by Cathy MacRae
Brother Padraig nodded. “Well put, my friend. Do ye have an answer?”
Kinnon frowned. “God is hiding from me. How else to explain this incompleteness inside? Every day I join men who are completely at peace, listening to their murmured prayers as they go about their tasks.” He strove to control his agitation. “They have such an ease about them, as though nothing else matters in the world.”
Brother Padraig gave Kinnon a shrewd look. “As though the horrors ye have seen matter not?”
Kinnon lifted his hands. “They are untouched by them. They have not seen the hell we call war.”
The monk offered a wry grin. “Kinnon, every man here has his story. ’Tis true a few were dedicated at a young age and know no other life. Others willingly chose this vocation because of a thirst for the scripture, a love of a holy and simple lifestyle—a desire to seek God in every aspect of life. Some sought refuge such as ye have. Their stories would curdle yer blood. Here, on Iona, we are no strangers to war. Our island has seen much bloodshed from Viking raids. Martyr’s Bay was not named simply to honor the saints. Real blood stained the water. Real men died here. The cemetery holds the bones of many men who died before their time.”
Brother Padraig leaned forward. “God does not hide from men. Man sometimes takes his eyes off Him. Renew your focus on what matters most. Look at the small things, Kinnon. For in them, ye will see the work of God’s hands. And from there, ’tis a short journey to find His heart.”
* * *
Angus, no longer a wee kitten, slept curled upon the window sill, soaking in the watery late-winter sun.
Kinnon paced the scriptorium, his sanctuary against the steady rain outside. Thick rock walls protected the ancient manuscripts, but naught protected his soul. “I cannae rid my mind of the life that called me to prove myself as a man by contradicting everything the chivalric code required.”
“Was it always thus?” Brother Padraig asked.
Kinnon called Bertrand to mind. “Nae. My commander’s last words were to protect the poor, women and children, respect the Church and spare the ecclesiastics.”
Brother Padraig chuckled. “Mayhap there was a reason he asked ye respect the Church and spare the ecclesiastics in the same breath.”
Kinnon felt the ghost of a smile on his face. “Aye. ’Twas sometimes difficult to tell whose side the priests were on.”
“My friend, at some point in everyone’s life, ye discover ye are human. A priest may make a poor decision as he faces death, just as any man.”
Kinnon shook his head in disagreement. “Our precepts were generosity, fidelity, liberality and courtesy. And yet I saw looting, murder of innocents, rape, and blasphemy.”
“Which bothered ye most?”
Kinnon sobered. “That they were innocents. How could men sworn to protect…” Kinnon turned away, unwilling to voice the scenes in his head.
“Murder, rape and blaspheme?” the monk supplied. “Consider this. Ye have a bit of a command of the French tongue, aye?”
Kinnon nodded.
“What does the word chevalier mean?”
“A military follower—one who owns a warhorse,” Kinnon answered.
“Nothing else?”
“I dinnae understand. A chevalier is a heavily armed horseman.”
“Chevalier is the root of the word chivalry. There is a verra big step from one to the other.”
Kinnon turned to Brother Padraig, eyes narrowed. “What are ye hinting at?”
“Mayhap ye wish all soldiers to live up to the noble standard of yer code, when many are nothing more than men given a job others either cannot or dinnae wish to do.”
Kinnon’s brow furrowed. “What of the murder and thievery and rape?”
“They will pay for their sins. But their sins arenae yers.”
Kinnon was silent. Finally, Brother Padraig rose to his feet.
“Think on things that are lovely. Even in the midst of great turmoil, find beauty and it will give ye rest.”
Angus yawned and shifted on his perch as the monk exited the room.
Things of beauty? In the midst of bloodshed and injustice? His gaze traveled over the shelves of manuscripts and the tomes piled upon the scattered tables. Peace, yes. But beauty? Is beauty contained within these walls?
A small voice entered his mind. What need do I have of a man who will insist I cook his meals, clean his house and dance to his tune? Lucienne and I make it fine on our own.
