She knew ’twas time when the stable hands retired to the kitchens. Jacqueline ducked into the shadows. She needed a distraction and knew where to find it. She slipped into the henhouse, unlatching the door there and shooed the chickens out of their nests. They clucked and bickered and complained in a most promising fashion as they made their way out in the courtyard.
But then, they pecked the earth and hovered close to the henhouse, causing no ruckus at all.
Nay! This could not be! Where were the dogs when she had need of them? Jacqueline glanced around the courtyard, knew she had no time to trouble herself with chickens, and continued her quest. Keeping a careful eye on the guards, she crept from shadow to shadow, hugging the walls wherever she could, gradually coming closer to that wooden lattice.
She had not much time. The women lingered at the portal as they departed, exchanging boisterous comments with the guards as they passed through the gates. The yard was momentarily silent, the chickens having disappeared. Wretched birds. They were always making noise at Ceinn-beithe but these seemed of a different, more tranquil breed. Fortune would seem to be against her.
All the same, she had to try. Jacqueline dashed across an open space, her breathing labored as she flattened herself against the wall just a few steps away from the lattice.
So close ’twas and yet so far. The sunlight glistened upon the wet wood and gleamed upon the enormous nails. There were six of them.
Six! She knew she could not crouch beside the opening and work the lattice free without being seen. And she doubted she could work those doughty nails free that quickly. She chewed her bottom lip in vexation, unable to fight the sense that this would be her only opportunity to seek freedom.
As though he sensed her dilemma, Lucifer suddenly seemed possessed by demons. He snorted and neighed and kicked when the stable boy came near. Jacqueline suddenly saw the chickens flutter from beneath his feet, feathers flying, and knew that Fortune again smiled upon her. The other horses stabled there took up his attitude in turn, the chickens scurried and squawked and evaded capture in a most noisy fashion.
Jacqueline did not hesitate. She lunged for the grate, dug her awl beneath the edge and tugged. The wood splintered but the nails were long and did not give. She swore through gritted teeth, sparing another glance toward the ruckus in the stables. Every eye seemed trained upon the balking steeds and the stable hands and now the ostler who tried to quiet him.
At least for the moment. Jacqueline gave a mighty wrench and cursed as only the corner of the lattice gave way. She dug the awl more deeply beneath the wood and jumped in fear when ’twas snatched from her hands by pale clammy fingers.
She had not a moment to stand, let alone to flee before a man shoved the lattice open with a powerful wrench. His teeth were gritted, his flesh of the pallor of a corpse, his eyes wild. She screamed, then clapped her hand over her mouth when she realized what she had done.
’Twas Angus who glared up at her, dripping and out of breath, his fingers clenching and unclenching upon the awl.
He was not dead, nor even wounded! Jacqueline might have flung herself upon him in relief, if he had not looked so furious.
For the guards had looked their way when she screamed and even now a shout rose from the walls.
In a heartbeat they were surrounded. Angus was divested of the awl and his hands were roughly bound behind his back. He fought but had no chance.
Indeed, Jacqueline felt ill for the second time that day, but not because her hands were bound. Nay, Angus had come to rescue her but through her own inability to be silent, they now both would die.
* * *
Father Michael was troubled by this Jacqueline’s assertion.
’Twas true that he had long suspected that matters were not as they should be at Airdfinnan, but ’twas not in his nature to meddle. And he knew that Father Aloysius would see him banished from this marvel of a garden without a second thought; though he had been concerned by the other priest’s insistent questions about herbal poisons, particularly those that were difficult to detect. ’Twas no accident that Father Michael kept much of his knowledge to himself and he told himself often that ’twas to the greater good to pretend his ignorance was more extensive than it was.
And he found it worrisome that he had arrived to find the burnt rubble of the monastery still entrusted to their order, but Father Aloysius claiming himself answerable to none. Pride was the most troublesome of the great sins, in Father Michael’s opinion, and Father Aloysius seemed to have struck a great lode of it when Airdfinnan fell to his trust.
The younger priest had been taught to be wary of the beguiling words of women, though was skeptical of such warnings. ’Twas perhaps timely to recall that Eve had been the one to tempt Adam so fatefully, and that she had accomplished the matter by persuasive argument alone.
Still, in his own family, there were women in whom he placed every faith. And the demoiselle had seemed so sincere that he could not simply leave the matter be, even though he knew he should do precisely that.
He entered the hall, intending to ask Father Aloysius about his outspoken guest. ’Twas always worth discovering the other half of a tale before making one’s own conclusions. But the hall was nigh empty, the rumble of men’s voices carrying from the kitchens. From behind the screen that separated the quarters of Father Aloysius from the common hall, he heard a muttered voice.
“And to the abbess of Inveresbeinn, I extend my good wishes for her continued good health,” Father Aloysius spoke slowly and in Latin, his words evidently being inscribed in a missive. “I also send news of a novitiate pledged to Inveresbeinn who has come to my gates in distress. She is named Jacqueline, and it appears she has been abused by a brigand. Because her health is precarious as yet, I would assure myself of her well-being and her safety before dispatching her to your care, as she was originally destined.”
