Chapter 18 #2
Neala blinked. That had not been what she expected to see.
And indeed, as she watched over the next half hour, she saw it was a consistent pattern.
Ansel was not soft with those who were falling behind, but neither was he harsh.
He offered practical advice and firm words of encouragement, and the men seemed to respond well to them.
"All right," Ansel called after some time. "Take a break or continue yer drills as ye please. I'm needed elsewhere."
A chorus of voices expressed their approval, and then, to Neala's shock, Ansel began walking directly toward her. Before she could dart away, he had come around the wall and was standing in front of her, a small smirk on his face.
"Enjoy the show, did ye?" he asked.
Neala tried to hide her blush. "I did. How long did ye ken I was here?"
"From the second ye arrived. I thought I told ye tae stay out of sight?" Ansel asked, folding his arms.
She considered acting compliant and apologetic, but instead she found herself boldly retorting, meeting his eyes as she said, "I got bored."
He arched an eyebrow. "Bored?"
"Aye. I finished the books ye left me, and I wrote enough on the paper." She chanced a cheeky smile. "And ye didnae leave me a chess set."
Her words were rewarded by a genuine laugh, one that created a flutter in her stomach and a warmth in her soul. Neala knew that he was the enemy, and she knew that she had resolved to end him, but still, when that mask slipped, she could not help the draw she felt to him.
"I didnae leave ye a chess set," he repeated, clearly amused. "Ye're right. Come along, then."
He walked away in a way that brokered no argument, and Neala fell into step beside him without even thinking about it.
"Where are we goin'? Back tae me rooms?" she asked.
Ansel smiled. "Just follow. We cannae have ye bein' bored, after all."
Neala gasped as Ansel led her through a grand set of double doors and into a huge library.
The shelves ran along the walls as far as the eye could see, and there were several comfortable reading chairs dotted around the place along with many polished wooden work desks.
There were also more shelves in the center of the room, though, curiously, some of them looked half empty.
"I'm afraid ye willnae find much in the way of enjoyable readin' material in here these days.
I've commissioned some histories and even some storybooks, but most of those are in the library at Blackthorn Castle," Ansel told her conversationally.
"However, ye might be able tae find somethin' tae keep ye entertained here. "
Neala stepped into the room, walking over to the nearest shelf and running her finger along the spines.
All of the books were in English, none in Gaelic or even French or Spanish, as she had often found in the library at the convent.
As she walked along, she found a few in old Latin, though there was so much dust upon them that she doubted they had ever been read.
"These are law books?" she asked. "This whole shelf seems to be on English trade law—nae very relevant tae us."
Ansel snorted. "Very relevant tae me father.
Dinnae be naive, Abby." He moved to her side and then steered her toward another shelf.
These books were bigger, emblazoned with gilt family names.
"And these are genealogies. Ye'll notice several clan names are missin', but they're a fairly concrete record of Scottish and English nobility. "
"Is that all that's here?" Neala asked, her eyes skimming over the books that Ansel had indicated and noticing the very conspicuous lack of the McNair name. "Genealogies and laws?"
"And other records," Ansel confirmed. "Lists of recruits, trade agreements, battle records, that sort of thing."
She wrinkled her nose. "Ye were right. Nae much readin' material."
Ansel smiled. "I ken. As I say, I'm tryin' tae change it, little by little.
They say the original McNair library was a sight tae behold, filled with books and stories from all over the world.
Of course, most of those tales were burned away in the flames twenty years ago, and the library itself was mostly destroyed as well.
This room was rebuilt from the ashes upon my command, but it's been very slow to be refilled. "
Neala could imagine it. She could picture how warm and beautiful this room had once been, and how filled with wonder.
She imagined her sister, the real Abby, cuddled up on their mother's lap while she read a story.
Little Graham, making too much noise while he was being taught to read by a despairing Morag.
Barry, by the fireplace while his father read out their family's history, being instructed on how to be king.
Her family had been alive here once. This whole castle had been alive. Once. Before the False King had burned all that life away.
Neala steeled herself, knowing that she could not allow herself to get lost in emotion.
She was running out of time to get the information she needed, and here she was now, alone with Ansel, surrounded by records that might be invaluable.
She needed to get something out of him while she still could.
"The rebels will be here soon. Today, maybe, or tomorrow at the latest. Are ye nay worried they may burn the library all over again?" she asked as casually as she could muster.
Ansel gave her a piercing look. For a moment, it seemed he wouldn't answer, but eventually, he did.
"They're nae threat tae us. Firstly, they willnae attack the castle.
They simply will try tae overcome what they believe are simple soldiers in trainin' and claim the place as their base, but there's nae way they'd destroy this place. Their leader is too sentimental."
Neala dropped her gaze, pretending to be examining a book, careful to not let him see her expression. "Their leader? Why would he be sentimental? Yer father says he is a false McNair."
"Hmm," Ansel agreed in a flat tone that gave nothing away. "Indeed. That's what me father believes."
Anxiety spiked in Neala at the implication, her blood pumping faster. Did Ansel suspect the truth? What did that mean? What did it change? She quickly got her heartbeat and breathing under control, using the techniques that Laura had taught her.
"Besides," Ansel went on, apparently not noticing her reaction, "They willnae get near the castle, regardless. As soon as their army is in sight, we'll activate the catapults. I'm sure ye saw them along the walls."
He led her over to another shelf as a knot tightened in Neala's stomach.
Ansel pulled out a collection of sketches and lay it down on a desk, opening it up and beckoning her over to see.
Neala obeyed, and there they were—the catapults she'd noticed on the battlements, vividly drawn to emphasize their deadly power.
There were scribbled notes beside the drawing, indicating the use of flames and burning oil to make them even more dangerous.
Neala swallowed. "Ye'll wipe them out."
