Fallen: A Medieval Scottish Romance (The Sisters of Kilbride Book 3)

by Jayne Castel

  Half-brothers.

  Aye, that was the root of it. Craeg was a bastard, spawned by a whore, while Duncan was the rightful heir and ruler of these lands. And yet it had never stopped him being threatened by Craeg.

  He circled MacKinnon, shrugging out the knots in his shoulders. Years of hiding, years of slowly whittling away at the man who’d nearly killed him—and here they finally were.

  MacKinnon attacked first, with an aggressive lunge that nearly took Craeg unawares. His brother was ill—he could see it in the rictus of pain and effort in his face, the wild look in his eyes, the pallor of his skin, and the sweat that poured off him. But his sickness had turned him vicious.

  Yet reckless behavior also made a man careless.

  Craeg only had to bide his time.

  “Bastard,” MacKinnon hissed, repeating the word, again and again, as he attacked. “Baseborn. Son of a whore. Misbegotten. Bastard.”

  “Save yer breath,” Craeg grunted as he brought his sword up to counter a violent overhead swing. “I am who I am … the whole world knows about it but only ye care.”

  MacKinnon’s eyes burned with loathing. It had all begun that day Jock MacKinnon brought Duncan to The Goat and Goose so he could meet his half-brother. The clan-chief had known what he was doing—but it pleased him to sow the seeds of hate.

  And that hate had grown into something monstrous, something that risked destroying both men. It didn’t matter to Jock MacKinnon anymore. He was dead, nothing but bones in a crypt. Yet his legacy lived on.

  MacKinnon’s onslaught was growing wearing. He attacked relentlessly, not giving Craeg the opportunity to counter. Around and around they went, Craeg’s teeth jarring with each blow.

  Craeg bided his time, waiting for the opening that would surely come. MacKinnon was a formidable swordsman. Even sick, his brother was the best he’d ever fought.

  And then as Craeg shifted backward to block another overhead swing, he slipped on a patch of gore.

  His feet flew out from under him, and he reeled back.

  MacKinnon was on him in an instant, slicing downward in an attack designed to split his skull asunder.

  Only Craeg’s quick reflexes saved him. He dropped his sword, rolled, and drew his dirk.

  MacKinnon lunged again, the blade of his claidheamh-mor whistling through the air. Craeg rolled once more, a chill sweeping through him as he realized that his half-brother now had the advantage.

  Craeg was down, and MacKinnon’s relentless attack made it impossible for him to rise to his feet.

  Duncan was going to kill him. He swung his sword toward Craeg, in a deadly arc.

  And then MacKinnon froze, his blade stilling. Craeg stared up at him, raising his dirk in an attempt to deflect the blow.

  Yet the strike never came.

  Instead, his opponent staggered forward, and then sank to his knees. MacKinnon grasped at his right armpit, his fingers coming away slick with blood. He gave a pained wheeze, color draining from his already pallid face, and slumped sideways onto the ground.

  Behind MacKinnon stood a small figure swathed in black, an iron crucifix gleaming upon her breast: Mother Shona.

  Breathing hard, the abbess lowered the sword she’d just plunged into him.

  Duncan MacKinnon could no longer hear the fighting.

  It was as if his ears were suddenly filled with wool. Lying upon the ground, he stared up at Craeg. The man’s mouth was moving. He was speaking, saying something to him. But Duncan couldn’t hear the words.

  He was grateful for that.

  He didn’t want the last thing he ever heard to be Craeg the Bastard’s voice.

  Damn his half-brother to hell. He couldn’t believe it had come to this. He couldn’t believe someone had attacked him from behind, had stabbed him in the armpit while his arms were raised.

  Despair clawed its way up his throat, yet he fought it. His body ached, and his throat felt as if it were on fire, as if he were lit up by a furnace within. Pain ripped through his chest. Duncan fought it all. For a few moments, he tried to convince himself that he could defeat everything: the sickness, his enemies, death itself.

  And then he saw her.

  His angel of mercy. His angel of death. The woman stepped up behind Craeg, those vibrant violent eyes fastening upon him.