Memories he’d tried to hold at bay rushed over him. In his years of dark despair in the tower prison, the memory of gentle spring sun on his skin had warmed him. Remembrances of a few hours of time-out-of-time had invaded his dreams of war and bloodshed. Reminiscences of a laughing face and clear blue eyes had replaced his distress with comfort.
He’d gladly left France after he’d won his freedom, with only a bittersweet thought to the two young women who’d saved his life—and his sanity. Faced with ill health and the overwhelming desire to put France far behind him and return home as swiftly as possible, he’d not pursued further information of Melisende and her sister beyond the reassurance they’d not been captured by Hervé soldiers.
In the midst of the war, he’d found peace, strength, and—Lord help him—beauty. And to his eternal regret, it was lost to him now forever.
* * *
Seagulls shrieked as they circled overhead. The promise of spring was in the warm breezes and the green grasses. Young boys hurried after their wooly charges as the sheep eagerly sought the new fodder, tiny lambs tottering behind their dams on shaky new legs across the rocky landscape.
Brother Padraig clasped Kinnon’s shoulder. “My friend, ye are doing the right thing. Some serve in the world by preaching the Gospel, and a few give themselves over to God in solitude and silence with constant prayer and penance.” He smiled. “Yet others are called to married love, mayhap bringing new life into the world. I pray ye find whom ye seek, but there are always places to tend the poor and needy in this world. Ye need not take vows to help God.”
Kinnon gripped the monk’s upper arm, conveying his thanks in the strengthening grip, the earnestness of his gaze. “I have no words powerful enough to thank ye, Brother. Ye have given me much to contemplate, and have healed more than my poor body.”
“Rest is a balm for the soul and healing for the body,” Brother Padraig quipped. “I will take good care of wee Angus. ’Tis a good thing ye decided to leave him here. After these past months without battling the rats for the last of the winter stores, I fear we would have had an uprising amongst the monks had ye insisted he go with ye.” He grinned. “Take care, my friend. If possible, I would hear word of yer travels.”
Kinnon stared deep into the monk’s kind eyes, hesitant to bring himself to the moment of parting. But the gentle thumping of the waves against the boat’s waiting hull reminded him the time to tarry was over.
Ranald’s men-at-arms met him as the boat docked on Mull, a horse saddled and waiting for him. Kinnon greeted them warmly, wondering at the sense of freedom stealing over him. It had begun as a flash of clarity the moment he’d resolved to search for Melisende. At first he wasn’t sure if he simply needed to be certain she and her sister had survived and were doing well, or if he truly longed to be with Melisende again. But the idea that she could have married in the years they’d been apart struck his chest with a peculiar agony that was a curious mix of anticipation and fear. The thought of another man holding her, loving her, being the center of her life, sent strong jolts of alarm through him.
It was then he realized he had to find her—for himself, not so he could worry less, but so he could care more.
Chapter 21
Melisende sighed as her fingertips hovered over the last fruits in the seller’s cart. Even with extra money from the surge of business following Lucienne’s elopement with Lord Depaul’s son three years earlier, it was almost impossible to purchase decent foodstuffs this late in the winter. Spring was evident in the tiny flowers tha
t poked their heads through the ground, and the warm breezes and rains all but washed away the winter snow. The ground was still too cold and hard to consider planting gardens, and the crops harvested months earlier were nearing the end of their appeal.
Resigned, she placed six withered apples in her basket, after checking them carefully for worm holes, and paid the exorbitant sum asked. They would add a bit of sweetness to the dried bit of beef she planned to stew for dinner tonight. Along with the herbs she carefully tended on the window ledge in the kitchen, it should be a tasty meal.
Even on the farm, we would have only what survived the winter. And we would have already put seeds in pots to have the young plants ready to set out once the weather warmed. She sighed. As much as she longed to return to the farm and considered it home, she did not want to face living there alone.
Mayhap Kinnon was right. A family is needed there. She gave herself a mental shake. What am I saying? I am twenty-and-three, hardly a young woman anymore. Who would look to me as a wife and mother?
