Becca St.John

by Seonaid

  “Aye, I’ll take you.”

  They nodded, curt, crisp nods of business, then went about pouring a foul brew down his throat. He might survive the injury, but he wasn’t at all certain he’d survive the draughts everyone poured into him.

  CHAPTER 14 ~ CONFESSION

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Seonaid murmured into the dark grate, cocooned behind heavy drapes of the confessional. If only the whole of a confession could roll off her tongue, a memorized thing, like prayers rather than this onerous reaching deep to dredge muck and then find a way of describing it. No ease in that.

  How did she ask for forgiveness? She had borne a bastard son. But he was no sin, not in her eyes. She’d not offer him up for sacrifice. The violent act of begetting him…aye, that was a wickedness, but she was not at fault for that. She would never confess to it.

  “Go on,” Father Kenneth prompted.

  “I killed two men,” she blurted, forgetting the man from earlier in the journey. “I mean three.” She slumped back. “No, wait!” Sitting straight again. “There was the guard, the one who watched over Jasmine. I believe I killed him as well.”

  She’d done what needed doing to protect herself, her son, the women.

  The friar’s harsh intake of breath hinted to his interpretation. “Are you penitent?”

  Of course not. He knew that, would have heard it in her voice. Pride rather than guilt. A different sin. “No, Father. They would have killed me, done even worse, had I not slain them.”

  “I see.”

  He should. He’d be dead right now if she’d not killed.

  Not so when she killed her only friend.

  Deidre.

  No amount of confessing could free her from that sin. But she would have to confess it. Someday, before she died.

  Unnerved by the silence, Seonaid ordered her thoughts. Why here, now, did she choose to unburden her soul? Her relationship with God was just that, hers. She’d never bothered much with the kirk or his minions. She prayed, opened her heart to listen, but not within a kirk. But God’s whispers could be elusive when she needed him to shout.

  He wasn’t shouting now.

  “Is there anything else?”

  Gathering breath, she expelled it on a rush of words. “I’m giving my son away.” If not a sin, it should be. It weighed on her soul like a black canker.

  Unnatural for a mother to give up her child.

  What choice did she have?

  I’m giving my son away. The confession raced ahead of Deidre’s murder. Took precedence.

  The first time she’d said it aloud.

  “Ah.” A million implications rode on that small little sound. Mystery uncovered. Comfort. It will all be right now.

  But it wouldn’t be all right, and there was no comfort.

  She was giving her son away.

  “So you’ve killed three men…no, I mean four men, and you are giving your son away. Is this the boy you came to Eriboll to see?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes.” His nod was barely perceptible through the grate. “It does. Orphans land on the church steps. I take it he would be an orphan.”

  “Yes.”

  “He is not the son of the man you came to see, here at Eriboll.”

  “No.” If only he was, if only Padraig could be his father.

  “Are there other sins you need to atone for?”

  Confess for fornication? That’s what he implied, but she’d not do it. Refused to cast her love for Padraig under the banner of sin, though the priest waited for just that.

  He sighed, again. “There is more.” It wasn’t a question. “You came to declare more than this.”

  How did the clergy do this? How did they always know, even now, after revealing the gravest of sins, that there was more?

  “I murdered my best friend.”

  Silence. Beyond their enclosed world, the heavy church door creaked opened, feet shuffled, incoherent whispers echoed. Finally, the friar’s words. “That is not the sin I expected to hear.”

  Well, it’s the one you are going to hear. She would not give up to penance the hell of her son’s birth or what she shared with Padraig. She would not, no matter how this man of God pried and prodded.

  Both Deian and Padraig were gifts from God. Shining goodness in a harsh existence. She’d been punished enough in this life. She’d been as close to sin and evil as a body could be, and that wasn’t Deian or Padraig, or what she’d done with Padraig.

  She’d not confess to that.

  But he wanted more, did he? This man she thought a kind and gentle friar. Fine, she would give him more. “My child is my brother’s son.”

