by Jayne Castel
“Father Camron!” The monk dropped to one knee next to the abbot, his voice high and breathless. “I have news.”
The abbot swiveled, his face creasing into a scowl. “Not here, Brother Ian,” he snapped. “Come … we’ll talk outside.”
Father Camron made to rise from the table, but MacKinnon reached out and caught the sleeve of his robe, restraining him.
“Yer friend looks excited,” he murmured. “I think we’d all like to hear his news.”
The abbot’s throat bobbed, his gaze darting from Duncan to the abbess. Mother Shona was watching him with a furrowed brow. “This is private,” he muttered.
“Ye are on my land, Father,” MacKinnon warned him with a tight smile. “And as such, I will hear what this man has to say.” The clan-chief shifted his attention to the monk. The excitement had ebbed from his lean face, and he now wore a hunted expression. No doubt, this transgression would earn him a beating from the abbot later.
Father Camron sank back down onto the bench-seat, defeated. “Very well,” he growled. “Tell us then, Brother Ian.”
“The nun … Sister Coira … I saw her on the path back from Torrin, Father. She was talking with a man. And then she left with him.”
Duncan went still, his tender belly clenching further. “Describe him.”
The monk’s gaze flicked between the abbot and clan-chief, before he swallowed hard. “Tall and lanky with dark hair … he was clad in hunting leathers and carried a longbow.”
MacKinnon sucked in a breath. An outlaw. “Why didn’t ye follow them?”
The monk’s gaze widened. “Father Camron told me to return to him if Sister Coira did anything suspicious.”
Heat exploded in Duncan’s chest, creeping up his neck in a sensation he knew well; he was having trouble keeping a leash on his temper. “Lackwit,” he growled. “What good is this news, if we don’t know where they went?”
Brother Ian licked his lips, his gaze darting now. The abbot hadn’t uttered a word, although his face had turned red. Indeed, the monk was going to get a thrashing the moment he got him alone. “Maybe the other nun knows,” he finally replied, his voice strangled.
Duncan scowled, his hands fisting as he prepared himself to lash out at this clod-head. “Other nun?”
“Aye … she was with Sister Coira at the time, but she returned to the abbey afterward.” The monk’s thin cheeks flushed while the words poured from him. He then swiveled around, his gaze searching the sea of faces beneath the dais. The nuns, monks, and warriors seated there had all stopped eating and were watching the scene unfold. “There!” he gasped, pointing. “There she is!”
MacKinnon’s gaze followed his and settled upon a young nun seated at the far side of the refectory. Large grey eyes stared back at him, and the lass cringed under the weight of his stare. The clan-chief pushed himself up from his seat and slowly beckoned to the nun. “Come here,” he growled.
“We’ve picked up their trail … they’re heading east.”
The warrior panted the words, pulling his horse up in the yard before MacKinnon.
Duncan nodded, his jaw clenching. Frustration pulsed through him. It had taken much longer than he’d have liked to get the information out of that novice. She’d looked young and easily cowed, yet the wee bitch had kept her mouth shut initially. It was only when Duncan twisted her arm to breaking point behind her back that she’d gasped out the details he needed, tears of pain streaming down her face.
Two of his bastard brother’s men were sick—the outlaw was taking Coira to their camp.
“Track them as far as ye can,” Duncan growled. “I want to know the location of their hide-out.”
“And then?” The warrior asked. Tall and blond with a broad face, the man’s name was Keith MacKinnon—a distant cousin to the clan-chief. In Carr’s absence, he was now MacKinnon’s second. However, unlike Carr Broderick, Keith lacked initiative. He didn’t do anything unless Duncan barked an order at him.
“Get back here, and we’ll pay them a visit,” Duncan snarled back. “Go!”
He watched Keith ride out of the yard, dust boiling up under his horse’s hooves, and listened as his second cousin bawled orders at the other members of the Dunan Guard waiting outside the walls.
Reaching up, Duncan raked both hands through his hair. He was aware then that the listlessness that had afflicted him since rising that morning had grown. His limbs felt heavy and achy, and despite the cool, cloudy afternoon, he was sweating.
