Chapter 35
Freya stood very still in the semidarkness of a sumptuous room fit for a princess.
Rising on her tiptoes, she strained toward the ceiling, listening.
A soft thud fell against the floor in the corner.
Then came a sharp, punctuated rap. It was early, even for the women of the house to be awake—but not too early for a maid. Not the maid of Moy Castle.
Heart thudding, she rushed to the corner, climbing the shelves that ran from floor to ceiling. Balancing carefully, she lifted her hand, slipped off her wedding ring, and tapped it against the ceiling.
Tap, tap-tap. Tap, tap-tap. She signaled the short pattern again and again, praying it was Aoife, praying she would be heard. After nearly a minute she stopped. And waited.
Da-Dum. Da-Dum. Da-Dum. A muted knock answered, followed by a gentle rhythm. The rhythm of the Wolfhound song she had sung at Castle Tioram. Freya tapped the same rhythm back, and frantic taps followed in return. Her eyes grew hot. Aoife.
For long minutes they traded taps, unable to speak but unwilling to stop. That tiny link buoyed her heart after a day and a half of fear. She had been locked in this chamber more than a full day, consumed with dread and grief.
Time was running short. At dawn she would be hauled before the king, and—worse—Alexander Stewart.
A thought of Morven MacKenzie pierced her heart: a girl of seven whose entire world had been her parents and her abbey.
The Wolf had not hesitated to nail its doors shut and set it alight, burning her alive for no greater crime than being the daughter of David MacKenzie. How much less mercy would he show her?
Movement stirred above. Heavy footsteps pounded, Aoife’s lighter steps scrambling away. A muffled whimper. Then the scrape of a lock, wrenched open.
Freya pressed back against the wall, breath ragged. A whispered prayer sprang to her lips as thunderous footsteps charged down her corridor.
“Holy is His name. His mercy is from generation unto generation, to them that fear Him. He has shown might with His arm, He has scattered the proud in the conceit of their hearts. He has put down the mighty from their seat—”
The door rattled.
“—and exalted the humble.”
The door burst open.