Alec entered the wood as the land began to rise, and with it the thick vaporous cloud gave way to patches of the mist. He looked around him in awe. Still, after so many days of riding the same path, he was amazed how the beauty and mystery of these woods touched him. The oak trees, hundreds of years old, entwined their branches into a canopy above him. He looked up as the first rays of the sun strained to gain access.
Suddenly Alec saw a dark shape form on the path before him. Jerking the steed’s head to the right, Alec saw a white arm flash up from the fold of a cloak. Swift shrieked, his fluttering wings obstructing the Alec’s vision momentarily. Then, as they flew past the diving shape, Alec yanked the horse’s reins tight, struggling to hold the plunging, rearing beast in check. He turned his head to the figure lying beside the path.
“You madman!” came the enraged voice of a woman.
The shock of hearing a woman’s voice stunned the warrior. The epithet she hurled at him was lost to the realization that he had nearly ridden down a defenseless peasant woman.
“It is one thing to break your own neck. But mine is another matter,” the voice scolded, the pitch rising with her anger. “You nearly trampled me!”
“Hold, there! I will help you,” Alec responded. “Whoa, Ebon!”
The steed continued to strain against Alec’s efforts to calm him, and Alec could not see the woman clearly, but he glimpsed brilliant red hair spilling out of the dark hood as she scrambled to gather up the contents strewn around a large brown satchel on the ground.
“Are you hurt, wom...” Alec tried to shout above the din of the shrieking bird. But the charger wheeled again, and when the warrior looked back down the path, the cloaked figure had disappeared. There was no movement of branches nearby. No shadows. No trace. One moment she had stood there—the next she was gone.
Fiona stood a few paces off the path, peering through the mist at the power struggle going on between horse, rider, and the strange white hawk. Three beasts, she thought angrily, rubbing a bruised shoulder. Three wild beasts. She quickly straightened the cloak around her, shoving her hair back under the veil she was wearing beneath the hood of the cloak. Her heart was slamming against her rib cage. She tried to take deep breaths to slow her pulse...and to cool her anger.
Finally, the giant warrior subdued the snorting black stallion, and the hawk’s cries ended. She watched as the rider looked questioningly about him. Fiona knew that she could not be seen and that she could escape easily through the thickly wooded grove behind her. She knew this area like the back of her hand.
The huge, golden-haired warrior trotted his horse down the path to where he had passed her. Looking around him in every direction, he stopped the horse and cocked an ear, listening for a sound. Rising from the saddle, he stood in his stirrups for a long moment without any movement. It seemed that horse and hawk were taking their signals from their master as they waited patiently, motionless.
Finally, pulling out his sword, he speared the string of wooden prayer beads that lay on the turf. Sheathing his sword, the rider looked at them curiously and then clenched them in his fist.
From where she stood, Fiona could not quite make out the expression on his face. The giant wheeled his horse in her direction. Now horse and rider faced her. She slid as quietly as she could behind the wide trunk of a gnarled oak. Oh, my Lord, did he see me? Her mind began to run wild. Can he hear me? She held her breath, wishing she could stop the pounding of her heart. Then she nearly laughed aloud at the silliness of the thought, considering the distance between them.
“Are you hurt?” the rider called out, his voice echoing in the wood. “You do not need to fear me.”
He paused, listening for a response, but getting none.
“If you are hurt, but can get to Dunvegan Castle, go there. They will care for you.”
He paused again, listening. Fiona could hear the hooves of the impatient horse stamping at the edge of the path. There was annoyance in the warrior’s tone when he called again. “Answer me! These woods are dangerous if you are hurt. There are all kinds of wild beasts out here.”
There certainly are, Fiona thought, chuckling softly to herself. My thoughts exactly.
“Now, listen,” he shouted, anger now apparent in his voice. “I am trying to help you. I don’t know why a woman would be out here roaming the woods alone at this hour, but speak, for God’s sake.”