It’s the strain of all of this, he told himself. It’s getting to me.
Tension coiled within him, longing for release. For years he’d hunted his half-brother, and for years Craeg had eluded him. However, the game of cat and mouse was coming to an end.
“Not long now, Bastard,” he muttered. “Yer luck has run out.”
17
I Will Do What I Can
FEET SLIPPING ON the loose shale, Coira made her way down the bank into the ravine. Below her lay a narrow valley floor, shadowed either side with high stone walls. The smoke from numerous cook fires drifted up to greet her, as did the aroma of roasting venison. The murmur of voices and the wail of a bairn somewhere in the ravine echoed off the damp rock.
Coira’s breath caught. Just how many people were packed in here? She’d heard that over the past month many folk had rallied to the outlaws’ side, but she hadn’t expected to see such a crowd.
Farlan walked ahead, booted feet slithering on the steep bank. They’d both dismounted his horse, and he now led the beast.
“How long have ye been camped here?” she called out.
“Nearly a moon now,” he replied, not looking her way.
They continued down the ravine. Curious gazes settled upon her, and Coira knew she must cut an unusual figure: a tall nun with a basket of herbs in one hand and a quarter-staff in the other. Many of the faces of the men, women, and children watching her were strained, their gazes worried.
News of the sick men was clearly common-knowledge throughout the camp.
Farlan led her down the length of the valley, past clumps of hide tents and fires where MacKinnon’s deer spit-roasted over embers. Coira’s mouth watered at the aroma, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since dawn.
Eventually, as the ravine narrowed to a point and the rocky sides, studded with clinging outcrops of pine, reared overhead, Coira spied this band’s leader.
A man she’d never expected to set eyes upon again.
Coira’s breathing quickened, and her heart started to drum against her ribs. It was hard not to remember the intensity of the last words he’d said to her, and how she’d fled like a frightened deer into the night afterward. She’d never thought it was possible to be both frightened and captivated at the same time.
Seeing him again brought it all back.
Craeg stood before a single large tent, muscular arms folded across his broad chest. He wore a sleeveless leather vest and leather breeches that molded to his body. His wild dark hair was unbound, stirring gently in the light breeze that whispered through the gorge. His moss-green eyes were fixed upon her, tracking her steps as she drew near.
Mother Mary, give me strength. Coira needed to keep her composure. She was here to help the sick, not for a reunion with Craeg. Awkwardness warred with the urge to rush to him.
With a jolt, she realized just how much she’d missed the outlaw in the past days. He’d only been in her life a short while, but she already felt a bond with him that went beyond the friendship they’d forged as patient and healer.
Craeg stepped forward to greet her. Behind him stood a huge man with a mane of red hair—he was a striking individual, yet Coira had been so focused on Craeg, she hadn’t even noticed him. Another figure, an older woman with greying dark hair and a careworn face, ventured forth.
The grim look on the red-haired outlaw’s face made her belly tighten.
“Thank ye for coming, Sister Coira.” The formality in Craeg’s voice caused Coira to tense. His
face was a study in composure. Had he forgotten the things he’d said to her in that clearing? Of course, he’d called for her help, not for any other reason.
“Peace be with ye, Craeg,” Coira answered, dipping her gaze. Once again, shyness was getting the better of her.
“It’s good to see ye,” he said, breaking the awkward silence between them. “I—”
“MacKinnon’s at Kilbride, Craeg,” Farlan interrupted from behind Coira.
She glanced back up to see that Craeg had gone still, his expression suddenly hawkish.
“It’s true,” Coira murmured. “He’s brought the Dunan Guard with him … someone in Torrin has betrayed ye after all, it seems.”
Craeg’s mouth stretched into a humorless smile. “Aye … I was hoping they would.”
Coira frowned. “Excuse me? Ye told me the folk of this land were loyal to ye. Why would ye want one of them to inform on ye?”
