Nab jerked awake to the screech of the stable doors being opened. It was still black as pitch out, and he was so tired, but he knew he couldn’t have slept more than a bit. This part of the stables’ low-pitched roof was hidden by the trees. He could lie comfortably and still observe the entrance.
He sat up, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark.
“…why we have to leave in the middle of the night, I don’t know.”
“It’s not for us to wonder. Just get the horses ready.”
The second voice was Tom’s. The first must be another servant.
“I hear old Morebright sent out a search party,” the first said. “Do ye think Bridgewater’s new lady threw him over? They were just married this evening! I don’t think my wife threatened leaving until we were married at least a year.”
“That has to be a record for men in your family.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Stop talking and get the horses, aye?”
Nab had slipped the papers through a narrow slit in the wall closest to him. He hoped the papers hadn’t ended up near where the tack for the horses was stored.
Silently, he climbed down the nearest tree, swallowing the groans his bruised ribs and legs were causing, and waited. The men worked near the far wall, and as his eyes got used to the dark, he could see part of a stall inside that would cover his movements if he was quiet.
The building was dark and smelled of hay and shit. The horses had begun to nicker and move in their stalls, surprised to be aroused at this hour, and with their noise, he ducked easily behind the stall wall. The floor at his feet was piled high with sodden straw, and in a pinch, he could dive into it, though he dearly hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. He felt gently along the wall for the slit and found it at last over some brooms leaning against the wall. The men were consumed with their efforts to adjust an uncooperative buckle.
He ran his hands gingerly over the ground, trying to avoid the wettest sections. Ugh. He wasn’t too particular, but even he was going to want to wash off in the river after this. He found the papers, which made a crackle. The men stopped talking. Nab held his breath.
“Do ye think that’ll hold?” the first man said.
“It’ll be good enough to get us to Coldstream.”
Nab slipped out the door and edged quickly around the building until he was out of sight of the house and the men in the stables. Then, he folded the papers and stuffed them in his pocket. He was flushed with the success of his mission. The words on the paper would damn Lord Bridgewater to a fate worse than death—though death would be a pleasing proposition for a man planning to stage a clan attack on English soldiers. Kent assured him the uncovering of the plan would put a nut in England’s plans for the treaty as well. But most of all, Nab was happy because he knew he’d have earned his place among the grown-ups in the secret group of rebels. He thought of his mother and how proud she’d be, and his heart ached a little. He wasn’t a child anymore and didn’t need to be taken care of, but he hadn’t been to Langholm in a month at least, and he missed her and his baby sister.
He rubbed his hands on his breeks and jogged toward the river. A quick washup followed by a walk long enough to put him out of the reach of Morebright and Bridgewater, and then he could sleep for a bit and still meet Undine and Kent in the morning.
He shoved through a tangle of low branches and a metallic click made him stop.
“Good evening, lad,” Bridgewater said and slapped a hand on his collar. “I think it’s time for you and me to have a talk.”