by Mariah Stone
Villagers sprang aside, avoiding the horses. Unlike most besiegers, Bruce had made a point not to kill Comyn’s people unless necessary and not to pillage the village and the farms. He was their new king, and he wanted their support, even though their lord had chosen to be Bruce’s enemy.
The village ended, and they galloped through the fields. Craig had seen the figure disappearing behind a large hill. Grass flashed under the horses’ hooves, and the river grew closer.
The small figure appeared from behind the hill and ran—indeed, a lad of twelve years or so. Craig and Dougal raced towards him.
“Stop, ye wee rascal!” Craig cried.
The boy threw a glance over the shoulder, his eyes wide. He sped up.
Craig leveled with him on the horse, leaned down and grabbed the collar of the boy’s coat. With a grunt, Craig threw him over the horse. He turned the beast and let it gallop back towards the hill so that they wouldn’t be visible from the castle.
When he reached the base of the hill, he jumped off the horse, hauling the boy with him. His father dismounted as well.
Craig set the lad on the ground. He stared at Craig with wide eyes but a set jaw.
“How did ye get out of the castle?” Craig asked.
“Dinna ken what ye mean. I came from the river.”
“From the river?” Dougal chuckled. “Didna ken the rivers are so dry these days.”
The boy pursed his mouth, angry.
“Aye, ye said enough,” Craig said. “I can go and find out for myself. I’ve seen where ye came out. But what is yer purpose?”
“I am no traitor,” the boy said. “I wilna say a thing.”
“I respect that, lad,” Dougal said. “We will search ye, and if there’s a letter or a message on ye, we will find it.”
“Go on and try!” the boy challenged.
He jumped and launched himself to run, but Dougal caught him and held his arms behind his back. Craig quickly searched the boy, but there was nothing that could be a message. No folded paper, nothing else.
“Here’s what we do,” his father said. “We ken now ’tis likely the entrance into the castle. We take him to Bruce. Even if he is a messenger, we caught him, so he wilna pass the message. Let Bruce decide what to do with the lad.”
“Aye,” Craig said. “Ye take him. I will take a peek to see what is there and come back. We’ll decide then what to do.”
“Aye, son. Be careful.”
Dougal put the struggling, kicking lad on the horse like a sack and let his mount gallop to the camp. Despite his age, his father restrained the lad with no difficulty. Pride filled Craig’s lungs. He truly belonged to a clan of mighty warriors.
Craig scanned the castle as he raced towards the tree and the rocks where he’d seen the lad appear. No arrows came at him. The defenders were probably too busy with the siege.
He reached the tree and the rocks. Where was the entrance? He studied the thick trunk, the boulders at its base. Some of them reached his shoulder. Nothing looked suspicious.
He leaned down and examined the grass.
There. Footprints in the soil. They appeared next to a flat, low rock almost as broad as a shield. Craig inspected a gap between the rock and the ground. He pushed his fingers into the gap, pulled the rock, and it opened like a latch door. Narrow stairs led into a dark tunnel.
His heart thumped. He was right. This was a secret entrance into the castle. It was dark and he didn’t have a torch, but he needed to see where it led. He glanced at the castle. It was probably thirty feet away and the tunnel must be deep—deep enough to go under the moat.
Those smart bastarts, the Comyns. No one would suspect they’d build a tunnel under the moat. Couldn’t it collapse under the weight of water?
Craig crossed himself and went down into the darkness, closing the trap door behind him.
The cold, hard floor shook and the rocks rattled. Small stones and sand showered down on Amy.
She sat upright with a jerk. She looked around, but blackness surrounded her.
Where was she? Not in the barn, not again.
Her lungs contracted, her diaphragm tightening. She coughed and searched around her with her hands. She was on something like a rock or a smooth stone floor. Something metallic and rounded rolled from her touch.
She had a flashlight, she remembered.
