The light outside the window was growing dim. Eleanor visually traced the outline of the clouds against the indigo sky as they faded into obscurity. Around her, the city continued on as it always did, its citizens blissfully unaware of the utter torture she was enduring at this very moment.
How were the others handling it, she wondered? She felt as though her bones could jump right out of her skin. Her stomach heaved with nerves; if she’d had anything to eat today, it would have come up straightaway.
Her meager belongings were packed, those that she had procured or purchased since arriving in Stirling. She’d packed them with special care, for they were hers. She’d earned them through good, hard work, and she’d be damned if she’d leave them behind or let anything happen to them. Dougall had taken them to secure on the back of the horses they would ride. Elsewhere, more horses were being brought to a spot not far from where, God willing, the prisoners and their rescuers would land on the bank of the motte.
When MacLellan first mentioned what the plan was at Callanach’s barn, Eleanor had been relieved that only a handful of the men would be needed. Or so it had seemed when he explained it. As the details of the plot emerged, however, that turned out not to be the case. In addition to the ten who would go into the castle, and the five who were already there as guards, six more would be waiting on the bank, Will and Angus Beag included. They would ride to Dunmore as escorts, where Thomas would be waiting for them.
The rest would be split into two groups. The first would be waiting on the eastern roads out of the city to cut off any party that might follow them straight from the window and over the motte. The other half was strategically placed within the city, to stop any party that might come out through the main gate and go after them by way of the city streets. Gabhan would be in the first group, and Manus in the second. They would not be joining their Glen Craggan clansmen and lord on the boat to England, but would make their way there shortly after.
In the end, every last man was needed. Every last man would have the honor of playing a part in the escape attempt that they’d all come to Stirling to achieve.
If the alarm was raised, there would be bloodshed.
Eleanor had already said her good-byes to Roisin. Her friend had been visibly upset. Of course, she tried to hide it, but she hugged Eleanor tight. Through a stream of tears—which she insisted were just from the wind—she’d wished her safe travels, and a long life of health, happiness, and love.
Her traveling cloak was clasped tightly around her neck. Eleanor clutched at the thick wool, desperate to hang on to something solid, something that was connected with this world, for she did not feel like anything was real. Was she really breathing air? Was that really the cold upon her nose? She could no longer tell. Everything felt so odd, so new.
Perhaps this was what a condemned man felt as he stood on the gallows with the rope about his neck.
Heavy, booted footsteps sounded on the stairs, interrupting her thoughts. Eleanor turned as Dougall entered the chamber. He was dressed in breeks and a linen shirt with a wool surcoat buttoned over it. As much as his Highland sensibilities would surely be protesting such a departure from tradition, his plaid was most unsuitable; it would have gotten in the way when coming down the rope. In addition to this, his hands were wrapped in rags to protect them from the bite of the rope’s coarse coir fibers.
He stopped just inside the door, and for one intense, frightened moment, they simply looked at each other. There was so much she wanted to say, so much she wanted to tell him. She wanted to thank him for his unwavering dedication to protecting her. To wish him the best of luck in escaping the tower unharmed. To demand that he return safely to her, and beg him to kiss her one more time. To tell him that she owed him more than she could ever repay for what he was doing for her and her father.
None of it would come out.
“It’s time,” Dougall told her quietly.
His voice was strained. The way he hesitated made her think that he, too, wanted to say something more—or maybe it was only the strain.
Eleanor took a deep breath, placing her hand to her belly to stop the trembling.
“Ye dinna have to do this, ye ken,” she said. “This isna yer fight. No’ truly. Ye could turn around right now, make yer way back to Moray, and no one would ever ken ye were involved.”
The look he gave her was so tender, so sad, that she nearly choked on the emotion that bubbled up inside her.
“Nay, lass. I canna do that. I am an honorable man, and I believe I fight for the honor of those who canna fight for themselves. There is no honor in what the king is doing—to Lord Albermarle or any of the Douglas prisoners, just as there was no honor in what he did to Lord William Douglas those three years ago in that very castle.”
“But—but ye might be killed.”
She heard the fear in her own voice, and loathed herself for it. Why could she not be brave like he was? She loathed herself even more when her lower lip began to quiver, for he saw it. He strode to her, took both of her hands in his, and looked deep into her eyes.
“D’ye remember when we talked of Edward, and ye told me he kent he were going to die and he went to war anyway?”
