Eleanor dressed warmly for the night, for the air was chill. Winter was making its inevitable arrival known. At least the wind from earlier in the day had died down. Since coming to Stirling, she had procured a warm wool cloak, two extra wool shifts, and sheepskin gloves. She’d been able to purchase these items by saving what was left of the pittance Angus Beag paid her after rent on the burgage and whatever food she bought for herself.
She had never loved items of clothing as much as these she’d earned on her own.
She was nervous this night. There had been two other secret meetings, and she’d attended both. But she had a bad feeling about this one. She hadn’t heard anything substantial in nearly a fortnight. As far as anyone knew, the king was still trying to persuade the Red Douglas to support her father’s execution. So far, the man had evaded giving the king an answer one way or the other. From the reports that came back, though, the king was becoming increasingly more agitated, and was beginning to replace his generous offers of lands and wealth with threats of reprisals.
Eleanor knew the reason why the Red Douglas was dragging his feet. Before the battle of Arkinholm, there was a modicum of respect between Lord Albermarle and George the Red that was not to be found elsewhere in relations between the two Douglas branches.
But mutual respect was not enough to keep her father from the executioner’s axe, not when the king was determined to have his way. The Red Douglas would cave. Of that, no one had any doubt. It was just a question of when.
Would the Black Douglases be ready to make their move before then?
She was standing by the window, overlooking the sheep as they slept in the dark, cold night, when Dougall returned from saddling his mount.
“Are ye ready?” he asked from the doorway.
She turned and regarded him. With his hair pulled back into a queue and his claymore strapped to his back, he looked every bit the captain he was. A hitch caught in her breath at such a regal sight, and in that moment she was monumentally relieved that he would be with her this night.
“Aye, I am ready,” Eleanor said with more conviction than she felt.
Crossing the room, she blew out the flame on the single tallow candle on the bedside table. She then followed Dougall down the stairs and out the door to where the single gelding waited, and allowed him to help her mount. She took comfort from the grip of his hand. He was so strong, so sure. When he mounted behind her, she wanted nothing more than to sink back into him, for his arms to wrap around her, and to feel his breath upon her hair.
Dougall nickered to his gelding. With a gentle snort from the animal, they were off through the dirt laneways of Stirling.
The way was solid; there was no mud, for it had not rained for any significant measure of time in a few days. Not only would that make the journey easier, but it also meant they would not have to sit on wet logs and wet earth when they got to Cnò-Daraich.
Small blessings.
As had been arranged, they met Will on the outskirts of the city, where the eyes of its citizens and, more importantly, the king’s soldiers, would not see them. Gabhan and Thomas arrived together, and Manus came alone soon after that. The last man they were waiting for was Angus Beag, and he arrived with another of the Douglas rebels. Eleanor had seen the man before, but did not recall having spoken to him.
“Ye all right, Nolie?” Thomas murmured. “Ye look a bit peaky.”
“I am.”
“What? All right, or peaky?”
She smiled, grateful for the jest. “I’m all right, thanks.”
Thomas nodded. Then he looked to Dougall. “Good evening, Dougall.”
“Thomas,” Dougall acknowledged.
A notable thread of tension wound its way through the group. Perhaps she was not the only one who had a bad feeling about this meeting.
They set off into the darkness, the beating of the horses’ hooves against the road the only sound to accompany them. Somewhere in the distance, a raven’s squaw pierced the sky. Eleanor shuddered—the sound resembled an unholy scream.
They cantered for about a mile before leaving the road and heading into the trees. Angus Beag led the way. For his part, Dougall seemed…if not happy, then at least resigned to follow at the rear. At first, he held the reins at Eleanor’s side, his own hands resting on his thighs. But ever so slowly, as the terrain shifted and he felt it necessary to steady her, his arms worked their way around her waist so that eventually they were encircling her.
She was aware it was happening. At first she kept her hands on the saddle between her thighs. But as she grew more comfortable with his unintentional embrace, she allowed her hands to rest on his forearms, and was reassured by the solid warmth of his body pressing into her back. She was too nervous, too strained, to worry about what he might think of her touch, of her leaning into him the way she was. She was simply glad for his nearness.
“Is it much farther?” was the only thing he said to her on the journey.
“No’ much,” was all she said to him.
