by Amy Jarecki
Gyllis stammered. “I…we…” did he have to look so exceedingly angry?
“Are those my clothes?” Duncan snatched the hem of his—Gyllis’s doublet. “Merciful holy Christ—”
“Stop.” Meg held up her hands. “If you’d take a breath, I might gain a fleeting moment to explain.”
He rolled his hand with a heated, yet expectant look.
“Firstly, the bairns will be fine in their nurse’s arms for a few days, especially with your mother’s constant doting. Besides, I can be of more use to you here—”
“We must find Sir Sean,” Gyllis interrupted.
“Tell me something I do not already know.” Duncan’s steely gaze shifted her way. “Alan MacCoul has him in Dunstaffnage’s dungeon.”
Gyllis wrung her hands. “I do not believe so.”
Duncan guffawed with his sneer. “So you think you know better than a dozen witnesses? Does wearing my clothing suddenly make you an expert?” He frowned, looking her over from head to toe. “Stay here. I’ll fetch the guard to take you home.” He started away and shook his finger. “But you’ll be taking good men away from their posts.”
“We are not leaving,” Lady Meg called after him, but he proceeded on, marching like he was mad enough to kick a wounded dog.
Meg grasped Gyllis’s arm. “You know something.”
She drew in a ragged breath and nodded. “I remembered what Alan MacCoul said when he and Sean fought at Beltane—told him he would watch Sean die in irons whilst rotting in a cave.”
“Why did you not tell Duncan?”
“If he’d given me a chance, I would have—but he wouldn’t listen anyway. He never listens to me.” Gyllis peered over her shoulder. “I must find Angus. He’ll help me.”
“Go. I’ll set Duncan’s priorities. Do what you must.”
Gyllis caught her hand. “Thank you.”
The morning’s mist had begun to lift while Gyllis hastened through the camp, searching for the MacDougall pennant. She stumbled over an exposed tree root. Stutter-stepping, she tried to catch her balance, but her legs wouldn’t work fast enough. With a yelp, she fell hands-first. Pain shot up through her wrists. Clenching her teeth, she rubbed them.
“Bloody Christmas, stumbling over a wee branch?” a deep voice cursed behind her. “Were you in your cups all night, lad?”
Gyllis blinked, remembering she looked more lad than lass. She tugged the hood lower over her forehead. “Nay. The nasty thing caught the tip of my boot,” she said in her deepest voice.
The man walked around front of her, but Gyllis kept her head low and stared at his feet. “You’re just a lad. What is your business here? You could be hurt.”
“I’ve a message for Angus, the MacDougall henchman.”
“Oh do you now?” The man offered a weathered hand. “Then you best be telling me what it is.”
“’Tis only for his ears.” As she took his hand, Gyllis peered out from under her hood and gasped.
With a startled gasp, Angus tugged her up and stepped forward. “Miss Gyllis, what are you doing here? All matter of harm could befall you. This is an army camp—no place for a lady.”
She stamped her foot. “That is why I’m dressed as a man.”
“I’m afraid your disguise will not protect you for long. You’re too bonny to mistake for a lad.”
Gyllis swallowed her smile. She’d seen a bonny lad or two in her lifetime. Not that Sean looked feminine—but heaven help her, that he was bonny was not to be argued. She cupped a hand alongside her mouth so she’d not be overheard. It wouldn’t be surprising if there were spies about. “Do you know of a cave nearby?”
“Aye, there are a few.”
“Any that are secluded where a man wouldn’t be found—perhaps on Dunollie land?”
Angus wrapped his fingers around his greying beard and tugged. “I don’t ken…I seem to recall a cave on Kerrera—in the Firth of Lorn just south of the castle. On a clear day you can see it from the shore. But ’tis just an undeveloped island. There’s nothing on it.”
“Kerrera? That must be it.” She grasped his arm and recited Alan MacCoul’s threat.
Angus continued to scratch his beard. “Aye, but everyone saw Alan’s men haul him into the castle.”
“Did you see this as well?”
“Nay, I was patrolling the forest when the attack happened.”
