Chapter 21
Isobel and Gillian made it out of the keep with little incident. They left a note for Rose, so she wouldn’t worry. They’d considered bringing her, but decided her healing skills were needed here at Lochlaire.
They were below the castle, in the dank quay with only the sound of dripping water.
Fog seeped through the water entrance, winding about them like seeking hands.
Half a dozen boats bobbed in the gentle current.
There were more, but they wouldn’t be so easily gotten at as these.
Isobel and Gillian untied them all, climbing in one, and letting the rest drift away.
They rowed in silence, both of them edgy, waiting for someone to discover them.
Soon, they feared. It would be difficult to make it to the shore without someone seeing them from the walls.
It was evening and not yet full dark, but they had the fog for cover.
If MacDonells were sent after them, they would not make it.
They had not the strength of the men, who could easily overtake them.
As it was, they were barely out of the arching cavelike water entrance to the castle and Isobel’s shoulders ached.
She felt blisters forming on her hands from plying the oars.
The boat glided through the water. They had not lit the lantern on the bow of the boat, but they could see lights twinkling from the cottages near the shore, drawing them near.
They had both chosen to wear their dark lowland mantles rather than arisaids.
With the hood of her mantle pulled over her head, Gillian’s face was completely hidden from Isobel.
They reached the shore undetected. Isobel removed her shoes, stuffing them in her satchel, and pulled up her skirts, securing them like breeches at her waist. She waded into the water, pulling the boat along behind her until it nudged the coarse grass.
They were too far from the small wooden dock and could not pull the boat onto the shore as the men seemed to do so easily, and this irritated her.
A sense of desperation infused her. She had no patience for her own shortcomings—it reminded her of the difficulty of the task she’d set for herself, and she could not consider that she might fail.
Gillian hopped out of the boat, and after Isobel had her shoes on again, they hurried along toward the stable.
No one was in sight around the building.
When Isobel cracked the door she heard the soft nickering of horses and their rustlings about in their stalls.
They slipped inside and the warmth from horses enveloped them.
A table and stool were near the far double door.
A single taper burned and a man, his plaid wrapped around him like a blanket, slept, leaning against the wall, his boots propped on the tabletop.
Isobel saddled Jinny as quietly as possible and led the mare out of her stall.
Gillian joined them a moment later, leading the gray Philip had brought for a wedding gift.
As soon as it spotted Isobel it tossed its head and snorted testily, pawing the ground.
Isobel frowned at her sister. Whyever would she choose that thing when there were much more docile mounts to be had?
Gillian’s eyes shone when she stroked the gray’s neck. “Isn’t he beautiful?” she whispered.
Isobel raised her brows, but there was no time to swap horses, and the gray was already saddled and ready to go. They stared across the stable at the sleeping man guarding the horse entrance.
They couldn’t hope to escape the stable without waking the guard, so they didn’t even try. After heaving off the heavy bar locking the stable’s double door, they both mounted. Isobel spurred Jinny forward, bursting through the doors as the guard woke, falling off his stool in surprise.
And then they were free—the only MacDonell wise to them was the stable guard.
He would soon alert the castle, but they had a good head start.
They raced across the glen, letting instinct and the horses lead them to the mountain pass.
They were halfway to the narrow mountain pass that led in and out of Glen Laire when Isobel finally looked back.
It was too dark to see anything, though Lochlaire glowed with torches and she thought she discerned the glare of firelight reflecting off the loch’s surface, moving to shore.
She spurred Jinny faster. The day before she’d been filled with excitement, racing to her home—and now she raced away from it, terrified of being stopped. Stones dislodged and fell beneath the horses’ hooves, but they kept at it, climbing their way to the mountain pass.
Once through the pass, Isobel reined in Jinny. Gillian’s gray stopped beside her, shaking its head and snapping at Isobel’s mount.
“You know which direction?” Isobel asked. “Because we can make no mistakes.”
Gillian nodded. “I remember the route Hagan and I took—and once we reach familiar landmarks, I know the way to Wyndyburgh.”