Her steps slowed. Lucienne’s little girl is nearly two, and I will likely never see her—or any other children Lucienne may have. It was a jarring thought and she worried over her niece daily. Since the letter telling her of the child’s birth, she had received only one other from Lucienne, also asking for money. There had been no response to queries about the little girl—not even her name, and Melisende certainly did not ask what she’d meant by telling Raul the baby had been premature. It broke Melisende’s heart to dwell on the choices her sister made in her life.
She thought of the child. When did she first walk? Talk? Does she like the outdoors? What is her favorite food? Is she precocious? Melisende sighed, her chest tight. I will never know.
People rushed around her, laughing and calling to each other on this fine morning. It was easy to feel confident with the long winter behind you and spring sun on your face, but Melisende suddenly felt alone even in the midst of the busy market.
Someone bumped her shoulder—hard. Her basket slipped from her grasp and she cried out as she lunged for the apples that threatened to disappear beneath the bustling feet. A set of boots, scarred and muddy, planted themselves in front of her. She grabbed the last apple and rose, dusting the wrinkled skin on her skirt. The man who owned the boots did not move away, forcing Melisende to take a step back.
“I beg your pardon, monsieur,” she said with some asperity. Arrogant ass.
He leered at her. “Well, bless me if it isn’t the Scotsman’s tart.”
Melisende’s eyebrows shot up and she gripped her basket to keep from smashing a fist in the man’s stubbly face. A streak of alarm shot through her as she envisioned her dagger in the pocket of her cloak—which she’d left at the shop this fine morning. She’d thought herself safe in Puy-en-Velay—apparently too safe.
“I am certain I do not know what you mean,” she replied crisply. “And I will thank you to keep your slanderous words to yourself. I do not know you.”
He nudged the smaller man next to him. “Isn’t there still a notice up for her arrest?”
Her blood ran cold. Her gaze flew over the crowd of people hurrying past, not a one of whom would hesitate to turn her in if there was a reward involved. “You are mistaken,” she told the man firmly, gathering her skirt to walk around him. With a deliberate side-step, he countered her move.
“You will come with us, mademoiselle.” His voice was no longer arrogant, and his face hardened.
Melisende drew herself up with assurance she was hard-pressed to feel. “I think not. My oncle is an important man. If you wish to have dealings with me, you must speak to him first. Adieu.” With a curt nod, she attempted to force her way through the space between the two men. They closed ranks, blocking her path.
The first man held out his hand to her, palm up. “Come with us.”
Melisende narrowed her eyes. “If you touch me, I will scream.”
He grinned, calling her bluff. “We’ll risk it.”
Dropping her basket, she snatched up her skirts and darted to one side. The soldier grabbed her from behind, halting her flight. She whirled within his arms and stomped down hard on the top of his foot, bringing all her weight to bear, her sturdy boots adding to the force. He yelped and bent at the waist, grabbing at his lower leg. Stiffening her fingers, Melisende aimed for his face—now on level with her own—and dug her nails into the skin at the top of his cheeks. Narrowly missing his eyes, she raked long gashes in his flesh before dodging his partner and dashing away.
“After her!” he roared.
A murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd. Someone shouted at her to stop, but she ignored him and ran faster. Weaving in and out of the stalls she’d patronized only moments before, she registered the shock on the merchants’ faces as she sped past. There was no time to think, only to respond as footsteps and voices closed in.
* * *
Blackness enveloped her. Glancing about her furtively, she scratched softly at the back door of her oncle’s shop. Beyond the bolted portal came a snuffle and a low growl.
A single word reached her ears. “Quiet.”
The dog’s growl turned to an anxious whine. He recognized her.
The moments it took for her uncle to unlatch the door seemed like hours, and Melisende’s heart began to race. She clenched her fists. “Hurry, hurry,” she chanted softly.
With a sturdy snick, her oncle released the latch and opened the door. He stared at her. “I thought it was you.” He scowled at Jean-Baptiste who wiggled his entire body in silent greeting. “Your dog dragged me downstairs in the middle of the night—after the day I have had,” he finished dramatically.
