The castle’s sea-gate was just ahead. As last time, he was covered head to toe in black seal grease. It not only helped to insulate him from the cold but allowed him to blend into the night, so he should be able—like last time—to slip under the gate without being detected. The gate had been fashioned to keep out a boat, not a solitary swimmer.
It had taken the English months of sieging to breach the castle walls; he would need less than a minute.
Taking a deep breath, he dove into the tomblike blackness. The water was no more than ten feet deep at this point, and it took him only seconds to touch the rocky bottom. Using that as his guide, he skated along the seafloor until he knew that he was clear of the bars. Only then did he surface—carefully and soundlessly.
He opened his eyes to torchlight and the cavelike stone chamber deep in the bowels of Dunaverty Castle. He was in.
But he wasn’t alone.
Erik held perfectly still, not breathing, as a solitary guard made his rounds past the gate. But luck was with him again. The Englishman barely glanced at the water below him. Why should he? The gate was down. Unless ships were suddenly capable of diving underwater—Erik smiled at the ridiculous notion—the guard had nothing to fear. Or so he assumed.
Erik waited for the guard’s torch to fade into the distance before levering himself out of the water and onto the stone platform that served as a dock.
The blast of cold air felt like shards of ice pricking through his skin. He was tempted to use the “silent kill” that his cousin Lachlan “Viper” MacRuairi had perfected—a dirk stuck in the back through to the lungs—to get some clothes, but Erik knew it was better if his comings and goings went unnoticed. Bruce wanted the Highland Guard to operate in the shadows, not only to be harder to detect, but also to increase the fear in the heart of their enemy.
So, naked but for the black grease on his skin and the dirk tied to his waist, Erik made his way up the staircase, along the dank tunnel, and into the lower vaults of the castle. He kept to the walls, hiding in the shadows, as he made his way to the kitchens.
Just like last time, he passed no one.
The gradual increase of warmth, felt keenly by his shivering body, alerted him that he was nearing his destination. A welcoming blast of heat from the kitchen fires, kept smoldering all night, hit him as he ducked under the stone archway of the kitchen. He peered around the room in the semidarkness, relieved to see the sleeping form of a man rolled up in his plaid before the fire.
Seamus MacDonald was one of the best cooks in the Highlands. Angus Og had been reluctant to forgo his skills, but had realized that the old man could better serve as a cook to the English. Most of the castle servants were his cousin’s men. The English brought plenty of soldiers and weapons, but they made use of the locals for labor. The arrogant knights, accustomed to the strictures of feudalism, discounted the danger of “peasants,” failing to understand that many household positions in the Highlands were a sign of prestige.
“Seamus,” he whispered, nudging the man with his foot.
Knowing the danger of waking a sleeping Highlander, Erik stood back, which was a good thing when the old man sprang up like a lad of two and twenty, dirk in hand.
Erik smiled in the darkness. “I thought you’d be expecting me.”
The cantankerous cook—a redundancy, in Erik’s experience—scowled at him. “Why do you think I’m here and not sleeping in the comfort of my bed?” His gaze dipped over Erik’s blackened body and hair. “God’s blood, you look like something just dredged up from a bog.” He threw Erik a plaid. “Cover yourself before you kill someone with that thing.”
Erik grinned. As he’d said before, he’d never come up short in his life. “The lasses don’t seem to object.”
The old man chortled. “What do you need this time?”
Seamus had never been one for pleasantries.
“Any word from our friend?”
The cook shook his head. “Not yet.”
“But you were able to send word?”
“My man left the next morning. If something had happened, I would have heard.”
Erik nodded. He would have preferred confirmation that his message had reached Bruce, but it would have to do for now.
“Will I be sleeping any more nights on the floor?” Seamus asked.
“Perhaps a few. I hope to return once more before I leave.”
“Have care, lad, the English are looking for our friend but also for you. There is a price on your head of two hundred marks.”
Erik feigned disappointment. “Is that all?”
Seamus’s mouth didn’t even twitch. It was a fortune. Not as much as the three hundred they’d offered for Wallace, but more than offered for any other man except for Bruce. “It’s nay a joking matter, lad. There is something odd going on.”
“You worry too much, old man.” But seeing the concern on his friend’s face, he sighed. “I promise to be careful. Believe me, I’ve no more wish to see the inside of an English dungeon than you do.” He paused. “In the meantime, I have another request.”
