“Ye bloody minx,” he whispered. “I said I wilna hurt ye.”
He needed to tie her up so that she wouldn’t run out and alert the Comyns. He quickly released her mouth and she screamed. With his free hand, he reached down with one hand to someone’s storage chest and found a clean cloth, then gagged her with it. He grabbed a belt, tied her hands behind her back, then used another to tie her to the bed. He also bound her legs—not an easy task because she kicked and wriggled. He felt sorry to do this to her—the thought of doing anything against a woman’s will sent a wave of repulsion through him, reminding him of Marjorie.
But it needed to be done, and he did it as gently as he could.
When he was finished, she sat on the floor, her hands tied to the leg of the bed. Her face was red—no doubt she was feeling angry, helpless. She panted and moaned through the gag.
“I’m sorry, lass,” he said. “But if I’m successful, it’ll all be over soon, and ye can leave the castle with yer family. King Robert the Bruce wilna let women be harmed—and nor will I.”
She frowned, blinking at him, looking confused. Throwing one last glance at her to make sure she wouldn’t suffocate or escape, he left the room. The man downstairs must be gone by now. Craig needed to hurry.
He stopped at the staircase to make sure no one was coming from the upper floor or the lower. Everything was quiet, so he hurried down the stairs.
Earlier, in the village, he’d made sure to remove any signs he might be the enemy. He’d left the shield with the Cambel heraldic sigil, his helmet, and had even exchanged his sword for a simple one.
He carefully stepped into the courtyard. The northeastern tower he’d just left was used for food storage and sleeping chambers for the warriors. The two small southern towers were probably for the same purposes. The Comyn Tower, the biggest one on the northwest, was the donjon, or the keep of the castle. In addition to more weapon and food storage, it housed the lord’s chambers: his bedchamber and his private reception room where the family would gather. It was smart to put the secret tunnel under a tower that attracted less attention.
How many people knew about it? Probably, not many—or the purpose of the tunnel would be obsolete.
Edward Comyn, the lord of Inverlochy, stood on one of the curtain walls, surrounded by archers. The courtyard was busy with activity: servants carried baskets and firewood, warriors descended the stairs and went for a meal or to have a rest. Their faces were somber, no doubt from the tension of being under siege.
“Attack!” someone called from above. “To the northern wall!”
Men ran towards the wall and climbed the stairs. Many came running from the great hall—taking arrows and bows with them.
Good. This was the first part of the plan. MacNeils on their birlinns, the West Highland ships, would attack from the river. They would land and start climbing the walls.
More calls for warriors came from the eastern and the western sides. There, he knew, Bruce’s army was bringing logs and rocks to put into the moat for the siege towers and siege ladders to cross over.
Most Comyn warriors from the northern wall spread to the eastern and western walls. Even Edward Comyn moved to the west. But guards still stood by the gates.
They’d run away soon.
Craig hurried into the great hall. It was empty, save the servant girls who were cleaning the tables after the warriors had their meal. They paid little attention to Craig. He took a torch from one of the sconces on the wall. Then he grabbed the basket with kindling standing by the fireplace.
He sprinted out. The chaos and the tension inside the castle were palpable—screams of pain from on top of the walls; yells from outside; arrows flying, hitting people, bouncing off the rocks, piercing the mud of the courtyard.
He walked behind the great hall, in the space between the building and the curtain wall where he’d be hidden. He then began setting fire to small batches of kindling and throwing them onto the thatched roof.
Dark smoke rose from the roof of the great hall—that would be the signal for Bruce to move towards the gates. Craig was running out of time, so he quickly kindled the whole basket and threw it onto the kitchen roof together with the torch itself.
“Fire! Fire!” men screamed, and feet pounded across the courtyard towards the great hall. Craig needed to try to blend in with the panicking warriors, then make his way to the gates.
“Stop this!” someone cried from the wall. “Traitor! Get him!”
Craig glanced up—one of the warriors pointed straight at him. The warrior rushed down the stairs, and so did several others. Archers loomed over the parapet and aimed at him.
Whether the Bruce had had time to prepare or not, Craig would never get a better chance to open the gate.
With all the speed he could manage, he sprinted through the courtyard to the gates—where now no one stood. Arrows hit the ground around him. Something bit into his ankle—one of the arrows had scratched him, he realized—and he stumbled a little but continued his sprint. Reaching the gate, he pulled at the giant handle of a heavy iron latch, and it gave, but slowly—too slowly for his liking. The Comyn warriors were coming closer; they’d reached the middle of the courtyard.
The latch undone, he had to remove the heavy bar. He lifted it in the middle with as much strength as he could muster—normally at least two people were needed to lift such a bar.
The enemies were just a few feet away.
He pulled at the doors, and slowly, heavily, they began to open.
From the other side of the gates, Craig heard running footsteps and “Cruachan!” They were coming. He pulled at the gate even harder, then barely turned in time to deflect a claymore.
While he fought with one man, the warrior’s companions were pushing the gates to close them.
Too late.
With the force of dozens of running men, the Bruce’s army flowed in through the gates.
The castle was theirs.
After a short fight, it was clear to everyone that the Bruce and his army had won. Edward Comyn was gravely wounded and dying while his healer did his best to save him.
“There will be no marauding!” the Bruce cried, watching his men hold the captives under their claymores. “Ye all may take three things from the castle to reward ye for yer hard work. But Inverlochy Castle shall be, from now on, a royal residence of the Scottish king.”
Bruce turned and walked towards Craig, holding him with his eyes. Craig frowned.
“And the temporary commander will be Craig Cambel.”
Cambel men erupted in cheers. Craig’s eyebrows crawled up. Bruce came to him and looked him in the eye, approval and friendship lightening them.
“Are ye certain, Yer Grace?” Craig said. “Do ye nae have more experienced strategists, my father or uncle Neil?”
Bruce grasped his shoulder and squeezed it. “The man who risked his life to take the castle deserves the reward. If it wasna for ye, God kens how long we would have been freezing under those walls. I am very grateful, Craig Cambel. ’Tis yer reward—but also a heavy task. Now ye must protect the castle if the rest of the Comyns, the MacDougalls, or the English want to take it back. Because they will try.”
Bruce studied him intently. “What do ye say, Craig? Will ye take the mission upon ye?”
Craig inhaled sharply. That was a good question. He’d need to be especially careful about trusting people. Managing a castle and protecting it from a siege would require him to be even more observant, even more cautious.