by C. J. Bahr
Lord Sinclair had already arrived, and after delivering a loud tongue lashing that blistered the twins’ ears, he followed it up with a good ol’ highland thrashing. The twins had given the Priest an apology then followed their Da home. The lads probably wouldn’t be able to sit for days with their sore arses. Simon would be so lucky.
Bloody hell. His own Da, Murdoc MacKay, wasn’t a shouter, but that just made it worst. He’d talk with his son calmly and quietly, showing only disappointment and sadness on his weathered seafarer’s face. What he wouldn’t give to have his Da shout at him and beat him. Simon sighed. He looked at the altar, studying the wooden crucifix and said a silent prayer.
Lord, I know you’re a wee bit angry with me, but it was only meant as a jest. You made man, so you certainly must understand boys. After all, we’re made in your image. You had a son. Surely he had fun as a lad, didn’t he? Simon scuffed his boot across the floor again, glancing down and away. Well aye, you’re probably right, he was your Son so he must have been perfect. But I’m just a lad. I didn’t mean any harm. Please let my Da understand. I hate seeing him so sad. I try hard, but I always seem to disappoint him. I don’t mean to—
His stomach lurched when the church doors opened behind him. The wind howled, blowing dry leaves over the granite floor, mingling with the solid booted stride of a man. His Da had arrived. Simon swallowed again.
Without turning, he listened as his Da closed the doors and was joined by Father Colin McPhee. Low voices rumbled behind Simon as he portrayed an avid interest in his boots. Why was he so stupid?
“Thank you, Father. I apologize for my son. Simon will understand the seriousness of his mischief, you needn’t worry.” His da’s voice rose loud enough for Simon, no doubt, to intentionally hear.
“Aye, I know ye will. The MacKay’s have a long standing with the Church. I’ll leave the lad to you, sir.”
His da’s steps came down the aisle then turned into the pew before him. The worn wooden bench creaked as he sat.
“Simon, lad. Look at me.” His father’s request was couched in a calm and quiet manner.
Simon’s stomach lurched again and soured. He might as well get this over with. He looked up and met his father’s sad, gray gaze.
“Son, you’re ten and one now.” It wasn’t a question. “A man almost grown. You should be taking on responsibilities, no’ acting like a wee lad in short pants.” His da pushed aside the escaped black strands of hair from the tight plaited queue off his face. He seemed more than just sad and disappointed, almost disturbed.
“There are things...” His da shook his head. “Bi Tren, be true, be valiant. You’re a disgrace to the Clan. I thought I taught you better. Where is your respect?”
“Da, it was just some stupid statues—”
His father’s hand struck blindingly fast in a stinging slap that brought tears to Simon’s eyes and left his cheek burning.
“Where? Where is your faith? How will ye—” His voice choked off and he tore his angry gaze from Simon to stare down at his hands.
Confused, Simon watched his father finger the large signet ring on his right hand. The sapphire winked in and out of view as it turned and spun. “I had hoped,” his da’s voice no more than a whisper, “to leave you the family legacy. It goes beyond the mere position of Earl. A responsibility that canna be measured. But time and again, Simon, ye have proven yourself unworthy.” His father raised his head and pierced him with his gaze. “When will ye grow up? I keep waiting, yet ye lark about never understanding that there is more to life than earthly pleasure.”
His father stood, towering over him. “Apparently I have been too indulging and kind. No more. It’s time I remember our clan’s motto: Manu Forti. Aye, a strong hand is needed. Listen carefully, Simon. It is time to put your childish ways away. It begins tonight.
“I’ve spoken with Father Colin. You will go to the Angels’ shrine and clean it—”
“But why just—” The slap was as stinging as the first, grinding Simon’s interruption to an abrupt halt.
“It was your plan. Byron and Dougal are followers. Ye will take responsibility for your actions so ye learn there are always repercussions. When Father Colin deems the statues pristine, ye will then kneel before them on the stone floor, and pray for their forgiveness. Ye will pray for their intercession on your soul, and then ye will meditate on your past actions. Pray for enlightenment. Pray ye understand what is needed to be a man of honor and a member of the clan MacKay.”
