19
Isla knew how to swim. She had been raised in a castle on a coastal peninsula; every child born into the Dougal clan was taught how to swim from the time they were old enough to paddle. But they had been taught to swim in the river upstream from the estuary; this was the first time Isla was swimming in the sea.
The inky blackness surrounded her, brackish and colder than anything she could have imagined. She remembered what her father had told her, that no one could survive in the northern seas for longer than one-quarter of a bell toll, whether it was summer or winter, before their heart stopped beating and life gave up the ghost.
Stroking her arms firmly through the water, Isla tried hard not to cry out in terror as she saw the boats disappear behind her in the swell. Breathing in through her mouth, she fixed her gaze on the silver sands of the shore and swum.
Time stood still or else it had no meaning at all in those chilling waters. Slowly, inch by inch, Isla lost all feeling in her fingers and toes. Nor could she feel her nose and lips. It was as if her body was dying in small increments and she would expire before reaching her goal.
I don’ want the last words I say to Fin to be a jest. I want to tell him that I love him no matter what an’ that I regret me petulance and sulks. I must carry on…
A swell slopped over her head, and Isla gasped, swallowing seawater and sand granules. Her body wanted to give up and sink beneath the waves, but her heart urged her to carry on. Another heaving wave of water dunked her under. Isla almost screamed with the terror of knowing that one more swell and she would drown.
Then…a miracle! Her feet touched sand underneath her. Silently giving thanks to her good angel, Isla clambered onto the beach. Not wasting time shivering and retching up the seawater she had swallowed, she staggered along the sand toward the outer wall that connected to the kitchen courtyard.
Where is that girl who complained about escapin’ down the dungeon drain outlet? I would no’ recognize meself in her anymore.
If Isla’s frozen lips had allowed her to smile, she would have. Instead, she ran her hands over the place next to the ancient, crumbling wall facing the rocky outcrop on the beach. Finlay had told her what to look for and the details were etched in her mind. When she felt wood, she tapped. It was hollow. Using her hands, she pulled and scraped away the sandy soil covering the hatch. After feeling for the iron ring and finding it, Isla hoisted up the hatch and climbed in. Her feet could feel nothing solid underneath, so she lowered herself down by her hands while feeling for the floor with her toes. It was a mistake. Her hands were still numb, and her fingers could not hold the edge of the hatch. With a silent scream, she fell several feet down to the floor, hitting it with a hard thump.
For one moment, her body refused to move, and Isla lay there in the dark, shivering and crying quiet tears. Only the thought of her friends, her father, and the man she loved waiting for her at the boats gave her the strength to go on.
Limping, her hand clutching one side of her ribs, Isla made her way across the cellar, past the trapdoor the cook always kept bolted after the fires were doused, to the secret hatch leading up to the kitchen flagstone floor. She had to push a barrel of wine under the ceiling to reach the hidden hatch so she could reach the small hidden entrance. She had a good idea how the ceiling stone would look—a slightly different color from all the others, the same as how the flagstone in the dungeons had been camouflaged.
One heave of her shoulder and the ceiling stone shifted up. Another hard shove and it slid to one side. Dressed only in her thin, wet shift, Isla wiggled easily through the hole, leveraging herself out into the kitchen with a huge sigh of relief.
“Isla! Whatever are ye doin’ here?”
It was Pila. Isla nearly screamed to see the shadowy shape of her best friend in the kitchen, but she clapped her hand over her mouth to stop the sound from coming out.
“What’s goin’ on, Isla?” Pila demanded to know. “Ye slid out o’ the floor like a ghost emergin’ from hell.” Pila’s voice came out in a squeak, and she was frozen to the spot, thinking that what she saw was an apparition.
“Hush, Pila. I have come back to open the gates for the laird’s son’s men.” Isla tried to stand up, but all she could do was sit on the floor, grasping her ribs. “I need to go to one o’ the northern tower windows and strike a light.”
The room swam around her; she was nearly dead from fatigue.
“Why are ye in the kitchens so early?” Isla wanted to know. She hoped her friend was not there as a spy.
Pila tucked her arm under Isla and helped her stand, saying, “Och, Mither put me on bread-making duties since I told the guard about yer plans to escape the castle. She was so angry with me, I thought she would strangle me.”
Pila sat Isla down at the table used to knead and proof the dough. Then she went to the fire and blew on the ashes. When the flames caught, she took a thin spill from a jar on the mantel and lit it. After setting the candles alight, she set the spill to a lantern and then went to the door.
“Where are ye goin’?”
Isla was petrified that Pila was still angry with her for leaving without saying farewell.
Her friend gave her a puzzled look. “I’m off to the north tower to signal to the men like ye told me to, of course!” and with those words, she was gone.
It seemed like Pila was gone for a long time, but in truth, it was not. The bell had not yet rung out to signal the changing of the guards. When Pila came back in, she told Isla, “Which gate did ye say ye would open for the men?”
Isla’s throat had started to seize up, and she was shaking with strong rigors—one of the effects of swimming in the icy northern —but she managed to say, “Just s-slide the bolt open that l-leads down to the wine cellar. The men will pull the boats onto the b-beach and come through the hidden tunnel at the wall… The c-castle was built so that the sentries on the n-north battlements cannae see boats comin’ in that way because o’ the rocky outcrop…”
Pila was gone in a moment and back just as quickly. “I shot the bolt and left the lantern down in the cellars so they could see. Now, let’s get ye into something warm, shall we?” Isla rasped out a short laugh that turned into a hacking cough. “If I’d kent ye were so good at this stuff, Pila, I would have simply climbed into yer bedchamber window instead.”
Her friend chuckled. “Isla, promise me that the only thing climbin’ in me bedchamber window from now on will be one o’ Finlay Dougal’s fine young soldiers!”
Isla nearly collapsed by the time she reached her friend’s bedchamber. They did not bother tiptoeing because this was the cook’s living quarters. Stockings, shift, and kirtle made Isla begin to feel warm again, but when Pila tried to lace stays around her, Isla had to bite back a scream.
“There’s something wrong with me ribs, Pila! Leave the stays!”