Without answer, Melisende slipped past him into the shop’s storeroom. He followed on her heels.
“You have no idea what it has been like! Soldiers in and out of the shop all day, questioning my customers. Questioning me.” He rocked back on his heels as Melisende leveled a bland, disinterested gaze on him.
He rallied. “I told them that if you were smart, you would have already left town—followed your sister to Italy.”
Melisende felt the weight of every single second of the hours she’d spent in hiding, smelling the questionable places she’d huddled in, listening for footsteps, deciphering even the slightest noise, assessing it for possible threat. Her stomach rumbled, she smelled like a sewer, and she felt a hundred years old. His day was of no importance to her. “Close the door, Oncle.”
With a start, he rushed back to the door and threw the latch before hurrying to catch up with her as she climbed the stairs.
“Where are you going?” he demanded as she reached her room, flinging her possessions into her bag.
She flashed him a look of impatience. “If I do not tell you, you will not have to lie when the soldiers return tomorrow.”
“You cannot think I would tell them…” he blustered, red-faced.
Melisende slammed the flat of her hand on the bed and leaned forward menacingly. “What did they pay you, Oncle?” she snarled. “What did they promise if you helped them find me?”
“You are ungrateful!” he shot back, edging toward the door. “I took you and your shameless sister in when you had nowhere else to go. Lord Depaul still threatens me after all this time with an inquisition from the Bishop, still claims your sister is a witch.”
Melisende released a breath of frustration. “Lucienne is not a witch, Oncle. Raul simply lost his head.” She shoved a thin shift inside the bag. “Though faced with the alternative of marrying the heiress almost six years his elder—well, ’tis hard to blame him.”
Jean-Baptiste whined, clearly upset by their voices.
Oncle Ramon whirled at the distraction. “And your enormous dog! You are both a menace and a burden. I will be glad to be rid of the both of you.”
With a final step to the door, he dashed through and slammed it closed. The scrape of a heavy object across the wooden floor told her that exit was now blocked. With a shake of h
er head, she crossed the room and threw the bolt. Locking it would give her an added few minutes before anyone entered and discovered she was no longer there.
She flung her cloak about her and hefted the strap of her bag over her shoulder. A quick pat told her that her dagger was still in her cloak pocket. She called to Jean-Baptiste.
“Come on. We will do it the hard way.”
Opening the single narrow window, she eased out onto the ledge. Jean-Baptiste stuck his head through the casement and whined.
“Don’t be a baby,” she chided. “’Tis not so far.” She pointed to a low shed only a few feet from the wall. “See? No problem.” She paused, gathering herself as she judged the distance. “Of all times to wish I was a boy,” she muttered, pulling her skirts to her knees.
She hunkered down, bracing a hand on the window sill. Jean-Baptiste whined again. Ignoring him, Melisende leapt across the short distance, landing on the shed’s rooftop with a thud, catching herself on her hands and knees. She stood and motioned to the dog. “Come on, Jean-Baptiste. You can do it.”
He leapt lightly through the window, landing on the ledge with a scramble of toenails. He looked down at her and slowly wagged his tail.
“Come on,” she urged again. He looked down and for one fearful moment, she thought he would jump straight to the ground. Then his muscles bunched and he flew across the space to land next to her. She rubbed his ears in relief. “The next step is easy. The one after is not. Where are we going? Do we join Lucienne and her husband in Italy?” There was no answer, only faith in Jean-Baptiste’s eyes.
Melisende knelt and grabbed the edge of the roof and slipped over the side. Jean-Baptiste was quickly at her side, following her into the night.
Chapter 22
The French countryside was ablaze with flowers. Birds sang overhead and Kinnon’s heart lifted. With him rode twenty men-at-arms, eager for adventure, or at least a journey to reunite their clansman with the woman who had saved his life. After visiting with Gilda as he’d promised, he’d announced his plan to find Melisende to Ranald and his astonished sister. Ranald had responded with the food, men and money to assist his journey. Riona had gifted him with her prayers and good wishes. He’d need all of it.