“Aye, m’lord,” Allan responded. “This wing was built by Sir Duncan MacInnes, father of the last three lairds. God rest their souls.”
Gavin looked at the splintered sections of the beams above. The ceilings were high in the south wing. On this floor, at least, the corridor faced out on the courtyard, and the long, narrow windows let in light and air. Some of the chamber doors to the right hung open at rakish angles, and cobwebs and filth were everywhere. “How did Duncan die?”
“Duncan?” the steward repeated, surprise evident in his voice. “Why, the poor soul.” He paused. “That was so long ago. More than twenty years has passed since...”
“You were steward of Ironcross then, were you not, Allan?”
“Aye, m’lord!”
Gavin turned a critical stare on the man next to him. “You do not remember how your master died?”
“Aye, m’lord! Of course I do,” Allan said quickly. “‘Twas just a surprise, your asking! The poor soul cracked his skull in a fall from his horse. ‘Twas a sad and mournful day for Ironcross Castle.” The older man looked down at his feet. “Hunting, he was.”
“Who was hunting with him?” Gavin moved slowly down the passage, testing the floors as he went, and Allan followed behind.
“Hunting with...?” The steward scratched his head. “Well, we had a great deal more folk about the castle in those days. Let me see. I believe Alexander, the eldest lad, was with him. And the hunters and grooms, of course. Lady MacInnes was back at Stirling then. She spent very little time at Ironcross during those years. Now, I’m thinking...aye, Lord Athol, the father of the present earl, was with the party as well.”
Gavin held up his hand. Farther down the corridor, from one of the last rooms, the sound of scraping could be heard. As Allan stared, Gavin quietly drew his dirk from his belt and pushed his tartan back over his shoulder. Before he had gone two steps, however, a rat moved out into the corridor, spotted them, and disappeared back into the room.
The new laird sheathed his dirk, and turned to the steward. “I want you to have the grooms and any lads you can gather do a wee bit of rat hunting. I don’t care to be sharing my dinner or my bed with vermin. I want the castle kept clear of them.”
“Aye, m’lord.” Allan clearly was trying hard to hide his surprise at such eccentricity, but nodded in response. “As you wish.”
Gavin hated rats. He knew they were everywhere, in every castle and hut in Europe. In Florence, Paris, and even the newly rebuilt Edinburgh, but he hated them, and he’d not have them in his keep, if he could help it.
Turning his back on the steward, Gavin looked into the chamber that they stood before. It, too, had been badly burned, and pieces of broken, charred furniture littered the room.
“This was the laird’s study, m’lord,” Allan offered. “Sir John, the previous master of Ironcross Castle, spent a great deal of time in this room. He was a great scholar--more so than his father or the two brothers who preceded him.”
As Gavin turned to continue down the corridor, his eyes were drawn to a partially open door in the carved wood paneling just inside the study. Stepping into the chamber, the new laird moved casually over to the panel, he pulled open the door. A small cabinet had been recessed into the wall, and several books lay on a shelf, completely undamaged by fire. Surprised, Gavin took them out of the cabinet.
“Ah, m’lord,” Allan said apologetically, taking the books from the new laird’s hand. “I should have taken them to the Old Keep after the fire. I am afraid I have been negligent in leaving off the care of this wing. But now that you are here, I shall...”
Gavin no longer heard the old steward. His gaze was fixed on the portrait hanging above the small fireplace, and everything else in the world suddenly ceased to exist. Locked on the object across the room, his eyes drank in the vision of the young lass’s golden hair and ivory skin, the straight nose and the delicate mouth that showed only the hint of a smile. But it was the eyes, the deep blue eyes, that enraptured him. In spite of the dark smudges of soot that covered almost half of the painting, her nearly violet eyes twinkled, laughing, shining with the joy of life, with the pure radiance of youthful innocence.
“‘Twas Mistress Joanna, m’lord! Sir John’s daughter.”
Gavin started at the steward’s voice, and turned to him.
“God rest her soul,” Allan continued reverently. “She was a bonny lass, inside and out. ‘Twas a waste for her to be taken so young.”
Gavin turned his gaze back to the portrait. Joanna MacInnes.
“We only knew her here a short time, since the laird never allowed her to stay at Ironcross for too long. I know she was schooled in Paris--raised as a court lady. Though the lass liked her visits to the north country, Sir John was fixed on having her stay with his mother, Lady MacInnes, at Stirling.” The steward shook his head. “Meeting her, m’lord, you’d have thought you were meeting an angel. All kindness and compassion, she was. Nothing like those ladies that Thomas, Sir Duncan’s second son, would bring up here.”
Gavin gazed again at her eyes. There was an openness in them, no hint of coyness.
“‘Twas very sad,” Allan continued. “The loss of such a young woman as this.” Gavin took another step toward her, toward the painting.
“She was the first of the MacInnes ladies to show any interest in the women of the abbey.”
Gavin took another step and then turned back to look at the steward.
“Tell me,” the laird began, “did she and Mater...”
But he did not finish. Without warning, the floor opened and fell away beneath him.
***
Joanna sat bolt upright from beneath her covering of straw.
