by Amy Jarecki
Bran dropped his chin. “For the love of God.” He snapped back up. “Do ye ken what ye’ve done to her?”
Calum squeezed Bran’s jaw. “Och, are ye going soft on me?”
Bran lurched forward, only to have the ropes cut into his flesh. “Loosen me bindings and I’ll show ye exactly how soft I am.”
The chieftain dropped his hand. “I’ll release ye when ye’ve come to yer senses.”
“When do we sail for Iona?” Malcolm asked.
Bran eyed him. He was in on Calum’s plan. The image of Malcolm marshaling Enya down the beach and into the arms of that tyrant was emblazoned upon his mind. “Ye will no’ be going with us.”
Calum ignored Bran’s remark. “We canna arrive before Ross and his men have returned to Renfrewshire. I will dispatch spies to watch from Mull.”
Bran didn’t blink. “I want to go.”
“At the risk of doing something stupid?” Calum shook his head. “Nay, I cannot allow it.”
Damn Calum and damn his wretched scheming. With every fiber of his being, Bran wanted to weigh anchor and blast Ross and his rutting armada out of the sea. It was an ugly game Calum played, one that could be very bad for Enya. God only knew what went on in a nunnery on an isolated island.
John placed his hand on Bran’s shoulder. “Ye’ve naught but to put this behind ye and go with Calum’s plan. The lassie’s gone and we need to work together to bring her back.”
“Unbind me.”
White lines formed around Calum’s lips. “Do I have yer word ye’ll no’ be swinging yer fists like a raging boar?”
Bran looked at Malcolm. He wanted to slam his fist into that ruddy face, damn it all. But if he started swinging, everyone on the deck would jump on his back. Besides, what good could he be to Enya tied to the mast or locked in the tower? Though the lash marks had closed, the sting still clawed at his flesh. Bran couldn’t clear his mind of Ross’s thirst for violence. The man could kill her before they reached Iona.
“Och, fine.” Bran watched Malcolm’s eyes. “Ye have me word.”
***
The sun had traversed to the western sky when the galley moored on the beach of the tiny isle of Iona. Separated from the abbey, the nunnery looked like a condemned and crumbling labyrinth of steepled grey stone buildings connected by stone walls and cloisters made of the same dreary rock.
Enya slumped in the back of the galley, her mind unable to focus. When they left Raasay she’d been so angry, her mind raced through the events of the past day, and she tried to formulate a reason for her betrayal. She’d thought everyone accepted her, liked her. She couldn’t remember seeing Heather on the beach. Was she working for her father all along?
Enya didn’t know what to believe. Her mind was numb and all she could manage was to sit and stare at the floorboards of the damp boat that reeked of dead fish.
The galley stopped rocking when the hull skidded onto the sandy beach.
Lord Ross pointed to the oarsman nearest Enya. “Untie her.”
“Aye, m’lord.”
Still wearing his helm and mail, the man leaned into her, emitting the foul stench of stale masculine sweat and rotten teeth. He untied the knot and the rope fell away from her wrists. “It looks like the rope cut into yer flesh a bit.”
Enya said nothing.
Lord Ross ordered Robert and the crew to stay behind as he dragged Enya through the bubbling surf and sand. “At least you’ll be off my hands. There’s no place to run on Iona, unless you fancy a very cold swim.” He strengthened his grip on her arm. “But if you attempted it, the cold would kill you before you reached the mainland, even if you weren’t pulled under by the weight of your gown.”
Enya stumbled in the sand, her skirts soaked up to her knees. “I am your daughter. Do you care nothing for me?”
“You showed me how little you cared for me when I found you in the loft with that barbarian. Besides, you are one of six daughters. Do you know how difficult it’s been to find suitable husbands? And you are the most insufferable.”
Enya tried to pull away, but his fingers were wrapped completely around her arm. “Father. Please, I beg you. Do not leave me here. ’Tis a prison.”
“You’ve left me with no other choice.”
Enya grimaced against the pain as her father marshaled her to the gate, guarded by a lone sentry. Standing immobile in his chainmail and helm, a poleaxe in his grasp, he reminded Enya of a crypt effigy.
