Simon grabbed the first thing he saw, a quiver of arrows, and threw it over the edge of the battlements where it crashed to the courtyard below. It was a pointless gesture and he did not feel the better for it. Should he make ready for war against the king? And why would the king lend his aid to Sir William?
Simon shook his head. William was no favorite of the king. If King Edward sent his men to Tynsdale, then he wanted to claim it for himself and give the castle to a man more favored. The king must wish his forces present so he could expel William and give these lands to someone more favored. William was a fool. But there was nothing new in that.
Simon watched the approaching hordes, his mind calculating his odds. Having been born the son of a serving wench, he had learned to take when he had the advantage, and to run when the risk was too great. Honor was a flight of fancy for the privileged. It was not for those who had to fight to survive.
“What are your orders? Do we fight?” Simon’s battle captain was at his side. He was an excellent warrior and followed Simon’s commands without scruple.
Simon ground his teeth, thinking of the repercussions. The king would not care a whit if he destroyed William, but would no doubt take offense if Simon took up arms against his own men. A lengthy battle defending the castle from a siege of the king’s own soldiers was not in his plan. He wanted to be acknowledged as Tynsdale’s son and heir, not hung from the nearest tree as a rebellious peasant.
“A message for Lord Tynsdale,” said a page who joined the men on the tower. “Actually two messages, they both arrived today.”
“Well read them, boy.”
Simon would have read it himself if he had ever bothered to learn to read. He had better things to do, most of them with a sword in his hand.
The first message was from the captain of the men he sent to collect Lady Tynsdale.
Much regret to inform you that Lady Tynsdale has either escaped or was carried off by a spooked horse and we have been unable to locate her. We have searched these past several days and will continue. Her men also search for her, but none have found her.
“Damn them to blazes! How hard can it be to bring me one wench?” Simon shook his head. Maybe she had gone and got herself killed and saved him the trouble. He could not be bothered by such trivial matters.
“Read the next,” he commanded.
The next missive began with some vague flatteries about the beauty of Lady Tynsdale. Simon drummed his fingers impatiently on the battlements waiting for the point of the missive.
In order to return the Lady Tynsdale to hearth and home, the captor demanded a ransom be paid. The missive ended with promises that no harm would come to her and it was signed Laird Campbell.
Simon snarled in response and the page prudently dropped his messages and ran back down the stone staircase.
Someone dared to demand ransom of him? That little whore! All she needed to do was get her sorry arse to him, but no, she somehow managed to get herself kidnapped in the process. She was doing this on purpose to irritate him. She would pay dearly for her impudence. The last time he saw her would be nothing compared to what he was going to do to her now. Simon grabbed the missives, crumpled them, and threw them over the battlements, smashing a large fist into the stone.
“What are your orders?” his battle captain asked again.
Simon thought fast. He had faults enough, but was clever when pressed.
“Lower the drawbridge. Invite in my cousin, damn fool that he is. Tell the men to gear up. We ride at first light tomorrow and will not return.”
His captain raised an eyebrow. “With Lady Tynsdale’s guard out scouring the countryside…”
“Alnsworth will be ripe for the plucking.” Simon smiled at his captain’s ready understanding. He had wanted to take Tynsdale Castle, but would content himself with Alnsworth instead. “I do believe I am the Lady Tynsdale’s guardian since the death of my poor father. Let us take this prize, but we must be quick. Once Alnsworth is under our control, we must away to the Highlands.”
“The Highlands? Why?”
“We must find this Laird Campbell and ransom the Lady Tynsdale.”
The battle-hardened captain frowned. “But why? Let her rot with the barbarians, I say.”
“I would agree, but I cannot allow her to live and possibly wed another who would come to claim Alnsworth. No, since this missive was addressed to my father it seems she does not yet know she is a widow. I must have her before she finds out.”
“And what will you do with her?”
Simon shrugged. “Stab her, beat her, drown her. What does it matter as long as she’s dead?”
Beneath the tower, the ironmaster’s daughter grabbed the two crumpled missives and slipped out the castle gate.
***
Isabelle waited in her hiding place until it was dark enough to travel. She had feigned illness and left the evening meal early, saying she needed rest. Instead she bundled up some blankets to look like she was sleeping on her pallet, and left the castle by the postern gate while it was still light and the gate was open. She concealed herself between some large rocks and waited for dark, hoping no one would discover her missing until morn. In the pocket of her cloak were several bread trenchers, wrapped in a linen cloth, which she had been stashing for the past several days. In her other pocket was the precious gold coin. She squeezed it for luck. It had to see her safe.
Darkness fell thick and black in the Highlands. There was just a slip of a moon, giving Isabelle barely enough light to walk without bumping into something. She walked around the dark edge of the castle, hugging the wall to avoid being seen by the sentries. Moving slowly to the back of the castle, she began her climb over the rocks. The trek had been challenging in the daylight with a guide. At night it was nearly impossible.
Her scar ached again and she moved on. She would do this. She had no choice. Somewhere along the shore was a tiny boat she had every intention to steal. She had become a thief in the night. A sobering thought. But not sobering enough to stop.