The bone chilling crack gave way to a shuddering crash, and the entire south wing shook violently. With her heart pounding in her chest, she sat frozen, unable to move. It had to be the new laird. He was dead! Another life wasted...and for what?
Damn you, Joanna MacInnes, she swore under her breath. When will you find enough courage to put an end to this curse? How many more must die before you act?
**
“M’lord!”
Dangling high in the air, with his fingers barely holding onto the edge of a projecting beam, Gavin ignored the steward’s shout and tried to swing his legs over the edge. On the second attempt, using another charred beam, he pulled himself onto the narrow remains of the burned flooring in the corner of the chamber.
“These floors, m’lord!” the steward called out from across the way, the distress evident in his voice. “Who could know what is sound? There was a good...”
“Enough, Allan!” Gavin ordered, pushing himself to his feet as he eyed the gaping hole in the middle of the room. “Go after some help. Edmund should be inspecting the curtain wall. At least bring back some rope with you.” Upon seeing the older man hesitate, he ordered again. “Go, man, before the rest of this floor gives way!”
With a quick nod, the steward scurried off down the corridor toward the burned out stairwell.
Alone, Gavin leaned back against the carved wood paneling and looked about the room. The thunderous hammering of his heart at last seemed to slow its pace. He had been very close to falling. Too close, he thought, peering at the wide gap and the considerable drop to the wreckage below.
Then he heard it clearly. The creak of a board above his head. Looking up, he surveyed the soot covered ceiling. Another rat? It moved again. He tried to gauge the weight. If it was another of the vermin, it was a big one. And it was moving toward the wall he had his back to.
He listened intently. Silence. He waited, but only silence encompassed him.
**
The panel stuck slightly before giving way to the pressure of her hand. Joanna pushed it open hesitantly, listened for a moment, and then slipped into the darkness of the passageway between the walls.
The narrow tunnel was dimly lit, the only light coming from a small hole in the roof. Stealthily, Joanna moved to a ladder that led to the pa
ssageway below and eventually to the tunnels beneath the castle. Slowly and carefully, she made her way down, rung by rung, until she reached the next level.
**
Standing on the narrow ledge, Gavin glanced along the wall at the portrait hanging above the open hearth. It was some distance from the corner where he stood. For a moment he considered trying to get to it, but the ledge was narrow and unstable.
A sound--a faint squeak of wood against wood--came from the panel behind him, and, whirling around to face it, the warrior chief nearly went over the edge.
Quickly regaining his balance, Gavin pressed himself into the corner and started inspecting the panels. One clearly appeared to warp a bit beneath a carved edge piece.
**
Joanna listened carefully for some sound from the other side of the panel. She was fairly certain that the crashing noise and the shouts had come from this chamber, but there was nothing to be heard now.
With her hand on the latch, she toyed with the idea of waiting in the tunnels beneath the castle until dark before venturing out. If the new laird was dead, there was no use in exposing herself just to find out what happened.
Something gnawed at her, though, and she could wait no longer. Pushing at the warped edge, she released the latch silently and started to pull the panel open.
CHAPTER 4
“M’lord!”
The shout from the far side of the panel stunned Joanna with its nearness. What was worse, however, was the sight of the new laird’s profile through the narrow opening, only a breath away. His face was turned toward the study, as the shout came again, clearly but from below.
Gaping at his profile, Joanna quickly shut the panel as quietly as she could. Sliding the latch, she pressed her palms against the wood and let out a soft, strangled breath. For the first time in months, she’d almost given herself away; she’d come face to face with the man. Pressing her forehead on her knuckles, she closed her eyes. She had to gather her strength. She had to run away. That was far too close! Her body shivered, and she was shocked to feel her knees about to buckle as she tried to rise.
**
Gavin turned back to the panel--his fingers traveling across the rough, scorched wood, checking every seam. He could have sworn a moment ago he’d felt it move.
“M’lord!” This time Edmund’s breathless voice came from across the room. “The damn floor...By the Virg...what a mess...Gavin, are you hurt?”
There was something on the inside of this wall. Gavin could feel it. Could it be someone, he wondered. He knew of other castles that had secret passageways. And if there was one, it would allow someone to travel through this wing. Gavin pulled back a hand and smashed it hard against the wall. He felt it move--not as part of the whole wall--but only the section. Pushing at a seam by the edge piece, a crack appeared. Beneath him the floor groaned ominously, and Gavin eased the pressure. There was a shuffling noise on the other side of the panel. Pressing an ear to it, he could clearly hear movement. The sound of hurried steps.
“M’lord?”
Gavin ignored Allan as he pressed his ear tighter against the wood.
“What’s behind here, Allan?”
The old man paused a moment before blurting, “The wall?”
“You think me daft?” Gavin growled, turning a menacing glare on the man. “You were here when this wing was built. Are you telling me...”
“There were passageways built at the time,” the old steward broke in quickly. “But only the laird knew...the passageways lead down to the caverns that honeycomb these hills, and down to the loch. But no one has used those caverns since Duncan’s time, m’lord.”
“How do you open this?” Gavin asked shortly. “This panel is an entry, is it not?”