“I wanted to draw MacKinnon out,” Craeg replied, his smile widening. “So we can face each other at last.”
“But didn’t ye already do that … earlier in the summer?”
Craeg snorted. “That was an ambush, not a fair fight. This time we’re ready for him.”
Judging from the gleam in Craeg’s eye, he couldn’t wait to face his half-brother.
“Victory in battle will feel hollow indeed, if yer band sickens and dies,” she said crisply, her attention shifting to the tent behind him. “Are yer men in there?”
Craeg nodded, his expression sobering.
“One of them is in a bad way.” The older woman added softly. “I don’t think he’s got much time left.”
“My woman, Fenella, has taken ill too.” The red-haired outlaw spoke up behind Craeg. “Will ye take a look at her as well?”
Coira met the man’s gaze. “Of course, I will.”
Setting down her staff, she withdrew her scarf from her basket and began to tie it around her mouth and nose.
“What are ye doing?” Farlan asked, suspicion edging his voice as he watched her preparations.
“Just taking precautions,” Coira replied. She glanced Craeg’s way then. “Ye must keep folk away from those who have taken sick.”
He nodded, his handsome face taut with concern now. “Fenella has been looking after the sick men.” He motioned to the man and woman behind him. “As have Gunn, Flora, and I.”
Coira drew in a deep, steadying breath. “Then all three of ye are at risk as well.” She shifted her attention to where Farlan stood a few yards behind her. “Keep back from this area … and warn the others to do the same.”
The young man nodded, his brow furrowing. He then glanced over at Craeg, awaiting his confirmation.
“Do as she says,” Craeg said. His voice was cool, calm. She was grateful that he wasn’t letting fear of the sickness, which could turn folk witless, dominate his decision-making. “Let the others know that MacKinnon is at Kilbride … and that we’ll be riding out to meet him first thing tomorrow.”
Coira caught her breath and turned back to Craeg, to find him observing her. His mouth then lifted at the corners. “Aye, that’s tomorrow’s plan … but tonight we focus on other matters,” he said quietly. “Since we’re already at risk of getting sick, consider me and Flora yer assistants.”
Coira’s own mouth curved, although he wouldn’t see that under the scarf that protected her face. “There’s no point in ye taking risks though … keep yer distance from those afflicted unless absolutely necessary.”
He nodded, stepping aside to let Coira past. “Is there anything ye need?”
“A bowl of steaming hot water and a cake of lye soap would help.”
“I’ll see to it,” Flora spoke up. She shot Coira a quick, grateful smile, before hurrying off to fetch the water.
Heaving a deep breath, Coira walked forward and ducked through the entrance into the tent.
One glance at the two men within and Coira knew they were both past her help.
The man lying to the left of the brazier certainly was—he was dead, eyes staring up at the roof of the tent, his mouth twisted in a grimace of pain.
Coira swallowed hard as dread trailed its icy fingers down her spine.
I don’t know how to stop this.
She’d always felt confident in her skills, yet she was seriously out of her depth here. Nothing she’d learned from her mother, or from the last decade working as a healer, could prepare her for this moment. She had no idea how to proceed.
“Sister.” A weak, raspy voice interrupted her.
The man lying to the right of the brazier was still alive, although barely so. He stared up at Coira, his gaze glassy. “Help me.”
Coira swallowed hard. “Aye,” she whispered, reaching with shaking hands for a small clay bottle of hemlock juice inside her basket. “I will do what I can.”
Night fell over the ravine, a misty day giving way to a damp, cool night.
Craeg crouched before the fire pit and nudged the embers with a stick before adding a gorse branch. A moment later, a shower of bright sparks and tongues of flame shot up into the darkness.
Shifting his attention from the fire, Craeg’s gaze settled upon Gunn. His friend sat cross-legged opposite him. The warrior’s eyes were desolate, his face seeming carven from stone.
Fenella was his life, his soul. And now she was gravely ill.
Sister Coira was still with her.
