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

by Jayne Castel

  “Aye … we fought on his side, Father,” the abbess continued. “We helped bring MacKinnon and his men down.”

  The abbot’s mouth worked soundlessly at this news. Watching him, Coira forced down the urge to laugh. The words sounded ridiculous, and yet they were the truth.

  When Father Camron finally crossed himself, she noted that his hand shook. His face, which had momentarily slackened in shock, twisted, his cheeks growing an even darker shade of purple.

  “Unnatural, wicked … godless!” he spluttered, barely able to form a coherent sentence, such was his rage. “This will be the end for ye, Mother Shona. The Pope will excommunicate ye. I will see to it personally.”

  A chill settled over the yard in the wake of these words. Coira glanced over at Craeg, to see that he was scowling. “The abbess doesn’t deserve yer condemnation, Father,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the ominous quiet. “She is a good woman.”

  “She is an abomination. She has sinned against God,” the abbot rasped. His attention swiveled to Coira then, pinning her to the spot. “As ye all have.”

  It was an effort to hold the man’s eye. The hate on his face made Coira want to avert her gaze. Yet, she’d faced sword-wielding warriors today. She’d not let one self-righteous bigot intimidate her.

  “I was right about this woman too.” He spat out the words. “Look at her … dressed as a man with her hair uncovered. Ye have no right to wear that crucifix about yer neck.”

  Father Camron took a threatening step toward Coira. “Take it off, before I rip it from ye.”

  “Touch her, and ye shall lose yer hand, Father.” Craeg’s warning was uttered softly, yet there was no mistaking the menace in it. He rested his right hand upon the pommel of his claidheamh-mor, his fingers flexing.

  The abbot’s eyes bulged. “Bastard … are ye threatening me?”

  “No … I’m making things clear. If ye touch this woman, there will be consequences.”

  Father Camron’s heavyset body started to tremble then—not from fear but from fury. Glaring at Craeg, the abbot raised a hand to the heavy iron crucifix around his neck, his knuckles whitening as he squeezed. His gaze flicked from Craeg to Coira then, his lip curling.

  “Fornicators.”

  Coira tensed. The abbot was taking his insults too far now. If he didn’t put away that forked tongue, she wouldn’t be held responsible for her actions.

  She took a step forward, her fingers flexing around the quarter-staff. In just one move, she could bring him to his knees. Outrage pulsed within her. Just one more word from the abbot and she’d strike.

  Sensing how fragile the leash was on her self-control, Craeg reached out and placed a cautioning hand upon Coira’s arm.

  “Father Camron,” he said, the calmness of his voice at odds with the steel that lay just beneath. “I do believe ye have somewhere to go?”

  For a long moment, the abbot didn’t move. He just glowered at Craeg, as if a black look could strike the man dead.

  But if that were the case, the abbot would have been dead ten times over—for now all the nuns surrounding them were glaring at Father Camron.

  The abbot eventually drew in a deep, shuddering breath and twisted on his heel. “Ready my mule!” he snarled at one of the monks cowering behind him. “Now!”

  Four of the monks broke off from the group and scurried away across the yard toward the stables to do his bidding. Then, gathering up the skirts of his robe with as much dignity as his offended pride allowed, the abbot followed, the rest of his flock trailing behind him.

  Coira watched them go, as did Craeg. And when Father Camron had passed out of earshot, Craeg glanced over at Mother Shona. “That man has the power to ruin ye, Mother.”

  The abbess’s shoulders slumped. “Aye … assuming we haven’t just given him the plague … but I knew that when I locked him inside the kirk.”

  “Do ye want me and my men to go after him … ensure he never sends word to Rome?”

  The abbess huffed a bitter laugh. “No, Craeg. As much as I’d like ye to cut out that man’s tongue, I won’t allow it.”

  “I was actually thinking of slitting the shit-weasel’s throat.”

  “Again … tempting.” Mother Shona drew herself up, her shoulders squaring. “But no.” Her gaze swept around the yard, at where the nuns all watched her, worry etched upon their faces. “I’m sorry, Sisters … but our time here has ended.”