When Allan paused, Edmund spoke. “M’lord, if you’ll allow me at least to secure this rope, in case that floor...”
“How does this damn thing open?”
His angry roar got the old man talking. “In the cabinet...there at the corner by the outside wall...aye, that one...an iron ring...”
Gavin crouched carefully and reached inside. Running his fingers along the wood, he found the metal circle. Pulling it, he watched with satisfaction as the panel which he had been standing before only a moment earlier snapped opened a crack.
“M’lord. You don’t plan to go in there alone,” Edmund said with alarm.
“Once you are beneath the castle, there is no rhyme or reason to the paths,” Allan agreed. “In fact, one of the builder’s apprentices disappeared in those tunnels. ‘Tis dangerous, even for those who know the passages. There are chasms that have no bottom. The lad was never found, m’lord, and he was not the only one!”
Gavin moved toward the panel and pushed it open wide.
“Pray, m’lord,” Edmund’s voice was the more persistent. “Allow me, at least, to come with you. I’ve never seen a...”
“Find a way to get your rump up to the hearth.” The Lowlander glanced over his shoulder at the red-headed warrior. With his eyes he motioned toward the portrait of Joanna MacInnes above the fireplace. “Take the painting to the Old Keep. Put it in my chamber.”
Without another word, Gavin squeezed through the panel and disappeared into the darkness of the passage.
***
The slender back of the old woman bowed under the weight of the heavy satchels she carried. Dragging her feet another few steps through the mud, she spotted more herbs by a protruding boulder. Leaning one gnarled hand on the rock, she grasped the top of the plant and pulled. The stubborn root wouldn’t let go.
Though the sun had broken through the heavy clouds, the air was thick with moisture from the rains. Tugging at the plant again, the woman wiped the dripping sweat from her eyes with the other hand, leaving a smudge of dirt on the fan of wrinkles by the exposed white hair at her temple. She gave a sigh of relief when the root let go at last. Wiping the dirt from the greens with one callused hand, she placed it carefully in one of the satchels before painfully straightening under their weight.
“Och, Mater,” the low voice scolded from behind. “Why must you carry both bags in this sun. Let me give you a hand.”
The old woman waved a hand dismissively in the air while continuing with her search. But she didn’t fight when, a moment later, the younger woman reached her and silently took one of the satchels, swinging it over her shoulder.
“The rest of us could do more of this. There is no reason for you, at your age, to always do so much to take care of so many.”
“There is,” Mater said plainly as she bent down to tug at another root. “What news have you from the castle?”
“Molly has come to visit her sisters. She brought word. There was an accident this morning. The laird insisted that Allan show him the fire damage in the south wing.”
“I knew he wouldn’t be able to stay away from there. What happened?”
“One of the floors collapsed beneath him. But he was not hurt.”
Mater paused for a moment, nodded, and turned her steps down the valley toward the ruined abbey. “Anything else?”
The younger woman fell in step. “Just as his man told you yesterday, Molly says that the laird plans to pay the abbey a visit.” The woman stared at the aging leader. “Will you see him, Mater?”
Mater stopped and looked up at the sky. “I have no choice. I will see him...if he still lives!”
***
The chapel perched, squat and ancient, on the edge of the cliff in the southeastern corner of the castle, with the gray waters of the loch below. Except for a low archway that had been built to give access to the small kirkyard, the construction of the south wing had completely cut off the little church from the castle’s courtyard.
“‘Tis a miserable place,” the pasty-faced little priest spat out, glaring at the building. “Hotter than hell in the summer, and windier than Luther’s arse in the winter. ‘Tis no wonder the peasants of the holding want nothing to do with it.”
Aye, Gavin thought,
glancing at the man’s sour expression. No wonder.
“They have little faith in these hills, you know. ‘Tis comfort they crave. Sir John MacInnes, the last laird, promised me that he’d rebuild the chapel, but he did no such thing.”
“Show me the inside, Father William,” Gavin ordered, striding toward the building.
“Aye, of course,” the scrawny cleric replied, running to keep up. “Though I’ll be hanged if you find anything to interest you there.”
Gavin let that comment pass, though the priest’s attitude was curious, to say the least. Father William pulled open the thick oak door.
“Not the way it once was. No faith. No sense of duty. Since the death of Sir John, I have watched as nearly all of his peasants...your peasants...packed up their wee ones and moved onto the Earl of Athol’s land to the north.”
But not all of them had left, Gavin thought. Not all. One of them, he was quite certain, was the ‘ghost’ who was haunting the south wing.
Earlier, when Gavin had stepped into the narrow passageway in the study wall, he had easily found the ladder leading up to the top floor. The chambers above had obviously been comfortably designed and furnished, but now they were in shambles. Working his way through the rooms, the warrior had been quite careful to avoid any repeat of his near disaster in the study. Finally, he’d made his way up to the tower room where he had seen the shutter close.
There, the bed of straw, a scrap of burnt blanket, some rags, a wooden bowl told him that he had been correct. Someone had been taking shelter in the tower, and he had probably found his way into the castle and its passageways from the caverns below.
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