Yes, she remembered. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“I said to ye that perhaps it were the best choice any warrior could hope to make. To ken what his fate is and to choose to meet it head-on. Well, this is my fate. This is my choice.”
He was right. Blast him, of course he was right, no matter how much her heart despised his logic. Overcome, Eleanor nearly flung herself into his arms. But more footsteps on the stairs kept her in check.
“It is time,” Angus Beag said, poking his head in the room.
Dougall glanced over his shoulder, letting go of Eleanor’s hands. With a final, aching look into her eyes, he left the room. Eleanor took a moment, memorizing for the last time the place that had been her home for nearly two months. Then she followed Dougall out, with not a backward glance.
Angus Beag, Gabhan, and Manus were waiting outside. In addition to their own mounts, they held the reins to the gelding that Dougall had brought with him from Moray, and a new chestnut one which Eleanor would ride to the castle. Dougall helped her up into the saddle. His hand lingered on hers, and he said nothing—what was there left to say?
They set off through the streets, which, worryingly, were still busy. Hopefully things would quiet down by the time they were to make an actual move against the tower. Not long after, they made it to the eastern bank of the motte and tethered the horses. The six escorts were there with their own horses, plus more that would take the escaped prisoners.
“Ye ready, Nolie?” Will asked, stepping up to her when she dismounted.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she answered, her voice cracking.
They still had to wait for word to come that the guard had been changed. Eleanor squatted on her haunches and snuggled down in her cloak. Will did the same beside her, sharing a silent camaraderie for all they had faced together since that fateful day at Glen Craggan. Will, too, was a man to whom she would never be able to express the full extent of her gratitude.
“Have ye said yer farewells to the lovely Roisin?” she teased.
Will gave her a startled look. “How did ye ken about that?”
“She’s my friend. D’ye no’ think I ken everything about her?”
He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Well…I hope she gave ye a flattering account, then. She certainly sounded pleased.”
Eleanor started, and snapped her eyes to him. “Wait—what are ye talking about?”
“What are ye talking about?”
“I only meant that I ken ye’re sweet on her.”
A grin pulled at the corner of his mouth, and he looked away. “I meant the same.”
He was lying. A wide smile spread across her face as she took in his meaning.
“D’ye mean to tell me—”
Before she could finish her sentence, two Douglases approached to announce that the guard had changed.
Eleanor and Will stood up. She took a last, lingering look at the men as they made their preparations before going to their posts.
“Well then, if I dinna see ye again, ye take care, lass,” Manus said to her. He wrapped her in a big hug that took her off her feet. “Give my love to yer wee siblings when ye make it to England.”
“We shall see each other again, Manus,” she insisted, burying her face into his beefy shoulder. “Ye’ll make it out of Stirling and catch up wi’ us in England as we planned.”
“Cheer up, lass,” Gabhan said when Manus let her go. He chucked her under the chin. “Ye ken how we hate to see ye upset.”
“I ken, Gabhan,” she returned, embracing him, too.
“I never thought I’d say this when we were all back at Glen Craggan, but I’m so proud of ye. If only Sir Edward could see his wee sister now. If I dinna make it to England, then I shall miss ye in heaven.”
A sob escaped her lips, and she clutched at Gabhan’s tunic. “I owe ye both so much. I owe ye my life, and I shall never forget that.”
After saying good-bye to some of the other men she’d come to know in her time in Stirling, there was no one to say farewell to except Dougall. It was nearly impossible to say farewell to him.
“Dougall, ye must make it out of the tower. Ye must. Please… I…I canna—”
Darting a glance at the others, he took her hands and pulled her a distance away, out of earshot.
“Nolie, love. I want to say something to ye.” He paused, searching her eyes. “I need ye to ken that I regret not loving ye when I had the chance. I regret terribly that I was so daft that I turned down the gift of yer body, yer trust, and yer love—”
She started to shake her head, to assure him that it did not matter, but he pressed on.
“Nay, lass, let me finish. I need ye to ken that holding ye, kissing ye, and having ye hold and kiss me, was the greatest moment I’ve ever had. I love ye, Nolie. I love ye more than I’ve loved anything or anyone in all my life. If that one night is all the joy I’m granted, then I will treasure it forever…wherever I end up.”
She felt like she was falling, spinning into space. Oh God. He loved her. He loved her! She couldn’t let him go, not when she might never see him again. But even as her brain was screaming at her to do or say something, he was tipping her chin and placing a warm, tender kiss upon her lips.
