Angus coiled it carefully in his palm, seemingly unaware of her frustration. Then he smiled at her, that slow smile that lit his features and made her heart pound. He captured her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm, folding her fingers over his embrace.
“Be well, vixen,” he whispered for her ears alone, his voice uncommonly husky.
Then he was gone, striding back to the men, tucking his treasure into his glove. Jacqueline’s eyes stung with tears but she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Perhaps, for all his faults, Father Aloysius had been right in this.
Perhaps one could not truly know the heart of another in so short a time as she and Angus had spent together. Jacqueline found Duncan regarding her, sympathy and understanding in his eyes. He lifted one brow in silent query.
“To Inveresbeinn,” Jacqueline said firmly, stuffing the piece of heather into her belt. “And with haste. I have dallied too long with the doings of those who do not concern me.”
Chapter Twenty
The lady of Airdfinnan found the new abbot of the monastery her husband had endowed on his knees in her garden.
Annelise halted, not particularly wanting to talk to the priest and definitely not wanting to share this first visit here. But Father Michael heard her and straightened, wiping the dirt from his hands onto his cassock and regarding the result ruefully.
Then he smiled at her. His smile was filled with the innocence of a cherub, though there was a twinkle of mischief in his eyes, and she had already heard the music of Ireland in his voice.
“It seems unfitting for me to welcome you to this place,” he said, “when you undoubtedly know it better than I.”
Annelise would not be swayed by his manner or his words. She straightened, unconsciously summoning the stance of the lady of the manor though it had been long since she had stood thus.
Her gaze trailed tellingly to a clump of marguerite daisies, and when he glanced in that direction, her heart skipped. She made an obvious survey of the garden and was surprised to find that it had not fared so badly.
“It has been tended.” She looked to the priest and noted now the pride in his gaze. “By you.”
“I could not bear to watch such a treasure fall into ruin.”
“But you were not here when I left.”
“Nay, I have been here but a year. These gardens were thick with weeds but I could see its beauty even when ’twas marred. ’Twas like the beauty of a woman, which changes as she ages, becoming both less and more than before.”
“One does not commonly hear priests speak favorably of women.”
His smile broadened. “I am not a common priest.”
They watched each other, still wary.
He stepped back and gestured in welcome. “Will you not enter the garden that you created?”
Annelise looked at the daisies again. Though they were not yet in bloom, the clump was even more sizable than it had been when she planted it. She hoped the flowers were yet as beautiful and abundant, and dared only now to wonder what she might have done if she had found the plant dead.
She was standing before the daisies, assaulted by memories before she even knew that she had taken a step. She touched one bud, nigh to bursting, and her tears began to fall.
Conscious of the priest beside her, she snapped off the bud, crushed it in her fingers and turned away, holding it to her nose. The sharp familiar smell of it was like a blade through her heart and she closed her eyes, thinking of where this plant’s roots had found their strength.
“Oh, Fergus,” Annelise whispered, having no intention of doing any such thing.
The cursed priest was too young to be deaf and he missed naught. “Fergus? Was that not the name of your lord?”
She spun to face him, wanting only that he be gone. “And what of it?” she demanded.
“But why...?” The priest’s gaze flicked to the small cemetery in the village, then back to the daisy, to the ground and to the bud in her hand. His eyes narrowed and she knew before he spoke that he was too clever by far.
“He is buried here? Why? Why is he not laid to rest in hallowed ground?”
“Ask your church!” she cried and made to flee.
He caught her arm though, only the solemnity in his eyes keeping her from shaking off his grip. “I know naught of this. Tell me.”
“Your predecessor forbade it. Your predecessor declared he would bury no unshriven pagan in hallowed ground. ’Tis that simple.” Annelise took a deep steadying breath. “So I had him buried in his favored corner of the garden. There was little else I might have done.”
The priest was not waylaid so readily as that. “But why? Was Fergus not baptized?”
“Of course he was baptized!” she retorted, as vigorous in her defense of her beloved as always. “My parents would have never permitted the match otherwise. They insisted upon it, but that man swore that Fergus had never converted in his heart and that he thus had no right to sleep with the blessed.”
Father Michael studied her silently, undoubtedly seeing too much, though she could not look away. “You loved him.”
“I still love him,” she said fiercely. “He was the blood of my heart and the father of my sons. He sheltered me and loved me and protected me and was all a man should be to his wife. And more. And yet more.”
Annelise took a shaking breath, fury driving her to say more than she should. “And yet the church in its infinite wisdom has seen fit to separate us. Those who were once joined for all eternity before her doors have been parted for all eternity by her doctrine.” Her tone turned bitter. “Forgive me, Father, if I do not see God’s grace in this.”
She pivoted then and marched across the garden, hating that the priest had destroyed her moment with Fergus and hating yet more that she had revealed so much of herself to him. She hated the most that she owed him for the welfare of the daisy that marked Fergus’ grave.
“’Twas said by a mentor of mine that we can only hate that which we once have loved,” the priest said quietly behind her. Annelise halted, old manners keeping her from being so rude as to walk away while he yet spoke to her, but she refused to turn to face him. “You were raised in the embrace of the church, were you not?”
