have put down three insurrections, two attempts to challenge the chiefdom, and detained five individuals who attempted to kill us through poison, arrows, and or a dirk to our heart,” Caelen explained. “We have put so many people in the dungeon that it cannae take another. We have had to resort to keeping at least a dozen people locked in rooms above stairs.”
Lachlan knew the transition of power wasn’t going to be easy. But this news was beyond what he had anticipated. It was abundantly clear that the Chisolms were adamantly opposed to the idea of the MacCulloughs ruling over them.
“How many Chisolms have come to our side?” Lachlan asked, afraid he wasn’t going to like the answer.
Caelen chuckled and shook his head. “None.”
None? “I ken that should nae surprise me …” Lachlan let out a frustrated breath.
“It surprises the hell out of me,” Caelen said. “One would think that at least a handful of people would see the rightness in givin’ ye their fealty,” Caelen said.
“Until these past few days, I never thought I would meet anyone more stubborn that a McDunnah,” Fiona began, “but I have been proven wrong more times than I care to admit.”
Caelen laughed at his wife’s blunt honesty.
“Were it yer clan now in charge, what course of action would ye be takin’ to gain the fealty of these people?” Lachlan asked. He had a few ideas of his own, but he was ever open to listening to the wisdom of others.
“I’d have hung every last one of them,” Caelen admitted. “Save for the women and children, but even they cannae be trusted at this point.”
To Lachlan’s surprise, Fiona readily agreed. “While I do like the notion of hanging the bloody bastards, doin’ so would nae do anything but make them hate the MacCulloughs even more than they already do.”
“I am nae lookin’ for their love or adoration,” Lachlan said drolly. “I only want their fealty.”
Caelen nodded in agreement. “Then ye have a long and treacherous road ahead of ye.”
Lachlan pushed himself to his feet. “Then I should get started as soon as possible.”
“Then ye’ll be wantin’ to speak with their leader,” Caelen informed him as he too, got to his feet. “Murdoch Chisolm.”
Two of Caelen’s men led the way out of the gathering room and down a long and winding dark corridor. Lachlan, his men, along with Caelen, followed behind. As they walked down the corridor, their shadows danced in the torchlight along the stone walls.
Caelen’s instincts were on high alert, one hand resting on the hilt of the dirk he kept in his belt. The hallway was far too narrow for sword battle, but one never knew when someone might attack.
As soon as the door was pulled open, odors from the dungeon swept through. Musty air, blended with the scent of urine and feces was enough to make Lachlan’s eyes water.
One at a time they took the twisting stone staircase, into the bowels of the keep. The smell only grew worse as they descended the damp, moss covered stairs.
The dungeon was not at all as he had expected considering what he thought he knew about the Chisolms. There were no torture devices, no man in a black hood who would mete out punishments or try to extract information from enemies. Nay, ’twas a small space with only four small cells lined with heavy, black iron bars.
But those rooms were filled to capacity with men. Men who bore particularly furious expressions aimed directly at those they considered to be interlopers. Men of varying ages and sizes glowered at Lachlan’s group.
Lachlan made his way to the front of the line. “Which one of ye is Murdoch Chisolm?”
One man, who Lachlan estimated to be in his late forties with a beard that went to his waist, stepped forward. He pressed his face between two iron bars. “I be Murdoch Chisolm,” he declared. His hands and face were grimy, his dirty long hair fell way beyond his shoulders.
Lachlan didn’t believe him for a moment. Neither did he believe the dozens of other men who stepped forward to declare themselves to be the man he was seeking.
“Pipe down, ye bloody bastards,” one of Caelen’s men shouted as he went to the last cell on the left. “Back away,” he ordered the men lining the iron bars.
At first, the men refused. But the threat of castration made them part the seas so to speak.
There, in the far corner, was Murdoch Chisolm. Lachlan was certain ’twas he, for he was