“All right.”
“All right what?”
“No more other women.” He yawned deeply, caressed her breast, then scratched his belly. “How could I go to another woman? You have laid me flat. I am barely breathing. I am barely still of earthly matter. You have nearly brought my heart to a standstill.”
“Good,” she said and kissed his throat. “Goodness, I’m wet from you.”
He actually shuddered, thinking of his seed inside her body. “Don’t forget that you were an active part of this delightful amusement. Not all is from me.”
He fell onto his back, bringing her with him. She snuggled against his side, her hand flat on his belly, her head on his shoulder. She loved the scent of him. She realized, of course, that he had not told her he loved her as well. It had only been a month. He had quite a number of bad habits to break before he realized how fine it would be to have her as his wife, to have just one woman—namely her—who would be with him all her life.
No, a man of his reputation couldn’t be expected to so easily forget all the delightful female variety available to him on every front. She just wanted to be his only front from now on. She wanted very much for him to be content with just her in his life.
He kissed her forehead, her ear, and mumbled something about how lovely she was and how satisfied she made him feel. She fell asleep smiling, filled with hope. She dreamed of a Scottish king who was wearing not only a kilt but also blue war paint all over his face. He was yelling at soldiers, not his own soldiers, of which there were multitudes, but a huge number of soldiers facing him from a goodly distance away. His huge claymore was swinging rhythmically over his head. He was very strong. Then she saw his face a final time when suddenly he turned to face her. There was no war paint this time. It wasn’t a Scottish king she saw, it wasn’t Macbeth. It was Tibolt.
She prayed that Tibolt hadn’t killed Bishop Roundtree, but she knew even if he hadn’t been the one to strike the bishop down, he had known about it, he had approved the act.
It was odd that life could be so exciting yet so filled with tragedy, all at the same time.
She couldn’t wait to see what the Devil’s Vessel was.
They left Dinwitty Manor the following morning, in the dull light of dawn. Thank God it wasn’t raining. It looked to be a brilliant, warm day. It would take them five days to reach Dunkeld, a town whose cathedral was founded in the year 815, Phillip had read to them the previous evening.
Rohan sighed, pulled Susannah tightly against him, and felt her soft breast against his arm. She recited quietly:
“Beneath the abbot’s resting stone
Down the rotted stairs.
Reach inside the wall that screams
The Devil’s Vessel lies in-between.”
“I can’t get it out of my mind,” she said. “I’ve said it over and over to myself. I just hope that when we find something, I’ll know what to do and where to go.”
“I’ve memorized it as well,” Rohan said. “We are a lot alike, Susannah. That pleases me.”
Phillip rolled his eyes. “Well, I’m not like either one of you and I’ve also memorized the damned thing. Now, I’ve asked Railey, our coachman, to keep his eyes open for anyone appearing to be following us. He told me at our last stop that he hasn’t seen anyone.”
“Thank God for that,” Susannah said. Then she added, “But I don’t trust Tibolt. I really don’t.”
“Unfortunately,” Rohan said, “I agree with you. We’ll keep watching.”
The Cathedral of Dunkeld, converted from a church to a cathedral in 1127 by David I, Phillip had told them, stood on Cathedral Street in the midst of thick oak and sycamore trees, gardens and walkways along the River Tay. Rising beyond the river’s shores were mountains covered with huge tracts of forest. The cathedral was badly in need of restoration, a project, the local innkeeper told them, that would happen in its own good time, as did everything of a civic nature. But Rohan’s eye found the ancient parts of the cathedral from the twelfth century. Certainly their abbot must lie there.
The innkeeper was master of one of the Little Houses that were lined up on Cathedral Street. They had been rebuilt, the innkeeper told them, after the devastation caused by the battle of 1689. In the inn there were only six small rooms, a tiny dining room, and a taproom.
