The Scotsman (27 page)

But this was the moment she had been waiting for, been expecting for the past two weeks since Mairi had raved at her in the hall and shattered any illusions she held about Alex Fraser caring for her. After days of agonizing, she had finally accepted what she must do to end this anguish. She would leave Castle Rock. It would not be easy, and perhaps she would be caught, but she could not just linger here and wait for his return. It would be too painful to see him again, to look into his angel’s face with the devil’s own lie in his eyes.…

She had learned there was a nunnery close by; she would seek refuge there until she could enter a cloister in her own land. Her lands would be dowry to the church, and she would live out her days in relative independence and freedom. Now that she was no longer a virgin—in the eyes of the church and her father, an unwed woman with a past and no future—she would be accepted without debate about her eligibility. The church would be glad to receive her extensive dowry, and she would still be allowed to retain monies for her own use. She could
travel if she wished, or linger in the sanctity and peace of the nunnery and devote her time to prayer and reading. It was a way of life free of the restrictions wives and daughters faced in the secular world.

And now the moment was at hand. She was prepared for it. Swiftly, she donned the garments she had hidden in a chest for this purpose, then slipped the velvet gown over her head and left it loosely tied at the sides. When she was certain Robbie had left, she waited a few more minutes, then opened the door.

“Guard … please … I am taken ill….”

Disconcerted, the guard stared at her without response, and she wondered wildly if he spoke English. It was something she had not considered. Groaning, she clutched her stomach and bent double, then sagged to her knees. Alarmed, the guard knelt beside her, not touching her.

“Milady … be ye truly ill?”

His English was rough but intelligible, and she nodded before groaning louder. “Please … it is a female complaint that so ails me … I need a woman from the village … oh, Holy Mary, Mother of God….”

Her last words were uttered in a moaning wail as if she were about to die, and the guard scrambled to his feet and looked around him in panic. It was obvious he was loath to leave his post, and she increased her moans, then went into shaking spasms that were not too difficult to mimic in her current state of agitation. She thought of a religious woman she had once seen, who had fallen to the ground in a fit of holy fervor and foamed at the mouth and thrashed about, and did her best to imitate the convulsions she had witnessed.

Apparently, she was very convincing, for after another glance and a few muttered words in Gaelic, the guard backed away, then sped down the hall with a clatter of
sword and fervent prayer for his own safety. The echoes of the Latin prayer drifted back to her, and she kept her eyes half-closed in case he turned around. Lying in the open doorway of the chamber, she waited for what seemed an eternity before rising in a swift motion and stripping away her velvet gown. The rough servant’s clothing she wore beneath was quickly covered with a long mantle she had pilfered from some hapless soul who had carelessly left it in the hall, and she supped from the chamber into the empty corridor.

Below, she could hear voices, and in the bailey outside was the constant ebb and flow of normal activity. Accustomed by now to the back staircases, she used the one at the opposite end of the hall the guard had chosen, and quickly descended the tight, narrow spiral steps, blowing out the lamps in the niches to plunge the stairwell into darkness behind her. When she reached the bottom, she paused and, bending, scraped her hands over the dirty floor and rubbed it on her cheeks, forehead, and chin. She tucked her hair beneath a square of rough wool to hide it from view, knotting the comers together, then pulled the mantle’s hood up to cover her head. She tugged on the wool gloves she had been given in her first days here, to cover hands that would betray her with their pale softness.

With pounding heart and a dry mouth, she made her way slowly across the small room toward the kitchens. No one paid her any mind as she moved with purpose to a bundle of rags tied with thin cord, and hefted it to sling over one shoulder. It was heavier than it looked and she staggered a bit under the weight, but did not pause.

She carried the makeshift burden as if it belonged to her. Sunlight and cold wind struck her forcibly as she stepped into the mud and clatter of the bailey, and she
kept her head down as she moved along with the bundle of rags atop her back. No one seemed to notice her as she wove a path through the milling soldiers and various tradesmen. On the morrow, it would be Shrove Tuesday, the day before the Lenten season began and a time of festivity before the long season of fasting commenced. The keep was thus busier than usual.

When she reached the outer gates, open during the day to allow in tradesmen and those who had business here, she did not pause. Her heart was pounding so fiercely she felt as if her ribs would be bruised by its force. Posted guards oft stopped those entering, but generally did not detain those trying to leave. She found herself behind an old man with a load of woven baskets tied around his neck and across his back, and he began to quarrel with one of the guards.

Would he never cease his ranting in that querulous voice? If she were still within the keep when her absence was discovered and the cry went up, all would be for naught. This was her only chance.…

Finally the guard gave a disgusted grunt and a shove, and the old man moved along, still indignant about some slight he must have suffered, and she followed with her head low. She prayed to be invisible, for if she were forced to speak they would know instantly she was English.

But the guard stopped her with an arm stretched in front of her, his command rough Gaelic. She stopped, but shook her head mutely, keeping her eyes downcast. He said something else in a sharp tone, and she stood frozen in panic. What was he saying to her? He would quickly discover she did not understand his language, and all would be lost … but when she dared a glance upward, he was peering at her with narrowed eyes and
she opened her mouth and made an incoherent sound, then pointed to her ears and shook her head. It was inspired.

At once, he shoved her forward, then looked at the man behind her and said something that must have been coarse, for they both laughed. It did not matter. She walked past him, bent under the bundle of rags, deaf indeed to all but the loud pounding of blood that filled her ears as she trod the narrow passage that led to freedom.