  Coira’s face was flushed and blood-splattered, and her chest heaved from exertion. In one hand she held a quarter-staff, and in the other a dirk. She no longer wore a nun’s habit. Instead, she was dressed as an outlaw.

  She’s one of them.

  Outrage pulsed through Duncan, its heat puncturing the agony that dimmed his vision. His mouth moved, and he tried to speak. Yet he couldn’t hear if any sound came out.

  Suddenly, it hurt to breathe. It felt as if he were drowning.

  Duncan reached up, stretching out for the woman, his fingers clawing the air as he imagined they were fastening around her neck. She was just like all the other women who’d disappointed him. His mother. His sister. Ella. Leanna. Traitorous bitches, the lot of them.

  Coira stared down at him, a nerve ticking in her cheek. And then she knelt, bringing her face close to his.

  Duncan sagged back, his hands lowering. Maybe she was sorry after all. Perhaps she would comfort him.

  But there was no comfort for Duncan MacKinnon.

  Another woman, her blood-splattered face taut with ruthless determination, knelt down and whipped the dirk from Coira.

  The last thing he witnessed before his life ended was the flash of a knife blade.

  25

  In Yer Debt

  “HE’S DEAD.” CRAEG’S voice was flat, disappointed.

  “And not before time,” Mother Shona replied. She sat back on her heels, her gaze moving to where both Coira and Craeg stared at her. “The man was a scourge upon this earth.”

  Coira gaped at the older woman. She couldn’t believe the abbess had killed MacKinnon. “Mother Shona,” she finally gasped. “I wanted to be the one to slit his throat. Why did ye take that from me?”

  The two women’s gazes fused. Around them the battle was dying. The outlaws had finally managed to overcome the Dunan Guard. The remaining MacKinnon men had wisely cast aside their weapons, dropped to their knees, and raised their hands in surrender.

  Mother Shona cocked an eyebrow. “Ye think I’ve stolen yer reckoning?”

  “Aye, ye have,” Craeg rasped. He was still breathing hard from his fight with MacKinnon. He stared at the abbess, gaze narrowed. “I had a few more things to say to him, before ye interrupted us.”

  The abbess huffed. “He couldn’t hear ye anyway.”

  “What makes ye sure of that?”

  “He had that look dying folk get sometimes. The glazed eyes, vacant expression … I doubt he heard a word ye said.”

  A muscle bunched in Craeg’s jaw. “All the same, they were things I needed to say before I cut his throat.”

  Coira clenched her jaw at his words. Curse them both, she’d intended to slay MacKinnon.

  “And that’s why I stepped in,” Mother Shona replied, her voice soft yet with steel just underneath. Her gaze swept from Craeg back to Coira. “Revenge is a poison. I couldn’t let it blacken yer souls. I know what ye have both suffered at his hands, but he’s dead now. Be content with that.”

  Coira realized that Mother Shona wasn’t going to apologize. She wasn’t sorry in the slightest.

  “This was personal to ye too,” Coira pointed out, still fighting down anger. “Ye couldn’t stand him either.”

  A bitter smile twisted the abbess’s blood-splattered face. “No … few could.”

  “Then surely, revenge drove ye as well?”

  Mother Shona shook her head. “No … for me his death was simply necessary.”

  Craeg heaved a deep breath, shattering the mounting tension between the two women. He raised a bloodied hand and raked it through his sweat-tousled hair before rising to his feet. “Well, it’s done now,” he said wearily. “Thank ye, Mother S
hona … ye saved my life.”

  The abbess’s smile gentled, and she favored him with a nod, accepting his thanks.

  Retrieving his claidheamh-mor, Craeg swept his gaze around the valley floor. Coira did likewise, her skin prickling at the sight of so many bodies littering the ground.

  Not all of them belonged to the Dunan Guard.

  Her breathing hitched when she spied a small crumpled form, swathed in black, lying a few yards away.

  Picking her way through the carnage, Coira went to the nun. An ache flowered across her chest when she saw that it was Sister Mina.

  “Lord, no,” she whispered, hunkering down next to the novice.

  Sister Mina didn’t stir. Her grey eyes stared sightlessly up at the sky, and when Coira checked her for wounds, her hands came away bloody. Someone had stabbed her through the chest with a wide blade—a claidheamh-mor. Her end had been swift.

