The king didn’t need to tell him that. He had no desire to ever be locked up in another pit prison. Dark holes held no fond memories for him. He repressed the reflexive shudder. To free her he would risk it. He would risk just about anything. “Who can I take?”
The king and MacLeod conferred privately for a moment before MacLeod answered. “Raider, Dragon, Hunter, and Striker.”
Lachlan muttered an oath. He’d be glad for Lamont’s tracking skills and MacLean’s gift with strategy, but he’d be spending half his time trying to prevent Boyd and Seton from killing one another. “What about Saint and Templar?” he asked, referring to MacKay and Gordon.
“They’re coming with me, Hawk, and Arrow,” MacLeod said. “If they’re both being moved, we’re going to try to free Mary as well.”
Lachlan nodded grimly. Like Bella, young Mary Bruce had been hung from a cage—hers was located at Roxburgh Castle.
The first Edward also had originally wanted to hang Bruce’s daughter Marjory from a cage at the Tower of London, but she’d been given a reprieve. Like her Aunt Christina, Marjory had been sent to a nunnery instead.
The queen, probably due to her powerful father, Edward’s close cohort the Earl of Ulster, had been placed under house arrest in Burstwick. The young Earl of Mar had been sent to the English court to be raised. The Earl of Atholl, however, had not been so fortunate. He’d been sent to the gallows.
MacKay and Gordon had been mistaken for ordinary men-at-arms. They’d been imprisoned at Urquhart for a few months, but Lachlan and other members of the Highland Guard had managed to free them.
“And the other women?”
Bruce’s face was somber. “We’ve heard from my old friend Lamberton, the Bishop of St. Andrews—freed from prison but still confined in England—that my wife, daughter, and sister Christina are being treated well. They are still too far south and too well guarded to attempt anything. But when the moment is right, I will lead the damned rescue party myself.”
Lachlan nodded. Though he wished all the women could be freed, it was Bella and young Mary whose harsh treatment had made them the first to rescue.
With his team in place, Lachlan didn’t waste any time. Before the cock had crowed, he and the other guardsmen were riding hard for Berwick.
Bella stood gazing out the small window in her tower room, watching the people bustling around the courtyard below as they went about their duties and activities for the day. After more than two years, the faces were familiar to her. There was Harry the young stable lad, fetching water for the horses, and Annie, the young girl from the village who seemed to look for any excuse to linger near Will, the green-and-gold-liveried man-at-arms who excelled with a bow.
Those weren’t really their names, of course. But with nothing but needlework to pass the time, she’d made up names and stories for the villagers and occupants of the castle. At times it could be quite entertaining, almost like watching a play. But most importantly, it was a way to relieve the monotony that had proved her most dogged enemy—inside the cage or out.
She stood here most of the day. The window was small, but there were no bars to obstruct the view. Sometimes, for a fraction of an instant, she could forget the small room behind her. Forget the smothering sense of confinement that lingered since her release from the cage three months ago—ninety-seven days, to be exact.
But she was careful not to look up. She never looked up.
She knew the location of her chamber wasn’t an accident. They’d placed her in a tower room opposite the cage. It was just another way to torment and manipulate her, to not let her forget what they could do to her.
As if she could ever forget. She didn’t need a view to remind her of the hell of her imprisonment. She carried the memories with her every day.
How she’d gotten through it she didn’t know. Her daughter. Her pride. An obstinate refusal to let them win. Somehow she’d managed. She’d learned to ignore that people were always watching her. That she never had a moment of privacy. The pitying glances. The bars. She’d combated the sense of confinement by walking in place and stretching her limbs every morning. Alleviated her boredom by making up stories about the people in the yard.
The one thing she could not control was the cold. She shivered reflexively. This small, damp, soulless room seemed like a sultry haven by comparison.
She’d walked out of that cage thinner, weaker, and sadder, but with her back straight and her chin up.
She’d gotten through it once, but she didn’t think she could do it again. It wasn’t until she’d been released that the horror caught up to her. But each day she was getting stronger and feeling more like her old self.
Suddenly, the door slammed open. She stiffened, knowing exactly who it was. Other than the boredom, the one constant throughout her long ordeal was Sir Simon. Her personal tormentor.
She turned, knowing that if she ignored him it would be worse.
His eyes narrowed, as if he were trying to find something wrong with what she was doing. “You spend a lot of time looking out that window.”
Panic rose up her throat. The window was the one thing keeping her from going mad. If he guessed how important it was to her…
Bella felt her mouth go dry. She moistened her lips with a quick flick of her tongue, but immediately regretted the action when she saw how Simon’s eyes flared. After two years, she knew better than to draw attention to any part of her body—especially her mouth—but her nervousness betrayed her. “I was merely hungry and wondered at the time. Did you bring my meal?”
“I’m not your blasted servant,” he said angrily, as she knew he would. Distracting him with anger was the best way to steer him from the scent of her weakness.
She lifted a haughty brow, knowing she was playing with fire. “Then what did you want?”
His fists clenched, as did his jaw. “You’re leaving.”
