“Aye,” he muttered, watching Ormonde’s descent. “And it’s the last time, for certain.”
“Good evening, cripple.”
Rollo turned sharply, though he knew from the voice whom he’d find. “Jamie. So happy you could join me. ’Tis a lovely wee fortress you have here. Though it does seem to have sprung a leak.”
“Did you think I’d not hear your clopping about?” Jamie eyed his brother with disdain. “The years pass, and still you trudge around like a one-legged fishwife.”
“Aye.” Rollo smiled broadly. “The years pass, and still you talk to me as if you’re the same twelve-year-old in our father’s stable yard.”
The hiss of Jamie’s unsheathed broadsword cut through the night.
“Dear Jamie, you surprise me.” Rollo laughed softly, tapping his cane lightly on the toe of his boot. “You’re fighting your own battles now? Or is it that Cromwell doesn’t have a sister for you to bed?”
Jamie leapt for him, but Rollo was ready. Tossing his cane up, he grabbed the curve of the pistol-handled grip in one hand and pulled his sword free of its wooden sheath.
“Hiding a weapon in your walking stick.” Jamie slashed hard, and their swords crossed with a sharp clang. “Not fair, little brother.”
“You speak of fair?” Rollo cut his sword in the sharp diagonal slash he’d perfected in years of cavalry fighting, and his brother’s blade caught it just before it bit into his shoulder. “What’s not fair is destroying an innocent seven-year-old simply because you don’t like his pony.”
Jamie unleashed then, thrashing with rapid but sloppy strokes. Rollo’s legs prevented him from bobbing and weaving as another swordsman might, and he suffered the onslaught, meeting each thrust with his own block and parry.
He recognized his brother’s style, though, and planned to let Jamie flail himself into exhaustion. He was younger than Jamie and, ironically, it was Rollo’s injury that had kept him fitter than most men, regardless of age.
Jamie bobbed forward for what he clearly thought would be a killing lunge, and Rollo saw his chance. Though he refused to kill his brother, he found he was quite eager to bruise the lout.
Rollo stepped forward, meeting Jamie’s lunge. Their swords crashed, blade sliding down blade, until the brothers’ hands were inches apart.
“You always”—jutting his foot forward, Rollo grabbed his brother’s wrist and flung him over his extended leg—“make this same blunder.” As Jamie fell, his sword came loose and clattered across the timber roof.
Rollo put the tip of his blade to Jamie’s neck. “Don’t forget, brother. My injury makes me stronger than you. You can’t admit that you gave me that strength?”
“Never.” Jamie grabbed the blade in his palm, and a thin trickle of blood seeped from his fist. “You will never be the stronger man.”
He rolled from beneath the sword, shouting at once for a guard.
Rollo looked for a split second from the sword in his hand, to its wooden sheath tossed halfway across the roof, then to the battlements. With a curse, he tossed his blade down. The cane had been a fine little treasure, but he had neither the time nor the hands to spare.
He heard his brother’s shouts and the scrape of his broadsword as he retrieved it.
Rollo pulled himself up between the battlements, the stone scraping his back and arms as he wriggled through. Fumbling in the dark, his hands found the rope. The rock scored his knuckles as he eased down into the blackness below.
“Will,” Ormonde hissed. “Just here. Hurry now, I hear the guards rallying.”
Rollo dropped the last foot, landing clumsily in the boat, and his hired man set at once to rowing them back toward Traitor’s Gate.
“What are you doing?” Rollo sidled toward the empty cask, still waiting in the prow of the boat. “You were supposed to hide in there.”
“Someone has beat me to it.” Ormonde’s voice had a peculiar edge.
Rollo swung his gaze to him. “You sound amused.”
“Have a look-see,” the hired man said, offering his dagger.
Rollo took the knife and pried the lid free, revealing a woman. She was curled up, fast asleep, her heavy breath echoing in the tiny chamber. “What the devil?”
He peered in. It was impossible to make out any details in the dark. “Help me,” he said to Ormonde. “I’ll get her”—he put his hands under her arms and pulled—“you steady the barrel.”
“Good Lord,” Ormonde said, turning his face away. “Is that her or the cask?”