Susannah was so excited that she could barely pay attention as the innkeeper, truly a kindly old man, continued in his thick brogue: “Ye probably wonder aboot this battle in 1689—’twere between the Highlanders—Jacobites the lot of ’em—and the extremist Covananters. Aye, the Highlanders fought their way into the town, but the Covananters fired everything. The town were gutted, ye ken. Burnt to the ground and below. The Jacobites withdrew and the cause of James II was lost fer good. William and Mary were assured of the English throne.”
“And the cathedral,” Phillip said as the innkeeper opened the door to a tiny, quite charming little room with beamed ceilings, a narrow bed, and a long, skinny window that gave onto the River Tay. “What happened to the cathedral?”
“ ’Och, it survived well enough, as ye can see, but there’s much work to be done.”
“And the original twelfth-century portions, which are they?” Rohan asked as the innkeeper opened another door onto a larger bedchamber, the bed at least large enough for Susannah pressed against her husband. There wasn’t enough room for an armoire, so the innkeeper had put a row of pegs on the walls. There was a lovely silk screen in the corner of the room. It was charming, but Susannah didn’t believe she wanted to spend the rest of her life here.
“The nave piers are from the whole way back, for surely they’re older than the graves sunk around the cathedral. Most of the cathedral dates from the fourteenth century. Ye’ll see that the nave and aisles had no roof since the savage Reformation desecration of 1560.”
This was one too many desecrations for Susannah. She walked to the narrow window, pulled back the soft white lacy curtain and stared out onto the beautiful river, surrounded with gardens and so many trees.
Rohan had thought he was tired to his very bones when they had finally arrived in the small town of Dunkeld. But now, looking at that beautiful old cathedral, with piles of rubble lying about, parts of the roof caved in, yet still looking glorious and proud, he wondered what it had looked like before the desecration of 1560—or was it the desecration of 1689?
Phillip was standing in the doorway of their bedchamber, rubbing his hands together, his eyes sparkling. “Anyone ready for a stroll?”
The cathedral rose elegant and ruined from the tree-shaded lawns beside the Tay. The townfolk eyed the two gentlemen and the young lady. There was suspicion on some faces and smiles on others. The town was very small but busy, with drays, one carriage, and at least a dozen horses. Housewives moved through the streets carrying baskets, wearing old-fashioned gowns with shawls that crossed over their bosoms and tied at their waists in the back.
“I hadn’t thought of this,” Rohan said. “We’re drawing attention. Damnation, I don’t see any way around it now. Even if we adopt the local garb, there will still be attention.”
“Then let’s act like newlyweds and visit the cathedral.”
Rohan laughed down at her, took her hand to rest it on his forearm, and the three of them strolled to the cathedral. “You, Phillip, can be her brother.”
They walked through the ruins, ever watchful. “ ‘Beneath the abbot’s resting stone,” ’ Rohan said. “There’s a tomb with the remains of Wolf of Badenoch, whoever that was.”
They walked gingerly through the twelfth-century nave, careful where they stepped because many varieties of birds had made their nests here and the floor stones were splotched white with their droppings.
It was Susannah who saw it, a tomb so flat into the stones that the years had very nearly erased the face of the man buried there and his name.
Rohan went down on his knees, took out his handkerchief and carefully wiped the filth away from the inscription.
“This is the tomb of the abbot of Dunkeld, Crinan by name. He died in 1050, at least seventy-five years before the cathedral was built. So his body was transferred here then, out of respect. One of his followers who shared the secret must have placed the Devil’s Vessel beneath the stone. There must be a passageway or catacombs beneath the tomb.”
“Yes,” Rohan said, “and there must also be some way to get the tomb stone up.”
They were all on their knees feeling carefully along the edges of the tomb. It was Rohan who whistled. “I think I’ve found something.”
“Not yet,” Phillip said, rising quickly. “We have company.”
A group of holiday visitors was coming into the church, a curate leading them. He was telling them the history of the cathedral and about each separate devastation. They could do nothing until the group left, which took another half hour.
Then there were some boys who came in to chase birds.