Isabelle scrambled over a large boulder, hoping she was heading in the right direction, and got caught by the hem of her gown. She twisted and tried to release herself, but it was stuck tight between two rocks. She gave a fierce tug and heard the sound of the gown tearing. Isabelle sighed. Another gown ruined. Slowly she worked her way over and around the rocks, but could not find the little sandy beach with her rescue boat. She struggled through the night until she was exhausted. Finally, she could move no more. She collapsed onto the ground and leaned up against a boulder to rest.
She tried to get comfortable, but there was very little space. She pushed something out of her way with her feet. Whatever it was scraped across the sand and smelled of… tar. She sat up with a start and found herself sitting on the beach next to the makeshift craft. She was so happy she could have hugged it… if it hadn’t reeked.
Well, she’d survived pickles, she could survive this. Isabelle pushed the awkward thing into the water and climbed in carefully. She was not a large woman, but she certainly outweighed young Rabbie. She took the oar from the shore and sat down in the boat carefully. The boat wobbled precariously but somehow remained afloat. She gave a little push and drifted away from the safety of the shore. Too late to change her mind now.
Taking a gentle stroke with the oar she moved forward and she grew more confident. The little craft looked horrendous, but young Master Rabbie knew a little something about building a boat. She paddled a bit stronger and headed for the shore. It took a while to get there, since the boat liked to go around in circles rather than straight, but eventually she convinced it to behave enough to ferry her the short distance across to the other side.
Isabelle reached the shore and unstuck herself from the makeshift craft. The air smelled better, the rocks looked friendlier, the birds sang merrily. Oh no, birds? Isabelle had been so focused on her escape
she had not noticed it was now approaching dawn. She climbed up the hill, taking care to stay in the shadows. Once she found the main road, she set a quick pace away from Innis Chonnel. She did not like running away from Campbell. He had treated her kindly and had not taken advantage of her… most of the time.
Memories of his kiss in the bathing tub flooded back. Heat radiated from her core and her lips ached to be kissed once more. He made her feel all sorts of confusing things. She should not have kissed him, but if she saw him again, she would likely seek his lips once more. It was infatuation, it must be. What else could it be?
She wished Marjorie was here to help her sort through these confusing emotions. She would set her to rights. Poor Marjorie, Isabelle wondered what had happened to her after she left. Marjorie must be sick with worry for her. Isabelle quickened her step. She must get home as soon as possible.
The sun shone through the morning haze, and she continued her journey at a fast clip. At least she had put some distance between her and Innis Chonnel. She wondered what the sisters would do when they awoke to find her gone. Would they mount a search? No doubt they would. How long would it take before Rabbie discovered his little boat missing and alerted the rest of the clan that she had likely left the island? And how long after that would they come looking for her? In the daylight there was nowhere to hide.
“Whoa there, wee lass. Where are ye off to?”
Twenty
David Campbell’s face was dark, in contrast to the beautiful, sunny day around him. His men had taken him back to the scene of the abduction so they could track the captors. At first the task was easy; the bandits had ridden as a group down the road at considerable speed. Then the tracks led in all directions.
Not knowing the correct path, they had to follow each lead until the tracks disappeared. It had taken days of careful searching, trying to find the right trail. On this day, David followed another set of tracks, which ended at a river. He searched up and down the bank looking for exit tracks but could find none.
This was maddening beyond words. Who knew what treatment his sister may be suffering while he ran after shadows? If anyone dared to touch her, he swore he would make his death slow and painful. Campbell mounted to ride back to camp. He would kill the sons of whores when he found them. And he would find them.
Back at camp, Campbell was disappointed to learn that none of his men had experienced any better luck than he. He was itching for action, preferably violent.
“Set up camp for the night. We ride to St. Margaret’s Convent tomorrow to meet wi’ Cait’s betrothed,” Campbell said to his men.
“What do ye do tonight?” asked Dain.
“I will continue to search.”
“I am wi’ ye,” said Dain.
“Me too,” said Gill.
“And me,” said Finn.
“I am no’ tired,” said Hamish, stifling a yawn.
“Thank ye. We will find her,” said Campbell, reassuring himself along with his brothers.
“Ye ken Gavin can help?” asked Dain.
“His kin knows these hills well. I hope they can tell us who may have taken Cait.”
Campbell signaled for the men who were coming with him to mount up. His brothers and all of his clansmen joined him. Campbell acknowledged their dedication with a curt nod. Searching in the dark would be difficult, but he would not take his rest until he knew Cait was safe.
***
Cait Campbell waited impatiently for Andrew McNab to arrive. Over the past few days Andrew had been an attentive host, and she his most willing captive. Her body hummed with excitement, as if for the first time in her life she was really alive. Even Alys had noticed her mood and commented on the smile often seen on Cait’s lips.
Cait tried to be more circumspect and guarded with her feelings, but it was a pointless exercise ending in abysmal failure after a few minutes of effort. Today, Cait expected to be taken off by her captor and forced to do goodness only knows what to win her freedom. Her pulse raced merrily, and heat flushed through her in odd places.
