And then, there were dead bodies—real dead bodies. Their clothes were bloody, and they had terrible bone-deep gashes and wounds in their abdomens, legs, arms. Some had crushed skulls. Others were pierced with arrows. The smell—smoke and blood and feces—assaulted her.
Nausea rose in Amy’s stomach. This was all way too real.
This was all too much. Her knees weakened, and wobbled, but the medieval giant continued dragging her through the courtyard towards the biggest tower.
“What’s going on?” she whispered. “Where am I?”
He glanced at her. A shadow of pity crossed his face, but it changed into a hard, cold resolve. “Dinna think I’ll fall for yer lies and traps. Never again. Never for a MacDougall.”
They entered the tower—the door was open.
Two men stood there, talking “…and then once we’ve recuperated, we shall go on to Urquhart on Loch Ness. That is the next castle we shall take. Then Inverness.”
Amy’s captor coughed, and both men turned to him. The one who spoke was tall, dark haired with strands of gray. The other was older, in his fifties, but still powerfully built. He had the same moss-green eyes as the man who held Amy.
“Craig.” The man nodded and frowned, studying Amy.
So his name was Craig…
“I brought ye a MacDougall, Yer Grace,” Craig said. “I’m afraid we both heard ye discussing yer plans.”
The man who Craig had addressed as “Your Grace” frowned, studying her. Your Grace—was it the king? “She canna leave the castle if she heard what I said.”
Oh, how crazy was all this? They played at kings, and knights, and wars…and…
But deep down, her instincts told Amy this wasn’t a game. Those people outside were really dead and wounded. She’d seen enough injuries to know how they looked. And the attacks on the castle had been real—the stones had crumbled and fallen, and now some men were prisoners while others were victors.
The most logical explanation was the most insane one.
Because, based on what Sìneag had told her, the castle was built on a rock that allowed people to travel in time. She had said something about the river of time…and crossing it—and the rock had had that carving of a river and a path through it.
And then Amy had fallen into the rock.
And when she’d woken up, the castle was whole, and there was Robert the Bruce and Craig Cambel and men with swords and a catapult…
So the insane explanation was that Amy had fallen through time into the Middle Ages.
She shuddered. The floor shifted under her feet. Sweat broke through her skin all over her body. No matter how crazy it sounded, she just couldn’t think of anything else that would explain all this.
And if she was in the Middle Ages, she needed to return to her time.
“Aye,” Craig said, and his eyes weighed heavily on her. “She must stay now.”
Amy sucked in air. If she’d traveled through time by means of that rock, that was what she needed to do again. Therefore, staying in the castle was actually to her advantage. She just needed to access that underground cave.
“What is her name?” the other man asked.
“Amy. Amy MacDougall.”
“I am Dougal Cambel,” the man said. “Surely ye ken the name, lass?”
Amy shook her head.
“No need to pretend, Amy…” He rubbed his chin under his short white beard. “Aren’t ye John’s daughter? The one who is supposed to marry the Earl of Ross next year come spring?”
The other man—King Robert the Bruce—nodded. “Aye, I heard that, too. A very unfortunate alliance for us. It will make both parties too strong. I was hoping to negotiate with the Earl of Ross while our powers are equal, but if he unites with the MacDougalls, it will make my position impossible to negotiate.”
Amy couldn’t believe her ears. Should she say something? She wasn’t their enemy. She wasn’t who they thought she was—the Amy they talked about was probably safe at home. The dangerous alliance of the MacDougalls and the Earl of Ross was still taking place.
But if she told them she wasn’t the Amy they thought she was, what would she say? That she thought she had slipped through time? That she was from the future?
They’d never believe her. They’d think she was insane. Or worse, they’d become violent and imprison her somewhere in the darkness, where no one would come for her. A shiver ran through her, her whole body spasming.
“Well, we have her now,” Craig said. “I will keep her here, dinna fash, Yer Grace. She will be useful. We can negotiate with the MacDougalls and the Earl of Ross for them to hold their attacks.”
The king nodded thoughtfully, studying her.
“Aye. I will give it more thought. But it is a very good thing she is here. For now, lock her up. We have a victory to celebrate tonight and a feast to enjoy.”
Chapter 5
“Slàinte mhath,” Craig said.
“Good health,” his half brother Owen echoed.
Craig clunked his cup of uisge with Owen, then his other half brother Domhnall.
Across the table from Craig, Hamish MacKinnon and Lachlan Cambel sat. Hamish, a tall, strong man with black hair and battle scars on his face, had come to Bruce’s army recently with the MacKinnon clan. Lachlan was a distant cousin from Cambel lands. He had the Cambels’ dark hair, but unlike most Cambels, he had brown eyes.
The great hall still smelled like smoke and coals. Rain drizzled through the holes in the roof where fire had taken the wood and thatch, but it was rain that had made sure the fire didn’t take the whole building.
The atmosphere was cheerful. Someone at another side of the hall played a lyre and sang, although not as well as a bard. But in the times of war, this would do. The feast consisted of whatever Bruce’s cooks found in the kitchens—which was plenty more than the food they’d had while marching through the freezing Highlands.
“Tell me ye will throw better feasts, brother,” Owen said as he eyed a spoonful of the vegetable stew. His eyes sparkled with humor. They were green like almost everyone else’s in the family, but he had blond hair like his mother. “Isna a king’s feast supposed to have roasted boars, rabbits, and mayhap a grouse?”
Craig shook his head and hid a smile. Owen always said and did what he wanted.
“Dinna be a ninny, Owen,” Domhnall, Owen’s older brother, grumbled. Craig winced—Domhnall was usually the first to berate Owen. “’Tis war.”
“Aye, ’tis, brother,” Owen said. “But if Bruce hadn’t let go all the servants and kitchen maids, we’d have roasted meat, fresh bread, and fruit. Aren’t ye tired of oatcakes as hard as stones and dried meat? Of falling asleep alone at night?”
“Ye shall sleep alone for a long time, brother.” Craig chuckled through a mouthful of stew.
“There’s more chance of his farts smelling like roses than him sleeping alone.” Lachlan laughed and the whole table echoed him.
Lachlan was as tall as Craig, and looked enough like him that people sometimes mixed them up when they saw them from afar. It was probably the blood of their common ancestor—Craig’s great-grandfather, Gilleasbaig of Menstrie, the first Cambel.