  There, she’d said it. Released the poison once more. Let the priest bear the weight of it. “I fought, I screamed, but there was no mercy.”

  “Then you are absolved of this sin.”

  “And my son? Is he absolved?”

  Oh, Lord, she’d done it. Planted that evilness on Deian. Betrayed him in the end. A confessor did not step out of confessional and forget all he’d been told.

  Deian was far better off without her, he was.

  Silence, again, followed by a weary sigh. “He will never be free of his bastardy. Society can be cruel.”

  “Where he is,” Seonaid pressed, “no one knows of his conception.”

  “There are no secrets to God.”

  “Aye, so I will give up my son and carry his secrets far away, for none to know but God.”

  “A grievous penance, my child,” the friar acknowledged. “May God Bless and keep you.”

  If only God had protected her sooner, when Lochlan was alive.

  But then she’d never have had Deian. The awful irony was not lost on her. Her brother robbed her of innocence; but in the thieving, he gave her Deian. And now, to preserve Deian’s innocence, she would be robbed of all but the memory of him. Memories she would cherish the rest of her days.

  She could hide in the shadows, watch from a distance, but what good would it do, other than prolong the pain of losing?

  This woman she’d seen obviously cared for Deian. She’d not let him flounder, alone in the world, any more than Padraig would. Padraig would see everything to rights.

  If he lived.

  The priest had much to say about penance and cleansing, as well as offering lessons to free her soul from lingering sin. An ordinary man, a friar with naught in the world but his cassock and cross, his words and teachings touched her. Eased her heart, as she left the kirk.

  Halfway down the hill to the gate, Seonaid looked up at the keep towering over the village, window shutters flung open, high up on the walls. Was Padraig on the other side of those openings? Were the healers with him now?

  She’d gotten the healers to Padraig. There wasn’t much more she could do.

  She made her way through the streets of the town, beyond the gate, across the bridge, into the village. She failed to stop at the cottage where she and the healers boarded, but kept going, on to the stables, to find Peregrine. A horse. The only companion left in her life.

  vvvvvv

  Curled upon a bench within the deep walls of a windowed alcove, Lady Alissa watched the children play in the yard below. Toy swords, wooden shields all heavy enough to, at the least, develop strength, muscle. More easily dragged than brandished. Young Eban proved the strongest of the lot, the craftiest. He’d learned much, traveling across the land.

  Without a mother.

  She looked back toward the balcony that lined the great room, quiet at this hour. The tables removed after noontide, rushes replaced this very day, bringing in the sweet scent of the fields. She loved this room on just such a day. When the light filtered in through windows, high on the far outer walls, meeting sunbeams from the windows across the way, such as hers, that lined a gallery overlooking the courtyard.

  She would miss this place.

  Could she take a boy with her?

  “What have you got there?” The Reah. Of course,
he would sneak up on her in this peaceful quiet moment.

  “How do you do that?” she sniped, distracting him, as she slipped the letter into the sewing basket at her side.

  Not so easily diverted, he snatched the letter from her hold before she could tuck it away.

  “That’s mine!” She jumped up to grab it back, but he held it beyond her reach.

  “What is it?” He bent low, his face to hers. She kicked out, but he dodged her try. “Must be important. A love letter, perhaps.”

  “You think you are so merry!” She stomped, stopped herself, stood still. He always did that, riled her beyond temper, taking her dignity away from her.

  “A piece of your journal.” He teased her, teased! If only he knew, his mere being teased her.

  Perhaps he guessed, or saw the seal, for he stilled, brow furrowed. “This is from The Macleod.”

  She crossed her arms, to keep them from grabbing what he’d never let her catch, and tapped her toes rather than injure them by kicking him. “Whoever it’s from, it’s not for you, so it’s none of your affair.”

  “What does the Macleod want with you?” He walked away, lowered his arm, so he could read the missive.

