the narrow windows began to dim, I was sent on an errand to the storeroom at the far end of the kitchen. The door into the passage beyond opened, and a servant came in. He brought with him a stench so appalling that I rocked back.
"Bah! Close that door!" bawled the master cook.
"What is it?" I dared to ask Agnes, a thin, pimply girl, who had smiled shyly at me once or twice as she'd hurried past and was now reaching over me to fill a pot with salted herrings from a barrel.
"Don't you know? It's coming from the prison."
"What prison? Who's in there?"
"The Presbyterians. The Covenanters. There's nearly two hundred of them. They're all crammed into a little cellar. There's not even space for them all to sit down. I know they're wicked, and against the king and all that, but I feel sorry for them really."
My heart had begun to pound.
How dare you call them wicked! It's the king who's wicked! I wanted to say. But I bit my lip and asked instead, "Have you seen them? Have you talked to any of them?"
She looked shocked.
"Why would I do that? They're traitors! I couldn't, anyway, even if I wanted to. There are soldiers guarding the door all the time. The only window's at the back, right over the cliff, and it's really small."
The door opened again, and the stink made me retch.
"Why does it smell so bad?"
Agnes had clapped her hand over her mouth and nose, and I could hardly make out her words.
"Nowhere in there for them to do their—you know. Been locked up for weeks, and they have to do it where they stand. Serves them right, I suppose, but it's disgusting when you think about it."
"But they must be getting sick! They must be dying!"
I was trying to stop my voice from rising in distress.
She shrugged.
"They do bring bodies out sometimes. I've seen them. Pah! I can't stand this stink any longer."
She had filled her pot with herrings and hurried back into the kitchen.
Then, above the banging of cooking pots, the shouts of the cook, and the ever-present crash and suck of the sea on the rocks below the kitchen windows came the sound of singing. It was a faint sound, tremulous, mournful, and full of longing.
"Lord, from the depths to thee I cried,
My voice, Lord, do thou hear!"
Tears pricked my eyes as I recognized a psalm, which I had sung so often on dark winter evenings and in the last blush of summer nights at Ladymuir.
"I wait for God, my soul doth wait,
My hope is in his word.
More than they that for morning watch,
My soul waits for the Lord."
"You! Girl! Come back here!" came an angry yell from the kitchen, but as I hurried back into the blistering heat, I felt a new certainty. Uncle Blair was close by, I was sure of it. And though thick walls of stone and armed guards stood between us, I would find a way to carry out my promise to reach him and give him help.
***
The chance I had hoped for came that very evening. The grand people in their stately rooms above the kitchens had had their luxurious supper of roasted beef and smothered rabbits, and the soldiers, servants, and workmen had gobbled down hearty stews and mounds of bannocks. The day's work in the kitchen was done, and it was time for the cooks and scullions to eat.
I made a sudden decision.
"Where's the latrine?" I asked the skinny girl. "I need to go."
She jerked her head toward the entrance to the kitchens through which I'd come.
"Up there, then down to the right."
I took a few steps, saw that her back was turned and hesitated, as if I was confused. No one was looking at me. I slipped down to the far end of the storeroom and opened the door into the passageway, biting my lip at the creak of the heavy hinges. The stench was so awful that I was afraid I would be sick, and I was glad I hadn't yet had supper, as I might have lost it all. To my left, I could hear men's voices and guessed they were the guards. To my right was an archway, and beyond it, in the near darkness, I saw the white crests of waves rolling in from the sea to break thunderously on the rocks.
The prison has a window, the kitchen girl had said. It's right above the sea.
I was lucky, I suppose, that