Despite her determination to remain aloof, Cait drummed her fingers on the tablecloth and stared at the door, waiting for her captor’s knock. Where was this man? Was it too much to ask for him to be prompt in his threat to ravish her senseless?
“Waiting for someone?” asked Alys.
“What? Nay! I mean, Andrew may call on us, but it is nothing to me.” Cait smoothed invisible wrinkles out of the tablecloth.
“I expect Archie will come to call as well.”
“Oh! That hideous man!” Cait clutched the formerly smooth tablecloth. “Has he bothered ye? Do ye wish me to stay wi’ ye?”
“Nay, he’s no bother to me. He is quite gentlemanly. He is handsome, no?”
“Nay!” Cait could not think kindly on the man who had abducted her, though she was relieved not to be obliged to remain with Alys.
Alys frowned. “I think he is simply trying to protect his clan, albeit misguided. He needs someone to take care o’ him.”
“My brother will take care o’ him,” snapped Cait.
A knock came to the door and Cait nearly vaulted over the table to open it. Andrew stood in the doorway, his big eyes sad, the corners of his mouth drooped.
“What’s wrong?” asked Cait.
“Archie is sending me up north to go fishing.”
“What! Why?”
“Ye said m’lady only eats fish on Fridays, particularly haddock. Well, our haddock run has already come and gone, and it being Friday tomorrow, Archie wants me to go up north to see if I can find some.”
“Nonsense, ye must have misunderstood me. Honestly, I dinna ken why I talk when nobody listens. What fish do ye have in the loch now?”
“Salmon.”
“Well that is what m’lady likes best. Shall we go?”
“I need to tell Archie—”
“We’ll tell him together and then go for a ride,” commanded Cait and marched out of the room, dragging her captor behind her.
***
Isabelle awoke securely within the walls of St. Margaret’s Convent. She breathed deeply, relishing her newfound freedom. It was marvelous to have finally succeeded in her plans, even if her pallet was made of rocks, and the homespun wool gown they gave her must have been woven by the weaver’s blind, drunk cousin. It fit poorly. And it itched. But she was at St. Margaret’s, a feat that pleased her greatly.
When a small band of travelers had caught her on the road from Innis Chonnel, she feared her escape would be short-lived. Remembering her lesson from the common room in Glasgow, she clamped her mouth shut and said not a word. Instead, she clasped her hands together, and looked toward the heavens in a universal sign of piety. Maybe it was her look of innocence, maybe it was the gold coin she offered, but the party agreed to take her on to the convent.
A woman in the party dubbed her a little lost nun and took her up in the wagon as they traveled. It took two days to arrive at St. Margaret’s Convent. Two days without speaking and looking pious; it nearly killed her. But it worked, and Isabelle relished her success.
She had arrived late yesterday and had been given hospitality without question. Her kindly traveling companions had continued on their journey, so today she needed to make her plea. Convincing some Church official to give her an annulment or allow her to divorce could hardly be as difficult as escaping from Campbell. She smoothed her rough gown, brushing away her fears. It had to work. She had come too far to fail now.
Isabelle briefly considered simply pretending to be some random peasant girl requesting to enter the convent, and to hide here in this foreign place until her husband died. But what would happen to her people while she hid to protect herself? No, she could not treat them so poorly. They were the only family she had left. She must plead to have her marriage dissolved. Besides, the wool gown was itching something fierce.
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Isabelle entered the common room and was invited by the nuns to break her fast with them. She quickly learned she needed to present her case to the Mother Superior, but Mother Enid was out visiting and would not return until the next day. There were a few whispers between the nuns about the number of other guests, but an elder nun waved away the concerns and invited Isabelle to stay as a guest at the convent. Isabelle readily accepted.
After a bland meal of porridge, Isabelle walked outside the hall into the bright sun of a crisp morning. A group of men were entering the hall, most likely the other guests the nuns had discussed. Isabelle stepped to the side and turned her face away from the sun shining directly in her eyes. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she brushed against the large form of a man.
“I beg your pardon,” she mumbled without looking up.
“Good morn to ye, Lady Tynsdale,” said an all-too-familiar voice.
Isabelle’s head shot up and she jumped backward with a small shriek. David Campbell stood before her.
Campbell pressed his lips together, glaring at her with accusing eyes. “My congratulations, madam. Ye have finally made yer escape.” Campbell’s voice was hard and detached.
“Campbell!” Isabelle stared at the figure before her like an apparition. Beyond the shock of seeing him, his appearance was much altered, dirty and worn from the road, his face had taken a grayish tinge. “You look dreadful.”
His shoulders hunched with invisible weight. “Thank ye, my lady.”
“Will you… are you going to take me back with you?” asked Isabelle. She forgot for a moment she was trying to escape him.
“Nay. If ye find my hospitality so displeasing, I winna force ye to come back. I canna take ye from the convent, or do ye think so poorly o’ me that ye dinna think I would respect the sanctuary o’ the Church.”
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