There wasn’t a flashlight in the barn—so Amy was somewhere else. Relief flooded her body.
Then events rushed into her mind—Deanna, the underground chamber, the glowing rock, the sensation of falling into it…of being sucked in…
She turned on the flashlight and studied her surroundings. There, against a rocky wall, was the stone with the carving—dark and still, not glowing. Along the rough rock wall laid firewood in heaps and wooden planks. Barrels stood along the walls, as well, and full sacks. She didn’t remember anything being there before; as far as she remembered, it had been a giant, empty cave.
It was clear now that she was in a storeroom, not the crumbling ruins she’d walked into.
She stood, her head spinning, nausea rising. Her body ached all over, as though she’d had a hard fall. Something boomed, and the walls and the floor shook, sending another shower of rocks and sand over her.
What was going on? An earthquake? She’d never heard about earthquakes in Scotland. If it were one, she needed to get out right away.
She ran the flashlight’s beam over the walls. Where there’d been an empty doorway leading to another room, there now stood a solid, heavy door with large bolts.
Crazier and crazier.
Well, whatever it was, Amy needed to get out. She walked on weak legs towards the door and opened it. It was dark, but a golden light poured from somewhere above, illuminating the curved stairs she’d descended before—but they looked like new. More chests and barrels lined the walls here. The odor of wet earth and decay was gone, replaced by the barely noticeable scent of grain and something else…something like beef jerky.
The room had been a ruin when Amy had followed Deanna in just a few minutes ago. Was Amy hallucinating or dreaming? Her head heavy, she made her way towards the stairs. Looking up the flight of stairs, she could see the light of fire dancing on the wall. People’s worried yells and cries carried from somewhere outside. Probably, Jenny and the class were looking for her.
Amy laid her hand on the cold, hard wall, which felt very real, and walked up the stairs as quietly as she could. The ground floor wasn’t a ruin anymore, either. It was a storage room of some sort—full of swords, spears, and axes, as well as barrels, crates, and chests like downstairs. Fire from torches on the walls illuminated the room. There was a door that probably led outside and another opened door to a stairwell leading up.
Amy gave a small shake of her head. This looked exactly like the tower she and Deanna had run into—but as though she’d returned to a time when it had been recently built.
What was this? Maybe the rock and the whole glowing river and such were just some sort of mushroom or algae that had hallucinogenic effects? Or had she hit her head? How else could she explain this?
Sìneag had spoken of a river of time and time travel. That must be why Amy had dreamed herself this medieval world.
Or maybe Amy had gone crazy, her fear in that dark space sending her over the edge.
Another boom, and the building shook. A large rock fell from the wall onto a barrel, splitting it in two, and brown, yeasty liquid poured out—beer? Amy had better hurry if she didn’t want to end up like that barrel.
She approached the door and opened it a crack, peering outside through the slit.
Her stomach dropped.
It wasn’t the empty, grass-covered courtyard surrounded by four ruined walls and towers anymore.
It was a real castle, all four towers tall and whole with cone-shaped wooden roofs. The yard itself had several small timber buildings and one big building made of stone. Amy could smell horse dung, woodsmoke, and something being cooked. Archers s
hot arrows from the walls, she realized. And men ran across the courtyard in heavily quilted coats, metal helmets, and chain mail. Almost everyone had a sword on their belt, as well as a shield, and many had spears or axes.
Amy blinked once, twice. Her heart stopped for a moment. How was all of this even possible? Maybe it was some sort of hologram to represent how the castle had looked when it was still in use. What other explanation was there? Unless Amy truly had gone insane…
Then a man came straight towards the tower, and Amy closed the door. Her pulse beating like a drum, she searched for a place to hide.
The stairs.
She dashed up the circular staircase. There was a small door on the landing, and still more stairs. She heard someone on the ground floor open the door and step inside. Amy tugged open the door in front of her and peered in—it was a barrack room with several beds, and there was no one there. She quietly went in and closed the door behind her, listening for anyone following her.