"That's the idea," Ansel agreed idly. He spoke not like a bloodthirsty warmonger, but more like a scholar grappling with a particularly difficult theory.
"I will say, if the McNairs had employed such weapons twenty years ago, it's likely me father would have never stood a chance, even with all of the conspirin' he had done beforehand. "
She moved forward, hiding the shaking in her hand, and flipped to another sketch, then another. The battle plans were more detailed than she had ever dreamed.
"These are… well-thought-out," she said after a moment. "And artfully explained."
Seeming pleased, Ansel replied, "Thank ye for noticin'. I tried me best. I believe there should always be beauty, even in warfare." He tilted his head to the side. "Would ye like tae see somethin' else?"
Part of Neala screamed inside her. She didn't want to see anything else. She didn't want to know anything else. She couldn't bear it.
And yet, instead, she forced a smile on her face. "Please," she agreed.
Ansel took her hand so casually that it felt like he'd done it a thousand times before.
Despite her mounting horror, her hand still felt all-too-comfortable in his.
He led her to the far end of the library, and pushed a switch behind a book.
One of the shelves immediately began to move, slowly opening to reveal a hidden door.
Neala stared, stunned by the reveal. "How many hidden doors have ye got spotted around this castle?" she demanded, thinking of the one in her own room.
The prince laughed. "There are a few. Many of them were already here. The McNairs loved their secret passageways. This is one of them; the queen used it tae store her secrets. It survived the flames, but I had it reinforced."
He pushed open the door, and she followed him inside. Neala turned back to close the door behind them, but Ansel caught her hand and stopped her.
"Dinnae do that," he warned. "If the door closes, it can only be opened from the outside. One of me men is under orders tae check this room once every two days just in case of accidents, but, while I enjoy yer company, I dinnae think bein' trapped in here would be a good use of our time."
Neala drew back from the door, swallowing slightly at the thought. If she'd have trapped them in there… what would have happened next?
She forced her thoughts away, instead examining her surroundings.
And froze.
There was very little in the room, but it was dominated by a large metal chest emblazoned with a depiction of a bird in the woodlands.
"A capercaillie," Neala whispered.
"The symbol of the McNairs," Ansel agreed. "I always found it an interestin' choice. The chest was already here when I discovered this room as a bairn, and I never told me father about it."
Spellbound by the sight, Neala stepped forward and slowly opened the chest. Ansel didn't try to stop her. Inside was filled to the brim with various items—scrolls, books, sketches, pressed herbs, small statues, even a few toys. Many of them were decorated with the symbol of the capercaillie.
"Are these…?" Neala whispered, unable to force a normal tone anymore. She reached in and drew out a small doll, a toy soldier that might have once belonged to a small boy. It was a little ragged and worn, but there were no burn marks on it, and otherwise it seemed fine.
"I found that one not far outside of the castle when I was a lad," Ansel told her. "I think it may have belonged tae one of the princes. Nae doubt he was carryin' it durin' their failed attempt tae flee."
Neala held the little doll close. "Why… why did ye bring it here?"
He paused. "Och, it's embarrasin' tae admit.
I was a bairn still. I would have been heartbroken tae lose one of me toys.
I thought, perhaps, I should bring it home.
I'm nae sure why I've kept it with the rest of the things all these years.
Ye can keep it if ye like, since ye seem tae like it so much.
Perhaps one day ye can give it tae yer own son. "
Her hand shaking, Neala tucked the little doll away inside her cloak. She returned her attention to the chest and reached inside again, this time drawing out a little book.
"These are mine, however," Ansel replied, smiling faintly.
"Nae that they'd be any use tae ye. I dinnae ken why I kept all of these things, except that…
well, they were beautiful. They tell me that me own mother loved bonny things, though I never kent her.
They say she was kind, thoughtful, gentle…
everythin' me father was nae. She died bringin' me intae this world for him, and yet he never speaks her name.
" He shook his head. "I think as a lad I wanted tae respect her memory, and so I kept them.
And I kent it must be a secret. I couldnae bear me father learnin' of all of this and seein' it destroyed. "
Neala was barely listening. Her fingers fumbled as she opened the little journal she was holding, and her eyes greedily drank in the slightly faded handwriting on its pages, written in unapologetic Scots.
…the bairn will arrive soon. Cailean was too young tae understand what was happenin' when Abigail was born, but he is fascinated now by this one.
I ken that he and this youngest of me brood will have a special bond.
Rabbie thinks that the bairn will be yet another lad, and he wishes tae call him Neal after an uncle.
But a mother kens these things, and soon enough, I ken I will hold another wee lassie in me arms. I cannae wait tae meet ye, wee one—and nae just because I love tae prove me husband wrong!
It was too much. Neala's resolve crumbled, and all of her training fell away.
She could not be the White Sparrow now, nor the noble princess.
For the first time in her life, she felt like nothing but a lost little girl, clutching onto her mother's thoughts and words more desperately than any lifeline.
Tears poured down her cheeks unchecked, and she stared, unseeing, at the pile of memories in the chest that should have been lost forever.
"Those journals belonged tae the queen," Ansel noted, sounding genuinely interested.
"From what I can tell, Fiona McNair was a wise, thoughtful woman.
It's a shame she had tae lose her life. I often wonder what we could have learned from the McNairs had me father chosen tae let them live on as prisoners. "
She couldn't keep it in anymore. Neala tried to respond, but all that came out was a deep sob.
Ansel touched her arm and turned her around to face him, surprise and concern etched in equal measure across her face. "What— Abby? Why are ye cryin'? Are ye hurt?"
Neala couldn't speak. She sobbed harder, and when Ansel whispered something soothing, she hated herself for finding comfort in him—in the son of the man who had destroyed everything that could have been.