Campbell leaned down from his horse and reached for Isabelle. “We need to move quickly if we are to make it into Glasgow before the gates close.”
Isabelle was too tired to answer. They had traveled hard all day, alternating between riding and walking, though Campbell’s walking stride required Isabelle to hustle to keep pace. Her feet hurt, her legs hurt, her back hurt, and she was greatly tired of this journey. Campbell offered his hand and she allowed herself to be hauled back onto the horse, and onto the Highlander’s lap. She collapsed against his chest and he spurred his mount toward Glasgow.
Having spent most of her life in a castle, Isabelle thought herself immune to whatever splendor the Scots may have created, but as they approached Glasgow, she realized she had misjudged. They plodded over a wooden bridge crossing the River Clyde, and she stared at the large wooden ships. Several were tied along the banks, looking impressive with their single, tall mast in the middle. Never had she seen such a wonder. At Briggait Port Gate her Highlander had a few words with the guard, and they proceeded into the burgh.
Isabelle was immersed in the sights and sounds and smells of the Glasgow market. The streets were lined with small shops and carts of people selling wares. People crowded the streets, brushing by her as they passed. Vegetables, fish, and game were proudly displayed, along with cloth, ribbons, and spices. Each little, crowded shop sold goods from their particular guild: tanners, skinners, weavers, and fishmongers. Carts of fresh produce lined the street. The pungent aroma of dead fish, cinnamon, roasting meat, and many bodies assailed her like a restorative.
She sat up tall, soaking in the new sights and sounds. Never had she seen so many people, so many wares, such brilliant colors. She was accustomed to traders who came once a moon to Alnsworth Castle, but this was extraordinary. Her uncle had never allowed her to leave the castle, so she had never been to a fair or market. Apparently she had missed much.
“Ye’ve ne’er seen a market before?” Campbell raised one eyebrow.
Isabelle shut her gaping mouth. “No, never.”
“Saltmarket, this is. The weekly market at Glasgow Cross.”
“Cross?” Isabelle looked for some sort of sculpture.
“The cross streets of Saltmarket, High Street, Trongate, and Gallowgate; ’tis market day, almost its close. The time when the best deals can be made.” The corners of Campbell’s mouth twitched up.
Isabelle glanced at him sideways. “I’ve heard tell the Scots are a frugal folk.”
Campbell smiled, “With seven sisters I’ve had to be. Here, maybe ye can be of service to me.” He dismounted and helped Isabelle down. “If I dinna return wi’ cloth, my sisters will have my head. Perhaps ye can help me choose?”
Isabelle smiled at the chance and put up the hood of her cloak to appear more respectable. She walked to a storefront of a cloth merchant in one of the thatch-roofed houses crowding the streets. Cloth was arranged in organized piles, and hung on rungs of short ladders leaned up against the walls. Isabelle ran her hand over several selections, smiling. There was a nice variety, some rough, some fine.
Isabelle brushed her hand over gray wool, russet brown damask, and saffron yellow linen. The shop clerk eyed her and Campbell with interest and disappeared back into his shop, emerging a moment later with an armful of silk. Isabelle’s pulse quickened.
The silks were high quality, smooth and soft, with vibrant colors of dark red, sage green, and bright blue. She glanced up at Campbell, but his face was unreadable. The silks must be quite costly. Time for a little revenge for her blisters.
“I’ll take this wool here, no, not that one, it smells of mold, this one here. I’ll take the russet damask, the green silk, and the blue.” Isabelle spoke with confidence. She had been bartering for goods for years, though admittedly never in an open market.
The shopkeeper stared at her, then at Campbell. “She is English?”
“Aye,” said Campbell. “Is that a problem?”
“Nay, nay.” The shopkeeper smiled broadly. Isabelle could almost see the coin being counted in his head. “’Tis fine, good quality cloth, I will give ye a good price.”
Campbell said something to the shopkeeper in his own Gaelic tongue, and the burgher answered in kind. Though she could not understand their words, it was not difficult to comprehend they were negotiating for price.
The burgher gave them a wide smile, reverently stroking the blue silk, showing its fine quality. Campbell fingered the silk as if it was rough and displeasing, probably saying something about an inferior weave.
“I am sure we could get a better price at the borders.” Isabelle could not help but get into the act. Campbell nodded in agreement. “I think this cloth has been stored too long, it has a damp smell to it. Not up to English standards, I say.”