“Aye.” She could not help but glance halfway over her shoulder, wondering as she did what ploy this priest used against her.
“And you loved all her ritual and ceremony, all her hymns and readings, all her tales and faith.”
She heaved a sigh, unable to lie about this. “Aye. Once I was fool enough to believe such nonsense.”
“You still believe it.” The priest touched her shoulder, having drawn close without her hearing him. She saw only understanding in his gaze. “You feel betrayed and this is the root of your anger.”
“And who would not feel betrayed by this injustice?”
He smiled sadly and shrugged. “None. You are right to be angry.”
“Do not dare to tell me that this is part of God’s plan.”
He sobered then. “I am but a priest. I cannot speak for God, much less explain His plan. I know only that He is a great and loving God and sees far beyond what we might see.” She opened her mouth to argue, but he lifted a finger that he might continue. “His greatest weakness is his reliance upon men, who are fallible and weak and oft short of vision.”
“A fine consolation ’tis to Fergus,” Annelise argued. “And what of me? When the Rapture comes and I am joined with my parents, what am I to tell them has happened to the fine man they chose for me? Am I to tell them that Fergus has been consigned to Hell because of the error of a fallible priest?”
“Nay. With your permission, I shall write to the bishop of this diocese and request his approval that Fergus be buried anew, with all the ceremony of a Christian, in the cemetery beside the chapel. It cannot be argued that my predecessor had an entirely clear vision with regards to your spouse’s soul.”
“You would do this?”
“I would do whatsoever I could to restor
e the faith of a woman so cheated as you.”
Now her tears rose with a vengeance.
“Who lies in the cemetery? I had thought it to be Fergus.”
“’Tis my first born son, Ewen. He alone lies there.” The priest stepped closer, but ’twas she who raised her hand this time. “’Tis time I tell the rest of it. Your predecessor”- how Annelise liked to not call him by name!—“has a greater sin upon his shoulders. When Fergus lay dying, he came to him, to hear his last confession. After all that had been, Fergus refused him, for he did not want this man to know anything else that might be turned in his own favor.”
She took a deep breath. “And there, while my husband lay dying in our own bed, that so-called priest told him how we would be parted for all time. He told Fergus that he had shamed me and tainted me by not truly embracing the faith. Fergus said naught but I knew that he feared he had betrayed my father’s trust. He concerned himself with such things, with trust and pledges and vows.”
“But not with faith?”
“Nay. He called it sophistry.” Annelise shook her head, the tears scattering when she did. “’Twas the most learned word he knew and I never was convinced he knew the meaning of it.” She smiled though her tears and the priest chuckled sympathetically. He was cursedly easy to talk with. “But Fergus was a good man and a good husband. He was as good a Christian as he knew how to be.”
“’Tis all that can be asked of any of us.”
“One would think so. But his last words to me were an apology and a plea for forgiveness.” The bitterness rose again within her. “Fergus had naught for which to apologize and naught that man might have had the capacity to forgive. Is this the charity offered by the church? Is this the nature of forgiveness and compassion? Is this grace, to steal the dignity of a man while he lies dying? If so, I want none of it!”
Annelise glared at Father Michael, furious anew, but he did not flinch from her gaze.
“I cannot answer for the deeds of another.” The priest spoke softly, then pressed her hand. “But I offer a chance to make this right. You have only to ask, my lady, and I will send my request this very day.”
She exhaled shakily and turned away. “Then I beg of you to do this thing, for the sake of his memory if naught else.”
“’Tis as good as done. And the bishop is a compassionate man. I have high hopes of convincing him to take our side in this.”
She looked at the priest, not daring to hope after she had learned so much of disappointment in this life. “Do you believe me?” It suddenly seemed very important to know. “Do you do this only to placate me, or because you believe my husband was wronged?”
“I believe you. Not only because the record shows Fergus’ deeds, but because a good Christian woman such as yourself has no capacity to lie with such conviction.”
“I am no longer Christian,” Annelise said, her protest sounding as tired as she felt.
“Are you not?” He tilted his head to watch her, though she pretended not to notice. “I cannot imagine why anyone else would be concerned with all eternity, much less the Rapture.”
She scowled at him, disliking that he was so perceptive. “You are cursedly clever.”
He chuckled then. “’Twas why they sent me to the church. My mother used to say that I would drive them mad with all my questions, my father used to say that I would never finish a decent day’s labor by the time I pondered every possibility.”
His grin flashed, making him look younger and very engaging. He was indeed a most uncommon priest. She watched him, curious to hear of his life before he took his oaths.
“There was naught for me but the priesthood, so I resolved to be as good a priest as I might be.”
He seemed so honest, this priest, so straightforward in his speech. He certainly drew her secrets forth with ease. Annelise imagined that she might be able to trust such a man, despite what she had witnessed in his predecessor.
