Amanda Scott (25 page)

The idea appealed to her. Most likely, they did not watch their own beach as carefully as they watched the water and the shorelines.
They would be watching for attackers from the mainland or Loch Alsh. If she drifted whichever way the current flowed for a
short distance before she used the oars, perhaps she could succeed.

But where would she go?

The notion stirred that she could somehow get to Dunsithe to search for her fortune, but she rejected it. Her intent was not
to do something foolhardy, and a trip alone of over a hundred miles would be nothing less.

She had to do something ordinary, something that she would have done at Dunakin without any soul-searching— without thought,
in fact—like hunting.

“He knows I like to hunt,” she muttered to the surrounding silence. “He and Sir Patrick hunt every day, yet he has not once
asked me to join them.”

Like any other castle, Eilean Donan required constant replenishing of its food stocks, and that was something with which she
could help. Smiling, sure now of her plan, she turned over and went to sleep.

To Nell’s vast relief, after nearly a sennight had passed, James not only agreed at last to let her carry a message to Kintail
and depart straightaway but also gave her a warrant commanding hospitality along the way. Most households would give shelter
to any passing traveler, but she knew that a woman with a small escort would receive more agreeable treatment at the King’s
command than on her own.

The distance being more than a hundred and fifty miles, much of it through the roadless Highlands, the journey would take
three days at least, and that only because Nell and her women were Border-bred and thus excellent horse-women.

James had suggested that she might prefer to travel to Dunbarton and take ship from there but agreed that, with Donald the
Grim gathering a fleet, she might run into trouble before she reached Eilean Donan. That a royal navy was being hastily assembled
to deal with Donald’s fleet would not make her journey safer, since she could count on neither side to accept her bona fides.

Ordering her woman to pack their things, she sent word to her men-at-arms that she would depart within the hour and would
require a guide who knew the Highlands and could get them to Kintail safely and by the fastest route. She was taking a last
look around her bedchamber to be sure she left nothing behind when a sharp rap sounded at the door.

Her woman opened it to find a girl in a blue gown and white cap. The latter concealed her hair, making her large, dark-fringed
gray eyes seem enormous.

“Beg pardon, m’lady,” the girl said, “but my mistress, hearing that you mean to leave the castle, asked me to bring you this
message.” When Nell had taken it, he girl bobbed a curtsy and hurried away.

“How odd,” Nell murmured, breaking the wax seal. She understood little more when she read the following:

Dear Madam:

Your haste precludes a more formal farewell, but I did think you would appreciate a glance at the bearer to reassure yourself
that she is well cared for. With Respect, Discretion, and in Haste, I am, as ever, your affectionate —Lady F

“Be aught amiss, my lady?”

“Nothing, Jane. I believe this message comes from an extremely encroaching woman, who insists on believing that I retain interest
in my brother’s affairs. I do not, of course, but I could not tell her so if I wanted to, for I do not recall the wretched
creature’s name and her absurd discretion has prompted her to sign only her initial.”

“Shall I attempt to identify her, my lady? Perhaps one of—”

“No, Jane, I want to put as much distance between ourselves and Stirling as we can before dark. Art ready?”

Being reassured on this point, Nell led the way to the courtyard, where she found her escort and their guide. The latter caused
her some annoyance, for it seemed that James had also recognized her need for such a person and had provided a wiry little
man of his own. The guide would be useful as far as Kintail, but to fulfill her mission, she would have to get rid of him
soon after their arrival.

“We’ll make for Loch Lomond first, my lady,” he said politely, “and thence up the Great Glen to Glen Garry and west to Kintail.
Portions o’ the route be rugged, but your people assure me that you and your woman be intrepid horsewomen. I pray that be
so.”

“It is,” Nell said curtly. “Let us depart at once.”

He assisted her to her saddle, and within minutes, the little group was crossing the timber bridge, leaving Stirling Castle
behind them.

M
olly’s preparations took much of the day, for not only did she require food but clothing, too. Too many people would recognize
her in her customary garb, thanks to Kintail’s introductions, and those who did not would want to know why a well-dressed
young woman was strolling alone in the woods or practicing her bowmanship in some clearing or other.

Even an ordinarily dressed young woman might draw unwanted attention, so masculine clothing was preferable, but she could
not imagine herself daring to appear in one of the raggedy, kilted garments that so many of the common men and boys wore.
Over the course of the day, however, she managed to acquire a knee-length saffron tunic and a pair of ragged braies, to which
she added leg bandings and rawhide shoes. The shoes were too big, but by extending the bandings to cover her ankles and feet,
she could make them fit.

Completing her wardrobe with a flat blue cap and a woolen mantle of the indigo and dark green pattern the Highlanders called
tartan and that nearly every male in the area seemed to wear, she tucked everything into a wooden chest in her bedchamber,
ready to wear when the opportunity arose.

It rained all day, making her fret that the bad weather might continue indefinitely. Kintail need only receive word that Donald
the Grim had landed in Kintail, and he would hail the priest straight to Eilean Donan and order the feckless man to marry
him to her on the spot. It was imperative that she prove to him before then that he could not act the tyrant over her.