Marching past Sir Postmortem was the least of Enya’s worries. In the courtyard stood a woman so gaunt, she couldn’t have been a day younger than two and seventy. If the guard were a candidate for an effigy, this woman could pass for the bones beneath the crypt.
Flanked by two nuns in like dress, she wore a black woolen gown with wide sleeves, her head topped with a white wimple shrouded by a black veil. Everything but her sallow, wrinkled face was covered, and her dark eyes glared, as if they had already passed judgment.
Lord Ross bowed deeply and Enya managed a polite curtsey. “Mother Abbess, I trust you received my missive.”
With a dour frown, she held her chin high while her beady eyes assessed Enya from head to toe. “We’ve been expecting you for weeks. ’Tis fortunate you caught me on my way to vespers.” She motioned to the nun on her right. “Sister Martha will take your daughter to the chamber, where we shall begin the cleansing process.”
“Cleansing?” Enya asked.
“As a daughter of Christ, you must atone for your sins.”
Enya stared at her father’s hateful glare as Sister Martha pulled her away. How could he abandon her without one kind word? Had he no compassion under his stoic façade?
***
Lord Ross watched the nun lead Enya away, confident the abbess would break her damnable spirit.
“I’ve only a few minutes. Walk with me.” Mother Abbess tapped his elbow. “From your missive, I assume you daughter has engaged in fornication?”
“Aye. I’m afraid she’s lain with a barbarian.”
“Is she with child?”
Ross’s gut squeezed at the image her question conjured. “I haven’t seen any signs, though she would not yet be showing if she were.”
“We could administer a tincture to ensure no bairn takes root. She would suffer days of misery, though it most likely will not kill her. Under the circumstances, I would recommend it.”
His head gave a sharp nod. “’Tis best.”
The abbess steepled her gnarled fingers. “As you are aware, we insist fallen women atone for their sins with blood.”
“I understand. Enya needs a firm hand to mollify her adventurous spirit.”
“That we can do, Lord Ross. Mayhap we can persuade her to dedicate her life to God.”
“I would be content with Enya accepting her duty to wed whichever suitor I choose.”
“I trust your job will not be difficult, once she is cleansed.” The abbess stopped outside the chapel’s double doors, the chant of women’s voices echoing within. “I must bid you good eve.”
Lord Ross bowed politely and hurried back to the galley. Robert offered his hand as Ross boarded. “Have MacLeod’s ships followed us?”
“If so, they haven’t sailed into open waters.”
“He’s too smart to come after us, having negotiated a pardon for his henchman. I suspect he saw his chance to buy absolution and he took it.”
“Aye, and Malcolm.”
Ross knit his brows. It displeased him to see his former captain in MacLeod’s service. But then he did abandon the man at the tolbooth. What was he to do? Ross scarcely slipped away without having his neck stretched on the gallows.
Robert looked to the north. “I did not see MacLeod’s henchman on the beach.”
“No. He was most likely on one of the mammoth ships that flanked us.”
“Might I suggest we leave one of the galleys behind to patrol these waters? God only knows what that Highlander may try.”
Ross ran his fingers along the rail.
“But he’ll expect Enya to be in Renfrewshire, not Iona.”
Robert leaned against the galley’s rail. “Are you certain about that? Malcolm and Heather were both well aware of your plans to ship Enya to Iona.”
“But Malcolm delivered her into my arms. I expect he still harbors some loyalty to me. After all, I’ve supported him, helped him become a knight.”
“True. But it cannot hurt to remain cautious.”
Ross patted his son on the shoulder. “You have learned well, Robert. Commandeer one of the galleys and run your patrol. But do not stay for more than a fortnight. I may need you to help locate Claud Hamilton. Enya gave me a splendid idea. The sooner I can marry your sister to an acceptable suitor, the sooner she will be off my hands for good.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Sister Martha, who was not quite as weathered but every bit as gaunt as the abbess, led Enya to a small, pie-shaped chamber with three stone walls and no windows. In the center of one wall was a hearth, a peat fire smoldering within and a pile of rocks stacked like a cairn set off to one side. Apart from a stool and a table, upon which sat a single candle, a bucket and ladle, the room was completely bare.