Cnò-Daraich was a small vale deep into the countryside, so called because of its perfectly round, acorn-like shape, and because a crop of oak trees alone that filled the bowl in the terrain, despite there being a blend of ash, beech, and oak in the surrounding woods. Not a particularly imaginative name, Cnò-Daraich—acorn, or oak-nut, literally—but fitting.
A lit campfire was visible through the trees, and the fresh, hearty scent of wood smoke filled the crisp night air. It was a welcome change to the peat smoke that saturated the city. As they drew closer, Eleanor could hear voices hushed in conversation.
Like the last time she’d come, a sentinel was posted at the top of the vale. Recognizing the members of their party, the sentinel raised his claymore in greeting.
“Pad, good to see ye,” Angus Beag said, dismounting.
“And ye,” the man called Pad returned. “My Lady,” he added, bowing to Eleanor, who also dismounted.
“Pad,” she echoed.
Dougall gave her a disappointed look as he tied his horse with the others.
“What?”
“Why d’ye no’ give him grief for calling ye ‘My Lady’?”
“Because ’tis far more fun to be goading ye, Sir Dougall.”
He rewarded her with one of his crooked smiles that made her heart catch, then offered her his arm. She took it, allowing him to help her down into the vale, though she could have made it well enough on her own.
“Oh my,” Dougall gasped when he saw the others waiting for the meeting to begin.
“What is it?”
“I didna think there were so many.”
A mass of thirty men, easily, were gathered there, and Eleanor knew there were a handful more who could not be there. She was not the only woman, either, for there were five of them in total. The fact that so many were willing to risk their lives for her father and for the other imprisoned Douglases brought a sting of tears to her eyes.
Several of the men greeted her in the same manner as the sentinel, as she picked her way through forest debris to the fire where a log seat had been saved for her. Dougall followed behind, his hand hovering at her waist lest she take a tumble. When she sat, he remained standing behind her. It occurred to her that she should tell him he needn’t be so protective of her in front of these men, but decided against it. She liked that he was. It warmed her insides. And on this night, she needed all the warmth she could get.
Which is why she took a good, long swallow of whiskey when a flask was offered to her.
After a handful more men dribbled into the vale, the meeting began.
A man named MacRae stood up. He was tall, with a full head of gray hair, a stoic face, and an air of authority. Eleanor had met him at the first meeting, where she’d learned that he had been a long-serving advisor to Lord Ormonde. He’d also been one of the first Douglas rebels to arrive in Stirling. His primary mission had, of course, been to free Lord Ormonde, but the Douglas earl had been quickly executed by the king. MacRae stayed and continued the campaign, but the burden of failure rested heavily on his shoulders.
“We’ve had news,” he began in a husky, somewhat high-pitched timbre that reminded Eleanor of one having to clear one’s throat.
“Is it the Red Douglas? Has he relented to the king’s demands?” demanded a man near the front. A general murmur followed from the crowd.
“Nay. On that front we’ve had nothing more than we already ken. Fiery Face has taken to threatening the Red Douglas—”
“I have something to say about that,” interjected one of the women present. She was small, delicate, and pretty. And though she was dressed in simple traveling apparel, her clothing was far finer than anyone else’s.
“Who is that?” Dougall bent on his haunches and whispered into Eleanor’s ear.
“Anne Fitzgibbons. Lady-in-waiting to Queen Mary. Her grandmother’s people were Douglases.”
“One of yer additions to the Douglas network of spies and informants?”
She cocked an eyebrow. “And how did ye ken that?”
“Roisin.”
Eleanor shook her head. “Bloody Roisin,” she whispered affectionately.
Dougall remained squatting behind her. He was clearly surprised to see how deep into Stirling the Douglas tendrils went. Eleanor was proud of that, proud of her kinsmen and her clan. She would have smiled if she weren’t so on edge.
“It appears the king has recanted his threats,” Anne Fitzgibbons told them. “When his royal advisors discovered he had sent such a message to the Red Douglas without their counsel, they rushed to persuade the king to apologize, which he has reluctantly done.”
Murmurs of “Serves the bugger right” and “Such a spoiled wee bairn” and the like mingled together, and nods of approval were directed at the lovely Anne Fitzgibbons.
“That is excellent, Anne. Just excellent,” MacRae declared. “But we canna depend upon the Red Douglas to stall forever. Eventually, he will either decide that Lord Albermarle isna worth the bother, or the king will decide that the Red Douglas’s support isna worth the bother.”