  Coira’s vision blurred then, the ache under her breastbone intensifying.

  She couldn’t believe that Mother Shona had brought the Sisters of Kilbride to the outlaws’ aid.

  Lifting her chin, she saw the abbess limping toward her. Now that the fighting had ended, Mother Shona’s face was slack with exhaustion and sorrow.

  The abbess halted before Sister Mina, and Coira saw that she was weeping, tears running silently down her face.

  The sun made its lazy progress across the sky, slowly dipping toward the western horizon. Meanwhile, the survivors had the grisly task of clearing the battlefield.

  MacKinnon and his dead men were placed upon a pyre and burned at the southern end of the valley, whereas the outlaws and the five nuns that had fallen were placed upon biers to be buried back at Kilbride. There were a number of injured, including Farlan, who’d taken a nasty gash to the thigh, and Sister Elspeth, who bore a cut to her arm. Gunn, however, had come through the battle relatively unscathed.

  Despite that they were the victors, it was a somber party that made their way west to Kilbride, following the course of the sun. Few of the men or the nuns conversed. Instead, they trudged onward, their heads bowed and their steps wary. Once the madness of battle had faded, exhaustion set in.

  Coira walked apart from her companions, her thoughts turning inward.

  MacKinnon is dead.

  The realization kept hitting her, so sharply at times that her breath would sometimes catch. It seemed strange, almost like having a limb amputated. Her loathing for that man had become part of her. Knowing that he was dead, and could no longer threaten her, was a relief. And yet, her belly still clenched as she recalled the abbess snatching the dirk from her hand and finishing the deed.

  He was mine to kill.

  “Coira.” Craeg dropped back halfway through the journey and fell in step next to her. “Are ye well?”

  She nodded before forcing herself to meet his eye. Craeg looked as exhausted as she felt, his mouth and nose bracketed with lines of tension. “Curse the abbess,” she said softly. “I hate it when she’s right.”

  His mouth quirked. “I take it that she often is?”

  “Aye … I lose count of how many times she’s counselled me over the years. She’s wiser than anyone I know.”

  “Then perhaps she did us both a favor,” he murmured. “Revenge has a way of taking ye over, of making ye forget what really matters.”

  Coira glanced up, and their gazes fused. For the first time since before the battle, Coira became acutely aware of him—like she had in that shadowed corner of the ravine before he’d kissed her.

  Warmth rose within her, smoothing out the nausea that still stung the back of her throat, the tension in her muscles, and the hard knot that clenched her belly. Mother Mary, the man had a gaze that could melt a frozen loch.

  When he looked at her in that way, it was like she was the only woman alive.

  Eventually, the tension got too much. Clearing her throat, Coira glanced away. “Mother Shona says that MacKinnon was sick.”

  “Aye … I noticed it too.”

  “She also tells me that three nuns back in Kilbride have fallen ill … and one of the men we’ve taken captive has a fever.”

  When she glanced back at Craeg, she saw he was frowning. “Aye … the sickness is upon us. How long before the rest of us fall prey to it?”

  The warmth his gaze had caused ebbed away at these words. Nonetheless, his question was valid. All of them could now be on borrowed time.

  “I wonder how Fenella is faring?” Coira said, voicing her thoughts aloud.

  “Gunn has ridden back to the ravine to fetch her and the others,” Craeg replied. “They will join us in Kilbride … we shall find out soon if she lives.”

  The shadows were long, the afternoon sun gilding the hills, when the bloodied band reached Kilbride Abbey at last. Old Magda opened the gates to admit them, her wrinkled face tensing when she saw that five of the nuns who had left that morning—Sister Mina among them—now returned as corpses.

  The elderly nun’s gaze filled with tears, and she made the sign of the cross before her. “Dear Lord have mercy, what happened?”

  Mother Shona went to Sister Magda and placed a comforting arm around her shoulders. “There was a battle,” she murmured, her voice brittle. “MacKinnon fell … but so did some of those opposing him.”

  Watching the two women embrace, Coira’s throat started to ache.

  Kilbride was a tight-knit community. The sisters might not have been related, but they were as close as if united by blood.