He had never seen his father so angry, his face set, lips thinned and eyes cold. There was a deadly seriousness to him that belied the dressing up of a few statues. More was going on. Simon feared his life was about to change, forevermore. His certainty was reinforced at his father’s next stern command.
“Ye will keep this vigil on your knees until the bells of Lauds are rung. By dawn, my fondest hope is that ye will have grown up.” MacKay laid his hand gently upon Simon’s shoulder and then raised the other so the signet ring was level with Simon’s eyes. “Bi Tren. One day this key will pass to ye. Ye must be ready and worthy.”
He lowered his ring hand and squeezed Simon’s shoulder. “I do this for your own good.” The MacKay exited the pew and walked up the nave’s center aisle to the doors. He never turned and glanced back. He just opened the doors and walked out into the stormy night.
Simon stared after his father, confused, angry and hurt. He didn’t understand what was going on. So lost in his thoughts, he never heard the Priest approach until Father Colin cleared his throat.
“Get on with it, lad. And don’t think to be cleaning all night in order to save your knees. I’ll be checking in on you and notice if you’re stalling.”
“Aye, Father.” He hung his head, hiding his rebellious expression from the old Priest. He shuffled out of the pew and headed for the shrine. He was in for a long night.
Chapter Nineteen
St. Brendan’s Church
July, Present Day
Standing in the chapel of St. Brendan’s, the angels stood in a semi-circle before Simon, staring impassively down at him. Nothing had changed in two hundred years. The shrine to the seven Archangels remained exactly as it had from that long ago stormy October night. St. Michael stood in the center, with Raphael on his right and Gabriel on his left. The remaining Archangels, Uriel, Raguel, Sariel and Remiel formed the rest of the half-circle.
This was where it had all started and now apparently, ended. On that cold and windy night, his youth fled as he knelt before the angels’ judgment. His father thought to teach him a lesson, yet, it was the wrong one he took away. Though he had been a mischievous lad, the true start to his rebellion began that night on aching knees tormented by hard granite. The stone had seeped into his heart. The relationship with his father spiraled rapidly downward, culminating in Simon shunning his duties as heir and joining the army—all against tradition and rational responsibility.
With that final act of rebellion, Simon never had the chance to reconcile with his father. His da was murdered and left in the cold, ocean’s grasp, the legacy lost, and his family torn apart. It had taken a few hundred years of personal torment for Simon to realize what a fool he’d been. Just as on that Halloween night, a part of him wished he could turn back time and understand what his father had tried to tell him so he would have emerged from his vigil the man his da wanted him to be. But, as with then, there was no turning back, only forward.
Simon glared at the angels before him. For everything the MacKay’s had done, he thought some intervention would have been allowed. He prayed his family was at peace, and one day, he’d be able to join them.
“Well, old friends,” Simon greeted the silent statues. “The time has come. I will honor our clan’s legacy. Bi Tren.” He sighed. “A little help would be appreciated, though.”
Simon crossed himself and tried to find some inner calm as he prayed.
“St. Michael, smite my enemies. St. Gabriel, the messenger, send me a sign.
Uriel,” he growled out the name, losing all patience. “You bloody know...tell me, show me...” He glowered at the stony stillness staring down at him. “Damn you all! You do nothing and expect everything. Fine. This is the end. I’ll see it done.”
Simon turned his back on the Archangels and stormed out of the shrine. The candles flickered and gutted in his violent unseen passage, leaving darkness in his wake.
****
Laurel pulled open the heavy door to St. Brendan’s and stepped inside. She paused, letting her eyes adjust to the interior’s darkness. She had spent the morning with Beth as planned, but the afternoon became a wash. Beth confessed she had a surprise for her, planned well in advance of Laurel boarding her flight to Scotland. It was Beth’s early birthday gift to her. Grinning, her best friend left after preparing lunch, making Laurel promise if she went out, she’d be back by five. Suddenly having the afternoon to herself, Laurel thought she’d get in some research that might help Alex.