And she liked this one’s explanation—that the weakness of God lay in the mortal men charged with His work. It made tremendous sense to her, for men, as she had seen, were both weak and fallible. She no longer believed that the church had all the answers, but she was somewhat startled to discover that she still believed that God did. ’Twas reassuring to open her heart to that conviction again.
“If I may be so bold, my lady, the feast day of Queen Margaret of Scotland is nigh upon us. I thought we might have a special mass in her honor. I should be delighted if you were to attend.”
“I cannot take communion,” Annelise snapped. “I have not had confession in some years.” Even as she spoke, a yearning awakened in her, for she remembered distantly the awe she had felt in the mass and its miracle.
He folded his hands behind his back, not so readily dissuaded as that. “There is usually a priest in the chapel at vespers, if you had need of his services on any day.”
She straightened and granted him her most quelling look. “The promise of a letter does not erase years of sorrowing.”
“But one must clean a wound so that it heals.”
She regarded him imperiously and he looked steadily back. “You are impertinent.”
He smiled. “Perhaps. Will you not come?”
“I can well imagine that your family desired to be rid of you and your questions. Fergus would have called you a sophist.”
“I should hope you would not agree,” Father Michael said mildly. “For the charge of sophistry implies that the reasoning is misguided. I do not believe that you find my argument so flawed.”
The man saw too much indeed. Annelise dropped her gaze.
The priest took no offense that she did not reply. Perhaps he was content with incremental progress. “May I escort you to the hall, my lady? ’Tis nigh time for the meal.”
“Nay.” Her gaze was drawn again to the daisies. “I came here to speak to another and would do so now.”
“Of course. I apologize for my interruption.” He inclined his head and strode toward the gate.
“I thank you, Father Michael,” she called just before he stepped out of sight. He paused and glanced back. “For tending the garden in my absence, and in advance, for your letter.”
“’Tis an honor to help another soul return to the faith.”
Annelise frowned at the crushed bud in her hand and knew he turned away once more. Truth be told, the ache in her heart was lighter than it had been in some years. He spoke aright—she was too relieved by his intervention on behalf of Fergus to not be Christian in her heart still.
She shook her head, feeling the grief well up within her, knowing that she had felt abandoned by more than her spouse these past years. Aye, she had lost her faith and those two losses together had made the world a cold and lonely place.
She looked up but the priest was gone. She hastened to the gate, spied his retreating figure and called after him. “If I were to come to the chapel at vespers on the morrow, would a priest be there?”
He halted as though he did not believe his ears, then turned back. “I shall ensure it, my lady,” he said firmly, his approval of her intent more than clear.
She smiled at him. He looked so boyish and optimistic that she was reminded of what ’twas to be young. “And would that priest be both well rested and well fed? It has been long since my last confession indeed, and I would not have him faint or fall asleep.”
He grinned. “I shall ensure that I am both rested and fed, my lady.”
So, he would hear her confession. Annelise thought that he might make a good father confessor, this young man with his wise words. “On the morrow, then, Father Michael.”
“On the morrow, my lady. I shall look forward to it.”
Again he was gone, tactfully leaving her alone. She turned once again and walked slowly back to that daisy. She had not wept all those years ago, she had not dared to show any weakness before the man so determined to destroy them all.
Aye, he would have twisted it to his purposes, and declared that she wept for Fe
rgus’ immortal soul. He would have tried to even further diminish the respect that people had for her spouse. She had seen Fergus laid to rest in the midst of the night, left his grave unmarked but for a daisy, so fearful had she been that his rest would be disturbed and his body violated.
And all those years alone in the glade, she had been to angry to cry. Too bitter to concede any weakness. Perhaps she had feared that once she began to weep, she would not have been able to cease.
But now Annelise stood where she and Fergus had laughed together so many times, the sun warming her back, the flowers unfurling beneath its touch. And all was finally setting to rights. Angus was back. She had not lost him. She was certain that Airdfinnan would soon be his, as it rightly should have been all along.
She was reunited not only now with Fergus, but would be so for all time. She knew this priest would see matters resolved, even if she died this very day.
And that stole the heat of the anger out of her heart. Annelise dropped to her knees before her husband’s grave and laid her hands upon the sun-warmed soil, feeling his presence near.
’Twas almost as though the heat of him rose to her touch. At that thought, the floodgates of memory opened wide, deluging her in the sight and sound and smell of him. Annelise wept, as she had not yet wept for the loss of her husband, lover and partner.
She did not know how much time passed before the bells of the chapel made her raise her head. The sun had begun to sink behind Airdfinnan’s walls, the shadows were drawing long in the garden.
And one of those fat buds had unfurled itself while she sobbed, a single white daisy catching the last ray of sunlight before her. As she stared, marveling at its beauty, a bee landed upon it, crawled across the golden center and took flight again, its legs encrusted with pollen.
’Twas a sign. Fergus had always believed in signs and portents, and though Annelise had scoffed in those days, on this day, she could take it as naught else. She had learned much in Edana’s skin, though she had not expected to do so. She plucked the daisy and wove it into her braid as she rose to join the household at the evening meal.
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