“Remove your cloak and kirtle.” It surprised Enya when Martha spoke—the monks at Paisley had never uttered a word to her.
Enya unfastened the brooch at the neck of her cloak and looked at the door. Closed. She wondered if she could make a run for it—but to where? Her fingers fumbled with the laces at the front of her kirtle. Holding vigil on the wall-walk the night before, she hadn’t slept. Her limbs were heavier than the dull ache in her heart.
Sister Martha pointed to the stool. “Sit.”
Enya complied and stepped out of her kirtle. Martha set the bucket on the floor and handed Enya the ladle. “Slowly pour a ladle of water over the rocks and breathe in the steam.”
Enya did and the rocks sizzled. Vapor wafted up to her nose. It did clear her head for a moment.
“This is the first step in a very long process of cleansing. I shall return after vespers.”
Enya watched the sister leave, the click of the lock sending a resounding scrape across the walls that made gooseflesh rise on her arms.
Numbly, she scooped another ladle. She watched the mesmerizing water trickle over the rocks as the steam engulfed her. If only the entire cleansing process would be this relaxing, but even Enya was not so naive to believe it would be.
***
Bran slumped in his chair and stared at the remains of the fire in the hearth. Calum had ordered him to his cottage until word came. How could he wait? Reminders of Enya were everywhere. How could he rest his head upon the pillow knowing she was in the clutches of the Abbess of Iona? The woman had a reputation for taming wayward lassies.
Bran froze. What if they discovered Enya was with child? Surely she would be punished severely. He’d never witnessed them used, but he’d seen breast rippers in the torture chamber at the tolbooth. Cast-iron tongs fired to red hot were designed to crush a woman’s breast and rip it off. A wave of nausea crashed over him. This form of torture was often used with the unwed mother’s bairn writhing on the ground before her. The babe would be drenched by its mother’s blood as her breasts were torn from her body.
Bran could take no more. It was impossible to bow to Calum’s unreasonable demands. Besides, Bran would attract far less attention if he traveled alone. And if he stayed off the waterways, they would have no idea he was coming.
He could row to Applecross and take one of the clan’s horses. He reached for his claymore. The only problem with his plan was it would take him days to reach Enya, and he would have to rely on others to ferry him from the mainland to Iona. He buckled his belt. It didn’t matter. At least he would be doing something.
Bran grabbed a satchel. If he stopped by the kitchen, his mother would fill it. She wouldn’t even ask him where he was going. He reached for the latch, but the door opened on its own.
Calum’s gaze shot to the satchel. His eyes narrowed. “What the blazes do ye think ye’re doing?”
“I could ride. At least I wouldna be sitting here staring at these walls with the memories driving me mad.”
Calum held up a flagon of whisky. “Take off yer sword and have a seat. I’ve much to discuss. And I expect ye to honor your vow of fealty and stay put.”
With one hand, Bran unclasped his damned sword belt and let it clamor to the floor.
“Sit yer bad-tempered arse down.” Calum pulled two cups from the shelf and sat at the table opposite Bran. “When we receive word the seas are clear, Friar Pat will sail to Iona with us.”
“Och, that makes sense—take the holy man to fight our battles. He can carry the cross of St. Columba so the nuns quake under their habits.”
“I’ve had enough of yer bellyaching.” Calum picked up Bran’s cup and slammed it down hard. He unstoppered the flagon and poured. “Drink this down, ye blasted bleating mutton-heid.”
Bran tossed the whisky back. “Next thing, ye’ll be handing me a needle and thread so I can embroider with the ladies.”
Calum poured himself a tot. “’Tis no’ a bad idea.”
“I want to fight.”
“Ye’ll have yer chance.” Calum tossed back the drink and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “As I said, Friar Pat is going with us. I’m taking him along to talk to the abbess.”
Bran reached for the flagon. He needed another drink, else he might do something he’d regret. “Keep talking.”
“We’re going to tell her ye’re married.”
Bran held the cup to his lips. Could they do that?
Calum shook his finger. “After all, according to Gaelic law, ye are. Ye’ve taken Enya to yer bed, have ye no’?”