St. Brendan’s, the local area’s church, had been in existence for centuries. It had withstood wars, clan fighting, and the harsh northern weather. Ever vigilant. The perfect place to house old records and clues for the missing gold. She spotted a priest lighting candles on the far side of the transept and walked to him.
“Excuse me, Father. I called earlier and spoke with a Father Campbell.”
“Ah, yes. You must be Ms. Saville. I’m Father Campbell.” He smiled warmly and offered his hand. She was surprised by his youth. He looked to be about her age.
“Laurel, please,” she shook his hand. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, especially at the last moment.”
“It’s no problem. I’ll be with you in just a moment.” The Priest went back to lighting the votives.
“I thought your parishioners were the ones to light the candles.”
“Och, well, I’m just re-lighting the ones that blew out. They’re meant to stay lit until the candles burn out, but I think the angels are playing jokes on me.”
“Angels?”
“Aye,” he gestured into the alcove next to him. “`Tis a shrine to the Archangels, and these candles are the only ones that keep blowing out. I seem to be re-lighting them every summer. None of the other candles within the church are affected. I think they like my company.” He chuckled and placed the lighter down. “Now, lass. I understand you wanted to discuss local history? It’s a rare, bonnie day, why don’t we go outside and chat?”
Laurel followed Father Campbell as he led her to a door near the altar. They exited into the bright sunshine and followed a graveled path to a small cemetery. He gestured to a stone bench beneath a leaning tree. She sat as Father Campbell joined her.
“Now, Laurel. What can I do for you?”
“I’m trying to help an acquaintance of mine. Alex MacKenzie?”
“Aye,” the young Priest paused. “I know him.”
“Has he been through St. Brendan’s records?”
“No, he hasn’t. The only times I’ve spoken or seen him were outside the church. He doesn’t attend Mass. What is it you’re after?” He watched her closely, his blue gaze locked intently on her face.
Laurel fidgeted under his scrutiny. “Is there a problem?” She was definitely picking up a vibe from the Priest.
“Frankly, I don’t care much for MacKenzie.” He looked up to the sky, then down at his hands folded in his lap. “Not very priestly of me.” He sighed.
She stared at Father Campbell, torn, wondering why the Priest didn’t like Alex, but squashed her curiosity. Maybe an opportunity would present itself where she could dig into his reason. But Father Campbell’s discomfiture caused her to change tack. She wanted answers and there was no point in alienating the Priest. “I was hoping to learn more about the MacKay’s. I’m visiting from Chicago and staying at Cleitmuir Manor. Beth Murray, my best friend, is chair of the festival committee.” She didn’t bring up Alex again, hoping to make the priest more receptive than when she first mentioned his name.
“Aye, Beth. She’s a good lass. Fits right into the community. Grant was lucky when he found her.” Father Campbell replied, his posture relaxing.
Laurel smiled from the obvious affection the priest had for Beth. Not mentioning Alex appeared to be the right approach.
“She is wonderful. I’ve missed her greatly since she wed and moved to Scotland. We’ve known each other since grade school. This is the first I’ve been able to leave Chicago to visit her.”
“‘Tis a shame for good friends to be separated so.”
“Yes is it. My job, I work for the Chicago Field Museum, makes it hard to get away,” she stated. “My work has made me a bit of a history nut. I’ve always wanted to visit the Scottish Highlands and now I’m here, surrounded by incredible history.”
“That you are,” the Priest replied with a twinkle in his eye. “Are you enjoying your visit?”
“I am,” she offered him another smile. “It’s been amazing. Especially staying at Cleitmuir Manor. The MacKay’s have such a long history.”
“Did you know the clan was descended from the Picts? Do you know about the Picts?” Father Campbell asked.
“Simplistically, the Picts are the earliest Celtic race of Scotland.”
“Aye. When Christianity came to Scotland, the MacKay’s were one of the first to convert. They’ve been closely involved ever since. The Earl of Cleitmuir is buried here.” Father Campbell stood. “Let me show you.”