Once again, Fiona peered cautiously from behind the tree and watched him as he waited for a response. She smiled at his evident anger and frustration. Good, she thought. He had some nerve, riding like a madman on trails honest peasants use to earn a livelihood.
The warlord just remained where he was for a long moment, clearly trying to make up his mind.
“If you will not answer, then...to hell with you!” he roared, and wheeling the horse nimbly, he thundered off down the path.
Fiona let out her breath as he disappeared into the mist. Then she stamped her foot hard in anger. “Well, Lord Macpherson, you certainly learned nothing from that!”
Fiona moved from her hiding place in the trees and onto the deer trail she had used each morning for the past few years. Since the new laird had arrived, Fiona had spent many days watching him gallop through the countryside, the white bird or some other falcon on his arm. Always riding like a madman, always pounding his horse full speed, as if running away from, or perhaps chasing after someone. Whatever it was, though, today he was early and had caught her off guard.
But he wasn’t entirely to blame, Fiona conceded. She was late returning from the cluster of huts deep in the forest where, four years ago, her old friend Walter and his company had taken refuge from the cruelties of Torquil MacLeod. And Father Jack, the old hermit, had been there today as well, and time always passed quickly when he began telling his tall tales.
The Priory on the secluded Isle of Skye had been a refuge for lepers for as long as anyone remembered. The church lands used to feed them and provide them with shelter. That had all changed four years ago, when Torquil had decided that Skye would no longer be populated by disease. So for four years, Fiona had been traveling this route between the Priory and the people who hid like hunted animals, trapped on the island they now called home. Trapped by the unreasoning hate of a nobleman who thrived on the misfortunes of others. Trapped by a powerful leader whose very word had unleashed a torrent of violence on a sickly people who could neither escape nor defend themselves.
At the thought of the injustice, Fiona’s hand went instinctively to the wooden clapper at her belt. It was useful having the clapper now. Most folk gave wide berth when they heard the lepers’ wooden warning signal. But wearing it even four months ago would have made her trips far more risky. That is, wearing it before Lord Macpherson came.
So, whenever she could get away unnoticed, she continued to go down this path, carrying food, medicines, and whatever else Walter and his people needed. Father Jack had taken the lepers into his own flock when they had moved into the forest near his stone hut. But Father Jack was getting old, and Fiona wanted to help him. She needed to help him.
For, despite the dangers, Fiona was not going to abandon Walter, the man who found her so many years ago...washed ashore, nearly dead. The one who took her to the Priory, to the place that had been her home ever since.
Suddenly Fiona’s foot caught on a raised root branch, and she nearly tumbled headlong to the ground. Though she caught herself at the last moment, a shock coursed through Fiona when, to her right, a rustle in the undergrowth exploded as a fat pheasant took flight. The noise and surprise of the bird’s emergence rattled her. Fiona froze in her tracks as a shiver radiated through her body. She looked about her nervously, and for a moment the very shadows of the dawn woods took on a threatening look. Straightening the hood that had fallen from her head, Fiona pulled the cloak tightly about her, as if the thick cloth could control the chill that was coursing through her.
“These are your woods, Fiona,” she said aloud, breaking into
the silence that had fallen around her. “You have traveled this path more times than you can count. Get a hold of yourself. Get a hold of yourself!”
As if her words were not enough, she found herself reaching down to pick up a stout branch lying beside the path. As she did, she felt the rattle of crockery in the satchel she carried. Crouching in the path, she opened the bag and looked sadly at what had been three empty jugs. Only one jug still intact lay amid the wreckage of two broken ones.
“Thank you, Lord Macpherson!” she said, fingering the jagged pieces. “Now you have seen to it that I have some explaining to do.”
Slinging the satchel back onto her shoulder, Fiona grasped the sturdy piece of wood in her other hand and continued on her way, her momentary lapse of confidence forgotten.
She began to rehearse what she would say to her mistress. “Aye, m’lady prioress,” she said, smiling at the thought of such an unlikely confession. “Two more broken jugs. But it was not my doing this time. It was a chance meeting with that ill-tempered Lord Macpherson. Oh, no, m’lady, you know I would not dream of disobeying you and going to the lepers’ camp alone...again.”