“Is it impossible for Alan to have spirited Sean to Kerrera?”
“Well, nothing’s impossible, I suppose.” Angus glanced in the direction of Duncan’s tent. “But the Lord of Glenorchy is planning an attack soon, cannons should be arriving from Castle Stalker in a day. Once we storm the castle, we’ll find the chieftain, I’m certain of it.”
“Cannons?” Gyllis peered through the trees at the Dunstaffnage battlements. “Is that why we haven’t driven them out yet?”
“We’ve tried.” He pointed. “Every time we move within shooting distance, the bastards rain arrows upon us. Duncan also sent a missive to the Earl of Argyll requesting more targes to protect our men on the battering ram.”
“When will the shields arrive?”
“Today, God willing.”
“Please.” Gyllis clasped her palms together. “All I ask is that we sail to Kerrera to look in the cave. You’ll be back before Duncan even discovers you’re missing.”
“I’d like to help you, lass, but Sean MacDougall is shivering in Dunstaffnage’s dungeon—not in the bloody cave on Kerrera. I can feel it in my bones.” He grasped her elbow. “Come, I’ll take you to your brother and he can organize an escort to take you home.”
24
Two days. Sean licked his bleeding lips with a coarse and dry tongue. Another day without water and he’d be dead for certain. Everything ached. The rivets knifing into his flesh had already worn ulcers. His neck was stiff. Even the slightest movement of his chin caused a jabbing pain that made his teeth ache.
Immobile, the irons affixed to the cave wall, he had a sense of how Christ had suffered on the cross.
The ulcers and aches Sean could bear, but thirst consumed his mind. The cold and damp were but a minor inconvenience compared to his need for water. The ceaseless dripping behind him tortured his tongue to the point where Sean tried to lick moisture from the iron bar across his mouth.
Mucous drained from his nose, yet he was helpless to wipe it, helpless even to tend to his most basic needs. His skin chafed and the odor of his own piss mixed with the stench of rotting seaweed around him plagued his guts with the urge to heave.
Sean closed his eyes and willed himself to think of Gyllis. Her memory calmed him. Taking in a shaky breath, he pictured her long chestnut tresses when they caught the wind. His fingers could feel the silkiness of her hair, his cracked lips the pillow-softness of her mouth. If only he could travel back in time to the carefree days at Ardchattan when they would sit together in the garden.
Two miserable days had passed with nary a soul in sight. The only sounds were the surf and the damned water dripping and trickling under his feet.
If only he’d spent more time with Gyllis. If only he could hold her in his arms—one more time before he perished.
God on the cross, no wonder Alan MacCoul had killed Fraser. Sean would have been much better prepared if he’d known what his half-brother had planned. And by God, he should have been more forceful with Duncan. The Lord of Glenorchy had always respected Sean’s intuition in the past. He should have stood his ground. Sean recounted his visit to Kilchurn over and over. He’d succumbed to his own foolish pride by not insisting Duncan and the enforcers attend Lorn’s wedding. He’d played down the threats and the raids. Deep in his soul he’d known Alan MacCoul was behind it all. But he’d been too proud to admit it to Duncan—too proud to ask for the Lord of Glenorchy’s help because he was a friend. If he’d been honest and presented the depth of his concerns, Duncan would have supported the MacDougalls without question. After all, he’d dedicated his life to Duncan and his father—served i
n the Highland Enforcers to maintain order for King James.
And now here he was, the feared knight, wrapped in irons, pinned to the wall, unable to wipe the snot from his face.
A water rat watched him from across the cave.
“Be gone with you.” Sean’s voice was so dry it painfully grated in his voice box.
The rat inched forward.
“Be gone,” Sean bellowed, followed by a fit of dry coughs. The rat stopped and sat up on its haunches and stared at him, his nose twitching. Sean rattled the irons. “I’m not dead yet, you mongrel bastard!”
The rodent paced back and forth in front of Sean and his irons as if he knew Sean was helpless. The closer the creature came, the more Sean rattled his irons, the rivets digging into tender flesh.