Laurel followed the Priest as they wove their way through the graveyard. They stopped in front of a large ornate tombstone of an angel with its wings unfurled. The statue stood taller than her. She scanned down the granite angel to the tablet in its hands.
Murdoc MacKay
1767 - 1809
3rd Earl of Cleitmuir
Beloved Husband and Father
Bi Tren.
“Excuse me, Father. Wasn’t Simon the last Earl?”
The Priest cleared his throat. “Aye, but his Da was the last of the MacKay’s to be buried here.”
“Did anyone ever discover what happened to Simon?”
“No, but never believe the stories spread about our young Captain. He may have had a wild history, but he’d never turn against his family.”
“You seem so sure,” she studied the Priest.
“Aye, well,” Father Campbell turned a bit sheepish. “The MacKay’s are a large part of this area, and St. Brendan’s has journals from the Priests that stayed here. It started with the first Priest, Father Timothy. It’s kind of a tradition that’s carried on through today. No matter what might have been between father and son, Simon wouldn’t have abandoned his mother and sister, especially during the unstable times of the Clearances.”
“Clearances? That’s the second time I’ve heard that word spoken in terms of a noun.”
“Aye, well, it was another dark time in the Highlands. The English were evicting Highland families off their land for sheep and other more profitable means. They weren’t pleasant about it either. At its height, thousands of families, a day, were forced to leave without notice, just simply told to get out or suffer devastating consequences. A lot o’ people died because of the Clearances. If you ask me, it was just another excuse for English revenge against the Highlanders, just like banning the tartans and speaking the Gaelic.”
“What happened to his family?”
“Och, Lady Cora and wee Jean were cast out. They lost everything. Cora MacKay, never fared well after losing her husband, grew sicker and died. It’s believed Jean became an indentured servant and ended up in America.” Father Campbell shook his head. “It was a sad time. The Highlands have gone through hell, but the clans kept their pride. Simon would never have left his family willingly.”
“So you don’t believe he killed his father?”
“Never! I think poor Simon suffered his father’s fate.” The Priest glanced back to the church. “I must return and prepare for None,” noticing her confusion, he clarified. “Mid-day prayer. It
starts at three. However, if you’re interested, you may look at the journals left by Father McPhee, the attending Priest during Simon’s life.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much. I’d love too!” It was just the invitation she had been hoping for.
She followed Father Campbell back to the church. He showed her into a small office and pulled down five leather-bound books.
“Here you go lass, have at them. I’ll check back later to see if there’s anything else I can help you with.”
“Thank you, Father. Oh, just one more thing. What about the Jacobite gold?”
The Priest snorted. “You’ve been listening to folklore and MacKenzie. Gold?” The Priest stared directly into her eyes. “Smoke and mirrors. There’s never been any gold.”
Chapter Twenty
Laurel dashed for the steps, trying to avoid the large drops of rain splashing down on the manor’s gravel drive. She was late.
As always, when immersed in history, she’d lost track of time. The journals were fascinating, reliving the era in the leather-bound books. From the stories about St. Brendan’s parishioners to the simple lists of church stores, McPhee’s voice rang through and transported her to another time. She especially enjoyed reading about a Halloween prank Simon and his friends had pulled when he was eleven. Apparently they had dressed up the angel statues. It made her smile until she read about his punishment. It seemed harsh, but was probably normal for the era.
Emerging from her cocoon, she found it was after five o’clock, and the previous brilliant sunshine gone. The ever-changing Scottish weather had taken a turn while she’d been inside the little office of St. Brendan’s. A cold, northern wind had swept down, bringing clouds that threatened rain. They pressed down upon the land like a thick, charcoal blanket, echoing the thoughts bouncing around in her head.
She’d read nothing about the Jacobite gold, or even any hints or codes that could be about the elusive treasure. Father Campbell might be right. There could be no gold. Was Alex chasing nothing more than a rumor? It was hard to believe considering he made his living by finding treasure. Maybe the earlier church’s journals held the key?