Fiona came to a stop at a fork in the path. “Let me see,” she whispered to herself. “Safe way home or short way home?”
“Definitely, the safe way home! Enough excitement for one day.” She turned onto the more traveled path and felt her spirits rising as she continued the imaginary discussion she had just begun.
“Let me see! Where were we? Aye, m’lady! Lord Macpherson...Lord Macpherson? Why, he just galloped right through the priory laundry while I was hanging the wash. What, m’lady? It is true that I have not done the wash for some years now. I know, m’lady! I have other responsibilities. But you see, it was such a beautiful day. And I was trying to help the other sisters. Especially Sister Beatrice. She has a summer cold she cannot be rid of.
“Aye, you should have seen him. The laird is quite an imposing figure riding his horse the way he does. But that innocent bird tied to his wrist. The poor creature. The jugs, m’lady? Oh, no, they could not have been filled with herbal teas for the leper folk. They were filled with...water...aye, jasmine water. What, m’lady? We do not use jasmine water to scent the laundry?
“Hmmm!” Fiona slowed her pace, now thinking about that one. “No jasmine.” But then her eyes sparkled and she picked up her pace again.
“I am sure you are correct, m’lady. Clearly, I must have been so enraptured with the spiritual aspect of my task—you are forever telling me that God resides in the most mundane of our labors—that, well, the scent of nature’s glories must have been upon those linens. Aye, m’lady, I could have sworn I smelled jasmine. What, m’lady prioress, Lord Macpherson in the laundry? Aye, m’lady, I was the only one to see him, but I assure you his horse did not soil so much as a single handkerchief. Just the jugs, m’lady. Aye, smashed, m’lady.”
Fiona chuckled at the thought of such a conversation...on such an improbable topic. Lord Macpherson barreling through the laundry while she was hanging the wash. But then Fiona’s expression clouded for a moment. She had to talk seriously to the prioress about assigning Sister Beatrice’s tasks to others for the time being, until she got better. The older nun would never utter even a word of complaint, and would certainly never shirk her responsibilities. Fiona knew that the prioress would have to intervene and order her to rest.
The prioress had always pushed Fiona to take on more responsibilities in the administration of the Priory. And she had always supported the young woman in the decisions she made. Always, Fiona thought. It was not that the tasks that some of the other nuns performed were beneath her. No, it was just that the prioress felt it more appropriate to give her jobs that, as the older woman put it, better suited Fiona’s talents. But Fiona had a lingering suspicion that the prioress saw her as good with numbers and terrible with everything else. Hmmph! she thought.
Special gift from God, that is what the prioress had often said of her, a smile on her wrinkled face. And it was true: sometimes Fiona had taken to her tasks like a fish to water. What had taken the prioress hours to do, particularly with numbers and the books, Fiona could accomplish in a fraction of the time. More recently, though, Fiona’s restlessness and mildly insubordinate acts had caused the prioress to take to calling Fiona “an endurance test from God.” Oh, well, the young woman sighed.
Entering a clearing, Fiona blinked at the brilliant morning sunlight that had quickly burned through the predawn mists. The sun was dazzling as it reflected off the small pond in the center of the small meadow. She was still a half hour’s walk away from Priory lands. As Fiona picked up her pace, she wondered what her old friend David would say about her adventure this morning. Naturally, she would tell him the truth. All of it. He was the only one she would dare speak the truth to. He was the only one who never panicked and scolded her for the smallest of risks.
Certainly there were times when they had their disagreements, but they inevitably worked them through. This was the way it had always been between them. David never tried to rule her or intimidate her. He told her about the real world, about places outside of Skye. About the beauty of the Scottish mainland. He’d been there. He taught her the survival tricks, as he called them. And he taught her how to apply what she knew to the needs of real people. These lessons were such a refreshing change from all the French and English and Latin lessons the prioress had her sit through.