“My lady!” cried the burgher, much grieved. “This is the finest silk ye would find anywhere. It arrived last week from France. Finer silk ye’ll ne’er see.”
The two men continued to barter until Campbell made his purchase of the cloth Isabelle chose, along with a handful of ribbons. He tied the bundles to his saddle and steered her through the rest of the market, his arm around her shoulder.
“Ye barter well, my lady. My sisters will be well pleased, though ye beggar me wi’ yer choices. Still, Cait is getting married and I promised her something special for her dowry.”
Campbell bought two meat pastries and gave one to Isabelle. She breathed in the savory smell. The crust was buttery and the tender meat melted in her mouth. She smiled and took another bite of flavorful pastry, the meal reviving her spirits.
They walked slowly through the waning crowd, Isabelle trying not to be happy and failing at it. She felt not at all like a lost English lady, but more a friend or relative, or something else to this man Campbell.
She had to admit that while still a barbarian, Campbell was a considerate man and a kind brother… and not at all difficult to look upon. His arm was warm around her shoulders and her side touched his as they strolled down High Street, their backs to the setting sun.
“The Black Friars are o’er there.” Campbell had taken on the role of tour guide.
“Black?” asked Isabelle.
“Dominican. So-named because of the color o’ their robes.” The lane turned to the right, revealing an impressive cathedral high on a hill, surrounded by fields on one side and a forest on the other. The setting sun caught the glass and stone of the cathedral, giving it a rosy orange hue. Isabelle paused at the impressive sight.
“Glasgow Cathedral. Beautiful is she no’?”
Isabelle nodded. The arm around her shoulder dropped and Campbell took her hand. “We’ll be here for the night.” He led her to a large stone inn and retrieved his packages, handing off his mount to a lad. The hazy common room of the inn was filled with people and smoke, but the conversation was friendly and the atmosphere was relaxed.
Campbell spoke with the owner and led her upstairs to a bedroom.
“Stay here, get some sleep.” Campbell’s eyes were kind. “Ye’ve had a long journey and bore it better than some o’ my sisters might.” He pulled out a red ribbon from the bundle he carried. “This is for ye, to replace the one ye lost.”
“Thank you.” Isabelle received his gift with surprise and pleasure. “’Tis kind of you to think of me.”
“Ye must be tired, I’ll let ye rest.” Campbell lingered for a few moments, then left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Isabelle smiled and reclined on her bed, a pallet stuffed with straw, but it smelled clean and it was a heavenly relief to lie down. Despite her fatigue, a basin of water on a side table was tempting enough to get her back on her feet. She washed her face and hands in the cool water, appalled at how the clear water turned brown and muddy.
Isabelle traced her finger along the smooth edge of the ribbon lying next to the basin. It was a kind gesture. Perhaps being dragged halfway through Scotland was not so bad after all.
A new thought crept into her head. David Campbell was often kind and had not mistreated her during their journey, though he’d certainly had the opportunity. She would be safer under his protection than under that of her husband, of that she felt sure. Perhaps if she told him the truth of the matter, he would protect her from her murderous husband and help her return to her king.
It would mean telling him who she was and risking him sending her back to her husband. And yet… without his help she would not have made it this far. How was she to travel back to England by herself? Even with her brightest optimism, she had to admit her chances of success were poor. She weighed the odds of successfully traveling back to England by herself, versus the odds that Campbell would return her to Lord Tynsdale.
The strains of music floated up from below, and the crowd laughed and sang. Campbell was a good man. Perhaps it was worth taking a risk to trust him. Isabelle put her hand in her pocket to make sure her two signet rings were still with her. These would help her prove her words were true.
Refreshed with purpose and eager to hear the music, Isabelle combed her fingers through her straight black hair and braided it down her back, entwining the red ribbon and tying it securely. It was hardly modest enough for a married woman, but it would have to suffice. Her gown was a mess, but she was only going to find Campbell.
The common room hummed with the excitement of a boisterous crowd talking and laughing. A man in a brightly colored tunic played a lively tune on the lyre. Isabelle tapped her toe to the music and longed to join a few lads who were dancing, mugs of ale in hand.
“Excuse me,” Isabelle asked a serving lass. “Could you tell me where I can find Laird Campbell?”
The wench frowned at her. “Where ye from? I dinna ken ye.”
“I’m looking for Campbell.” Isabelle emphasized the name, wishing he would appear.
“Weel, now. ’Arry, this lass says she’s looking fer the Campbell.”