Father Michael straightened, knowing full well that there was naught amiss with the well-being of the Jacqueline he had met.
“Read that again to me, if you will.”
While the servant did so, Father Michael crept closer and halted beside the board. The table had been abandoned after a meal and not cleaned fastidiously—even as he lingered there, a dog dared to take a bone from the edge of the table, retiring to a corner to gnaw at its prize. There was a box of figs, and being somewhat hungered himself, Father Michael helped himself to one.
An odd scent, one that would be noted only by an herbalist with a sharp nose, halted his gesture when the fruit but an increment from his lips.
He sniffed it again, knew ’twas aconite he smelled, then replaced the fruit in the box, newly wary.
There was a bundle of cloth left upon the board as well, so wrapped around itself that he thought at first ’twas no more than a rag.
But proximity revealed the red stain upon it. Father Michael cast a furtive glance about himself, then unfurled the garment. ’Twas a tunic of the fashion worn by knights and one heavily stained with what could only be blood. He fingered the cloth thoughtfully, noting the red crusaders’ cross stitched upon one shoulder.
He bent and smelled the cloth, his keen nose identifying foreign spice and smoke beneath the over-riding scents of man and iron. This garment had recently been on foreign shores, unless he was mistaken.
Indeed, the inside of the tunic bore marks that could have been wrought only by chain mail. He recalled the dark destrier in the stables, a remarkable beast, so much more remarkable for the rarity of its kind in these parts. He guessed that the wearer of the tunic had also been the rider of the steed.
Jacqueline insisted that a knight was being hunted for declaring himself to be Angus MacGillivray, the same man who was known to have departed on crusade. He knew it should not have mattered to him to have learned that she was pledged to be a novitiate, but it did. He was more inclined to trust the conclusion of one who chose a path so similar to his own.
A man posing as a knight would need considerable wealth
to feign his station so completely as this. Father Michael had learned long ago that the truth is often the most evident explanation—’twas a lie that required a network of falsehoods to support it.
Though he was a cautious man by nature. He would be certain before he made a bold accusation. There was one place that would know of any crusaders returned to this land. King William had endowed a Templar monastery not ten miles from Father Michael’s own foundation. He would ask the Templars what they knew of this matter.
He bundled the tunic hurriedly beneath his cossack, then on impulse, seized the figs as well. ’Twas thievery to take them, but he could not have borne the burden of his conscience if he returned to find that earnest maiden poisoned in his absence.
Jacqueline might be right, or she might be naught but a pawn in the game of men—either way, she did not deserve to die.
He thought of it as protecting God’s own novitiate.
As he hustled through the gates, acting as though naught was amiss, Father Michael had an encouraging thought. The Templars wore such a cross as this upon their tabards and, were this man of their own ranks, they would see his death avenged, regardless of his name.
* * *
“I suppose you are angered with me.”
Angus leaned his brow against the cold wall of Airdfinnan’s dungeon and shook his head. “Why should I be angered with you?” he said with a calm he was far from feeling. “When a man has spent a year incarcerated, what is another night or two?”
“You are angry with me.”
Angus sighed, his very flesh creeping to find himself in such painfully familiar circumstances again. ’Twas his darkest fear to be imprisoned again and he fought against the tide of terror rising within him.
“’Tis more reasonable than being pleased, would you not say?”
Jacqueline said naught to that, but then his tone had not been as courteous as he might have hoped. The silence between them did naught to aid him. He was aware of the precise dimensions of this chamber despite the darkness that enveloped them.
He heard the drip of water on stone, he felt the chill of the stone walls press against his flesh, he closed his eye and felt the sweat run down his back. He was trapped. Again. Entombed in darkness, in a cold dank prison below the surface of the earth, again by men who would prefer he died quietly and with a minimum of trouble.
His father had built but a single cell beneath Airdfinnan’s hall. ’Twas hewn from the rock of the isle itself and blessed with no such convenience as a drain. He supposed they should be grateful that such design offered no opportunity for rats to enter the space.
Steep stone steps hugged one wall as they led down to the pit that was not even square. The chamber itself was about half a dozen of Angus’ paces in diameter. The single door was a trapdoor that had no edges from beneath and was bolted twice with heavy iron bolts from above.
Fergus had made the dungeon cursedly effective, though it had seldom been used in Angus’ recollection. He and Ewen had locked each other here in fun and always been soundly chastised for their actions, but those games had occurred before Angus had learned terror in a similar cell.
He took a shuddering breath and trained his gaze on the thin line of light that crept around the trap door, uncertain what he would do to keep hold of his wits once the darkness fell completely. Already he wanted to scream.
“I thought you were dead,” Jacqueline admitted.
“It seems the news was premature.”
“He offered me figs already,” she said sourly and Angus peered through the darkness, straining for a glimpse of her features. Had she been fool enough to eat them? “I did not accept one, but it seems we are ill-fated together, Angus.”
She came to his side and leaned against the wall beside him, the sweet scent rising from the warmth of her flesh uncommonly reassuring.