Panic rose in Eleanor’s breast, for MacRae spoke true. Father’s execution—they were running out of time.
“We also ken now that two more of our Douglas kinsmen have died,” he continued. “Only seven are left. And,” he paused for effect, “for all our worry about the Red Douglas and the king, we’ve a more pressing danger that might put an end to our campaign. MacLellan?”
A nervous tittering was sent up in the vale as MacLellan, a strong man, young, with sandy hair, stood up from somewhere near the back. All eyes turned to him expectantly.
Eleanor’s hands began to tremble. This must be bad.
“And who is this?” Dougall whispered.
“Father’s gaoler in the towerhouse, and one of ours. They got him into the castle early on. He’s been watching over Father, and keeping him as safe as he can.”
“How did they manage that?”
She shot him a glance that said he’d be better off not knowing the answer.
MacLellan looked gravely at his clansmen, who were waiting eagerly for him to tell what he knew. “Lord Albermarle isna doing well,” he confirmed. “He’s stopped eating, he willna drink. He’s given up wanting to live. I dinna ken what to do. If I tell him who I truly am before we’re ready, I fear eyes and ears in the tower will see and hear, and we’ll all be found out. But if we dinna do something to lift his spirits and give him hope, I fear there will be nothing left of him to save.”
Eleanor felt like invisible hands were tightening around her throat. No, no! It couldn’t be. After everything done, everything accomplished and set in place to free him, her father could not go this way.
“Is it yer skin ye’re worried about, MacLellan?” said someone scornfully. “Is that why ye dinna want to reveal yerself to His Lordship?”
“’Tis part of the reason, aye,” MacLellan shot back defiantly. “I have pledged to give my life if it means saving Lord Albermarle from the axe. But I’ll no’ be making a foolhardy sprint to such an end if it can be avoided. Besides, I doubt he’ll believe me if I were to tell him. Would ye believe that so many of yer clansmen have gathered in Stirling to free ye? That they’ve infiltrated His Majesty’s castle and set themselves up around the city to unleash a grand plot? I wouldna believe it were I in his position.”
“So we need some way to convince him to hang on a little longer,” concluded MacRae.
“What if we can somehow get him a message, let him ken we’re all here?” came a suggestion from someone.
“Nay, he canna read at this point,” MacLellan said. “He can barely lift his head, and ’tis too dark in the tower.”
“What if it were from Nolie? Would that help?”
“If he could read, it might, but he canna.”
While the men debated what could be done, MacRae had begun to look pensively at Eleanor. His lips pursed, and his brow furrowed.
“What if we could get Nolie in to actually see him?” he mused when the debate fizzled out. “He’d believe then, I think.”
“Absolutely no’,” both Dougall and Will blurted out in unison.
“Could we get her in?” MacRae questioned MacLellan as if neither dissenter had spoken.
“Are ye daft, man? I said she’ll be doing no such thing,” Will repeated. He pushed to the front of the group from where he’d been standing at the back.
“Aye, ’tis far too dangerous,” Dougall agreed, standing. “We canna be putting Lady Eleanor in danger like that.”
“She put herself in danger by coming here,” argued one of the men near the front. “And she’s no’ a lady anymore, in case ye had forgotten.”
“Ye wouldna ken a lady if ye tripped over one, Ferguson,” Will spat.
“I came here to protect this woman, and return her safe to the arms of her mother,” Dougall insisted. “I was persuaded to let her stay until the end against my better judgment, but only because I thought the most she’d be doing is help plan, or perhaps run missives—”
“She would be running a missive,” the man named Ferguson pointed out.
A round of voices rose up around that statement, some in agreement, some not.
“Dinna be daft, man. She’d be breaking into the tower of Stirling Castle,” Dougall challenged over the din.
“Well no, she’d no’ be ‘breaking in,’ we’d slip her in wi’ help,” offered MacLellan.
“Nolie? What say ye?” MacRae asked.
Until now, Eleanor had remained silent. She had let them argue around her, and had not heard one word that was spoken. Her mind had taken on a sudden clarity. She knew in that moment what her purpose here was meant to be.
The gathering fell to a hush as she stood. Her eyes swept over the men, who stared back at her with reverence.