Then he was gone, striding away before she could tell him that…she loved him too.
You fool, her brain roared. Tell him. Tell him before it’s too late!
But he was out of sight by the time her mouth opened to call him back.
***
“So are ye going to slit his throat, or am I?” enquired MacRae casually as they walked to the castle.
Dougall tried not to glare at the man for the callous way he spoke of the guard’s death. “I’ll do it,” he said.
The first stage of the plan called for Dougall and MacRae to approach the main gate. Their man was on shift and would be expecting them. The plan counted on the second guardsman to be put at ease upon seeing Dougall’s face again, even if he was with another man he did not recognize. If all went well, the unsuspecting guard would not make a sound before he died—and with a well-placed cut, he would not make a sound as he died, either.
Dougall removed his sgian dubh and concealed it in the sleeve of his surcoat. Ahead of them, the road to the gatehouse loomed, the castle above it appearing to float against the backdrop of a moonless night.
“Ye ready, then?” he murmured to MacRae
“As ready as ye are,” MacRae answered.
“Ye’ve spoken to MacLellan? The rope is hidden in the tower?”
“He said it was. If it isna, I’ll have his hide before I’m hanged for treason.”
Around the castle, they were surrounded by Douglases, all in their places and concealed at various locations. Once the deed was done, they would scurry in quietly behind them, like rats scurrying into a warm barn on a cold night.
“Right,” he said, more for his own benefit than MacRae’s. Steeling himself, Dougall stepped onto the main road and approached as if there should be no reason why he would not.
The Douglas guardsman on the gate was the first to come forward.
“Ah, ’tis ye then,” he said happily. “Good to see ye again.”
Dougall smiled and thumped the man on the back for effect. “Canna say the same about yer ugly mug,” he jested, prompting a laugh from the others.
Put at ease by the show of camaraderie, the castle guard joined in. “Where are yer sweet lassies this night? I wouldna have minded seeing their pretty faces again.”
Dougall’s mind raced. He was a head taller than the man, which meant the guard had to look up to meet Dougall’s eyes. It was too perfect. The tender skin of his throat was exposed just enough that Dougall could drag the blade of his sgian dubh from ear to ear with ease.
His fingers burned; his heart thumped heavily in his chest. The man’s smiling face highlighted his innocence and wreaked havoc on Dougall’s conscience.
Heaven forgive me, he prayed, and with blinding speed, he brought his arm out and sliced.
Only…he couldn’t do it. At the last minute, the blade flipped in his hand so the sharp edge faced inward, and he brought the blunt end of the handle crashing into the man’s left temple. The man gave a muffled grunt, before he toppled over into a crumpled heap on the flagstones.
Both Douglas men leapt forward, staring down at the unconscious man in shock.
“I think that were probably the most foolish thing I’ve seen anyone do. But ye’re a far better man than I, Dougall MacFadyen,” said MacRae reverently.
“Tie him up and gag him,” Dougall ordered. Then he made a clicking noise with the side of his tongue. Like shadows, the eight other Douglases slipped from their hiding places and darted into the tower, as silent as the grave.
“Good luck to ye, lads. God be wi’ ye,” said the Douglas guardsman. He shook each man’s hand as they stepped over the unconscious—but alive—body of the guard. Then he went about his duty of tying, gagging, and stowing him.
Once inside, most of the men went down to the dungeons, where the unimportant prisoners were kept. Dougall went up to the tower with MacRae. Their Douglas imposters must be doing their job—not a castle guard was in sight.
Reaching the top step, he clucked with the side of his tongue again.
“Come in—he’s dead,” answered MacLellan.
Dougall and MacRae stepped into the main circle of the towerhouse to find Frazer on his back. His vacant, lifeless eyes stared upward, and a wide, bloody gap smiled from his throat.
“Ye’re early,” said MacRae disapprovingly.
MacLellan tossed a hand flippantly. “I had the opportunity. He wasna expecting it. Went wi’out a whisper.”
Dougall stared down at the lifeless body, the bulging eyes and malformed jaw. “Good riddance,” he muttered.
“We’d best get our escape in place now, while we have the time, and get His Lordship down,” MacLellan stated. “Who kens how long it will take for the others to come up, God willing?”
“Aye,” MacRae agreed. “Ye’ve the rope?”
“Here,” MacLellan answered. He disappeared down the same short flight of stairs to which Frazer had hauled Roisin the last time they were here, and returned swiftly with a large, heavy rope coiled over the crook of his arm.
