The more she thought about Baron Bellecote, the less faith she had in his word. She sucked in her lip as she walked down the stairs from her bedchamber. Midway down, she paused, a thought striking her. Could she help him escape? Guilt heated her that she had already considered what it would take and how to do it. He was in the dungeon, which meant one guard was stationed at the top of the stairs but that was all. The guard kept the key to the cells on a ring fastened to his clothing. If she could give him a sleeping draught, which she’d have to somehow sneak out of Grace’s healing room, then she could pretend to bring the guard wine on someone’s orders, and after he drank it, she could take the key, unlock the door, and set McCaim free.
To escape the castle, he’d need a disguise, too. Perhaps she’d have to undress the guard? She shuddered, but she couldn’t think of another way unless she could borrow one of the priest’s frocks. Well, it would be more like stealing because if McCaim escaped in Father George’s habit he’d not be getting it back. Could she do that? Could she steal from a man of God? It was surely a sin, but wasn’t the greater sin allowing an innocent man to die? Especially one who was going to die because of her idiocy? Yes, the theft could possibly be forgiven, she decided; the death could not be. So if it came to saving McCaim’s life, she’d take the chance with her soul and hope God would understand her actions.
As she continued down the stairs, male voices carried up to her from the hall below. She strained to listen.
“Kill him,” one of the men said.
Maggie fought against the urge to gasp.
“Baron Bellecote has spoken with the council and the queen,” the same man continued, “and they all agree that since the man refused to renounce the Devil, he should be executed.”
“When does the council and the queen wish me to do this, Duncan?” another voice asked.
Maggie stifled a moan. What a mess she had made!
“Ye are to guard the dungeon after supper, aye?”
“Aye.”
“Simply do it then. Ye do nae want to miss a good meal, aye, Duncan?”
“Aye. Verra well,” the man replied, and then steps sounded as the men walked away.
Heaven above! They had discussed ending McCaim’s life as if they were discussing the weather. Maggie’s palms grew damp as she thought about what to do. She couldn’t ask for Deirdre’s help because her sister would never allow her to risk her betrothal to free a complete stranger, especially when the queen and her council agreed to his execution. Even if Maggie went to the queen and admitted she’d lied to save the man’s hands, Bellecote might end the betrothal, and that would harm Deirdre and Yearger.
It came to her suddenly that she could tell the guard who was currently on duty that Duncan had sent her. Her decision made, she doubled her steps down the stairs. She had to proceed with her plan immediately in order to beat Duncan before he arrived for his late-night duty. She headed straight out of the castle and into the night, sucking in a sharp breath at the cold air that hit her with a blast. There was no time to go back for her cloak, and even if there had been time, it would look suspicious if her sister saw her. She ran across the inner bailey and toward the chapel, glad most of the castle’s residents had already made their way to the great hall for supper. If luck was on her side, Father George, who did appear to quite enjoy food based on his rather large girth, would have already departed the chapel for the nightly meal. If he was still there, she’d have to think of something to say, some excuse to get him out of the chapel so she could steal a frock. But she’d come up with that if the need arose.
Panting, she arrived at the chapel door and knocked. When Father George didn’t answer, she opened the door. It creaked on its hinges, and as it opened fully, the smell of the incense the priest burned daily wafted over her.
“Father George?” She waited a moment, and when he didn’t answer, she stepped inside the chapel and shut the door. The priest’s bedchamber was to the left of the one-room chapel, and she made her way toward it with bated breath, pausing before the altar to fold her hands together, bow her head in prayer, and say, “Forgive me, Father, for I am about to sin.”
It took but a moment to locate the priest’s wardrobe and but another to steal the habit. She tied it around her waist under her gown, smoothed it out so it was not noticeably bulky, and departed the chapel as quickly as she’d come. The bailey was abandoned save for one guard, who nodded to her as she passed. She made her way to the healing room, which had gone unused since Grace had left with Yearger and the rest of the search party. Maggie hastily snuck inside and lit a candle. It didn’t take long to find the medicinal herbs she needed to make a sleeping draught known as dwale. She paused a breath to thank the healing woman, Glenda, who had now passed on to God. Glenda had taught her to make this potion, one that Glenda had used to aid Maggie’s mother in sleeping when she was near death and in great pain. Maggie mixed the ingredients together, quickly adding them as she watched the door. First the bile, lettuce, vinegar, and bryony root, and then the more dangerous of the ingredients—hemlock, opium, and henbane.
Once the dwale was ready, she found a goblet and even located some wine on a counter behind her. Then she grabbed a pouch to carry some herbs for McCaim to take with him so he could care for his wounds. When she was done, she opened the door to the courtyard, peeked out, and to her relief, found the courtyard still empty. She hurriedly made her way toward the dungeon steps, taking care to stay in the shadows. When the lone guard turned his attention to her, she smiled and curtsied, then came up holding the goblet of wine out to him. She prayed he would not recognize her. “Duncan asked me to bring this to ye,” she said. “He says he’ll be a tad late for his shift.”
The guard was young, which was good. It meant he was untried. Still, he eyed her for a long, tense moment before his brown eyes softened. He smiled and took the wine. “Duncan is always late,” he grumbled. “Ye are nae a kitchen wench,” he said matter-of-factly, his gaze locking with hers as he tilted the goblet up and drank the entire contents in one gulp.
“I’m certainly nae,” she replied, instilling a bit of irritation in her tone. “Does a kitchen wench dress like this?” She swept her hand down the length of her fine silk gown.
“Nay,” the guard said, chuckling and shoving a lock of fallen hair out of his eyes. “Are ye from the upper chambers, then?” The man started to blink a great deal.
Excellent. The dwale was taking effect quite quickly.
“Aye. The queen’s chambers,” she said with a touch of smugness. “I personally clean her rooms.”
The guards eyes widened, even as he swayed a bit. “Is that the queen’s gown?”
Maggie snorted to seem lighthearted, yet tension and worry made her feel ill. “Nay. This is one of Lady Deirdre’s castoffs.” That was true enough.
“I do nae care for her,” the guard slurred. “She thinks she does nae shite like the rest of us.”
Maggie winced at the insult to her sister but simply nodded, then watched in great relief as the guard twitched, dropped the goblet, and stumbled backward, colliding with the stone wall behind him. She lunged forward to catch him so he would not be hurt by the fall. He was solid, and his weight shoved her back on her heels. For one precarious moment, she thought she might end up on the ground, faceup with him on top of her. He looked at her, his forehead creased in confusion. She grunted and pressed on his shoulders as hard as she could so that he would slide down the stone into a sitting position. Once there, she crouched before him, perspiration dampening her brow and under her arms.
“I think the wine is bad,” he slurred, his eyes closing.
“I think it must be,” she murmured, waiting one more breath for the dwale to take complete control of him.
It took four breaths, but on the fourth, he started to snore, and she quickly unhooked the dungeon key. She stood, putting out the single torch so no one would see McCaim escape, and then tentatively made her way to the dark dungeon stairs with her hands outstretched and the herbal pouch slung over her shoulder. She patted the cold, slimy stone wall as she took one step at a time, and when she came to the landing, she exhaled with relief.