“Will,” she said to her Kinross clansman, “I’ve kent ye most of my life, and ye’ve become a dear friend to me since ye saved me from Agnew’s men. I could imagine no truer friend than ye. And Dougall,” she turned to him, “ye’ve come all this way just to find me and keep me safe. Yer loyalty and sense of honor is no’ only admirable, but inspiring. I’ll treasure that for as long as I live—however long that may be. And I ken I made ye a promise no’ to involve myself in this.
“But I must break that promise” she continued with conviction. “I came to Stirling to do whatever I could to help my father. And short of ye all storming the castle and breaking him out this very night, I am the only one who can help him. I’ve resolved for quite some time now that I may lose my life in all this. Well, if that should come to pass, then it shall be in this way. I will do this, and no man will be stopping me.”
***
Early the next morning, Eleanor sat on top of a trestle table at the Thistle and Thorn. Her Douglas clansmen—Dougall, Will, Thomas, Gabhan, Manus, Angus Beag, and MacLellan—surrounded her. There was a tense, subdued air amongst the group, much like on the eve of a great battle. Around them, the tavern was quiet. Only a handful of patrons peppered the place, and Muirne was upstairs with her last customer of the evening.
“’Tis the only way,” MacLellan insisted. “’Tis the only logical reason for a woman to be brought into the tower.”
“I canna believe it,” Dougall declared. “There must be some other way, surely.”
“None that I can think of.”
“But to bring her in as a whore? To have the lass pretend she’s there to…to…”
“I can do it,” Eleanor insisted. “I’ve convinced everyone I’m a tavern wench all this time.”
“A tavern wench isna a whore.”
“She wouldna be a whore,” Thomas pointed out. “No’ really.”
Dougall grunted, frustrated by the lack of support from the others, and dropped his forehead into his hands.
As they sat around, thinking on the matter, the door opened and in walked Roisin. Her wild, thin curls were in even greater disarray than usual, and the bottom of her shawl fluttered around her waist in the blustery air.
“Another ungodly wind,” she breathed, closing the door behind her. “Never been so glad to see the inside of this place in my life. Oh, good morning, sir,” she called to the man who was coming down the stairs at that moment. He glanced in her direction, adjusting himself beneath his kilt. Muirne followed, slinking like the seasoned veteran she was.
“I thought ye’d be long gone by now, Muirne,” she teased when the man was gone.
Muirne shrugged, swiping at a stray lock of fire-red hair. “It wouldna do to be turning down paying customers. Ale, Angus.”
Angus Beag went to the bar without question, and poured her a drink. Muirne accepted it, took a casual swig, then sauntered off to a table in the corner to enjoy the first quiet minute she’d had all night.
“So, what’s the matter?” Roisin asked cheerfully, approaching the group of sullen Douglases. “Or is this one of the things I shouldna ask about, no’ being one of ye and all?”
The men glanced to one another.
“My father’s will to live is failing him,” Eleanor told her. “We’ve no’ yet been able to outline the second half of our plan. And we need to do something to give him hope, to get him to hold on just a wee bit longer.”
“Well what’s holding it all up? Surely ye’ve…er, replaced…everyone ye need to. Ye must have all yer wee creatures installed by now.”
“That guardsman on the front gate is giving us more trouble than we thought he would,” Thomas told her. “We canna sully his reputation and have him dismissed, nor can we turn him to our side—he’s too honorable a man. And we’ve no’ yet found the opportunity to dispose of him the way we have some of the others.” He made a dragging motion over his neck with a forefinger to illustrate his meaning.
“Ye’re a fool, lad,” MacLellan hissed. “How could ye tell her what’s going on? How can ye be sure ye can trust her?”
“Roisin would never betray us,” insisted Angus Beag, returning to the table. “No’ even under pain of torture.”
“Oh, Angus. I’ve never heard ye say such kind things about me. I’m touched.”
Roisin hopped onto the table, her bum perched on the board beside Will’s cup of ale. Will tensed, and his cheeks went pink as her thigh grazed his hand accidentally.
“Assuming Nolie will be coming into the gaol, there is still the matter of Frazer,” MacLellan pointed out.
“Frazer?” Manus inquired.
MacLellan levelled him with an ominous stare. “A brute. He guards the towerhouse wi’ me at night. ’Twill be easy enough to slip Nolie in through the gates as a whore. But once she gets to the top, Frazer will need to be distracted, and he willna take kindly to a fresh-faced woman paraded around in front of his nose. We’ll need an actual whore.”