Not wasting another minute, he led the men into Lord Albermarle’s cell, turning the key abruptly with no attention paid to what noise he might be making. When the door opened, MacRae stepped back in horror. He had not seen the earl in this state. Quickly, he crossed himself.
“Yer Lordship,” Dougall said. “It is I, Dougall MacFadyen. D’ye remember me, My Lord?” When Lord Albermarle nodded weakly, he said, “Tonight’s the night. We’re getting ye and the others out of this place, or we’ll die trying.”
Entering the chamber, MacLellan unfettered the earl’s good leg, and he and Dougall stooped to help him up. He was so light that Dougall was afraid they would snap him in two just from lifting him.
“Eleanor,” the earl mumbled. “Is she here? Is she in danger?”
“She is safe,” Dougall promised. “She waits for ye, well-hidden and ready to depart. Even now, a boat awaits ye that will take ye to England.”
“We havena the time for this,” MacLellan snapped. “No offense, Yer Lordship. Come, the exit is this way.”
He inclined his head, and the four of them made their way back down the small corridor, to the other side of the tower and down the short flight of stairs. Dougall saw for himself the watch post, which overlooked the upper wall walk and a steep drop to the motte at the bottom. It was just as Roisin had described when she talked about her brush with death at the hands of Frazer.
“Do we need to worry about the guard on the walk?” he inquired.
“No’ anymore,” was MacLellan’s answer. When Dougall gave him a questioning glance, he said, “Dinna ask.”
As planned, MacRae anchored the rope around the stone windowsill. In his planning beforehand, MacLellan had identified that the rough edges of the sill would provide enough friction to keep the rope from slipping. Dougall held his breath as MacRae gave the rope a tug—it held.
“Told ye,” MacLellan crowed. “Pay up.”
“I’ll pay ye if we make it out alive, ye bloody amadan,” MacRae grunted as he struggled to lower the heavy rope out the window.
Down into the dark night it snaked, until it was completely uncoiled at the bottom, and the end dipped into the water. Dougall could not see much, but because he knew what to look for, he saw the dark shadow of Angus Beag slip into the waters of the motte and swim silently to the rope’s end.
Slowly, the rope began to take up slack as Angus Beag brought it back to the bank. A clicking sound from below indicated that the rope had been tied off.
It was then that the first of the prisoners from the dungeons arrived. The man was weak and dirty, and he had to be supported by his Douglas rescuer, dressed in breeks and a fitted tunic. Dougall helped MacLellan by supporting Lord Albermarle, who was beginning to falter under the strain of having to stand. His leg hung horribly, and he was visibly sweating from the pain. But when he tried to bring the earl to the window, the earl refused.
“This man goes first,” Lord Albermarle insisted through gritted teeth.
Dougall looked to MacLellan, who shrugged reluctantly.
The prisoner was led to the window and helped up onto the sill by his man. Testing the tension of the rope and finding it sound, the Douglas man gripped the rope with his rag-bound hands. The prisoner held onto his middle, and together they went down. Dougall watched with excruciating anxiety. He’d had his doubts that this would work. It was up to the prisoners to hold on, for their rescuers would have to use both hands to descend. This prisoner seemed strong enough to hold on, and appeared to be just as weak as Lord Albermarle. It gave Dougall hope…though the earl’s leg would be more of a challenge.
One by one, the other Douglas prisoners began to filter up to the watchtower. Like before, Lord Albermarle insisted that each man go before him. Dougall bit his tongue and suffered the earl’s sacrifice. He understood why, but God’s bones if it didn’t frustrate him to be kept in such a state of tension.
Six of the seven prisoners had made it to the bottom. Some held on to the rope under their own power, some had to be assisted down as the first man had. But they all made it to the bottom safely. Dougall was beginning to believe that they had a chance of pulling this escape off, when of a sudden…their luck changed. A shout from below pierced the still air, followed by the clang of an alarm bell from somewhere within the gaol.
They’d been discovered!
The last prisoner came hobbling up the stairs on the arm of his man. A castle guard was hot on their tail.
“Take him,” the Douglas man cried, flinging his prisoner at MacLellan before drawing his sword to engage the guard. A crash of metal upon metal tore into Dougall’s heart, and his warrior’s nerve seared to life.
“Ye bring him down,” he commanded MacRae, who nodded, yanked the man to the windowsill, and disappeared out into the night.