  “No!” Sister Elspeth burst out, her face blanching. “Ye can’t—”

  The abbess raised a hand, cutting her off. “Father Camron will indeed write to the Pope, and I will be removed as abbess and excommunicated. There is nothing left at Kilbride for ye.” Mother Shona’s eyes glittered with unshed tears as she continued. “Return to yer quarters and pack yer bags. Ye must all leave with the dawn.”

  Coira stifled a gasp. “But where will they go?”

  Mother Shona glanced her way, her expression bleak. “To Inishail Priory on the mainland. The prioress there … Mother Iseabal … will welcome them.”

  “But we don’t want to go.” One of the nuns spoke up. Sister Robena had only been at Kilbride two years, and had just recently taken her vows of perpetuity. “We wish to stay here.”

  “Ye can’t, Sister.” Mother Shona met the younger woman’s eye, her features hardening. “I made a mistake, thinking that teaching ye all how to wield weapons would aid ye. I was arrogant, and my hubris has brought this abbey to ruin.” The abbess paused there, her gaze guttering. “It’s too late for me, but not for the rest of ye. Tomorrow, ye will leave Kilbride and make a fresh start elsewhere … that is my final word on the subject.”

  A solemn air settled over Kilbride Abbey with the dusk. Emerging from tending to the three sick nuns in the infirmary, Coira raised her face to the sky and whispered a prayer for them.

  Sister Morag was close to death. She was older and weaker than Sisters Anis and Fritha. Coira had left Sister Magda to tend to the sick. Now, she’d bathe and join Mother Shona and Craeg for supper in the abbess’s hall.

  Frankly, Coira didn’t feel up to it, but Mother Shona had insisted. It would be the last time they’d break bread together—it was goodbye.

  Outdoors, the air was warm and scented with the sweetness of summer. The world didn’t know of the turmoil of the current days. It didn’t care.

  Coira circuited the complex of buildings and went to her cell. A little of the day’s tension ebbed from her when she saw that some kind soul had left her a bowl of water, soap, and drying cloths with which to bathe.

  The water was still warm.

  Stripping off her clothes—which was far easier now that she no longer dressed as a nun—Coira washed away the grime, sweat, and blood. She even washed her hair, teasing out the tangles with her fingertips.

  The same individual who’d left her the soap and water, had also given her clean clothes—not men’s clothing but a faded blue kirtle and cream-colored léine to wear under it. The cloth was poor, the hems frayed in places, yet Coira sighed with relief as she slipped on the garments.

  Lord, it felt good to be clean again.

  As before, she placed her crucifix around her neck; somehow, she felt naked without it. No matter what happened in the future, she would take her faith with her.

  Quickly braiding her damp hair into a single plait, Coira then left her cell and made her way to the abbess’s hall.

  Craeg was already there, seated in one of the high-backed chairs near the hearth, opposite Mother Shona. His shaggy hair was loose and looked damp—it seemed that he too had bathed before joining the abbess.

  The outlaw leader—who’d been talking to the abbess in a low voice, his hands wrapped around a goblet of wine—glanced up at Coira’s arrival. His gaze rested upon her, lingering for a heartbeat longer than was necessary, and heat rushed to Coira’s cheeks in response. Fighting down the instinct to adjust her clothing or check her hair, she crossed the flagstone floor to the hearth and lowered herself onto a stool.r />
  “Good eve, Coira,” Mother Shona greeted her with a tired smile. She rose to her feet, placed her goblet on the mantelpiece above the fire, and poured a third goblet, passing it to Coira. “How are yer patients?”

  “They all worsen,” Coira replied. “I don’t think Sister Morag will last the night.” Her words were bald in their honesty, yet she was too weary to soften them. “The illness has attacked her lungs.”

  Coira’s attention shifted to Craeg then, to find him watching her. The warmth in her cheeks intensified. She hadn’t gotten used to being ‘seen’. Indeed, her habit had provided a shield from men’s eyes. “Have Gunn and Fenella arrived yet?”

  He shook his head. “It’s too soon … they’ll be here tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

  Coira glanced back at the abbess. “I tried out a new treatment with an outlaw woman … if it was successful, I should like to try it here.”