Finally they were alone again. “Now,” Rohan said, “now.” He was on his knees, feeling again at the particular spot at the upper left-hand corner of the tomb. “It’s a latch of some sort, well hidden, not meant for common use. Do you see anyone else about?”
“Not a soul,” Phillip said, coming down to his haunches beside Rohan. Susannah hovered over him.
He lifted the latch ring. At first nothing happened. He gripped it more firmly and tugged hard. There was a faint groaning sound.
Phillip added his strength, and together the two men pulled straight up on the latch ring. Slowly, the entire stone lifted upward. “Ah,” Susannah said. “The rotted stairs there were in the clue. Would you look at them? Oh dear, we didn’t bring candles and it’s pitch-black down there.”
They rose and dusted off their hands. “It’s better that we come back when it’s dark,” Rohan said. “I don’t want to chance someone walking in on us. Also, we have no idea what awaits us at the bottom of those steps.”
“A wall that screams,” Susannah said and shuddered. “My imagination won’t let go of that one.”
“That’s a mystery that I can’t wait to solve,” Phillip said, rubbing his hands together. They returned to the Jacobite Inn in the third Little House on Cathedral Street. Although their dinner was tasty, none of them was particularly interested in food. Finally it was late enough.
The men dressed in dark clothes. Susannah fidgeted with her gown, a pale silver that seemed to her to be as bright as a beacon. “No, it’s fine,” Rohan told her, pulled her against him, and kissed her mouth. “You are so sweet,” he whispered against her lips. He was pleased to feel the telltale tremor go through her. Phillip just grinned at them.
“You truly shock me. I am an unmarried man. I am all alone in the world, innocent of the ways of married people. This enthusiasm of yours is daunting.” He sighed deeply. “I wonder if I will ever find a lady who will wish to indulge me the way you do Rohan, Susannah.”
“I will speak to her when you find her, Phillip. I will explain things to her. I will tell her how to keep her husband blissfully happy and content.”
“Thank you.” He gave her a flourishing bow. “Now, let’s fetch the ladder from the stables.”
“Good idea,” Rohan said.
31
IT WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT. THERE WASN’T A SOUL ON THE street. There wasn’t a soul in the cathedral. A full moon overhead cast eerie shadows throughout the roofless parts of the cathedral, sending shafts of light through shorn beams, deflecting them into strange shapes. Birds, disturbed, fluttered overhead. Shadows seemed to move without reason. Susannah pressed close to her husband.
“This is a place of worship,” she whispered, “yet I’m scared to death.”
“Me too,” he said and gave her a quick hug. “I’m glad to see it’s only we and the birds who are here. Ah, here is our abbot’s tomb. Do you think he knew about the Devil’s Vessel?”
“According to history, Abbot Crinan was one of Macbeth’s enemies,” Phillip said, carefully setting down his ladder. “Macbeth killed his son, you see, and after Macbeth was elected to the throne, the abbot tried and failed to overthrow him. I think rather that his tomb is just a convenience to cover whatever is beneath.”
“We will soon know.”
A pigeon flapped directly overhead. Phillip grunted when a glob of white landed on his coat.
Rohan and Phillip tugged on the latch ring until, creaking, groaning from hundreds upon hundreds of years of disuse, the stone sealing the tomb inched upward. “Careful now,” Rohan said. “We’ll have to pull it entirely back.”
Beneath them was a well of darkness. Susannah brought the branch of candles closer. Shadows cut across rotted steps that led into the pit.
“I hope it’s not too deep for my ladder,” Phillip said and swung it down into the hole. It hit the wooden stairs and they fell away, crumbling. “Thank God. It’s not that deep. There, solid ground.”
Rohan and Phillip turned as one to look at Susannah.
“Don’t either of you even consider it,” she said, hands on her hips.
“You’re wearing a bloody gown. You’ll trip all over yourself and break your neck.”
