Lynne Banks - The Dungeon

To Chris, who read it first Contents Cover Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Epilogue Also by the Author Copyright About the Publisher

Title Page

Dedication To Chris, who read it first Contents Cover Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Epilogue Also by the Author Copyright About the Publisher Title Page Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Epilogue Also by the Author Copyright About the Publisher

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Also by the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Bruce McLennan, Scottish laird and master of all that lay in his sight, stood on the edge of a deep, wide, square pit. It was dug into the top of a crag that stood next to a river. The men who had dug it were standing around it, filthy, tired and covered with sweat. There were over a hundred of them, all tenants of the laird’s, and it had taken them two months to level the hilltop and dig the pit in one corner. All the work had been done with picks and shovels, and the spoil carried away in big baskets and cast down the hill. From a distance it looked as if the hill had been decapitated, with the pale blood of the inner ground flowing down its sides.

Bruce McLennan stared down into the newly-excavated depths. At the moment there was just a hole in the ground. But he could already see a dungeon.

He could imagine it lined with big blocks of stone. He could imagine iron rings in the walls, to which prisoners could be chained. He could imagine the huge wooden door with iron panels and hinges and lock, and a heavy brass key. He could even foreshadow a man, languishing down there in the raw depths, his prisoner – helpless, wretched, defeated – chained to the wall, not just a symbol of conquest but a real man, one he hated with his whole heart. Or what was left of it, for this villain had destroyed all that was precious and love-filled in the life of McLennan, leaving him a hollow man burning for vengeance, but not headstrong enough to go after it until he was ready.

At the laird’s side stood Master Douglas of Berwick. This man had led the building of fortresses and castles in several parts of Scotland, England and Wales. Only Bruce McLennan’s considerable wealth had gained him the services of this master builder, who stood now at a rough table that had been set up for him. He was poring over a number of large pieces of slate, on which were scratched drawings that he and McLennan had made together. He alone knew McLennan’s intentions and the extent of his ambition for this project.

‘Foreman!’ McLennan shouted. ‘Where the devil are ye? Och, there y’are! Now then.’ He chose one of the slate-plans and put it into the work-stained hands of his main man. ‘Here’s how the dungeon is to look when it’s finished, do ye ken?’

The foreman took the drawing and stared at it. It was a good drawing. He could feel he was looking down into the finished chamber, as if he were a bird flying above it, or rather, since of course it would have a ceiling, a spider crawling over it. A faint shudder passed across his shoulders. It would be a fearful place to be locked into.

‘Aye, sir.’

‘And here,’ McLennan produced more slates, ‘are the plans for the castle.’

The first plan showed a bird’s-eye view of an imposing square structure with a courtyard, or ward, in the centre. In this was a well – a vital adjunct should the castle ever come under siege. At the corners of the ward were four round crenellated towers (the dungeon would be underneath one of them), linked by walls with battlements, a main gate with two massive U-shaped gatehouses, a small postern gate that led down to the river, and a deep-dug moat in front, to be crossed by a ramp and drawbridge.

The next plan showed a side elevation, with very narrow windows, like slits, so arrows could fly out but couldn’t so easily fly in. A third, fourth and fifth gave a lot of detail, showing many rooms: a great hall, stables, storerooms and servants’ quarters, all to be built against the inside of the thick walls. The foreman stared at these in admiration. It would be an exciting and difficult project, even for an experienced engineer like himself.

It would need many workers – hundreds, possibly over a thousand. Digging was just the start of it! They would need quarriers to bring the stone for the building; stone masons to build the mighty walls, many feet thick, with skins of mortared stones packed with rubble between; blacksmiths to make and mend iron tools; plumbers to create cisterns and latrines; and carpenters to make scaffolding and later, the floors, for the castle would have two storeys. In addition there would have to be hundreds of unskilled labourers.

‘Any questions?’ barked his master.

‘Aye, m’laird. How are the needful workers to be found? Where are they to live?’

McLennan picked up another plan from the pile of slates on the table.

‘Ye see where my house is, down there below?’ He pointed to a large timber-framed manor house at the foot of the crag. ‘It won’t stand alone for long! Men will come when they are offered good wages, cheap homes and farmland, and my protection against danger. While the first levelling and digging is going on, ye’re to send men as far afield as Edinburgh to recruit. Word will spread! By the time I get back from my travels, I’ll lay there’ll be a small town where my house is, and farms and hamlets besides, all over my land.’

‘Ye plan a journey, m’laird?’

‘Aye. A long, long journey,’ replied McLennan drily. He glanced at the master builder at his side. ‘And that’ll please you, Master Douglas, I dunna doubt! Ye’ll have a free hand, without me here to nag and interfere with ye. As for you, Foreman,’ he added, ‘dunna think because the cat’s away, the mice can play. I’ve engaged some overseers to make sure no one slacks.’

The foreman bit back a retort. It irked him sometimes that this man, as lowborn as himself, and lower, should have such power over him. Especially now, since he was so sorely changed from the man he had been once. Not that that was to be wondered at, after what had happened to him.

‘Will ye afford a wall around this – this township, m’laird?’

McLennan thought for a moment. ‘There’s no need for a stone wall. A wooden palisade with earth ramparts within will suffice.’

‘And if there should be a raid or any trouble while ye’re away, what then?’

‘We’re too far from the border for the English to come at us.’

‘I was thinking of a closer enemy,’ the foreman said under his breath.

There was a bad moment of silence. Then McLennan said, in an unnaturally quiet voice, ‘Lightning doesna strike the same place twice.’

The man had the sense to say no more on that subject. Instead he said respectfully, ‘I trust ye’ll no’ run into danger yourself, sir.’