the moment Rollo found the right key and slipped in.
Rollo chuckled at his friend’s exuberance. Ormonde’s bright red hair was in a tousle, and could use a fair spot of barbering besides, but these things only heightened the man’s boyishness. Though Ormonde was in his forties, Rollo expected he’d never lose his bright-eyed zeal.
“Your Sealed Knot men seem to have much information at their disposal.”
“But how . . . ?”
“Later.” Rollo eyed the windowless room. They’d have to continue up, making their escape from the roof. “Let’s away from here before your guard wakes sore and angry.”
“Give me that.” Ormonde gestured to the rope.
“I can manage,” Rollo said coldly.
“You never change, do you? I know better than most how well you can manage”—he reached for the heavy mass—“but I’ve been cooped up here for weeks, and if I don’t set this nervous energy to something, I swear—”
“Fine.” Rollo shrugged the rope from his side. “Let’s just be gone.”
They made their way up a cramped spiral staircase to the rooftop. Rollo had read of a Jesuit priest who’d made this same escape not one hundred years prior, and he figured if a man of the cloth could do it, two battle-hardened soldiers could manage as well.
“What mission do you risk your head for this time?” Rollo placed his hands on the cold stone of the battlements and peered down. The moat—and he hoped his boat—waited for them in the blackness below. “Hand me that,” he said, pointing to the rope.
“The same as ever. I’ll see the true Stuart king reinstated before I die.” Ormonde helped Rollo secure the end of the rope around one of the battlements. “Cromwell and his Parliament may have beheaded King Charles I, but they dare not behead his son. I vow, Charles II will be restored to the throne.”
“They do call it a kingdom, after all,” Rollo said dryly, tugging the rope tight, testing his knot. “There now. Who shall be first to give it a go?” He spared Ormonde a smile.
“I need to tell you something, Will.”
Rollo’s face grew stoic once more, waiting in silence for what his friend had to say.
“Your brother.” Ormonde looked into the distance, weighing his words. “It’s Jamie. Jamie’s the one who orchestrated my capture.”
“I knew . . .” Rollo inhaled sharply. “I anticipated this day. I knew, when he traded wives. To go from Graham’s sister to Campbell’s. Aye, getting in league with Cromwell himself wasn’t far behind.”
“So you’re not . . . surprised?”
“There’s no ill my elder brother could conceive that would give me surprise.” He glanced quickly at his legs before he gave the rope one more tug. “Up and over, you.”
Ormonde smiled, shaking his head, and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “I thank you for this, Will.”