Gillian’s confidence eased some of Isobel’s fear. “How long will it take?” she asked, as they started down the other side of the mountain.
“If we don’t stop unless absolutely necessary, a day and half—maybe two days. But it will take them three or more if they’re stopping to rest the horses and sleep. Fash not, Isobel, he’s going to Wyndyburgh, not Hawkirk. We’ll reach him in plenty of time.”
Isobel nodded, but didn’t share her sister’s confidence.
She needed to touch the ring again, to see what else she could discover.
Already she had a sense that time was running out and that there was something more that she was not seeing.
But she could think of no reason why Philip would be anywhere near Hawkirk when his destination was so much farther east. There was still time.
They did not stop riding through the night. When the blush of dawn lightened the sky, Gillian said, “I have to stop—just for a moment.”
They hobbled their horses at a cluster of bushes.
When Isobel emerged from the bushes she rubbed her aching belly.
They’d brought very little food and water, and so would have to ration themselves.
Gillian, however, had a good deal of coin, so when they reached a village that evening, they were able to eat a decent meal at the tavern.
“We should stay the night here,” Gillian said. She was exhausted, her dark curls springing free from her tight coiffure. “We’re two lone women, and this is the only weapon I have.” She held up the small sharp knife she used to cut her meat.
They did need to rest. They’d ridden all day and the night before. They couldn’t continue running the horses at that pace—even the gray was showing signs of fatigue. Isobel gripped her own knife with impatience but nodded her assent.
That night she touched the ring again, with fear and apprehension, but also with determination to squeeze every bit of information out of the vision that she could. She knew what to expect this time and was prepared. So was Gillian, who sat close.
But there was nothing more to see. Isobel emerged from the vision with tears streaking her face, unable to understand how or why such a thing could happen.
“He’s not a witch,” she whispered to Gillian, as they lay on the narrow straw-filled tick, arms around each other to keep warm.
“It doesna matter,” Gillian said softly.
“Half the village saw him with you, protecting you, and it was clear to them that you are a witch.” Isobel had told her what had happened in Hawkirk and how they’d escaped.
“Many people have been burned these past years for nothing more than consulting witches.”
Isobel knew that was true, but could not think of it.
It made her sick that mere association with her could be someone’s death sentence.
She had known it, but it had not been real to her until now.
More tears leaked from her eyes as she wondered if the burned corpse in the vision was Stephen, or even Fergus, who must surely be making his way to join them.
Philip had left instructions for Fergus to follow at both Sgor Dubh and Lochlaire.
He could be following them straight to his own death.
Gillian hushed her, whispering softly and telling her she must sleep or she’d not be able to stay in the saddle on the morrow.
Isobel did sleep, but her dreams were filled with nightmares and burnings, and this time it was she who was strapped to the stake, her neck bruised from being strangled.
But she wasn’t dead, and the fire surrounded her as it had her mother as she screamed and screamed.
It took them three days to reach Wyndyburgh.
It looked just as it had in her vision of Effie, with the added odor of rotting garbage and horse offal filling the streets.
Isobel dismounted and led Jinny through the narrow streets as if in a trance, Gillian close behind.
She stopped before a small house, packed in close with its neighbors.
“He must’ve been here by now,” Isobel said. “He might even be in there now.” Her heart sped with hope at the thought, and she shoved Jinny’s reins at Gillian.
She knocked on the door and suddenly became aware of her appearance. She’d not even bothered to tidy her hair when they woke that morning, and hadn’t washed since the previous day. Her gown was travel-stained, and she probably smelled awful.
The door swung open, and Philip’s sister stood before her, her stomach huge with child. She wore an apron over her dress and her hair was tucked up under a white, starched cap. She was wiping her hands on an old towel. The scents of fresh bread and roasting fowl drifted from the open door.
“Aye?” Effie said, inspecting Isobel curiously.
“I’m looking for a man. Sir Philip Kilpatrick. He was coming here to see…you…” As soon as Isobel said Philip’s name Effie’s large dark eyes widened with dismay.