“Aye.”
“Then ye’re wed. Whether or no’ there was a ceremony is no matter.”
Bran turned the cup in his fingers. “Will the abbess side with Gaelic laws?”
Calum shrugged. “She doesna have to ken there was no ceremony as long as the friar makes it clear ye’re her lawful husband.”
“So why didna Friar Pat tell Ross I was her bloody husband?”
“I dunna ken Ross would be as accommodating as Mother Abbess. Besides, I needed to secure yer pardon.”
Bran tipped back the cup and let the fiery liquid slide down his gullet. Then he eyed Calum. “There’s another, more sensitive matter.”
The laird sat straight. “Aye?”
“Enya’s with child.”
“Bloody hell.” Calum shoved his chair back. “How far along?”
“No’ far. I canna even tell by looking at her.” Bran held up his hands and rounded his fingers as if he were imaging her breasts. “Aside from her…er…ye ken.”
Calum chuckled, sort of a nervous tic, as if he knew exactly what Bran meant but wasn’t happy about it in the least. “Does she have the morning sickness?”
“No’ too bad—a bit queasy, nothing more.”
“That changes things.”
Bran gave a sharp nod. “I ken.”
“If they discover she’s with child, they’ll abort it and could kill her in the process.”
“Why do ye think I had me sword strapped around me waist and a satchel over me shoulder?”
***
When Sister Martha returned, she carried yet another bucket. “This water has been blessed by Mother Abbess. It will purify you from sin.” Using a key she wore around her neck, the nun locked the door behind her. “Rise.”
Enya obeyed as Sister Martha placed the bucket on the table. “Put your arms at your sides.”
Again, Enya did as she was told, but she gasped when Martha’s icy hands grasped the neckline of her thin linen shift. Using a pair of shears, she cut a straight line down the center and yanked it from Enya’s shoulders.
Stripped naked, Enya shivered, watching Martha wring out a cloth. “I can bathe myself.”
“’Tis too late for that. The abbess has commanded I scrub the filth from your body.”
<
br /> Enya covered her face with her hands. Her head spun. How could her father agree to subject her to this humiliation? Then Martha ran the cloth along her back. Enya grimaced against the coarse friction.
“Does it hurt?” Martha asked.
Enya gasped as the next swipe drew blood. “Aye.”
“The sackcloth is made of goat’s hair, woven with strips of wire, designed to cut through your skin.” Martha held up her palm, revealing a bloodied hand. “It cuts through mine as well. I suffer with you.”
Enya recoiled. “Why would you do such a thing?”
Martha ran the cloth over Enya’s breast. “God expects us to atone for our sins. Our flesh is weak. This helps us to understand how weak.”
Enya pulled away. How could someone be so insensitive to pain? She clenched her teeth and balled her fists, choking back her tears. With every swipe of the cloth, the muscles beneath her skin contracted. Sister Martha took her time, as if painting a work of art—but in Enya’s blood. A lashing would have been preferable to this slow torture.
When Martha finished by swiping the bottoms of Enya’s feet, she stood back and gazed upon Enya with a rapt expression, as if she were beholding a masterpiece. Every inch of Enya’s skin burned, scratched by the wire, blood smeared across her skin, giving her an orange hue.
Martha tossed the cloth in the bucket and wiped her bloodied hands on her apron. “Now for your tunic.”
Enya eyed the garment as the sadist nun held it up. It was roughhewn, and clearly the coarse brown fibers were designed to further irritate her skin. “Why are you torturing me?”
“Cleansing,” Martha said. “This is made of goat’s hair. Wear it and purge your mind of sin. Putting on the sackcloth of Christ is a token of humiliation.”
The coarse cloth needled into Enya’s raw flesh as Martha pulled the tunic over her head. The fibers clung to her skin. Enya wanted to tear it from her body. She grasped the collar and pulled, but the cloth was woven tight, and gave nothing.
Martha answered a rap upon the door. Enya thought she saw the abbess’s gaunt face in the shadow. The women spoke in low tones, but Martha turned with a cup in her hands. “The abbess has prepared a tincture for you.”