When the rat stopped at Sean’s feet, all he could do was cast his gaze downward. The first bite sunk into his shoe leathers. Stomach roiling with bile, Sean rattled his cage and slammed his foot against the unbending metal. The devil’s spawn could feast all they liked after he was dead. Not before.
Gyllis should have known a man wouldn’t listen to her. Men all took pity on her as if she were afflicted in the brain as well as in the legs. She snatched her arm away from Angus’s grasp. “I am perfectly able to return to my brother’s tent on my own. There is no need for you to assist me.”
“Och, I’d be no kind of gentleman if I didn’t see you delivered safely to his side. This camp is rife with young Highland lads who might get the wrong idea seeing a woman dressed in a pair of breeks.”
Gyllis glanced toward the pier. It would be futile if she tried to run. Besides, she’d probably fall on her face like she’d done a hundred times before. Ahead, the camp started to stir, but the flutter of a blue mantle caught her eye. She smiled broadly—affecting her most innocent countenance. “There’s Lady Meg. She accompanied me on the ride to Dunstaffnage. I’ll join her. Duncan is arranging our transport home momentarily.”
“Very well.” He drew out his words slowly as if considering. “If the Lady of Glenorchy is here, I reckon I can leave you in her capable hands.”
Gyllis continued to keep her voice low. She didn’t want anyone else realizing she was female. “Thank you, sir. You have been most helpful.”
Hastening her step, she caught up to Meg not far from a large tent and tapped her shoulder before her sister-in-law reached for the flap. “What are you doing?”
“Gyllis,” Meg said in a loud whisper. “I should be asking you the same.” She looked side to side. “Duncan could be here any moment.
“I need your help in creating a diversion.”
A crease formed between the lady’s red eyebrows. “Honestly, Gyllis. You should take Duncan’s advice and return to Kilchurn. Things here are worse than I’d imagined.”
A pained moan came from within the tent. Of course Meg would have already connived to see to the injured before she left. “And you’re not?”
“They need a healer for the hospital.”
“Please. Keep Duncan’s attention diverted as long as possible—at least until I can…ah…slip away—tell him I’ve decided to stay so that I may assist you.”
Meg frowned. “Have you gained more information? Where are you off to now?”
“I’d rather not say, lest Duncan intercept me.” Gyllis balled her fists. “I will not be stopped.”
Meg clasped her hand to her chest. “Promise me you will stay safe.” She moved her lips close to Gyllis’s ear. “Do not let on to anyone that you are a woman.”
“I promise—just keep Duncan occupied. Can you do that?”
“I’ll do my best, but you know your brother.”
Gyllis jumped at a loud commotion booming from the direction of Duncan’s tent. Hopefully the noise had nothing to do with her, but she didn’t aim to stay around long enough to find out. “I’ll see you upon my return.”
Meg gave her hand a squeeze before she released it. “Go with God.” She pulled the satchel with the oatcakes and watered wine from her shoulder. “Take this. You may need it more than I.”
Slipping away, Gyllis again tugged the hood low over her forehead, but she wouldn’t again make the mistake of greeting anyone she knew. She picked up a sturdy stick and hunched a bit so she’d be mistaken for an old man with a limp. Moving as quickly as she could, she headed for the pier.
One thing she knew for certain, the longer she remained in the foreground of Dunstaffnage, the greater the risk that Duncan would tie her to a horse and drag her home. Fortunately, all the fishermen must have set sail before dawn, because Gyllis saw not a soul. She hid behind a moored galley and held up the flap of the hood to better see. At the very end of the pier, a skiff bobbed in the water. It was exactly what she needed.
Before she set out, she peered over the galley’s hull and looked toward the camp. A skirmish had erupted between the outlaws on the wall-walk and the soldiers below. Volleys of arrows traversed through the air while Duncan’s men bellowed and slammed the pommels of their dirks against their targes. Gyllis crossed herself and offered a silent prayer for the good health of her brother and his men.
She hastened to the end of the deck, untied the skiff and carefully climbed into the tiny boat. She and her sisters often rowed a similar skiff across Loch Awe on summer days—but the Firth of Lorn was not a loch. It formed a major part of Scotland’s sea trade and men sailed hearty galleys through her white-capped waves.
