Page 26 of Highlander's Escaped Prisoner
Nessa’s heart sank as she realized that Jo was not amongst them. Logan, along with two of the stable lads, had run off to seek the escapees, while the landlord was leading some of the calmer horses back inside.
Suddenly, Nessa saw Jo under the trees, with Bryce astride him, beckoning to her. Nessa needed no second bidding. She ran into the trees and leaped onto Jo in front of Bryce.
“Ready?” he asked, grinning.
“Yes!” she replied, laughing as Jo bounded forward. They made their way cautiously through the trees away from the mèlêe behind them until they were out of the trees and making their way to freedom.
“We did it!” Nessa laughed as Bryce slowed the big horse down to a trot. They looked behind them, but no one was following them.
“Indeed we did,” Bryce agreed, smiling. “But there was just one small flaw in our plan.”
“What?” Nessa asked, alarmed.
Bryce sighed. “I have had nothing to eat,” he said sadly.
“No!” Nessa was genuinely distressed for him. “Where can we get you some food?”
“My estate,” he replied, smiling. “I think we can find something there, perhaps a couple of haunches of venison or a piglet ortwo.”
Nessa giggled. With Bryce’s arms around her, she felt ready for anything. “What are we waiting for?” she asked.
15
Castle Invermuir was nestled on a low green hill next to the River Ross, a twisting ribbon of water that flowed through the Blair estate and on until it reached the disputed ground between it and the Guthrie lands. The river did not care whose territory it flowed through but went its own way, regardless of who declared ownership over it. The disputed lands did likewise, not worrying about who laid claim to them. The grass still grew there, the sheep still grazed on them, and the sun still shone upon them.
The castle itself was imposing, but it was not a particularly attractive structure, and Bryce laughed as they stopped to look up at it.
“I know what you are thinking,” he said with a sigh.
“Really? Tell me what I am thinking then,” she insisted wickedly. “I have seen castles before, you know.”
“Yes, but it becomes uglier every time you see it,” he said, his deep voice gloomy as he surveyed his family home with deep disgust. “When I think of all the beautiful structures all myfriends and my distant family live in, I could go mad.” Then he became somber. “Still, it is infinitely better than a prison cell.”
“Yes,” Nessa agreed. “You must count your blessings, Bryce.”
They sat studying the building for a while, and Nessa had to agree that as castles went, Invermuir was not pretty. Unlike her own home, which had layers of crenelated walls leading up to a soaring tower in the center, Invermuir was a long, squat building that took up the entire plateau of the hill. It was built of massive blocks of dark gray granite and was oblong in shape with a round tower at each corner. Inside the high outer wall stood a higher, thicker crenelated one, which had obviously been built for defense and strength, with no thought of elegance or architectural beauty.
A guard tower stood on each side of the entrance to the castle manned by two heavily armed guards. There was a wide dry moat, and the castle could only be reached by crossing a narrow wooden bridge over it. As she looked down, Nessa could see that instead of water, there were foot-long iron spikes embedded in the ground around the bridge. She had never seen anything quite like it.
“I would not like to meet my end on one of those,” she remarked, shuddering at the thought.
“No, I believe it is not a pleasant way to die,” Bryce agreed grimly. “But fortunately, we have never had a battle here, so we have never had to use them.”
The portcullis was a thing of both beauty and terror. It was twenty feet high at its topmost point and was made of stout oak planks more than a foot thick. The lattices were sturdy, flat bars of iron, with sharp spikes protruding from them everyfour inches or so. They were crossed by equally thick and spiky horizontal bars and ended in lethal diamond-shaped points.
The guards at the gate looked at them suspiciously, even though they posed very little threat. Nessa had left the inn in so much haste that she had been unable to take her weapons with her, so she looked like a young, innocent woman being protected by a great hulking man.
The guards crossed their pikes over the entrance to the bridge and scowled at them. “Who goes there?” one of them asked in a hostile tone.
“Bryce Blair,” Bryce replied. “Son of Laird Gregor Blair.”
The man who had addressed them took a step forward, then stood with his mouth open, gazing at Bryce in stupefied disbelief. “Bryce Blair? It’s me, Sandie Gallagher. Dae ye remember me?”
“Indeed I do,” Bryce answered, smiling. “You always told my father about my sinful exploits.”
“But sir, ye were in prison...” He trailed off and looked at the other guard, a dark, stocky man who was also staring at Bryce as if he had appeared from nowhere.
“Aye, sir,” he said. “Alastair Summers at your service.” He looked with open curiosity at Nessa, who stared back at him until he dropped his gaze.
