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Oh, yes, he was right. If the letter got into her hands, she’d show it to everyone and use it as a reason to usurp Bruce, altering the course of history. Rogene really needed to find the letter before he destroyed it and take a picture. But how would she prove that her photo was of the original, that she hadn’t faked the letter? Could she hide it somewhere, bury it so deep that she could find it again in the twenty-first century, whole and untouched?

Or would she be playing with destiny and risk changing everything?

Chapter 12

Three days later…

Rogene stood before the door into Angus’s bedroom. Her phone was in her hand with only 3 percent battery life left. Her feet were weak, her heart beat hard against her ribs. The last three days had flown past in preparations for the wedding, and though Rogene had been scouting for every opportunity to get into Angus’s room to find the letter, there was always someone next to her.

Then, finally, this afternoon a merchant ship had arrived with silks and perfumes and soaps from the Kingdom of Galicia, or Spain, and now, it seemed, the whole castle—including the servants and even the warriors—had gone to the sea gate to take a look and buy stuff for the wedding feast.

She glanced over her shoulder, down the dark flight of stairs that led to the landing in front of his room. No movement, no noise. With her hand trembling, she pushed the cold wood of the door and stepped in.

Angus’s scent enveloped her—leather and iron and something musky and woody and dark. She also smelled some herbs with a sharp aroma she didn’t recognize. The room was modest and straightforward, like him. The simple canopy bed of dark wood, the swords and shields on the wall, the chests under them—massive and dark. There was a dummy with armor on it—leine croich and his chain mail coif. The room was simple, and tidy, and sturdy. Rogene suppressed an urge to climb onto the tidily made bed and inhale the scent of Angus’s pillow, imagining that he’d wrap his arm around her and pull her to him.

A noise came from behind her. She looked back, her blood chilling.

The landing was empty.

She shut the door and listened for a moment. Quiet. She should hurry. If Angus saw her here, he might think she’d come to offer herself to him… Or he might realize what she was really after and never trust her again.

In the fireplace, ambers glowed under the white ash that lay like snow. She was so nervous and so cold, she itched to stretch her hands to the warmth. She heard the excited voices and laughter coming from beyond the window, from the jetty by the sea gate where Angus had kissed her a few days ago.

The memory burned her, brought heat to her cheeks. How was it possible that the two serious boyfriends she’d had in the past had never caused this reaction from her, yet after knowing Angus for such a short time, she was set ablaze at the very thought of him?

Ridiculous.

Get yourself together, she told herself, looking around. Where could the letter be? Surely, he’d hidden it. Perhaps in one of the chests? With guilt heavy as a stone in her stomach, she opened the first chest by the fireplace. Clothes. Clean tunics and breeches—or rather medieval hose, which were essentially two long woolen stockings that covered the entire leg—and braies, which were knee-length linen breeches that looked like loose-fitting pajama bottoms. There were also several braiels, which were thin leather belts that fastened on the waist and held braies and the hose.

She bit her lip, feeling blood rush to her face and neck at the thought that she was rummaging in Angus’s underwear…

No letter.

She opened the next chest. Woolen socks and several shoes, all in the medieval fashion—pointy—some made of rough leather, others made of thin, soft leather. The next chest held heavy clothes: cloaks and caps and coifs.

Ah, damn it. She opened several others, but there was nothing like a letter. She found some leather pouches with a few coins, a couple of boxes with herbs and clean pieces of cloth—probably the medieval version of a first aid kit. He had few possessions and no books, and she thought how different this simple life was compared to the twenty-first century. She, a struggling PhD student, owned so many things, and he owned so little, though he was wealthy for a man of the Middle Ages.

She straightened and looked around. Maybe under the mattress? She went to the bed and lifted the heavy mattress, filled with sheep wool, but there was nothing under it. Nothing under the pillow.

Ugh. Where could it be? She carefully looked around the walls, searching for holes in the mortar between the rough stones. Above the chimney? No. Under the windowsill?

And then she saw it… A small stone that protruded a bit more than the others and looked loose. With her stomach flipping, she moved to the window and touched the small rock. It was cool under her fingertips. Wiggling it up and down, she managed to pry it out…

And there it was, a leather roll. With her breath held, she pulled it out of the hole. She sat down on the bed and undid the roll with shaky hands…

Her heart drummed. There it was, on the parchment, written in medieval calligraphy that she was already used to seeing. It was written in Old English.

January sixteenth in the year of our Lord thirteen hundred and seven.

Robert the Bruce to King Edward I, greetings.

I received news that your lordship has my wife, my daughter, and my sister in captivity. I hereby resign my crown and become a humble servant and compel you to release my women. I am no longer King of Scots. May God bless you.

Your servant.

Rogene stared at the letter. Her heart ached to see that the legendary king, who was the symbol of independence and strength, could be so defeated. The parchment was smooth, though a bit dusty in her fingers. Her mind racing, she reread it. She retrieved her phone and took a couple of pictures.

She put the phone back in her pouch and read it again.