“Ye’ve certainly come to the right place,” Gabhan guffawed. The others glowered at him for his ill-timed jest.
Angus Beag raised a brow at MacLellan, then inclined his head toward Muirne, who was slumped against the wall. MacLellan nodded.
“Muirne,” Angus Beag called, and waved her over.
Warily, she approached the table and set her hands on her hips. “Why do I have the feeling I’ll no’ like what I’m about to hear?”
“We have work for ye,” MacLellan told her. “At the castle.”
“I’m sure the king has a harem of whores that are better and fresher than me to choose from.”
MacLellan hesitated. “’Tis in the towerhouse.”
Understanding spread across her face. “I see. Well, I thank ye for yer consideration. But as I told Angus, I have no knowledge of this business of yers, and I’d like to keep it that way. I’ll no’ be drawn into this matter, whatever it is.”
She sauntered back to her ale. The group fell silent again.
After a moment, Roisin sighed heavily. “Oh, may the lord preserve my soul. I’ll do it.”
“Roisin, no,” Eleanor gasped. “Ye’re no’ in that line anymore, ye said so yerself.”
“I did. But this is different. Ye need someone convincing, and Muirne’s no’ exactly the most accommodating of ladies, now is she? One wrong move and she’ll slice off the ballocks of this Frazer. Now, I dinna ken, but something tells me that isna the kind of distraction ye want.”
“I canna let ye do this,” Eleanor insisted. “It could mean yer death. This is dangerous, it is. ’Tis treason. ’Tis—”
“Nolie, Nolie, shush, love.” Roisin took Eleanor’s hands into her own. “Have ye no’ learned one thing about me? I’ve gotten myself out of worse scrapes than this. I always do. ’Tis yer neck I’m worried about. For this plot of yers to work, ye need me. I am the only one that can do the deed proper.”
Eleanor searched her friend’s dark eyes. They were steady and confident. How did she manage to be so strong? Not a trace of fear was in her gaze. Eleanor, on the other hand, was trembling inside, and she was sure everyone in the tavern could see it.
Roisin certainly did. When Eleanor managed a weak smile, Roisin smiled knowingly back, and gave her hands a gentle squeeze.
“’Tis a noble thing to do, Roisin,” Angus Beag put in. “I feel better about the whole thing now that ye’ll be around to look over our Nolie.”
“I still dinna like it that two women are going alone into the castle,” Gabhan said, scratching the fortnight’s growth of hair on his chin.
“They willna be going alone,” Dougall stated. “I’ll be going wi’ them.”
Eleanor snapped her head to him. “Ye’ll do no such thing.”
“Then ye’ll no’ be going, either.”
“What do ye think ye’re going to do? Stand behind us wi’ yer hands on yer sword? ’Twould be a sure way to rouse the guards’ suspicions.”
“Wait a minute, Nolie, this could work.” MacLellan crossed his arms as he looked Dougall up and down. “I’d feel better about it myself if I had a second pair of hands against Frazer, should anything go wrong.”
“What are ye thinking, MacLellan?” Manus inquired, bracing his heavy frame with his hands atop the trestle board. “How can we get him in?”
“What if we dress the lasses up like high-class whores? We’ll find some fancy gowns, some rouge, do their hair up like concubines.”
“And?” Manus prompted. “How does that help Dougall get in? Ye planning on dressing him up and doing his hair like a concubine, too? No matter how hard ye try, he’d still make one ugly lass.”
“Dinna be daft. Nay, I’m thinking that high-class whores, well, they travel around wi’ manservants, do they no’? They have a man for protection, someone to negotiate the price of their services and manage their coin and buy their dresses and pay their rent. What if we make Dougall that man?”
“Aye, that could work,” Dougall admitted. “There wouldna be a question of why I’m there, then. Nolie, what say ye?”
What say she? She didn’t like the idea, that’s what. With Dougall spending more and more time here, she was dragging him farther and farther into her treason. She’d already resigned herself to a fate of an early death, but she didn’t like that Dougall’s life might now be in danger, too.
Still, she nodded. “All right.”
God forgive her sins, for without His forgiveness she was definitely bound for hell.
With the plan of action set, and everyone conversing in more spirited tones, no one noticed that Will did not join in. Nor did they notice that ever since Roisin had confirmed her part in this plot, his fingers had taken a death grip on his cup, or that his jaw was clenched so tight that his teeth were in danger of snapping.