“Ah, my prisoners,” he said, his voice cheery. “It is a beautiful day for our business. Follow me.” The three of them followed behind his moving figure as soldiers walked on either side of them, their hands holding tightly to the prisoners’ arms.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Eamon arrived outside the Fort with his men, and they spread out, fanning around the perimeter of the stone walls. It was soon time to complete their plan. Their idea was to surround the Fort, kill or injure those who stood outside, and find a way in to get the fire started just as dawn was breaking and the execution was about to begin. Each of them carried a bit of oil and flint, in case there was no fire within reach to help ignite the new flames.
His mind kept flashing to thoughts of Isabelle’s potential capture and execution. The thought bothered him, but it served to make him even angrier. Why should he care any longer about the fate of a woman who had lied to him and betrayed him? He should let her die and forget about her. He was here for his brother and retribution for his past wrongdoings. But, the thoughts of Isabelle’s face in pain kept returning to him, and he cursed the heavens for allowing him to let his heart succumb to the woman, for deep down, he knew that his happiness was tied to her fate.
He whispered to Lukas. “Come, we will take the west entrance. There are men set at the others, correct?”
“Aye, Eamon. Dinnae fash. This plan is brilliant. It shall work. Have a little faith.”
Eamon wanted to laugh, for Lukas was the farthest thing from a religious man that could be found. He turned back to listening for the sound of the soldier’s footsteps, making his rounds around the west gate. Eamon and Lukas were crouching low between bushes and trees, waiting for his arrival. The attack had to be as silent as possible. Lukas prepared a bow and arrow, and once the slow, meandering footsteps sounded, he pulled the bow taut, aiming into the shadows.
Soon, they saw a flash of red as the soldier was rounding the doorway, and Lukas let fire, his arrow gliding silently through the air to nest perfectly in the heart of the English soldier. Eamon grinned and slapped his friend on the back, for the soldier fell to the ground wordlessly. The two of them stood up, turning their heads to and fro to search for any other lingering soldiers. Bloody lucky, the bastards wear red.
The darkness was enough to hide them, for the time being, from the soldiers who lingered overhead. All they could hope for was that there would not be a change of guard, or else the fresh soldier would find a surprise on his hands and would call out for aid, giving away their position. Climbing out of their forest hiding place, Lukas and Eamon crept forward towards the shadowed doorway, hearts in their throats. Eamon gripped tightly to his dagger. Guns would be faster and give him a little more courage, but a dagger would be the quietest weapon in close proximity.
They edged forward, their kilts swaying with the light evening breeze. Eamon was counting his steps as he moved ever closer. The door grew taller and wider in the darkness, and finally, they reached it. He looked at Lukas for a moment, and Lukas nodded. Eamon pulled lightly on the door, and to his relief, it opened. The heavens were smiling upon them!
It opened into a short passage of stone, but then appeared to open into a larger room. Slipping inside, they kept their daggers tight beside them as they walked softly inside. Eamon tried to hold his breath to avoid making any extra noise. But they heard nothing, and they hoped that most of the men would be asleep. Eamon was searching for a hiding place that would suit them until morning when the fire was ready to be lit.
There was a small fire lit in the larger room and Eamon thanked God, for it would make their own fire start easier. They reached the end of the short passage and looking into the larger room, Eamon could see no one. It appeared to be some sort of a storeroom, which had doors on either side. They would have to wait here. No sense in bursting through the doors until dawn, when the fire would be well underway. He hoped that one of the doors led to the stairwell, but he would have to wait and see.
He waved to Lukas as he spotted an alcove within the room, half-hidden by a shelf. There was a window, but they did not fear being seen as they folded themselves inside to wait, hidden until the right time. The window could help them see when dawn arose, and when it was time to begin. There was not long to wait, for he could see the dark sky almost imperceptibly lighten on the horizon. His and Lukas’ breath was quiet, but he was desperate to take large gulps of air, to help ease his tension.
If they failed, it would be a very bloody death indeed, and he would die without being able to make things up to Sean. So he tried to focus his mind on if they succeeded. Sean might forgive him, and he could return to their village to wait for the coming of his niece or nephew. He might finally find a bit of peace and happiness and be returned to a loving family.
But what if Isabelle is in the dungeon awaiting the same fate? In the dark silence of the cold evening, Eamon’s mind was alive with thoughts of Isabelle. He knew that despite his anger and hurt feelings if she was to be on the chopping block, he would have to save her. He could not watch the woman he loved be killed in such a brutal manner, even if she was a traitor to both him and her country. He resolved to himself that he would do whatever it took to get her out as well if she was in the dungeon, but that did not mean he would forgive her.
There could be no more love or trust between them anymore. He looked out at the black expanse through the window next to him, the glint of the sea shining under the moonlight. Isabelle would return to England with Arya, perhaps, and he would have to move on without her. He had lived alone for so long, he knew it well. It would not be hard to return to his old life, except that it would. He wished he could yell and thrash at the torment his mind and heart were putting him through on the eve of his brother’s potential execution.