And the lesson he had stressed most—from the time she first arrived—had been to stay far away from Torquil MacLeod.
David, the Priory’s jack-of-all-trades, was also the prioress’ half-brother. He was a younger son, illegitimate, but nonetheless an uncle to Torquil. So he knew him well. His stories of the laird’s brutality rang true to the imagination of a little girl whose mind had securely locked away all memory of what rough men could do. But from the time Fiona had been a young child, David had taken her under his wing, and his gentleness had won her trust. He’d made her feel safe while always pushing her to test herself. He had always encouraged her independence. He’d once considered himself to be like a father to the orphan lass, but he’d ended being her friend. A dear friend.
“It is fine to make mistakes, so long as you learn from them.” That was what her friend had instilled in her. Fiona was not sure life in the Priory would have been quite so interesting without him.
And then a little more than a year ago Malcolm had been returned to them. At the thought of the young boy, Fiona picked up her pace. He would be waiting for her.
Passing a jagged outcropping of rock that stood beside the pond, Fiona shifted the satchel to her other shoulder and dropped the stick to the ground.
Looking past the rolling hills toward the wild peaks of the Cuillins far to the south, Fiona was suddenly aware of a figure standing in the shadow of a great oak tree only a stone’s throw ahead. Stopping dead in her tracks, the young woman pulled her hood farther forward to hide her face and reached inside her cloak for her wooden clapper.
The figure stepped out of the shadows, and Fiona shuddered involuntarily.
The man’s filthy face was crisscrossed with scars, and the young woman could see the bright red cross that had been branded on his right cheek. From the mark, she knew instantly that he had been found guilty of stealing from a church. That brand was enough to make him unwelcome in every village and town in Christendom. But it was the look in his black eyes that frightened her the most. It was the look of a hungry animal.
Fiona swung her clapper, and the noise made the man stop momentarily on the path. Then she heard what must have been a laugh, but it was a sound so resonant with evil that it was hard to identify as such. Fiona felt a clammy chill spread upward from the small of her back.
“That don’t matter none to us,” he said, spitting out his words with a bitterness that Fiona had never experienced before.
He took a step toward her, and she swung the clapper more desperately, hoping that the sound would ward him off.
“We’ve watched you before,” he continued, taking another step toward her. Fiona could smell his foul odor, and she turned her head in revulsion. “You ain’t no leper. You’re that pretty face in that churchyard full of old women. We’ve been watching you.”
Fiona felt the hair rise on the nape of her neck. Taking a step back, she turned to run for the woods, but as she did, two others stepped from either side of the rock outcropping she had just passed. Their arms were spread wide, and Fiona knew what it felt like to be a hunted animal at bay. She turned her eyes from one predator to the next. Their eyes glistened in the morning sun. They all looked...hungry. But she sensed it was not food they were after.
“Where are you going...angel? Ain’t that what they call you...‘angel’?” The heavier of the other two brutes spat the words out, and Fiona could see the fleck of drool at the corner of the man’s mouth. She felt her stomach tighten. “We just want to see what kind of an angel you are.”
Fiona again glanced quickly around her. She was trapped on all sides by these outlaws. They were circling her, and she could tell that their evil excitement was building. Fiona saw Crossbrand, obviously the leader, wave to the others to close in.
“You are brave men, coming this close,” she wheezed with a mocking tone. Fiona gave her clapper one last shake, and then let it fall to her side. She tried desperately to keep any sign of fear from creeping into her voice. “But you ain’t going to be happy with what you get.”
The three men slowed, exchanging glances, but when she began to cough, they all came up to a full stop.
Fiona’s whole body heaved with the racking coughing fit that shuddered through her. As if her insides would turn out in a moment, the young woman convulsed with the effects of the fit.
“I ain’t who you think me to be,” she said in a sickly voice, gasping for air. “I have the disease bad. I am telling you, the other lepers have even kicked me out of the village, ‘cause they say I got something different. They know I’m dying. They’re afraid it’s catching.”
Angel of Skye Page 3