With Lord Albermarle hanging on to him, MacLellan could do nothing more than watch, his broadsword held at the ready should an enemy guard come too close.
Dougall pulled his own broadsword from its sheath and launched himself at the guard. But he’d only made one swipe when another came barreling up the stairs.
Oh, bloody hell, they were done for.
Mercifully, the stairway was narrow, and the two guards could not get up to the landing with Dougall and the Douglas man in the way. They held their ground, preventing the guards from advancing. But just when it looked like they were about to win, running steps thundered from the stairwell above them—more guards were coming up and over from the other side.
Momentarily distracted by this poor turn of fortune, Dougall was caught in the shoulder by one of his opponent’s blades, which sliced clean through to the bone. But so charged with adrenaline was he that he barely felt the blow. Releasing a savage roar, Dougall brought his sword crashing down on the guard, catching the breastplate. He’d missed flesh, but the impact threw the man off his balance. He toppled backward down the stairs, dragging the other guard with him.
Both Dougall and the Douglas man glanced up to the stairs where, any minute, the guards would appear from the other side.
“If ye want to be the one to take His Lordship, ye must take him now,” MacLellan shouted.
“I canna leave, no’ now,” Dougall insisted.
“Ye must,” the Douglas man put in. “We’ll cover here. Godspeed, Dougall MacFadyen.”
Torn between his duty to these men, and his duty to Lord Albermarle, Dougall glanced from the earl to MacLellan. An image of Eleanor surfaced in his mind. Her anguished face was the reminder he needed of what he was here to do.
“Godspeed to ye both,” he returned, resigned.
Taking MacLellan’s place at Lord Albermarle’s side, Dougall hauled him to the sill like he’d seen the others do. Lord Albermarle struggled to help, but he was little better than dead weight with his leg the way it was.
“That’s it, Yer Lordship,” he encouraged, trying to keep the panic from his voice. “Can ye take the rope for yerself?”
Lord Albermarle tried, but when his hands grabbed the rope, they immediately slipped off.
Dougall swore. “All right, then. Ye’ll have to hold on to me. That’s it, put yer arms around my middle. Ye ready? Here we go.”
No sooner had the earl wrapped his arms around Dougall’s middle, than more clashing of steel rang out behind him. The guards had made it to them from the upper stairwell.
There was no time to hesitate. Dougall uttered a silent prayer and stepped off the ledge.
They swung precariously that first drop. The rope dipped drastically, loosened by the men that had gone before them. Dougall was afraid that the earl would not be able to hold on by the way they were swaying. Adjusting his position, he gripped the rope with one hand and held on to the earl with the other. When Lord Albermarle was more stable, he returned his other hand to the rope and began to shimmy down.
They were halfway when Eleanor’s voice cried out to him.
“Dougall, archers!”
A fraction of a second later, an arrow whizzed by his head. This was followed by a sharp pain in his side. He’d been hit. He didn’t know if the arrow was still there, or if it was just a glancing blow. Either way, there was no opportunity to investigate, for the earl was slipping.
Dougall didn’t think. He didn’t analyze. He simply acted. He loosened his hold on the rope, enough that their weight sent them sliding down at a hair-raising speed. The rags wrapped around his hands stood no chance against the friction. They shredded beneath his palms. Without them, the rope cut deep into his flesh. Dougall cried out—but held on.
They crashed into the bracken and pines at the bottom. Lord Albermarle screamed as his shattered leg collided with a pine.
Eleanor was at their sides in a heartbeat. So were Will and Angus Beag. The other Douglases were mounted and ready to go.
“Get him up,” Dougall commanded.
Will picked Lord Albermarle up like a wee bairn and carried him to Eleanor’s chestnut horse. He placed the earl up into the saddle, then mounted behind him so he could hold on. Eleanor remained with Dougall, flinging her arms around him briefly, but tightly.
“Did they get me?” he said.
Her eyes darted to his side, feeling around for an arrowhead. “A glance, I think.”
It would have to suffice. Grabbing her hand, they took off to Dougall’s gelding, which was the last remaining horse. Once Eleanor was in the saddle, he hopped up behind her. Angus Beag was the only man not mounted. He would not be going with them.
“God be wi’ ye,” Dougall said to him.
“And to ye.”
Then they were off. It was not long before the sound of battle kicked off behind them, as the castle’s soldiers gave chase—and met with the Douglas forces that waited for them on the roads out of the city.