He leaned his head back against the stone of the alcove, closing his eyes. After what seemed like only a few moments, Lukas tapped him and pointed wordlessly to the window. A faint light had begun to grow over the sky, and Eamon clenched his jaw to strengthen his resolve and bolster his courage. It was time.
* * *
Isabelle was thinking about her mother. It had been years since her mother had died, but she still remembered her kind face and her warm smile. She was glad her mother was not there to witness her father’s madness, for madness it had become. Her mother was spared that sorrow at least, and that give Isabelle a small comfort.
The three of them were hauled upstairs to the battlements. There was one area of the Fort, which was larger than the others, and it was where whippings and other capital punishments were carried out by the Crown in this area of Scotland. Even His Majesty’s own soldiers were punished in that place. At executions, as she had been told, the whole of the Fort would watch as well as any English folks or Scottish citizens loyal to the Crown in surrounding areas.
In this barren wasteland and rough terrain, entertainment was often hard to come by, and so people would flock to see the executions. At least that is what Isabelle had heard, but this Fort was oddly placed. It was right next to the sea with not many surrounding towns, so when Isabelle and the others finally emerged in the morning light atop the battlement, it was not many people that stood around waiting.
She spotted the chopping block in the center of a stony area, but she had to keep squinting as the light blazed in their eyes, so bright and strong after a couple of days in the dungeons. Time seemed to slow as the prisoners were placed next to each other, and their hands bound with rope. It was the first time Isabelle had not cared about her appearance.
She was not vain, but an English noblewoman dressed as a man, dirty from lack of water for days, standing in front of her fellow countrymen was unheard of. It was like her father’s last chance to humiliate her before the end. She could hear voices in the background, but they all seemed to blend together, and she could only hear the slow thump of her own heart. Her mind began to wander, thinking about everything that had come to pass.
She would miss Arya greatly, and she hoped that h
er friend was happy and safe somewhere far away from her father. If she’d had the misfortune of being with them, her father would have no qualms about executing her as well for all the assistance she had given to Isabelle over the years. Why did Isabelle begin what she had? What had driven her to fight for the Scottish and spread seeds of rebellion over a land not her own?
Isabelle had been given the same education and treatment as many other Englishwomen of her station. There was no exception in that regard. So what had made her so singularly different than the rest of them? It would have to be her father. She smiled to herself grimly. It was her father’s treatment of her and others that had pushed her to rebel, to fight back in any way that she could. She had always felt different, but now it was revealed to her. Without the influence of her father, she was certain she would have turned out as any other English lady, no thoughts to Scotland’s fate and no thoughts of rebellion of any kind.
If she had followed that path, she would have led a safe and careful life, but she knew it would have been far less interesting, and she would have been bored. At least she had had a bit of excitement before her short life was abruptly ended.
Isabelle was called away from her own slow, meandering thoughts by the sharp piercing voice of her father. He had said her name. He was yelling out to the crowd. “I say to you, what man would not do as much for their country as I, who has been called to sacrifice my own daughter, Isabelle, for her treasonous actions?” He pointed to her, and she squinted in his direction. His face was lively, and his eyes bright. Right now, her father was in the position he always sought—a place of power.
“Traitors must be punished in the service of His Majesty. We must do everything we can to keep our England strong. My daughter was calling for a rebellion amongst the Scottish people.” Some of the soldiers began to laugh. “After Culloden, and all the Scots of this wretched country have been through, she wanted to incite another rebellion?” He laughed loudly, and a new wave of laughter spread throughout the crowd.
He pointed to Donovan. That moment was all she had? It was a few moments describing her crimes, and then he moved on. Did he love her so little? The fact did not cease to surprise her with each passing moment. Cutler continued, “This man was captured as he intended to set spies upon us! His comrade was killed, but he was kept alive until this moment. And for my final victim, we have The Wanderer! Caught in the King’s name for the sake of blessed revenge for the death of the King’s nephew!”
The soldiers cheered at the mention of Sean, and Isabelle looked around at their smiling, happy faces. Cutler’s tone became different as he spoke of their future. “But we will not stop, friends, until each and every member of The Scots are killed. Our revenge and our noble quest will not be fulfilled until we have done our sacred duty! Promise me you will join me in this quest from the King himself!”
The soldiers cheered again, and Isabelle knew that the execution was coming soon. The crowd had been told of their crimes. Her father’s show had been a dramatic one, but now it was time to do the deed. She tensed every muscle. She felt strong enough to do this, and yet a few times, her strength threatened to leave her. That would not do. She refused to be seen trembling with fear upon the chopping block while her father watched as the ax came down upon her neck.
“First, we shall have Donovan of The Scots. Come!” He called for Donovan to place himself upon the chopping block. Donovan, hands bound, walked forward, his head bowed, and he moved slowly until he reached the block. He was prompted to kneel down, and Isabelle tried to keep her eyes focused on something else, but it was too hard. It felt wrong to not watch as Donovan met his end like she was betraying him somehow. She would want his demise to be acknowledged after all he had done for his people.
