Page 13 of Highlander’s Captive

How many people knew about it? Probably, not many—or the purpose of the tunnel would be obsolete.

Edward Comyn, the lord of Inverlochy, stood on one of the curtain walls, surrounded by archers. The courtyard was busy with activity: servants carried baskets and firewood, warriors descended the stairs and went for a meal or to have a rest. Their faces were somber, no doubt from the tension of being under siege.

“Attack!” someone called from above. “To the northern wall!”

Men ran towards the wall and climbed the stairs. Many came running from the great hall—taking arrows and bows with them.

Good. This was the first part of the plan. MacNeils on their birlinns, the West Highland ships, would attack from the river. They would land and start climbing the walls.

More calls for warriors came from the eastern and the western sides. There, he knew, Bruce’s army was bringing logs and rocks to put into the moat for the siege towers and siege ladders to cross over.

Most Comyn warriors from the northern wall spread to the eastern and western walls. Even Edward Comyn moved to the west. But guards still stood by the gates.

They’d run away soon.

Craig hurried into the great hall. It was empty, save the servant girls who were cleaning the tables after the warriors had their meal. They paid little attention to Craig. He took a torch from one of the sconces on the wall. Then he grabbed the basket with kindling standing by the fireplace.

He sprinted out. The chaos and the tension inside the castle were palpable—screams of pain from on top of the walls; yells from outside; arrows flying, hitting people, bouncing off the rocks, piercing the mud of the courtyard.

He walked behind the great hall, in the space between the building and the curtain wall where he’d be hidden. He then began setting fire to small batches of kindling and throwing them onto the thatched roof.

Dark smoke rose from the roof of the great hall—that would be the signal for Bruce to move towards the gates. Craig was running out of time, so he quickly kindled the whole basket and threw it onto the kitchen roof together with the torch itself.

“Fire! Fire!” men screamed, and feet pounded across the courtyard towards the great hall. Craig needed to try to blend in with the panicking warriors, then make his way to the gates.

“Stop this!” someone cried from the wall. “Traitor! Get him!”

Craig glanced up—one of the warriors pointed straight at him. The warrior rushed down the stairs, and so did several others. Archers loomed over the parapet and aimed at him.

Whether the Bruce had had time to prepare or not, Craig would never get a better chance to open the gate.

With all the speed he could manage, he sprinted through the courtyard to the gates—where now no one stood. Arrows hit the ground around him. Something bit into his ankle—one of the arrows had scratched him, he realized—and he stumbled a little but continued his sprint. Reaching the gate, he pulled at the giant handle of a heavy iron latch, and it gave, but slowly—too slowly for his liking. The Comyn warriors were coming closer; they’d reached the middle of the courtyard.

The latch undone, he had to remove the heavy bar. He lifted it in the middle with as much strength as he could muster—normally at least two people were needed to lift such a bar.

The enemies were just a few feet away.

He pulled at the doors, and slowly, heavily, they began to open.

From the other side of the gates, Craig heard running footsteps and “Cruachan!” They were coming. He pulled at the gate even harder, then barely turned in time to deflect a claymore.

While he fought with one man, the warrior’s companions were pushing the gates to close them.

Too late.

With the force of dozens of running men, the Bruce’s army flowed in through the gates.

The castle was theirs.

After a short fight, it was clear to everyone that the Bruce and his army had won. Edward Comyn was gravely wounded and dying while his healer did his best to save him.

“There will be no marauding!” the Bruce cried, watching his men hold the captives under their claymores. “Ye all may take three things from the castle to reward ye for yer hard work. But Inverlochy Castle shall be, from now on, a royal residence of the Scottish king.”

Bruce turned and walked towards Craig, holding him with his eyes. Craig frowned.

“And the temporary commander will be Craig Cambel.”

Cambel men erupted in cheers. Craig’s eyebrows crawled up. Bruce came to him and looked him in the eye, approval and friendship lightening them.