As she made her way across the bridge and down the steep hill toward Kinnison, she prayed that she would find the priory Tarn had told her was only a few leagues distant. It was near Langholm, which was very close to the border. She just must remember to keep the rising sun on her left, and the setting sun on her right.

But it would be difficult, for even now clouds were scudding across the sky and the wind was growing sharp and colder. Without the sun to guide her, she may soon be lost, wandering with no one to help her in the country of the enemy. Never in her life had she felt more alone than she did now, and with each step, Catherine prayed for guidance.

It was Shrove Tuesday, February 27, and the garrison of Roxburgh was celebrating the day before the beginning of Lent with a feast. Douglas, Alex, and a hand-picked group of men that numbered sixty in all approached the castle after dusk. Over their chain mail, they wore black cloaks that draped to the ground and blended them into the shadows. Silently, in single file and on their hands and knees, they moved along a narrow path as if they were cows or oxen that had been left in the fields for the night.

It was a brilliant plan—if it worked, Alex thought with grim amusement. He could barely make out the form of the man in front of him, shrouded by black wool with only an occasional clink of his sword along the rutted track to lend noise to the gloom. Stealthily, they made their way close to the castle walls, careful to appear aimless to any who may be watching. It was not until they were directly beneath the wall that they heard a sentry speak, his voice drifting over them in the quiet, cold night with crystal clarity.

“The local farmer must be making good cheer, for he has left out all his cattle.”

Another man laughed softly and replied, “Good cheer tonight, but Douglas will have them tomorrow.”

Laughing, the two men wandered along the stone ramparts until their voices faded.

Douglas beckoned, and his men came close to the foot of the wall, hooks and ladders in hand to scale the height. “Who drew the winning lot to go first, lads?” he whispered with a wild grin, and a man stepped forward eagerly.

“I am to go.”

“Good man, Sim. Give us the signal when you have seen the lay of it.”

Alex helped fit the iron hooks of the ladders to the top ledge of the castle wall, and Sim of Leadhouse swiftly scaled the ropes. They stood in the shadows and watched as he reached the edge of the parapet. There was a brief scuffle and grunt, and then Sim turned to look down with a reckless laugh, hissing, “All’s well. Speed quickly.”

With a muffled clump of boots against stone, they made their way up the hempen ladders and over the parapet to the sentry walk. A dead guard lay sprawled on the stones, stabbed in the heart to stop his warning. When they were all up, Douglas motioned and they separated into small groups, dispersing in different directions, keeping to the shadows and muffling the noise of their boots and swords.

Alex accompanied Douglas, and they moved along the sentry wall with silent purpose. When they rounded a corner, Douglas put up a hand to halt the small group, and Alex heard the soft sound of a woman singing. He peered through the gloom, and in the fitful light of a torch burning on a wall, he saw the figure of a woman
seated on the edge of the parapet. Her back was to them and she was holding a baby and rocking back and forth, crooning a soft song.

In the dark, Douglas turned to him, and his teeth flashed white. “Listen….”

Amused, Alex grinned back as the words to the song drifted into the night: “Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye; Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye; The Black Douglas shall not get ye….”

As she sang, Douglas approached her on silent cat’s feet, and as the last words faded, he put a hand upon her shoulder and growled, “Do not be sure of that.”

Turning, the woman’s face crumpled in horror as the Black Douglas loomed over her, but he laughed softly at her terror. “Do not fear, good dame, for I will protect you this night. It is a holy eve. Go in safety, but remain hidden for protection from the fray.”

Beckoning a man to him, he set him to guard her so she would not give the alarm, and they continued down the walk to the circular tower and winding stairs. Few men were about this night, but they could hear the noise in the great hall, where all were celebrating Shrove Tuesday with dancing and singing. Flanking the doors, they waited, and when Alex saw Douglas give the signal at last, he turned with the others and burst through the doors into the hall, bellowing the war cry of the Douglas. It rang through the hall, causing instant pandemonium.

Women screamed, dogs barked, and men shouted drunkenly as they grabbed clumsily at swords. Slashing fiercely about him, Alex cut down two men who came at him with uplifted weapons, pushing one free of his blade with his boot when the unfortunate man buckled over it. It was bloody work, intense and close in the hall, but the rout was quick as the English were taken completely by surprise.

Above the din, the governor of the garrison, William de Fiennes, managed to rally a few of his men around him and flee the hall. Alex pursued hotly, but de Fiennes made it to the safety of the keep and bolted the doors behind him. It soon became apparent that it made little difference, for the entire castle was in Scots hands. In triumph, they set about gathering prisoners and booty. Some of it would go to the Bruce for the royal coffers, but the rest would be split among them.

“Think you there will be enough to ransom your brother and de Brus?” Douglas wondered aloud as he lifted a handful of coins they had found in a chest and let it spill between his fingers in a bright metallic stream.

“Nay. All the gold in Scotland and England would not be enough to purchase Jamie’s life, I fear.” Alex hadn’t meant to sound so bitter, but it had come to him over the weeks with slow, painful realization: Warfield would never yield.

Douglas looked at him thoughtfully. “There is another kind of currency that might yet purchase both Jamie and de Brus from a man like Warfield. Summon Lord Devlin to you again, but this time without promise of safe conduct. When he arrives—as he surely will—take him hostage in place of the lady. ’Tis my guess that Warfield will relent for his heir, if for nothing else.”

“The idea has occurred to me. Yet if he does not? Do I then have two hostages?”

“If all is lost and Jamie is executed, send Warfield his son’s head on a silver platter.”

“That would not bring back Jamie.”

“Nay, but ’twould convince Warfield of your intention with his daughter.”