Harry turned around. A larger, more gruesome man Isabelle could not imagine. Harry was covered in pockmarks, had a bent nose, was missing most of his teeth, and smelled of rot. Her heart beat a bit faster and the hair on the back of her neck rose.
“I’m looking for Campbell.” She tried to speak with confidence but was afraid it sounded more like a squeaking mouse.
“What are ye? English?” Harry growled, his gruff voice booming through the room. People paused their conversations to see what was happening.
“If you please tell me where I could find him.” Isabelle took a step back.
“Sassenach!” Harry spit on the ground. The minstrel stopped playing, the room hushed. Isabelle took another step back and wished she had simply gone to bed. More angry men who resembled Harry’s unfortunate visage joined him.
“What’s an English doing here?”
“What does she want from Campbell?”
“There’s a price on his head, the wench must be a spy.”
“Whatever ye want o’ Campbell I can give ye, English.”
Isabelle stepped back until she was out of the room. The red-faced men followed her. Her heart pounded in her ears. “I am with Campbell and I will not be spoken to such.”
Harry’s uglier mate sneered. “Ye lie, English. Campbell would ne’er be caught wi’ a Sassenach. He hates them bastards more than we do.”
“Leave me be.”
“She looks like a lightskirt, and an ill-used one at that. How much for a roll?”
“I’ll be damned if I pay a Sassenach!” The man grabbed Isabelle by the arm and pushed her hard against the wall. He wrapped a huge hand around her throat and crushed her mouth with his. Isabelle clutched at his hand, trying to free herself.
“Gentlemen, please. Join me back in the hall. I have some ballads I know you will enjoy.” Somehow the minstrel pushed his way between Isabelle and the man. Isabelle gasped for air when her neck was released, and leaned against the wall for support.
“Stand aside, lad. Ye’ve got no business here.”
“We’ll let ye have a poke when we’re done wi’ her, but fer now get back to the hall.”
“Come now, my fine lads.” The minstrel’s voice was calm and cheery. “Let us speak to Campbell before we molest his prize.”
That gave the Harrys pause, allowing the minstrel to back up a bit. He kept her behind him but turned so that she now had access to the front door.
“She’s naught but lying English,” one man shouted to the affirmative growls of the men. The minstrel held his ground, but with a lyre as his only weapon he would be short work for the Harrys.
“Run!” the minstrel hissed to her.
Isabelle spun and ran for the door, hitting Campbell smack in the chest.
Isabelle gasped, her hands flying up to the solid wall of Campbell’s chest. David Campbell did not spare her a glance, but glared past her, past the minstrel, straight at the group of men who had gathered in the small hall. Campbell was by no means the largest brute in the hall, but the air around him was charged.
Campbell’s face was chiseled stone, his expression murderous. He said nothing, but rage crackled the air around him. Isabelle backed to the wall, pressing herself into it. She noted the minstrel had likewise moved out of Campbell’s way. She had not known how dangerous he was. It would not be forgotten.
“She’s mine.” Campbell’s voice was low and threaded with warning. Isabelle felt a quiver of excitement at having been so claimed and waited for the bloodbath to begin.
Harry opened his mouth to speak, but showed a remarkable instinct for self-preservation, and stomped back to the common room without a word. His compatriots likewise had the insight to avoid certain annihilation and slinked after him.
Campbell motioned for the minstrel to go upstairs and the lad complied with alacrity. Indeed, it would be a very brave or utterly foolish man who would cross Sir David Campbell when death was in his eye. Campbell placed a hand on her shoulder, not hard, not grasping, but firm, and in control. He led her up the stairs to the room he had given her and entered with the minstrel, closing the door behind him.
“What happened here?” His eyes were hard on Isabelle.
Isabelle tried to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat. “I went down to the common room to find you and I was accosted by those brutes you saw.”
“What did ye do to arouse their anger?”
“Nothing. I asked for you and they called me English and things turned ugly.”
Campbell nodded. “Ye’re English. ’Tis enough.” He turned his attention to the minstrel who was casually leaning against the wall. The minstrel had long limbs that seemed loosely attached to his body. Campbell, in contrast, reminded her of a snake coiled and ready to strike. “And how did ye get involved in this?”
“He stepped in between me and them after one of them forced himself on me.” Isabelle spoke up for her would-be rescuer. “Very gallant. I must thank you, sir.”
Campbell never took his eyes off the minstrel, but she noticed his shoulder muscles tensed even tighter.