Waking before dawn the next morning, she looked outside and saw stars twinkling in the still black sky. The rain had stopped.
Dressing as hastily as she could in the unfamiliar tunic, braies, and leggings, she fastened her quiver of arrows around her
waist, kilted the tunic over the belt, tucked her hair into the cap, and wrapped the tartan mantle around her. Taking up her
bow, she slipped downstairs to the double-barred postern door at the base of the northwest tower.

She could manage the bars alone, and she could be reasonably sure that no guard stood just outside it. In any event, the door
was the only way to leave the castle without being seen.

Not only did men-at-arms sleep in the great hall, through which she would have to pass to reach the castle entrance, but the
entrance was guarded by the tall, heavily timbered portcullis and a second, interior timber gate that was nearly as solid.
Both would be shut, and no one in Kintail’s service would open them for her.

Each of the bars scraped when she lifted it, being too heavy for her to manage with deftness. The door creaked, too, but although
each sound stopped her breath in her throat, no one demanded to know her business.

Outside, she breathed more easily. Waves slapped hard against the shore, and the wind blew hard enough to interfere with any
man’s hearing. There was no moon to shine upon her, so the dark mantle would conceal her as long as she stayed near the wall
as she made her way around to the eastern shore.

Although the distance to the boats was not great, it seemed to take forever, but she reached the nearest rowboat at last,
without seeing or hearing anyone.

Just then, a clank from above stopped her in her tracks. Voices drifted on the wind from the battlements, but soon they faded,
and she knew that the time had come to move again if she could just make herself do so. Silently feeling her way, she laid
her longbow in the boat and then slowly, carefully, eased the small craft into the water, hoping that the scraping sound of
the boat over loose pebbles would not carry above the louder sounds of wind and slapping waves.

Attempting to imitate the movement Kintail had made, launching their boat two days before, she grabbed the gunwales on either
side of the little craft’s bow, then pushed and leaped, swinging one leg over and in, then gasping and holding on for dear
life when the other foot plunged into the icy water. The boat tilted and an oar slipped, thudding dully against its gunwale.

Although she expected to hear an alarm, none sounded, and the boat was moving, drifting toward the Dornie shore. She was still
too close to the castle, and there were steep cliffs on that side of the loch and fewer places to beach. The opposite shore
was heavily wooded, more welcoming. Using an oar, as silently as she could, she guided the little craft out into the tidal
current. When she decided that she was far enough away that no sound she made could reach the castle, she began to row in
earnest, and twenty minutes later, she beached on the opposite shore.

Dragging the boat high enough so that the rising tide would be unlikely to carry it away, and tying its painter to a tree
root to make doubly sure, she took her bow and moved uphill into the trees until she came to a flat rock where she could sit
and wait for dawn. She had no idea what time it was.

Resting her arms on her knees and her head on her arms, she dozed with her bow across her lap, waking to the sound of a crane’s
whoop to find that the sun had risen. Beyond the tree line, in the distance across the loch, she could see Eilean Donan gleaming
like bronze in the pale yellow sunlight. She could discern no unusual activity, but she realized that she should have taken
Doreen into her confidence, so that the maidservant would not raise the alarm when she entered Molly’s bedchamber and found
her gone.

Men searching the shoreline would soon find the rowboat and would recognize that it belonged to the castle, so she hastened
to put distance between it and herself. Hiking up the steep hillside until she came to a grassy clearing, she turned to get
her bearings again. The three lochs lay before her. She could even see Skye in the misty distance. She would not get lost.

Movement drew her attention to the far shore—horses and mounted men, perhaps a half dozen. Had someone raised the alarm while
she dozed? No, she decided, they were too bunched up to be searching and too small a group to be raiders or—worse—a vanguard
of Donald the Grim’s invaders.

Knowing that the riders could not see her, she watched until they reached the head of the loch and crossed the burn. When
they turned toward her, she slipped into the shrubbery again. Keeping an eye on them would be easy. She would find a place
where she could practice her bowmanship and when she was quite ready, she would return to the castle.

“’Tis a fine day for sport,” Patrick MacRae said cheerfully. “We must hope that Donald Grumach does not spoil it by attacking
Kintail today.”

“Aye,” Fin said, but his attention was fixed on the moody young goshawk he carried on his gloved left fist. Although hooded
and jessed, the bird still tended to bate at unexpected noises and had been ruffling its wings ominously for the past several
minutes. Fortunately, Fin’s mount was seasoned and would not bolt if the bird began thrashing around and fighting its tethers,
but it would be as well if the young she-devil behaved. It could injure itself or break a primary feather if it got too excited.
Looping his reins around his wrist, he stroked the bird’s underbelly gently to calm it.

Patrick’s hawk was smaller and more even-tempered. He seemed to pay it no heed, choosing to engage in merry conversation instead,
but Fin knew his careless attitude was deceptive. Patrick was as skilled with a hawk as with a longbow, sword, or gun. Both
he and Fin had learned the art of hawking from the old laird’s chief falconer, for Sir Ranald Mackenzie had believed that
both his son and their future constable should be as skilled at such arts as their hirelings were.