Donovan knelt and laid his head forward. The axman tested the axe’s aim against Donovan’s neck for a moment, but then he held the ax aloft. Suddenly, a soldier came running onto the battlement. “Lord Cutler, sir! Fire! Fire! A fire burns in the castle. It is burning everything in sight! We have to escape, or we shall also be victims to its hungry flames!”
Chapter Twenty-Five
As soon as the pink, orange light had stretched across the entire sky, and the landscape came into view, Eamon and Lukas sprung from their hiding place. The time had come. He had informed the men of when they must light the fire, and now it was time for he and Lukas to do the same. They took the bit of oil and gunpowder they had brought and sprinkled it about the small room. They found bits of paper and kindling by the fire that they also spread.
Eamon pushed a stick into the ready flames, waiting for it to catch fire before he moved about lighting things that would easily alight. Lukas followed after him with his own stick, and soon the room broke out in a blaze. The heat was making sweat spring upon his brow. “We have to find a new hiding place!” he shouted to Lukas and opened a side door. It opened up to a set of stairs, and he thanked God that he had found them.
He and Lukas began to walk up, their daggers in their hands. Eamon turned back to Lukas. “Once the cry of fire has rung out, we need to hide. The soldiers will be running down this way.”
“But how will we find a way out? We cannot be caught atop the battlements when the soldiers run down or when the flames become too high tae manage.”
Eamon was grim. “Of course, ye are right, lad. How stupid could I have been? I can barely think, I fear so much for my brother. Turn back, turn back before we are caught like a pair of fools.”
He pushed Lukas back down the steps, and they entered the heated room. They had to jump over lines of fire, but they made it to the other door. This time there was a long passage, and they raced down it, searching for their other men or a place to hide. They met up with Dirk and Errol running towards the center room from another corridor. Lukas waved across to them and motioned for them to stop. Footsteps of soldiers were coming their way, and all of them leaned their backs up against the stone wall, praying and hoping that the soldiers would not turn their eyes to the left or to the right.
But when he saw who was in their company, he knew they were wholly focused on the task at hand. Cutler was leading the way to the main stairwell, with a triumphant look on his face. Behind him were three prisoners, and the first one was Isabelle. Eamon nearly sank to his knees at the sight of her dirtied face, still dressed in the male clothes he had asked her to wear before she fled from the MacManus clan.
Behind her was a solemn Donovan, and a tired-looking Sean. So, Gareth is dead. He sent up a prayer for the man who had been so kind, so helpful, and so willing to do anything for The Scots and their leader’s husband. He turned to Lukas, whose eyes were calm and understanding. Eamon knew his friend was comforting him at the sight of this horror, but there wasn’t time to wallow. He had to be strong for those he loved, all of them. Soldiers were on either side of the prisoners, their hands on their elbows, leading them up to their deaths. There was a shorter man walking behind them, not dressed in a soldier’s uniform. Soon, Isabelle was lost to his view as she disappeared up the stairs to the top of the Fort, and then once all were gone, he and Lukas rushed to the other side with Dirk and Errol. “Is yer fire lit?”
“Aye. It is done, and we were close tae the others. Their fire is also lit. Soon, the call will rise up, and hopefully, we can take advantage of their lack of preparation.”
Eamon looked around. “We have little time. The execution will begin soon. What if the call does not come soon enough?”
“Then, we will make it come.”
Eamon nodded. “We will have tae find a redcoat and help him out of his uniform.” He smiled. “Where is the dungeon? Once the call is made, what do ye think they will do with the prisoners? We need someone atop the battlements, ready to watch in case they need tae send an arrow intae the executioner’s heart tae give us a bit more time.” Dirk volunteered.
“I shall go, Eamon.”
Eamon shook his head. “Nae, yer red hair shall give ye away. Lukas, ye will go. Ye have the best aim
with yer bow, and ye have dark hair. But first, we need tae find a soldier.”
They waited in the hallway, assuming the crowd would be moving up to view the execution, but the men must have already passed by. They prayed for a soldier on duty to walk by, and they were rewarded. Footsteps were coming their way, and peering around the corner, they could see a lone young soldier holding his musket, pacing back and forth in the room.
Eamon moved to the front of the hallway, waiting for the young man to come within his sphere so that he could reach him before the man cried out. Footsteps neared, and in a flash, Eamon’s arm reached out, grabbed a surprised soldier from behind, and smashed his head against the stone wall, rendering him unconscious. The soldier crumpled to the ground, and the men pulled his body into the hallway, searching for a good place to make the transition.
Dirk and Errol guided them to a tiny room along the passage that they had spotted on their way after lighting the flames. The nearer they got to their original entry point, though, the hotter the fires became. “We shall become cooked if we dinnae hurry.”
They undressed the man, and Lukas stripped-down, preparing himself to be a proper English soldier, simply alerting his leader of the fire in the castle. Once they were finished, the look was effective, but his rough beard would give him away if the soldiers had a moment to think before the fire consumed the castle. “Take the musket with ye, lad. In case they find out yer identity.”
Taken by her Highland Enemy: He was running from his past; she was fighting for her future... Page 20