“The lady did not appear to be enjoying his attentions.” The minstrel spoke with a lazy nonchalance, laced with a French accent. “Never leads to any good. Once a brawl starts, I’ll get no more tips for the night.”
“Ye have my thanks. Ye be French?” asked Campbell.
“
Oui
. I am Jacques le Chanteur a traveling minstrel and your humble servant, my lord.” The minstrel gave Campbell a well-practiced bow.
“If ever ye find yerself on Campbell land, ye will be welcome.”
“A gracious offer. My lord. My lady.” The minstrel gave another elegant bow and quit the room, leaving Isabelle alone with Campbell.
Campbell turned slowly back to her. The man who leveled a penetrating glare at her shared no resemblance to the friendly Campbell whose company she had enjoyed earlier. His face was cold, expressionless, his eyes accusing. Silence filled the room, a void of sound that spoke much.
“Ye wished to find another protector?” Campbell’s voice was hard.
“No! I was looking for you.”
“I saw ye kissing that man.”
“He attacked me!”
“I told ye to stay here. I grow weary of constantly rescuing ye from yer remarkable penchant for finding trouble. How much more will ye ask o’ me?”
“I never meant—”
Campbell waved a hand at her, cutting her off. “Ye wished to see me. Here I am. What did ye want?”
“I… I…” Isabelle had wanted to confide in this man, to tell him of her fears, to ask for his help. She had been so naïve. “’Tis nothing. I apologize for causing trouble.”
Campbell stepped forward and gently touched her neck where the man had grabbed her. She flinched instinctively, fearful he would take over where Harry left off.
Campbell
would
ne’er be caught wi’ a Sassenach. He hates them bastards more than we do.
Harry’s mocking words flooded her mind. She knew nothing of this man. Nothing.
Campbell dropped his hand. “Now I need to deal with yer friends downstairs.”
“What will you do?” asked Isabelle.
“They have insulted me. It will no’ go unanswered.”
Isabelle crossed her arms in front of her. The men had insulted
him
? “I rather thought it was me they were insulting.”
“Ye should never have left yer room. I should have known ye would be trouble. I’ll find ye a suitable situation on the morrow, but for now stay here.”
“A suitable situation? What do you mean?” Isabelle’s heart pounded. His intentions sounded ominous.
“I canna take ye farther and ye clearly canna take care o’ yerself.”
“I need to return to Bewcastle.”
“How? Ye canna walk into a common room wi’out finding trouble. I think it is time ye realize Scotland is yer new home. I’ll find ye a place for lasses like ye tomorrow. For now, when I tell ye to stay in yer room, I expect ye to obey, ye ken.”
Isabelle folded her arms across her chest, fighting the tears that pooled in her eyes. It was all going so horribly wrong.
Campbell stalked out of the room and closed the door behind him. A loud click of the door being locked made her flinch. She was trapped.
***
Isabelle was exhausted. She wanted to cry, but decided it would take more effort than she had for the task. She gazed longingly at the bed. It had bright linens and the straw mattress smelled fresh and inviting. The goose down comforter and pillow beckoned her to take her rest. Her muscles ached, her bones screamed for sleep. She refused.
Isabelle must escape. She did not know what Campbell had planned for her tomorrow, but she could not risk finding out. Did he mean to give her to a house of ill repute? Isabelle trembled at the memory of the man’s face on hers, his fingers around her neck. It all reminded her of that horrible night, her wedding night. No, she could not let herself be taken captive. More than just her life was at risk. What must her guard and Marjorie be thinking now?
She must return at once to England, find her people, and petition the king. Who knew what sort of “situation” Campbell was going to find for her? She must escape now or it would be too late.
Fearing if she succumbed to rest even for a moment she would sleep all night, Isabelle remained on her feet. The inn was of sturdy construction, stone walls, solid and secure, which in her current predicament provided no comfort.
Isabelle pulled back the heavy curtains to reveal a window opening in the stone covered by an animal skin screen. Carefully removing the screen she was invigorated by a rush of cool night air. She needed it. She was ready to sleep on her feet. Yet fear was a powerful motivator, and enough to endure sleep deprivation.
The vantage from the window was not encouraging. Fortunately, her room was in the back of the inn, where no one would see her try to escape. Unfortunately, she was three stories up, with a sheer drop to the kitchen garden below. It was a cool night, cloudless, with a bright moon. A good night to travel. She ignored her body, which screamed in protest. Clothes hung on the line below, a few gowns, and several pairs of tunics and trews.