As she grasped the oars, she prayed the weather would hold while she pointed the boat south. Of all her problems, the greatest was that she had no idea where on Kerrera the cave might be. Would she be able to see it from the water? How far away was the island? Angus said you can see the island from Dunollie. How much further can it be?
But asking for help had proven futile. Everyone was positive Sean was being held within the walls of Dunstaffnage Castle. Gyllis would have believed it herself if she hadn’t heard Alan MacCoul’s threat.
She heaved on the oars, dragging them through the swells. Doubtless, it would take a Herculean effort to row four miles to Dunollie and then only heaven knew how much further. Gyllis gritted her teeth. Nothing would stop her, no matter if she had to row all day and night.
By the time she reached Dunollie, the sun had traversed to the late morning sky. She’d been rowing for at least two hours and her arms were sore. Her back and neck punished her like she’d climbed the tower stairs on her hands more than fifty times.
Rowing a heavy wooden skiff was hard work. Though the current was running southwest, she fought the swells to keep from being pushed toward the mainland.
Blisters had begun to form on her palms and she changed positions frequently to shift the pressure to different points on her hands. When the castle came into view, she paused her rowing, shaded her eyes and searched. True to Angus’s word, an island loomed off the coast—quite a bit further away than she’d hoped. Through the haziness, the shore sloped up into green hills, allowing no clear view of its size. But one thing was certain, she had quite a bit more rowing to do.
Her entire body ached. Even if she weren’t recovering from a bout of paralysis, she’d be tired. She dared glance at her palms. Three big blisters on her right hand and two on her left. How in God’s name will I make it? She pulled an oatcake from the satchel and washed it down with a gulp of watered wine.
Again, Alan MacCoul’s damning words rang in her head. “I will imprison you in irons and laugh while your body rots in a dank and musty cave.”
She blew on her palms and ground her teeth. “Damn you, Alan MacCoul!” she yelled at the top of her voice. Gyllis steeled her mind to the searing pain, and with each pull of the oars, sailed closer to Kerrera.
Working against the current, the passage across the sound took twice as long to traverse as it had taken to row from Dunstaffnage to Dunollie. When Gyllis finally glimpsed a clear view of Kerrera’s northernmost point, her hands were completely raw, she could hardly move her arms and the muscles in her back and neck burned a
nd tortured her with every pull of the oars.
She scanned the shore and beyond for any sign of a cave. A narrow, beach transitioned into grassy, rolling hills, filled with purple heather and spotted with trees. Gyllis wanted to scream. There wasn’t one rocky outcropping that looked like it might house a cave. To the east, the surf was rougher, angered by wind and dark clouds. Whitecaps topped the waves coming across from the Isle of Mull. The westward current would be even stronger and all the more difficult to navigate.
She could scarcely drag the oars through the protected waters from Dunstaffnage to Dunollie. She gazed at the shore with desperate longing. If only her legs were strong enough to traverse the sandy beach or the craggy land beyond, she’d pull ashore and allow her hands a rest—but as sure as she breathed, the boat would be faster than walking. What would she do if she hiked away from the skiff and her legs failed? She didn’t even have one crutch and she’d left the old stick on the pier at Dunstaffnage.
After blowing on her palms to cool the burn, she grasped the oars and gave them a solid pull. Crying out, she snatched her hand into her body and crouched over it. Searing pain shot through her palm. Blood dripped onto her breeks. Opening her trembling fingers, the blisters had rubbed raw. Blood oozed across her palm and dribbled into the hull.
Tears streamed down her cheeks while she clutched her arms to her body and rocked. Why couldn’t someone have trusted her? Why did the men believe they were so damned right? More tears welled, blurring her vision and making dark splashes on the coarse leather. Wailing, her voice box grated. Gyllis looked up at the ominous sky. What if she was wrong? What if she’d come all this way and Sean wasn’t there? How would she make it back with her hands blistered and bleeding? If only someone would have believed her—tried to help, but instead they all looked upon her as if she were an invalid—a burden no one wanted.
