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Authors: Kaye Wilson Klem
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mother the night before, painstakingly sewing them into a pocket fashioned in the petticoat she still wore. She caught up her tartan and turned to say a final farewell to Morag.
"I'd thought to take you with me when I left with Cam," Brenna told her, her throat clogging.
"An old woman like me would only slow you," Morag said in a strained brittle voice. "And I've no liking for sitting on the back of a horse."
"You're not as old as that," Brenna told her with a watery smile. "I'll send for you as soon as Cam and I are home again."
She could risk no more delay. With another quick embrace, Brenna threw the tartan around her shoulders. The corridor outside her room was empty, and the music of pipes and fiddles from the gathering below muffled her footsteps as she sped down it.
The watchtower was the oldest part of the castle, the original stone keep. The portcullis opened into the guardroom below the tower's winding stair, the main gate approached by an ancient bridge too rusty to be drawn. Above the guardroom and the quarters of the captain of the guard, at the top of the tower, the armory faced the wide circular walk where sentries paced, commanding a view of the moors in three directions. Their post was abandoned and eerily quiet, the lookout Malcolm stationed there locked with the English dragoons in the cells under the kitchens.
In the early spring darkness beyond the parapet girding the tower, a chill thickening mist rose from the moat. Dug in the time of brutal siege, it was long outdated, but deep and fed by a small stream not even Brenna's father had troubled to divert. A dog barked somewhere in the village below the castle walls, and in the stillness Brenna heard the faraway trill of a nightingale in the wood beyond the moor. She gathered her plaid tighter around her,
Cam needed time to persuade the gathered chiefs of the clans. But if she was absent too long from the great hall, Malcolm would send a servant in search of her. And Malcolm's lackey would swiftly raise an alarm. Brenna cared less for the cause of the Prince than riding away at Cam's side. But Cam fought for Charles Stuart, and he risked his ancestral seat at Cairn Creath Castle and all he possessed. The Rebels had to win.
Iron clanged beneath her, and Brenna heard the crash of a door pushed wide on its hinges. Shouts and booted footsteps burst from the guardroom two floors below, and English voices echoed up the stone walls of the tower. The dragoons had broken free, to swarm up the stairs to the armory in search of weapons. She barely had time to dart across the walkway and shrink into the narrow niche in the wall where the sentries sheltered from the weather.
Panting from the climb, the first of the soldiers shoved at the thick oak door of the armory, cursing to find it locked.
Flattened in deep shadow in the cramped guardpost, Brenna was glad she had cast aside her ball dre ss and wide hoop skirts.
"God's teeth, my belly gripes," one of the soldiers groaned. "I'll skewer that kitchen slut."
"After we've done with those sneaking curs," a second man snarled. "Send down to the guardroom for the key."
More men surged up the stone steps.
"Break the door down." Brenna recognized the aristocratic accent of one of the nobles in Drake Seton's party.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, we've already put our shoulders to the door."
"Then try again," the Englishman ordered, his temper short. "If you hadn't fallen so far in your cups, you could have smashed out of those rotting cells yourselves."
"'T ’wasn't from d... drink, my lord," one of the men stuttered. "They p... poisoned us."
"Enough of excuses. If we had time to spare, I'd send the lot of you fishing for your muskets in the moat."
Boots rang toward the stair.
"Fancy the strain it was for his high and mighty lordship to find the keys." From the muttered remark, Brenna could guess the Earl's aide had turned on his heel and
"I'd thought to take you with me when I left with Cam," Brenna told her, her throat clogging.
"An old woman like me would only slow you," Morag said in a strained brittle voice. "And I've no liking for sitting on the back of a horse."
"You're not as old as that," Brenna told her with a watery smile. "I'll send for you as soon as Cam and I are home again."
She could risk no more delay. With another quick embrace, Brenna threw the tartan around her shoulders. The corridor outside her room was empty, and the music of pipes and fiddles from the gathering below muffled her footsteps as she sped down it.
The watchtower was the oldest part of the castle, the original stone keep. The portcullis opened into the guardroom below the tower's winding stair, the main gate approached by an ancient bridge too rusty to be drawn. Above the guardroom and the quarters of the captain of the guard, at the top of the tower, the armory faced the wide circular walk where sentries paced, commanding a view of the moors in three directions. Their post was abandoned and eerily quiet, the lookout Malcolm stationed there locked with the English dragoons in the cells under the kitchens.
In the early spring darkness beyond the parapet girding the tower, a chill thickening mist rose from the moat. Dug in the time of brutal siege, it was long outdated, but deep and fed by a small stream not even Brenna's father had troubled to divert. A dog barked somewhere in the village below the castle walls, and in the stillness Brenna heard the faraway trill of a nightingale in the wood beyond the moor. She gathered her plaid tighter around her,
Cam needed time to persuade the gathered chiefs of the clans. But if she was absent too long from the great hall, Malcolm would send a servant in search of her. And Malcolm's lackey would swiftly raise an alarm. Brenna cared less for the cause of the Prince than riding away at Cam's side. But Cam fought for Charles Stuart, and he risked his ancestral seat at Cairn Creath Castle and all he possessed. The Rebels had to win.
Iron clanged beneath her, and Brenna heard the crash of a door pushed wide on its hinges. Shouts and booted footsteps burst from the guardroom two floors below, and English voices echoed up the stone walls of the tower. The dragoons had broken free, to swarm up the stairs to the armory in search of weapons. She barely had time to dart across the walkway and shrink into the narrow niche in the wall where the sentries sheltered from the weather.
Panting from the climb, the first of the soldiers shoved at the thick oak door of the armory, cursing to find it locked.
Flattened in deep shadow in the cramped guardpost, Brenna was glad she had cast aside her ball dre ss and wide hoop skirts.
"God's teeth, my belly gripes," one of the soldiers groaned. "I'll skewer that kitchen slut."
"After we've done with those sneaking curs," a second man snarled. "Send down to the guardroom for the key."
More men surged up the stone steps.
"Break the door down." Brenna recognized the aristocratic accent of one of the nobles in Drake Seton's party.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, we've already put our shoulders to the door."
"Then try again," the Englishman ordered, his temper short. "If you hadn't fallen so far in your cups, you could have smashed out of those rotting cells yourselves."
"'T ’wasn't from d... drink, my lord," one of the men stuttered. "They p... poisoned us."
"Enough of excuses. If we had time to spare, I'd send the lot of you fishing for your muskets in the moat."
Boots rang toward the stair.
"Fancy the strain it was for his high and mighty lordship to find the keys." From the muttered remark, Brenna could guess the Earl's aide had turned on his heel and
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