Isabelle scanned her surroundings. What she needed was a plan. She could not tramp across the country dressed as she was, but in a lad’s clothes she may raise less attention. Trouble was if she spoke, she’d be known as English before she finished her sentence. Perhaps she could pretend to be mute? Or wrap a strip of white cloth from her chemise around her neck and pretend to be injured. Isabelle smiled; that might work. All she needed to do now was get out of the room.
The plunge from her window was sobering. This was not going to be easy. She needed a ladder or a rope. She glanced around the room for inspiration. No rope. No ladders. The sheets! She smiled. One sheet rope and she would leave this place behind. She worked quickly, stripping the bed and tying the linens together to form a rope. By the time Campbell or Harry or anyone else realized she was gone, she would be far away.
She tied one side to the bed and threw the rest out the window. Looking down, the smile faded from her face. Her brilliant sheet rope fell woefully short. The end of her rope only reached midway down the building. She wondered if she could climb down and hold on to the end to drop to the ground.
Isabelle frowned. It was a long way down. She had never been particularly bothered by heights, but snapping her ankle in a fall wouldn’t serve at all. Along the wall, some of the stones protruded more than others, and sometimes there were small indentations, remnants of the building process.
A new idea flashed through her mind. Tying the sheet rope around her waist, Isabelle eased herself out of the window, searching for toeholds through her soft leather boots. Outside the window, she held onto the windowsill and paused to reconsider her sanity. What on Earth was she doing?
She reviewed her current situation. Escape was necessary to prevent being given to a whorehouse and leaving her people at the mercy of her husband. How long would Captain Corbett and Marjorie live before Tynsdale took out his revenge on them?
Bolstered by these encouraging thoughts, Isabelle searched for handholds and eased herself completely out of the window, clinging to the stone wall. Slowly she climbed across the side of the inn. Her voluminous gown proved a significant hindrance to her progress, and several times she was required to release the wall with one of her hands to pull up her skirts in order to get a toehold. She wished she had the foresight to remove the gown and throw it to the ground, but she had not and it was too late to undress now.
Isabelle was almost to the next window. She reached out with her left foot, found a toehold and released her left hand to find her next hold. Suddenly, the rock beneath her left foot began to wobble. She lurched to the right to grab the wall with both hands as the stone gave way beneath her and fell with a crash to the garden below. Shaken, Isabelle grasped the wall, her muscles quivering with fatigue. She was going to fall if she didn’t get to the ledge soon.
She clung, frozen, her hands starting to sweat. Her arms shaking, she forced herself to reach out again and continue edging along the wall. She was almost to the window. One more stretch and she would have it. She reached out for the ledge, but the sheet rope held her fast. It was too short!
Her fingers trembling, she struggled to untie the knot. The sheet rope slithered away, leaving her alone, clutching the wall without her safety line. Her muscles shook, pushed beyond the point of endurance. She was inches from the ledge and seconds from slipping from the wall. Forcing her arms to move, she shifted along the wall and grabbed on to the ledge. With her last ounce of strength, Isabelle pulled her body onto the window ledge.
Her breath came in gasps, her heart pounded loud in her ears. She closed her eyes and leaned back on the small stone ledge, waiting for her body to stop shaking. She did not look down. The moon shone down on her, a silent witness to her desperate plan. She rested on the ledge until her breathing slowed, and her heart stopped hammering out its pounding complaint.
The inn was quiet, the perfect time to escape. All she needed to do now was climb into the room, get into the hall, and slip down the stairs to freedom while the others slept. What she required was a bit of luck… and for this room to be empty.
Isabelle began to work at removing the screen. It was hooked on the inside, making the operation awkward. She tried to be as quiet as possible, not knowing what inhabitant may be sleeping inside. She heard no noise from the room and hoped for the best. She managed to lift and push the screen until it started to move. Slipping from her fingers, the screen fell from the window to the floor of the room with a loud crash. Isabelle froze. There was nowhere for her to hide.
She held her breath and listened for movement, still concealed by the heavy brocade curtains that hung over the window. Presently, as she heard nothing from the room, she dared to open the curtain just a crack to peek into the room. The room was dark, nothing to see. Gathering her courage, she opened the curtains a little more, the moon illuminating the small room. It was empty. Isabelle released her breath in relief.
She stepped down into the room and propped the screen back against the wall. The click of the door latch froze her to her core. The door creaked.
Someone was coming.