Of course, there would be a price for her companionship. He could fairly feel her gaze boring into him and he knew ’twould not be long before she asked something of him.
“How long were you there, beneath the grate?”
“An eternity.”
“They should never have attacked you from your blinded side,” she said with startling heat.
Angus blinked. Jacqueline was not slow of wit, so he could not conceive of what she meant. “You do understand that they meant to arrest me as an intruder.”
“Of course I understand that!” She paced the width of the cell and back. “But ’twas so, so discourteous!”
“Discourteous,” Angus echoed in astonishment.
“After all, there was never any doubt of the outcome—for the love of God, there were eight of them! They could have shown you a measure of courtesy, at least.”
Angus was not prepared to further defend the actions of his captors, yet ’twas oddly touching to have her be defensive of him.
Jacqueline laid a hand upon his arm suddenly. “I am sorry, Angus. I am vexed because I know I am doubly responsible for our plight.”
He shook his head. “You only tried to aid me.”
“But I should have listened to you first. And I should not have screamed like a fool. ’Twas a deed more typical of my sister Alienor.” She made a low sound not unlike a growl of a discontented cat. “And God in Heaven, but I have no desire to be compared to her! ’Tis most galling.”
He smiled despite himself, recalling how he and Ewen had loathed being compared each to the other, and they had been close.
Jacqueline suddenly leaned closer to him, and Angus was tempted to touch her in his own turn. “But I was not expecting there to be anyone in the drain and you looked like a corpse.” Her fingers moved over his flesh gently, as though she sought to reassure herself that he was truly alive. “I feared you were dead or soon would be. They brought your tunic and ’twas heavy with blood...”
“A ruse, Jacqueline. I knew Aloysius would seek me out after your arrival here. I but granted him what he sought, in the hope ’twould pacify him.”
“You were right and I was wrong. Again. I should have listened to you, instead of racing to these gates.” She sighed and he could imagine that her fair brows drew together in a frown. “I never thought that a priest would act unfairly.”
Angus shook his head. “’Tis no crime to believe good of those around you. Indeed, had I my choice, I would have never have you learned how deceitful men can be.”
“But you have never deceived me,” she said softly. “’Tis what Father Aloysius insisted, though I know he lied. He said you had lied about your identity, but I knew ’twas not true. He said he did not recognize you, but ’twas another lie, for if you were not who you claim to be, how would Edana have known you? And how would you know these lands if you had not been raised here?”
Her faith in him warmed his heart, but Angus said naught. He reminded himself that hers was an infatuation, that she was destined for the convent by her own choice, that he had naught to offer her and that he had already taken more from her than was his right.
For all their volume, his arguments were less persuasive than he might have hoped.
Aye, he was glad to have her here with him, though ’twas selfish and he knew that well. Jacqueline’s bright presence made the darkness easier to bear.
Her persistent curiosity made him smile. “What would you have done if I had not appeared?”
“Returned to the river, though I hoped the women might drop something of use to me.”
“While instead they dumped washing water upon you.” There was a welcome tinge of laughter in Jacqueline’s tone and she sniffed appreciatively. “You smell of soapwort.”
“’Tis better than what I smelled of before.”
She laughed then, the merry sound echoing in the small space. “At least they used much of the herb, otherwise you might have smelled of the sweat of monks. My mother oft said that many of their kind were unconcerned with worldly cleanliness.”
Not wanting her to fall silent, Angus seized upon her comment. “You speak of your
mother with great fondness. Tell me of your family.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. I should like to know.”
Chapter Seventeen
Jacqueline evidently needed no more encouragement than that.
She told Angus of her family, of her mother and her mother’s marriages, and more of this Duncan whom she seemed to regard as her own father though they shared no blood. She told of her elder half-sister, speaking with affection despite that woman’s obvious selfishness.
Jacqueline spoke of the charm of her younger sister, Esmeraude, and the sweetness of Mhairi, the youngest sister of them all. She sprinkled her descriptions with anecdotes and memories, pranks the girls had played upon each other and adventures they had had.
She told him more of leaving France, of her fears for the future at that time, of her delight with the beauty of Ceinn-beithe and its wildness. She expressed frustration with the social expectations and rigid rules in France, then laughed as she acknowledged that she was aware of few beyond her obligation to wed ‘the old toad’.
She spoke wistfully of two young nephews at Crevy-sur-Seine whom she had yet to see, having left for Scotland when her aunt was pregnant with the child who had become the heir. She told of weddings and birthings and games the girls had played upon each other as children. She informed him that Duncan was a fine storyteller and regaled him with a favored tale.
Angus was content to merely listen. The sparkle of Jacqueline’s voice filled the chill of the dungeon, her tales prompted Angus to smile secretly in the darkness. With her voice alone, she pushed his demons back into the distant shadows where they belonged.
When she spoke of those two young nephews at Crevy, he was struck with a recollection of his brother, then with the stark realization that he had no family left to his name. Unlike Jacqueline, who gloried in the telling of her family’s foibles and endearing traits, there was no one of whom he might tell her.
No one who still drew breath, at least.
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