There were eight beds and something like sleeping bags on the floor. Three slit windows let light in with huge, wide sills like sitting alcoves.
Amy walked to the window, and her jaw dropped to the ground. The castle was surrounded by water—a moat—something that hadn’t even existed when she was there with Jenny and the class. On the other side of the moat was a small village with thatched-roof houses…
And an army—an actual medieval army—with a catapult, archers, tents, horses, carts, and campfires around the village.
This could not be happening. When they had driven here in the bus, there had been a few scattered houses here and there, and instead of the moat, meadows, hills, trees, and boulders.
In her jeans, hiking shoes, and puffer jacket, she felt strangely out of place. It was like she was in another time… But that wasn’t possible, she reminded herself stubbornly.
Quick footsteps hurried upstairs, and Amy froze momentarily. Then she rushed to the nearest bed to hide, but she had no time. The door opened, and she whirled around, holding her flashlight like a weapon. A tall warrior—sword, ax, and all—stepped inside.
Astonishment flashed through his handsome features.
And then it turned to threat.
Chapter 3
Craig stared at the woman.
He had opened the door because someone was coming from downstairs, and he needed to hide.
When he’d come through the tunnel that morning, he’d carefully checked the tower and the courtyard. Then he’d gone back to Bruce, and together they’d made a plan.
A plan that would open Inverlochy Castle to Bruce and bring the Comyns to their knees.
A plan that did not involve an enemy lass seeing him and alerting the whole castle to his presence.
She held a small rounded object in her hands, something like a bottle, in a protective manner. She was a pretty one, with her hair like copper in the sun, her eyes as blue as the sea. She was dressed like a man, in dark breeches that shamelessly hugged her long, sculpted legs, and some sort of a padded, short coat.
Very strange—but who knew how the Comyns allowed their women to dress?
One thing was clear.
He needed to silence her before she screamed—which, based on her eyes as round as moons and her open mouth, she was about to do.
Craig raced to her. She backed away, but he caught her, clasping her mouth with one hand and holding her wrists behind her back with the other. The strange object fell and rolled across the floor. Her scent reached him—flowers and fresh wind, the lushness of a summer forest. Her skin and lips were soft under his fingers, and surprisingly, a wave of tingles rushed through him.
She struggled, trying to break away, and he whispered into her ear: “Dinna make a sound, lass. I wilna hurt ye. But I must keep ye from screaming yer throat out and alarming the whole castle. Aye?”
In response, she lifted one foot and stomped on his boot with a strength he wouldn’t have imagined she had.
He didn’t make a sound, although pain burst through his leg and almost made him release her.
“Ye bloody minx,” he whispered. “I said I wilna hurt ye.”
He needed to tie her up so that she wouldn’t run out and alert the Comyns. He quickly released her mouth and she screamed. With his free hand, he reached down with one hand to someone’s storage chest and found a clean cloth, then gagged her with it. He grabbed a belt, tied her hands behind her back, then used another to tie her to the bed. He also bound her legs—not an easy task because she kicked and wriggled. He felt sorry to do this to her—the thought of doing anything against a woman’s will sent a wave of repulsion through him, reminding him of Marjorie.
But it needed to be done, and he did it as gently as he could.
When he was finished, she sat on the floor, her hands tied to the leg of the bed. Her face was red—no doubt she was feeling angry, helpless. She panted and moaned through the gag.
“I’m sorry, lass,” he said. “But if I’m successful, it’ll all be over soon, and ye can leave the castle with yer family. King Robert the Bruce wilna let women be harmed—and nor will I.”
She frowned, blinking at him, looking confused. Throwing one last glance at her to make sure she wouldn’t suffocate or escape, he left the room. The man downstairs must be gone by now. Craig needed to hurry.
He stopped at the staircase to make sure no one was coming from the upper floor or the lower. Everything was quiet, so he hurried down the stairs.
