detect a guard’s heavy footsteps all the way down to the bottom of the stairwell. After hearing nothing, she tiptoed around and around until she reached the dark cellars. She’d been using this route for seven years and needed no light to show her the way. Besides, torches were dangerous. They brought too much attention. If her guardian ever heard how often Anya left the castle to steal coveted time alone, she’d be disciplined for certain.
She ran her fingers along the damp walls, turning left, then right, then left again until daylight shone through the bars of the forgotten old cellar gate. Anya dug in her satchel, pulled out a key, and slipped it into the rusty lock. Shortly after she’d arrived, she found the key hidden behind a loose stone near the hearth in her chamber. A slip of velum was attached to the loop with a bit of twine. Upon the note was written two words: vinariam porta, the Latin for cellar gate. Of course, having been tutored in Latin as well as being a bit of an adventurer, Anya immediately went searching for the mysterious lock to fit the key.
She let herself out of the captive tower, locked the gate for good measure, and returned the key to her satchel. Pulling the hood of her sealskin cloak low over her brow to ensure she wouldn’t be recognized, Anya quickly skirted the shore, ever so careful to stay away from the prying gazes of villagers who tended the earl’s livestock and whatnot. She hastened up the hill to a small outcropping where she’d be sheltered from winter’s bitter wind—straight to her own little alcove.
By the saints, it was good to be alone in her secluded hideaway. With her warm cloak wrapped snuggly about her person, she sat in the comfort of the grass and pulled out her scroll of velum and charcoal. Generally, Anya drew flowers and animals, but because she was soon to be taken away from Carrickfergus, she’d been working on a drawing of the castle and the cottages in the foreground. Aye, on any given day she’d be able to draw the keep with her eyes closed, but this work was different. She painstakingly detailed the masonry, the merlons and crenels, three feet in depth, no less. She used the minutest of strokes to etch the thatch on the cottage roofs, making it look as if it were real. Most of all, she paid particular attention to the animals—the thick sheep’s wool, a workhorse who was old and stooped, the dairy cows with their black and white spots.
Over and over again she sharpened her charcoal and painstakingly added the finer details, while in the bay, ships came and went, bringing their cargoes of grain and stores for the castle, all none the wiser that Anya sat in her little alcove concealed between the stones, taking in every detail. She even captured the seabirds in flight.
Lost in her work, she didn’t notice when the sun sank low in the western sky, but she jolted upright when a drop of rain splattered the toe of her shoe. Quickly rolling up her work, she looked to the clouds. When she’d ventured out, the sky had been clear, and now it looked as if a storm were brewing. She shoved her scroll and charcoal into her satchel and grabbed the strap. In her rush to keep the drawing dry, the bag caught on a craggy stone and upended, spilling everything into the grass.
“Curses!” she swore, shoving her things back inside, then hastened down the hill.
2
By the time the two birlinns arrived, ferrying King Bruce to Carrickfergus Castle, there wasn’t much daylight remaining, not that days offered many hours of sunshine this time of year. Moreover, the wind had brought in a squall, the rain already misting atop their helms. Before they set out, His Grace almost insisted Angus remain behind, but these were MacDonald boats and the few soldiers they’d brought along were MacDonald kin. They took orders from Angus.
Dammit all, the failure at Loch Ryan had not been his fault, though by the jeers the king had spewed at him, anyone would have thought Angus was solely to blame. In hindsight, he should have refused to supply the men from the outset. He should have refused to provide the ships. Except that would have done nothing to further the MacDonald cause. He had naught but to take his lumps and persevere. He’d thrown down his gauntlet and committed