  Lady Alissa sighed and sat down. He’d find out soon enough. She waited and flinched when he exploded, though not surprised that he did. One just couldn’t prepare for spouts of anger, no matter how much one expects them.

  “You’re arranging your own marriage!”

  And with that, he sealed her fate.

  You’re arranging your own marriage! not You can’t leave me or How will we survive without you? or You’ve always been a part of Eriboll

  Or You’ll break my heart if you go.

  No, he was riled because she’d gone behind his back to secure a marriage.

  “It’s not as if you were doing anything about it, and I want a family.”

  “What about this boy? The one the MacKay brought with him. Do you not like him?” So eager he was, like a child offering his favorite toy to another.

  Numbskull.

  A struggle, but she calmed. Gently folded her hands at her waist, half-closed her eyes in silent ease. Took a calming breath. Opened her eyes and stunned them both by shouting, “Don’t be a fool!” emphasizing her points with jabs of her fingers. “You know he is not mine to take, not that one fostered child could be enough!” She stomped away, turned back, walked right up to his flabbergasted self, lifted her chin, and told him just what she thought of him.

  “Idiot!” Then she stormed away.

  Tears rising on her fury.

  “Idiot, idiot, idiot,” she reminded herself, over and over and over again, never quite sure if she meant him, or herself. She reached her bedchamber, shooed her ladies’ maids from the room, slammed the door, to fling herself onto her bed.

  “Idiot.”

  vvvvvv

  He woke with the jostling, as the healers changed his bandages.

  “The stench is getting better. We’ll be smelling you more than the wound soon.”

  “Angus?” Padraig tried to see into the room, but it was dark and the women were fussing about him so he couldn’t see.”

  “Aye,” The Reah leant forward, from his sprawl in the large chair before the fire. “Having a wee dram with the friar here.” He gestured with his goblet to the rotund little man on the bench opposite him.

  “Father Kenneth.” The portly man offered. “Forever grateful you saved my life.” He gestured to the others around him. “You saved all our lives.” And hiccuped.

  “It’s the ale,” Angus confided to the friar. “You’d not belch like that on whiskey.”

  “No,” the friar shook his head, “Undou…undou…ah,” he tried again, speaking each word carefully. “With. Out. Doubt.” And sat back, a smug look on his face.

  The healer shook her head, but didn’t let the drunken conversation stymie her.

  They’d been waking him to change the bandages, to pour their foul brew down his throat. Judging by the number of times they’d woken him, and the deep darkness, they were in the deepest part of the night.

  “You’ve not slept?” he asked the healer, but the other two responded.

  “Noooo.” Angus shook his head.

  “Need to speach with you,” hiccupped the friar.

  “They’ve not slept, either.” Jasmine paired her words with a repressive stare.

  “Now, don’ be like that, Jasmine,” the friar tutted. “You’ve not known me to be in my cups before and you’ve known me…” He scratched his head. “How long have you known me?”

  “My whole life,” she finished, a wee touch of softness easing her frown.

  “Ah, you’re a good girl, Jasmine. You’ll be safe now.”

  Padraig didn’t have time for drunken patter. He shifted without a sharp pain piercing him to the pallet, or the heavy throbbing echoing in his head. Gone, the burning heat in his shoulder. He was better. Much better indeed.

  “I need to piss.” He struggled to his side, to rise up.

  “I’ll help you, lad.” Angus leaned on his hand, to get up, but it slipped out from under his weight. He sat back down, putting both hands on the chair arms for better leverage.

  “No,” Jasmine ordered. “You—” she pointed at Angus, “—sit or you’ll both topple.” She reached for Padraig. “Here, let’s get you up, see if you can walk.”

  Unfit for the job, both Angus and the friar ignored Jasmine’s edicts, attempting to help by pushing as she pulled. The friar ended up on the floor, Angus’s shove sent Padraig flying forward. Good fortune put a chair in his way. He landed on his knees, grasping the chair, relieved not to land on his face.