  Mother Shona nodded. “We are lucky to have yer skills, Coira. The Lord has indeed blessed us.”

  Coira offered the abbess a weak smile in reply and lifted the goblet to her lips, taking a gulp of wine. It was rich and smooth, not at all what she expected. Her eyebrows raised. “This is good.”

  The abbess’s mouth quirked. “Aye … I was saving it for a special occasion. Now seems appropriate.”

  Coira’s smile faded. “I can’t believe ye are sending the nuns away … it seems so … drastic.”

  Mother Shona sighed. “Drastic … but necessary. If there had been another path, I’d have taken it.”

  “But—”

  “Enough talk of this.” The abbess waved her silent. “I’ve already gone over and over this with Sister Elspeth. My mind is made up … and it’s for the best. Now, ye must focus upon yer own futures.”

  27

  Undone

  “KILBRIDE WILL CLOSE for the moment,” Mother Shona continued. She crossed the hall to her desk, where a platter of food awaited. It was simple fare—bread, cheese, and boiled eggs—yet Coira’s mouth watered at the sight of it.

  She was starving, so hungry in fact that she couldn’t summon the effort to argue with Mother Shona. It was clear the woman wouldn’t be moved.

  I’ll speak to her alone tomorrow.

  The abbess carried the platter across to them and set it on a low table within easy reach of them all. She then helped herself to some food and took her seat. Mother Shona ignored her companions as she began to peel an egg.

  Wordlessly, seeing that the conversation had halted for the moment, Craeg and Coira helped themselves to supper. Coira took a large bite of bread and cheese, forcing herself to chew properly before swallowing. Likewise, Craeg ate with the appetite of a famished hound, inhaling two huge slices of bread and cheese, before he eventually broke the silence between the three of them.

  “Someone will have to let MacKinnon’s kin know he’s dead,” Craeg said, his voice heavy. “I suppose I should send word to his sister in Dunan.”

  The abbess glanced up, her gaze spearing him. “Yer sister. This land needs a new clan-chief, Craeg … and ye are MacKinnon’s closest surviving male relative.”

  Craeg’s face went taut, his gaze shuttering. “What?”

  “Don’t pretend ye don’t understand me or that ye haven’t thought on the possibility before.” The abbess lowered the slice of bread she’d been about to take a bite of. Her face developed that steely look Coira knew only too well. “Ye are a born leader … and the people of the MacKinnon territory need someone to guide them, especially now when times are bleak.”

  “I can’t become clan-chief.” Craeg’s voice turned rough, his green eyes hard.

  However, the abbess wasn’t a woman easily intimidated. “Why not … ye are MacKinnon’s brother?”

  “I’m his bastard brother.”

  “It matters not. Blood is blood.”

  “It matters to me!”

  Coira cleared her throat. She sensed an argument brewing; something she really didn’t have the stomach for tonight. “Would the folk of Dunan ever accept Craeg as heir?” she asked the abbess.

  Mother Shona met her eye. “The people of this land hate Duncan MacKinnon … but they love his brother. Craeg knows this, but for some reason he’s afraid of taking on the role, afraid of facing his destiny.” Her gaze swung back to Craeg. “Yer enemy is dead now. It’s time for ye to take his place.”

  “Ye make me sound a lot nobler than I actually am,” Craeg countered, his handsome face taut. “It was revenge, Mother Shona. I did it for me … no one else.”

  The abbess shook her head, a rueful smile curving her lips. “Aye, ye had a score to settle with MacKinnon … but ye also drew men from every corner of this territory to yer cause. Ye inspired them in a way yer brother never could.”

  A brittle silence fell. Craeg continued to glare at the abbess, a nerve flickering in his cheek. And when he didn’t contradict her, Mother Shona added. “If ye don’t take Duncan MacKinnon’s place, someone less worthy will, I’m sure. Would ye put this land ye love in peril again? Would ye let yer pride override good sense?”

  Craeg swallowed. Watching him, Coira sensed his turmoil, his conflict. With a jolt, she realized he wasn’t being falsely modest; he really didn’t want to take Duncan MacKinnon’s place. He couldn’t see past the name that had defined him his entire life.