Earlier, in the village, he’d made sure to remove any signs he might be the enemy. He’d left the shield with the Cambel heraldic sigil, his helmet, and had even exchanged his sword for a simple one.
He carefully stepped into the courtyard. The northeastern tower he’d just left was used for food storage and sleeping chambers for the warriors. The two small southern towers were probably for the same purposes. The Comyn Tower, the biggest one on the northwest, was the donjon, or the keep of the castle. In addition to more weapon and food storage, it housed the lord’s chambers: his bedchamber and his private reception room where the family would gather. It was smart to put the secret tunnel under a tower that attracted less attention.
How many people knew about it? Probably, not many—or the purpose of the tunnel would be obsolete.
Edward Comyn, the lord of Inverlochy, stood on one of the curtain walls, surrounded by archers. The courtyard was busy with activity: servants carried baskets and firewood, warriors descended the stairs and went for a meal or to have a rest. Their faces were somber, no doubt from the tension of being under siege.
“Attack!” someone called from above. “To the northern wall!”
Men ran towards the wall and climbed the stairs. Many came running from the great hall—taking arrows and bows with them.
Good. This was the first part of the plan. MacNeils on their birlinns, the West Highland ships, would attack from the river. They would land and start climbing the walls.
More calls for warriors came from the eastern and the western sides. There, he knew, Bruce’s army was bringing logs and rocks to put into the moat for the siege towers and siege ladders to cross over.
Most Comyn warriors from the northern wall spread to the eastern and western walls. Even Edward Comyn moved to the west. But guards still stood by the gates.
They’d run away soon.
Craig hurried into the great hall. It was empty, save the servant girls who were cleaning the tables after the warriors had their meal. They paid little attention to Craig. He took a torch from one of the sconces on the wall. Then he grabbed the basket with kindling standing by the fireplace.
He sprinted out. The chaos and the tension inside the castle were palpable—screams of pain from on top of the walls; yells from outside; arrows flying, hitting people, bouncing off the rocks, piercing the mud of the courtyard.
He walked behind the great hall, in the space between the building and the curtain wall where he’d be hidden. He then began setting fire to small batches of kindling and throw
ing them onto the thatched roof.
Dark smoke rose from the roof of the great hall—that would be the signal for Bruce to move towards the gates. Craig was running out of time, so he quickly kindled the whole basket and threw it onto the kitchen roof together with the torch itself.
“Fire! Fire!” men screamed, and feet pounded across the courtyard towards the great hall. Craig needed to try to blend in with the panicking warriors, then make his way to the gates.
“Stop this!” someone cried from the wall. “Traitor! Get him!”
Craig glanced up—one of the warriors pointed straight at him. The warrior rushed down the stairs, and so did several others. Archers loomed over the parapet and aimed at him.
Whether the Bruce had had time to prepare or not, Craig would never get a better chance to open the gate.
With all the speed he could manage, he sprinted through the courtyard to the gates—where now no one stood. Arrows hit the ground around him. Something bit into his ankle—one of the arrows had scratched him, he realized—and he stumbled a little but continued his sprint. Reaching the gate, he pulled at the giant handle of a heavy iron latch, and it gave, but slowly—too slowly for his liking. The Comyn warriors were coming closer; they’d reached the middle of the courtyard.
The latch undone, he had to remove the heavy bar. He lifted it in the middle with as much strength as he could muster—normally at least two people were needed to lift such a bar.
The enemies were just a few feet away.
He pulled at the doors, and slowly, heavily, they began to open.
From the other side of the gates, Craig heard running footsteps and “Cruachan!” They were coming. He pulled at the gate even harder, then barely turned in time to deflect a claymore.
While he fought with one man, the warrior’s companions were pushing the gates to close them.
Too late.
With the force of dozens of running men, the Bruce’s army flowed in through the gates.
The castle was theirs.