“No, I will tie my skirts up.” She pulled a long strip of fabric from her cloak pocket. “I came prepared. No more arguments. This involves me as much as it does you. More than Phillip. You will not keep me out of the adventure.”
“But we need someone to keep watch, to warn us if someone comes, to make certain the stone doesn’t climb back up and fall down upon us.”
“Leave her be, Phillip. Will you at least let us go down first, Susannah?”
“If you swear not to leave me up here.”
“I swear.” Rohan took off his coat and laid it down upon the stones. He climbed down a good half-dozen steps of the ladder, then said, “All right, give me the candles.”
Before Susannah handed the branch down to him, she looked about the cathedral one last time. She saw no one.
The black well lit up, but still there was nothing to see. Just more black beyond the candlelight.
“What do you see?”
“Nothing yet, Susannah. I’m on solid ground now. It’s sandy. I’m looking as far as the light allows me. Still nothing. It seems more like it’s a cavern than a catacomb. I’d say that we’re about eight or nine feet down.”
“Hold, Rohan. I’m coming.”
Soon Phillip was also on the ground. “God, it’s dark down here.”
“I’m coming!”
Rohan nearly dropped to the ground when he realized that she’d tied her skirt up about her waist. He put out his hands to clasp her waist, but she said, not even looking at him, “I am all right. I will not be a burden. Stand aside.”
When she reached the ground, Susannah calmly untied her skirt and let it fall to the ground. “I hope there are no rats or insects.”
“I will shout for them to crawl up my leg if I see them,” Phillip said. “Now, which way? This passage seems to go in both directions.”
Rohan was silent a moment. “We are beneath the nave, approximately where the railing for the choir would have been. I think we should go toward the altar.” He took the candle branch from Phillip and turned left. “I hope there is no draft. I would hate to be entombed down here in the dark.”
The passageway was no more than six feet wide, and eight feet high. It became wider in some spots, then narrowed again. The walls were smooth. There were as yet no turns. The ground remained sandy. They were walking away from the river. The air was heavy with age, with dust that hadn’t stirred for many hundreds of years. Each breath was difficult.
“Now we’re looking for the wall that screams,” Phillip said.
A spiderweb looked like a delicate spray in the candlelight. Rohan ducked away from it, Susannah following him.
Suddenly the passageway twisted sharply to the right and came to a dead end. In front of them was a wall. It was filled with skulls, dozens and dozens of skulls.
Susannah sucked in her breath, r
efusing to scream. Rohan raised the candle branch high. “This is either a catacomb or was used as one during one of this town’s eternal devastations. I wonder if the bodies are piled behind the skulls.”
“The wall that screams,” Phillip said, taking a step closer. “Impossible to tell how old these things are. They might even be before the devastations.”
“The clue said to reach inside the wall that screams,” Susannah said. “Oh, dear.”
“Well, hell,” Rohan said. He handed Susannah the candle branch and began to roll up his sleeve. Phillip followed suit. “I will do this as well,” Susannah said firmly and set the candle branch on the ground.
“There isn’t enough room,” Rohan said. “Stay back, Susannah, and hold the candles high. That’s it. Don’t complain. You don’t have to do every dirty thing to be part of the adventure. Allow the men to wallow in some of the filth.”
The feel of crumbling skulls was probably the most repulsive sensation either Rohan or Phillip had ever experienced. “Oh my God, there are so many teeth, Rohan. I keep shoving them out of the mouths.”
There was no hope for it. Skull fragments fell to the sandy floor. “It goes way back,” Rohan said, trying not to think so much about what he was doing. “My arm’s all the way in now, at least as far as I can reach. The rest of the bodies are here. Doubtless the designer of this place believed that having all the skulls face outward would protect it from violation.”
Susannah said from just behind Rohan, “Remember the last line of the clue says, ‘the Devil’s Vessel lies in-between.” ’
“In between what, I wonder?” Phillip said, reaching so far in with his arm that a skull was not an inch from his face.
The Wild Baron Page 31