Chapter 3 #3
She could easily step outside the window.
And there was scaffolding set up where they continued to work on the battlements.
In the darkness, she could swing down the wooden scaffolding without being seen, and, if she enwrapped herself in one of Jillian’s plain brown woolen capes, she could simply walk out the gates.
What then?
At the river’s edge, she’d have no choice but to steal a boat. Not steal. She smiled suddenly. King David had been the first Scottish monarch to mint his own coinage. She’d leave the boat’s owner a handsome coin bearing the king’s own image.
“Mellyora?” Jillian called to her.
Mellyora hesitated. “Go back to your tapestry, Jillian. I am sorry to have upset you. I need some time alone,” she said.
She softly closed the doors between the two rooms.
Quietly, she dug into Jillian’s travel trunk and found the cloak she required. She slipped it around herself, drawing the hood low. It was a deep brown color, and would blend well with the night.
Mellyora crawled onto the window seat and squeezed her length through the narrow window. She leapt softly down to the wooden battlement beyond the window and hurried along it.
She paused, seeing the distance between the place where she paused and the scaffolding just beyond. She inhaled, wondering if she was willing to risk her own life for her freedom.
Freedom was a gift worth many risks. She’d heard it said, many times, by many men.
It would be a long fall if she made a leap—and didn’t catch the crossbeam of the scaffolding.
Ruling was wisdom, her father had taught her. Decide if it can be done. And if it can be done …
Then do it with courage.
She stepped back.
Ran … and leapt.
She caught the crossbeam, swung down upon it, caught a lower beam, and then another, and another.
She jumped the last few feet to the ground.
The common courtyard at Stirling was not crowded, neither was it empty.
By night, fishermen returned from their journeys along the river; wives rushed home from the last of their bartering; wool, dye, and food merchants closed up their stations for the night.
Mellyora blended with them. Nearing the gates, she hurried to walk close behind a peddler leaving the city walls.
To someone watching, it would appear she was a woman walking with a brisk pace to keep up with her husband.
Outside the walls, the peddler started down the southward trail, to the village. She parted ways with him, nearly running now as she hurried toward the river.
At the docks there was a great deal of activity, despite the hour. She veered away from the docks, heading downriver. Daro’s men would be encamped in the fields southward, so she would want to move downriver.
She hurried along the damp embankment until she saw an unattended boat.
A small rowboat, pulled up tight on the embankment.
She looked carefully around, but no one was about, so she hurried over to the small boat.
Both oars were in place. She remembered that she wasn’t going to become a thief—not when she didn’t have to become one.
She slipped her hand into the pocket sewn into her shift and curled her fingers around a small silver coin.
She would toss it onto the shore where the boat had been once she had gotten it moving.
She started to push the boat from the mud when, suddenly, something seemed to rise from the embankment.
She froze.
Not something. Someone. A man. Darkly cloaked as she was herself. He seemed to rise forever, huge and towering in the darkness.
A gasp caught in her throat as a man’s voice deeply shouted out, “Thief!”
Could she get the boat out and away before he reached her? Never.
He came closer; he was already almost upon her. His strides were long, fluid, and swift, and he gained on her position so quickly she hadn’t a prayer of getting away on the river.
She watched him coming, trying to remain calm, to think, to calculate—quickly!—and yet the sure menace of his graceful speed sent panic searing through her. She could manage a sword in her own defense, but she had fled without a sword.
So much for thinking.
She had a small knife at her calf, but he was probably well armed …
She couldn’t get away swiftly enough in the boat. She could only hope to escape on foot. She turned to run.
Yet even as she did so, she was caught. She gasped as she was enwrapped in large, steel-like arms. Her feet were swept off the ground as she tried to escape, and she was brought crashing downward to the soft river embankment.
She landed hard, inhaling desperately for air.
She tried to rise, and could not. He was there, ready to pounce on top of her. She slipped her hand down to her calf, reaching for her knife. Her fingers grasped it and she wriggled desperately, turning to her back. She managed to bring her arm up, and aim for a place between the man’s ribs.
Before her blow could fall, her wrist was captured. Long, ruthless fingers sent a searing pain into her wrist. Against her will, she dropped the knife.
She couldn’t breathe, for the towering stranger with the steel muscles had straddled her form.
“Now!” he thundered, his voice husky and deep. “Now, thief! Where do you think you’d be going with that boat? Answer, and answer quickly, or I’ll slit your throat!”