  Undeterred, Angus grabbed Padraig’s arm, lifting and hurtling him forward, as he stumbled along side. “No job for a woman, watching you piss.”

  “Don’t be foolish,” Jasmine confronted them. “I’m a healer. Needs of the body are not new to me.”

  Drunk as he was, Angus managed to stop, stand up to his full height and glare down at her. “I need a piss as well. No room for you. Move aside.”

  The Healer harrumphed, but stepped out of their path, murmuring to herself about men as children and no sense at all, and predicting dire circumstances. Which was all fine and dandy except Padraig, who’d been trying to get a word past his drunken friend’s antics, stopped the forward momentum, to face the healer.

  “What of the woman? The third one traveling with you? Where is she?”

  This caught Angus’s attention, but Padraig didn’t care, didn’t care for much except knowing Seonaid was close.

  “I’ve done what you suggested,” Jasmine snapped. “Though I don’t know if it made a difference.”

  “Where’s the frightened one?”

  Jasmine paced away from him, to a table of herbs and jugs. “Angelica’s gone back to sleep. She’ll return come morning. She’ll have news.”

  He weighed her answers, ignoring Angus’s smirk.

  “And the lad?” he finally asked.

  “Ah!” Angus tapped the side of his nose. “I know where the lad is. He stays with Lady Alissa. No better protection of virtue than a child nearby.”

  Padraig grunted. If that were the case, Padraig wouldn’t be wondering if his child grew in Seonaid’s belly. He sorely hoped it did.

  He feared it might.

  CHAPTER 15 ~ OUTWITTED

  Thought they were so smart, did they?

  Seonaid pulled the cowl of her cape up over her head, walked the streets of Eriboll, past every paddock and stable she could find. If that didn’t work, she would whistle her way through the whole of the highlands.

  But she knew no one would have set him free, not a fine animal like Peregrine, nor would they have muzzled him.

  Whistling loud and shrill, not caring who she woke, she strode down another lane. Waited. No whinny or neigh returned. Fine, she’d go further. Refused to admit the heartbreak of defeat sinking inside.

  Peregrine was all she had of the past. And he wa
s gone.

  She’d left the kirk, gone straight to the stable, not even stopping to pick up a saddle that held the few possessions she’d carried across the land. What did she need with any of that now? Nothing. Her life was empty except for Peregrine. She’d saddle him, and head out of this place, before her heart kept her there.

  Only Peregrine wasn’t at the stable, and the man who tended the animals didn’t know where the horse had been taken, just that he’d been paid for his troubles and the animal was removed.

  She’d spent the last of the afternoon walking pastures, popping her head into paddocks and stalls, asking every person she saw if they’d seen a horse with the deep grey and white markings of a peregrine falcon, darker head and back, white chest with grey spots. A horse as fast as its namesake.

  She’d walked and asked and pounded on doors, even after shutters had been shut and barred for the night. She’d walked through the setting of the sun into the wee hours of darkness, skirting the crier for fear he’d report her to the guard. Even then, she risked her whistle, certain her horse would respond if he couldn’t get to her. He knew her whistle, she’d been using it since he was a foal. She’d trained him well. Still, he didn’t respond.

  She’d asked Angelica, who claimed ignorance, but didn’t have the heart to pressure the lass. She was far too fearful already to play a hand at intrigue.

  Of those who would hide the horse, none were so cruel to risk Deian finding him. His first thought would be that Seonaid was near and, when he couldn’t find her, he’d assume she was dead. It didn’t matter that she intended to leave him, never see him again. With her plan, her loss would be a gradual thing, not sudden, no shock. Like a boy going to a great lord for fostering. So how did she know the horse thief would protect her lad?

  Padraig.

  No one else would stop her from what she wanted to do. Just Padraig. She’d kill anyone else for attempting a trick like this. She might just kill Padraig, but first she had to get into the keep, find him, see how badly he was hurt and, if possible, hurt him more.