Craeg studied Gunn a moment, his chest tightening. They’d spoken little as the last rays of daylight had seeped from the world—there wasn’t much either of them could say. Both of them risked falling sick too. It was just a matter of waiting to see.
Strangely, Craeg wasn’t worried for himself. He’d long ago overcome a fear of death. He’d been reckless with his own life too many times to be afraid of losing it. Instead, the thought of losing Fenella and Gunn filled him with a sense of despair so powerful that it hurt to breathe.
And underneath it all, guilt plagued him over Coira. He shouldn’t have called her here. In doing so, he’d put her life at risk as well.
Fate was a cruel bitch. They were so close to bringing MacKinnon down. But if this pestilence dug its claws in and ripped through his band of followers, it would be a hollow victory indeed. It was poor timing, and yet the moment had been coming for a long while now. He wouldn’t turn away from it, and neither would those who followed him.
Gunn glanced up then, his eyes hollowed in the firelight. He seemed to have aged a decade in the past few hours. “Dawn can’t come soon enough,” he said roughly. “I’m looking forward to giving MacKinnon’s men a taste of my blade.”
“Ye don’t have to join us,” Craeg replied. “If ye wish to remain here with Fen, I’ll understand.”
Gunn shook his head, his expression turning vehement. “Fen wants me to fight tomorrow. I’ll not stay behind.”
Craeg nodded. He certainly wasn’t going to argue with Gunn when he was in this mood.
He was aware then of a dark robed figure appearing from the small tent where Fenella was laid up. Coira had finally joined them.
Both men turned to her, watching as she approached the fire and pulled off the scarf that covered the lower half of her face. Her expression was tense, her lovely eyes hollowed with fatigue.
Once again, guilt arrowed through Craeg’s gut. When he’d seen her earlier, for the first time since she’d helped him escape, his pulse had quickened. Heat had then flowered across his chest, obliterating the gnawing worry the sickness had brought.
He’d devoured the sight of her, and for just a few moments, had forgotten why he’d called her to his side. All that mattered was that Coira was with him.
He hadn’t lied. He was happy to see her again—happier than Coira realized.
“How is she?” Gunn asked, his voice hoarse with worry.
Coira met his gaze steadily. “She’s worsening … I’m sorry.”
Gunn’s face went taut. “Do none of yer herbs and potions work?”
C
oira’s expression shadowed. “I’ve given her something for the fever, which should slow the sickness’s progress,” she replied softly.
“Join us at the fire,” Craeg spoke up, motioning to the hunk of bread and cheese that sat on an oiled cloth beside him. “I’ve kept some food back for ye.”
Coira nodded, relief suffusing her face. She crossed to him and lowered herself to the ground with a stifled groan.
Craeg looked at her sharply, concern knotting his belly. “Are ye unwell?”
She shook her head. “No … just exhausted.” She paused there, looking about her. “Do ye have some water and soap. I need to wash my hands.”
“The water’s cold,” Craeg said, rising to his feet. “Will that do?”
“Aye, well enough. Thank ye.”
Craeg brought the bowl and soap to the fireside, handing them to her. He watched as Coira washed her hands and then devoured her supper.
“Are yer men ready to face MacKinnon tomorrow in battle?” Coira asked finally, brushing the crumbs off her habit. Her tone was guarded, and she avoided his eye. He wondered if she thought him rash.
“Aye … they’ve been ready for weeks now,” he replied. “And with the sickness in the camp, it will give them something else to think about.”
“The men are eager to fight.” Gunn spoke up, his jaw set, his gaze gleaming. “As am I. If the pestilence is going to take us … we want to see MacKinnon go down first.”
Coira glanced up, before her gaze flicked between the two men. Her mouth compressed. Craeg sensed she wanted to say something but was holding herself back. Moments passed, and then her attention settled upon him. “How is yer wound?”
Craeg smiled. “Healing well … thanks to ye.”
Coira stared back at him, her cheeks growing pink. The nun’s blush intrigued Craeg. Everything about Coira fascinated him.
She cleared her throat. “If ye are set on going into battle tomorrow … I should take a look at it.”