The rock hit the castle wall. Archers sprang to the sides. Stones cracked, and the upper part of the wall crumbled, falling in a shower of sand and shingle.
Robert the Bruce’s army, standing across the broad moat from the castle, erupted in a jubilant cry that reverberated in Craig’s chest. Or maybe it was the hope—the hope to finally turn the tide of the war for the true King of Scots.
The War of Independence. The war between a small number of Highland clans and a giant—England.
The war with no promise of victory but a stubborn resolve to fight no matter what.
“’Twas a good shot,” Craig’s father said, and Craig nodded.
“Aye, Dougal,” Robert the Bruce said. “Mayhap too good. We dinna want to completely destroy the castle. ’Tis too important strategically.”
The three of them sat on their horses at the edge of the Inverlochy village, which lay across the moat. While the catapult master cried orders to reset the catapult, a movement on the right side of the moat caught Craig’s eyes.
A small figure emerged from behind a tree and boulders and raced across the field like a speedy ant.
“Do ye see that?” Craig asked.
Craig strained his eyes. The person was running away from the castle. The figure was too small to be a warrior or even a woman.
“What is it?” Bruce said.
“By the northeastern tower, but on this side of the moat, do ye see a massive tree and a collection of large rocks?”
“Aye,” said Craig’s father.
“Someone is running,” said the Bruce.
“Oh. Aye,” Dougal said. “A child?”
“Mayhap,” Craig said. “A moment ago, they appeared there, as though from under the ground.”
Bruce frowned. “Are ye certain?”
“Saw it with my own eyes. Might that be a secret passage into the castle?”
Bruce nodded. “Aye, that might be. The Comyns are sly enough to think of such a thing.”
“But why risk revealing it now?” Craig asked. “We’ve been sieging them but for three days. Surely they still have food and supplies.”
“A messenger,” Bruce spat.
Craig exchanged a glance with his father, an understanding running between them. If it was a messenger, they had to interfere right away. They couldn’t allow help to come to the Comyns. Bruce’s forces were very weak, just barely recovered from a major defeat at the hands of the MacDougalls earlier this year. Bruce had to stay and oversee the siege. It was up to Craig and his father to catch the messenger.
The catapult sent another rock into the wall, a boom bursting through the air. Another warning shot just to remind the Comyns that Bruce could do more damage.
“Hya!” Craig spurred his horse, and his father followed, both galloping through the streets of the Inverlochy village.
Villagers sprang aside, avoiding the horses. Unlike most besiegers, Bruce had made a point not to kill Comyn’s people unless necessary and not to pillage the village and the farms. He was their new king, and he wanted their support, even though their lord had chosen to be Bruce’s enemy.
The village ended, and they galloped through the fields. Craig had seen the figure disappearing behind a large hill. Grass flashed under the horses’ hooves, and the river grew closer.
The small figure appeared from behind the hill and ran—indeed, a lad of twelve years or so. Craig and Dougal raced towards him.
“Stop, ye wee rascal!” Craig cried.
The boy threw a glance over the shoulder, his eyes wide. He sped up.
Craig leveled with him on the horse, leaned down and grabbed the collar of the boy’s coat. With a grunt, Craig threw him over the horse. He turned the beast and let it gallop back towards the hill so that they wouldn’t be visible from the castle.
When he reached the base of the hill, he jumped off the horse, hauling the boy with him. His father dismounted as well.
Craig set the lad on the ground. He stared at Craig with wide eyes but a set jaw.
“How did ye get out of the castle?” Craig asked.
“Dinna ken what ye mean. I came from the river.”
“From the river?” Dougal chuckled. “Didna ken the rivers are so dry these days.”
The boy pursed his mouth, angry.
“Aye, ye said enough,” Craig said. “I can go and find out for myself. I’ve seen where ye came out. But what is yer purpose?”
“I am no traitor,” the boy said. “I wilna say a thing.”
“I respect that, lad,” Dougal said. “We will search ye, and if there’s a letter or a message on ye, we will find it.”
“Go on and try!” the boy challenged.
He jumped and launched himself to run, but Dougal caught him and held his arms behind his back. Craig quickly searched the boy, but there was nothing that could be a message. No folded paper, nothing else.
“Here’s what we do,” his father said. “We ken now ’tis likely the entrance into the castle. We take him to Bruce. Even if he is a messenger, we caught him, so he wilna pass the message. Let Bruce decide what to do with the lad.”
“Aye,” Craig said. “Ye take him. I will take a peek to see what is there and come back. We’ll decide then what to do.”
“Aye, son. Be careful.”
Dougal put the struggling, kicking lad on the horse like a sack and let his mount gallop to the camp. Despite his age, his father restrained the lad with no difficulty. Pride filled Craig’s lungs. He truly belonged to a clan of mighty warriors.
Craig scanned the castle as he raced towards the tree and the rocks where he’d seen the lad appear. No arrows came at him. The defenders were probably too busy with the siege.
He reached the tree and the rocks. Where was the entrance? He studied the thick trunk, the boulders at its base. Some of them reached his shoulder. Nothing looked suspicious.
He leaned down and examined the grass.
There. Footprints in the soil. They appeared next to a flat, low rock almost as broad as a shield. Craig inspected a gap between the rock and the ground. He pushed his fingers into the gap, pulled the rock, and it opened like a latch door. Narrow stairs led into a dark tunnel.
His heart thumped. He was right. This was a secret entrance into the castle. It was dark and he didn’t have a torch, but he needed to see where it led. He glanced at the castle. It was probably thirty feet away and the tunnel must be deep—deep enough to go under the moat.
Those smart bastarts, the Comyns. No one would suspect they’d build a tunnel under the moat. Couldn’t it collapse under the weight of water?
Craig crossed himself and went down into the darkness, closing the trap door behind him.
The cold, hard floor shook and the rocks rattled. Small stones and sand showered down on Amy.
She sat upright with a jerk. She looked around, but blackness surrounded her.
Where was she? Not in the barn, not again.
Her lungs contracted, her diaphragm tightening. She coughed and searched around her with her hands. She was on something like a rock or a smooth stone floor. Something metallic and rounded rolled from her touch.
She had a flashlight, she remembered.
There wasn’t a flashlight in the barn—so Amy was somewhere else. Relief flooded her body.
Then events rushed into her mind—Deanna, the underground chamber, the glowing rock, the sensation of falling into it…of being sucked in…