  Tears streamed down both Mother Shona and Sister Magda’s faces when they drew apart.

  “How are the others?” the abbess asked.

  Sister Magda’s mouth trembled. “They steadily worsen,” she murmured. “Sister Morag has started vomiting blood.”

  This news brought gasps from the surrounding nuns.

  “I shall go to her,” Sister Elspeth announced. The woman’s face was strained and pale, and she favored her injured arm. However, Coira knew that Sisters Morag and Elspeth were close friends.

  “No, Sister.” The abbess turned to Sister Elspeth and held up a hand, forestalling her. “Sister Magda and I will be the only ones to tend the sick. We can’t risk the rest of ye falling prey to this plague.”

  Sister Elspeth’s thin face went taut, and she opened her mouth to argue. But Coira spoke up, preventing her. “I will tend to them.” All gazes swiveled to her, including Sister Elspeth’s. Coira held the older nun’s eye, before her mouth curved into a weary smile. “I am a healer and have already dealt with the sickness. Mother Shona is right … the rest of ye should keep yer distance.”

  Her gaze fused with Sister Elspeth’s then, a look of understanding passing between them. The irony of the moment wasn’t lost upon Coira. For years, she and Sister Elspeth had barely tolerated each other. Coira had never been one of the circle of nuns who’d hung on Sister Elspeth’s every word, and the nun had resented her for it.

  But all of that was behind them now.

  “Thank ye,” Sister Elspeth replied, her voice unusually flat and heavy. “Peace be with ye … Coira.”

  Coira. Not Sister Coira.

  Coira was suddenly aware then that she was no longer one of them. For the first time, she felt as if she stood on the outside looking in. This abbey was no longer her home.

  My time at Kilbride has truly come to an end.

  Looking about her, Coira realized how quiet the abbey seemed, especially after all the visitors they’d had of late. Craeg’s men were putting up tents outside the abbey walls, for the abbess had warned him that there were sick nuns inside. Only Craeg had entered the yard with the nuns, and now he stood silently at Coira’s side, observing the exchange between the abbess and her flock.

  Coira tensed then, realizing exactly why the abbey seemed so quiet. It wasn’t just the absence of MacKinnon and his rowdy warriors—besides Craeg, there weren’t any men here. Her gaze swept back to the abbess. “Where are Father Camron and his monks?”

  Mother Shona rel
eased a weary sigh. The abbess then glanced over at the kirk, where Coira noted that the doors were barred shut.

  26

  There Will Be Consequences

  THE ABBOT BURST from the kirk, purple-faced and seething.

  “Ye will pay for this, Mother Shona!” he raged, rounding on the abbess. She stood at the foot of the steps, awaiting him. “How dare ye lock me up!”

  Suddenly, he stopped short, taking in the abbess’s appearance: her leggings, bunched up skirts, and the sword she wore at her hip. “What. Is. This?” he demanded.

  “It was for yer own good, Father,” the abbess replied, ignoring the question. Looking on from a few yards distant, Coira was surprised at how calm Mother Shona sounded. “Things have gone ill … I was trying to protect ye.”

  The abbot gaped at her, torn between rage and concern. Finally, he drew himself up, fisting his hands at his sides. Meanwhile, his monks exited the kirk and gathered in a frightened knot behind him. “Protect me? From what?”

  “The plague has entered Kilbride,” the abbess informed him, her tone flattening. “Three sisters are ill with it.”

  At this news, Father Camron took a few rapid steps back from Mother Shona, alarm flaring in his dark eyes.

  “That’s not all,” the abbess pressed on. “The outlaws clashed with MacKinnon today … the clan-chief is now dead.”

  The abbot’s eyes widened at this news, his throat bobbing. “MacKinnon’s dead?”

  The abbess nodded.

  Father Camron’s attention shifted then to where Craeg still stood, a few yards back, at Coira’s side. The abbot frowned, clearly trying to place him. “Who’s this?”

  “I’m Craeg the Bastard,” Craeg replied as he observed the abbot with a cool stare. “Surely ye have heard of me?”

  Father Camron’s gaze widened, before his face went taut. “Ye have brought the outlaw leader here?”