Isabel turned away. Maybe it was just her imagination.
Inverlochy was supposed to provide them with safety, reassurance, and rest.
But Isabel had felt safer at the dilapidated lodge with only half a roof and the English patrolling nearby.
14
Isabel lay awake staring at the wooden beams above her bed, counting the swirling knots in the pine. The fire in the hearth emitted a low light, and the moon streamed in two slices from the two arrow slits on the wall. Despite the smallness of her chamber, it was well appointed and comfortable.
Too comfortable, perhaps. Thick wool blankets warmed her legs, the fire in the hearth burned low but steady, and the mattress beneath her was softer than anything she had slept on since leaving her uncle’s castle.
And yet sleep eluded her. Just when she felt herself slipping away at the edges, an invisible hand would snap its fingers in front of her face, and she’d bolt awake again. She worried about how close Comyn’s chamber was to hers and how far Lachlan’s was.
After days on the road and the chaos of Falkirk, the safe walls of a foreign castle felt strange.
Isabel rolled onto her side, blinking into the dark, listening.
Beyond the soft breathing of her maid on a pallet at the foot of the bed, the castle should be quiet this late at night. For certain, it was past midnight. And yet, the castle was not quiet. In fact, it was quite alive.
Footsteps echoed faintly through the corridor outside. A steady stream of boots clomping on stone. Shadows passing under the door from the torchlit corridor. Somewhere farther down the passage servants whispered to one another, their voices low and hurried. A door closed softly. More boots scraped against stone.
Isabel frowned.
A castle at rest should feel calm. Even with guests inside its walls.
But this place felt… restless. As though she were not the only one who could not sleep. But what kept the rest of them awake? After such a jovial attitude in the great hall, she would think they’d all sleep like bairns tucked into their beds, full of food and drink, and exhausted from merriment.
With a sigh of resignation, Isabel rose from the bed and crossed the room to the narrow window. She leaned her face against the cool stone, staring out into the night. The air drifting in through the slit was cool and smelled faintly of smoke from the kitchen fires below.
The courtyard lay half-lit by torches along the walls. A center fire lit in case the guards needed to light their arrows. Even now there were a few guards standing around those flames talking casually as though it weren’t the middle of the night.
Several horses stood in the stables, the doors open, their silhouettes shifting as they stamped and tossed their heads. A pair of guards spoke near the gate, their voices too low for her to hear. The gate was closed, a heavy beam in iron brackets. From the angle of her bedchamber, she could barely make out the landscape beyond the castle.
And then movement caught her eye, and she pressed her face against the narrow slit for a better view, wishing she had the power to move stone.
A rider being led quietly from one of the stables. A single man mounted his horse while another held the reins. No torch was carried. A helmet covered his face. A sword strapped to his side. He wore a black cloak around his shoulders, shielding his plaid colors. There was nothing distinguishable about him, even if she had a better view. Even his horse was plain.
The men who’d been loitering by the gate lifted the heavy beam and cracked the wide wood doors just enough for the lone rider to slip through.
Then it was closed, the beam replaced, and the men went back to talking as if someone hadn’t just been assisted in sneaking away from the castle. But she had seen them. And the likelihood of her being the only one to have witnessed the subterfuge was slim.
A gust of wind pushed against her face, and the flames of the torches shivered. The voices of the men carried on the wind, muffled by the air.
Why would a rider leave so quietly in the middle of the night?
The uneasy feeling in her stomach that she’d had since Comyn had molested her hand grew stronger. Of course, there was a chance that the rider was just going to deliver a message. Messengers were not an uncommon thing. Perhaps she was just being paranoid. Except, it felt more nefarious than that. And she knew to trust her gut. She turned to where she had slipped her dagger under her pillow and grabbed it. Buckling the sheath to her forearm, and she tucked it safely against her.
Isabel wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and glanced down to where Elsa lay dead to the world. At least one of them was sleeping. Her maid would hardly notice she was gone. Isabel went to the pitcher of water and dumped it into the chamber pot. Placing the now empty pitcher onto a table. She’d need a ready lie if someone were to happen upon her. And of course, a lady who had been drinking wine, with such delicate sensibilities would need a glass of water before bed. She’d have such a thundering headache and would need a week to recover if not.
She waited for the sounds of footfalls, which seemed to have dissipated some since she’d decided to get out of bed. When she was certain not to be accosted upon opening her door, she slipped quietly out into the corridor.
The hallways of Inverlochy were dim, lit only by torches spaced along the walls. Most of the castle seemed to have gone to sleep now. Perhaps everyone had been waiting for the rider to get on his way. But she had heard near two dozen footsteps passing outside her door, losing track at times with the hypnotic rhythm of their gaits.
Isabel slipped along the wall, ready to duck into an alcove should anyone appear, and rehearsed her I am so very thirsty m’lord in her head, perhaps accompanied by a fake cough.
As she reached the cool stairwell she heard the hushed sound of whispers. Lifting the hem of her skirts, she eased down the stone stairs, careful to keep one hand on the wall to steady herself. Her steps were quiet, and the speakers did not stop, or seem to notice her approach. Just as she was about to round the corner, she stilled, nearly atop them at the bottom of the steps.
“…English riders no’ far from here,” one said, in a tone that suggested they were wringing their hands in front of them.