  Craeg the Bastard.

  Coira’s breathing quickened. She wasn’t sure what she thought about the abbess’s idea either. Frankly, the suggestion had come as a shock. However, as the moments slid by, she realized that Mother Shona was, indeed, an excellent judge of character.

  “The abbess speaks wisely,” she said finally, her voice subdued. “No one would make a better clan-chief than ye. Please consider it.”

  Craeg’s gaze widened. Mouth flattening, he looked away, staring at the glowing lump of peat in the hearth. He was so tense, she expected him to leap up at any moment and stride from the hall.

  Yet he didn’t.

  The abbess finished her supper and brushed crumbs off her lap. Her attention then focused upon Coira.

  “Craeg isn’t the only one who needs to consider their future,” she said softly. “What will ye do?”

  Coira swallowed her last mouthful of bread and cheese and stalled by taking a slow, deliberate gulp of wine to wash it down. “I don’t know,” she admitted.

  She was aware then that Craeg had shifted his gaze from the fire. She could feel him looking at her, awaiting her answer.

  “Ye aren’t staying here,” Mother Shona reminded her. “Will ye go to Inishail Priory with the others and take up the veil again?”

  Coira shook her head. The definitiveness of her refusal surprised her. She’d been too occupied over the last few hours to give her future any thought. However, she knew she wouldn’t be going to Inishail Priory.

  “I’m not sure where my path will lead me,” she murmured. “But one thing I do know is that I won’t be returning to the order.”

  The abbess’s gaze shadowed. She looked almost disappointed. “Why not?”

  Coira sighed. She glanced over at Craeg then, her chest constricting. “For years I’ve sheltered behind the walls of Kilbride … have tried to erase my past with prayer and penitence, and shrouded my body in yards of black cloth so that no man would ever see me as a woman again,” she admitted softly. “God will always remain in my heart, but I don’t want to hide anymore. I want to live.”

  Coira slipped through the gates into the make-shift camp below, her heart pounding like a battle drum.

  A full moon hung over Kilbride, its friendly face casting a hoary light over the world. A perimeter of torches flickered around the clusters of tents, and a man standing guard greeted Coira with a nod. Neither of them spoke. He allowed her to pass through into the outlaw camp without questioning where she was going.

  Maybe he already knew.

  There was only one person here she’d have any reason to seek out. Only one person who dominated her every waking thought.<
br />
  Coira’s breathing quickened, and she did her best to slow it, to calm her thudding pulse.

  She’d tried to go to her cell, where she’d spend her last night at Kilbride. She attempted to stretch out upon her narrow pallet and let sleep claim her.

  She was certainly tired enough.

  But sleep hadn’t come. All she’d been able to think of was that time was slipping like grains of sand through her fingers. And she didn’t want to waste one more moment.

  Eventually, she’d risen from her pallet, donned her clothing, and left the abbey. Her feet carried her toward her destination of their own accord. She moved on instinct now, not questioning her decision.

  Craeg’s tent was easy to find. It rose above the others surrounding it, and sat at the heart of the camp.

  Coira halted before the entrance, her heart racing so fast now that she felt sick.

  This is it.

  Until now, she and Craeg had danced around each other, but once she took this step, life was bound to get messy, complicated. She risked getting hurt, risked having her heart ripped to pieces.

  But she hadn’t lied at supper. She was done hiding from life.

  It was now time to embrace it.

  Coira pushed aside the tent flap, stooped low, and entered the tent.

  To her surprise, Craeg was still awake. He sat propped up on a pile of furs, staring moodily up at where shadows danced upon the roof of his tent. A small brazier burned next to him, the orange light burnishing the planes of his chest.

  Coira’s mouth went dry when she realized that apart from a form-fitting pair of leather breeches, he was naked.

  For a moment she merely gazed at him, taking in the beauty of his tall, strong body, his broad chest.

  And then his gaze flicked to her, and she struggled to catch her breath.

  Suddenly, the impulse that had driven her here felt reckless and ill-advised. She’d deliberately avoided thinking on the consequences. After years of steering clear of men, she’d now walked straight into one’s lair.