by Beth Trissel
So cold. The wet penetrated her already damp arisaid and petticoats, the hems muddied, torn.
Part of the tunnel was a natural feature of the land around the castle created by an underground channel. Men had further widened it with picks and shovels. Rivulets of icy water ran over the hard packed earth and stone beneath her sodden boots. The sides of the passage seeped moisture like open wounds. Neil bent low not to knock his head on the ceiling but none of them were compelled to crawl on their hands and knees.
Thank God. She despised tight spaces. This tunnel barely allowed passage of one man at a time. Being smaller than a man, she could turn if need be, but only just.
One blessing, a devilishly large male would never enter the castle by this route. The Red MacDonald was such a beast. At least she needn’t fear encountering him quite yet.
She’d removed the sacred vial from the leather bulla and tucked it inside her corset to warm the chill glass against her skin. No risk of cracking the fragile vessel with the lighter Fergus spoke of. Above the small bottle hung the silver cross, both shielded beneath her plaid wrap. She’d sooner die than lose either one.
Both Neils would perish if she failed in her mission. Acute awareness of Neil’s imminent peril, his connection to Niall, and the swift passage of each vital second drove her to near hysteria. She gulped back the cries rising in her throat.
So much depended on her now. Neil had said so, and not for a moment did she doubt the truth of his words. She battled to calm her wildly beating heart and keep her wits about her—muffling a scream when a long tailed rat scurried across her toes. Spider webs stuck to her hair and draped her face. Flailing with her hands, she tore at them.
Another rat squeaked across her murky path. She clapped web coated fingers to her mouth and stifled a cry.
“It’s all right, Mora,” Neil panted from behind.
But it wasn’t. Dear God, it wasn’t.
How long they were actually in that narrow tunnel, she had no idea, but it seemed forever. Despite the danger awaiting them in the chapel, she was vastly relieved when Fergus came to the end of the black passage.
He handed her the torch. “Shine this where I can see.” Reaching overhead, he pushed up on the stone slab that secreted the entry into the crypt. Face contorted, eyes bulging, he grunted with the strain. His thin arms shook in his wet coat sleeves.
Would the stone give way?
The grayness overhead didn’t budge. Not a wee bit.
She gave the torch to Neil. She possessed more strength than he did now, and the tunnel was so narrow, he couldn’t pass her to lend what support he could muster, unless he crawled over the top of her. Sagged against the side of the passage, he feebly directed the beam as she reached her hands up beside Fergus’s.
The rock blocking entry into the crypt was heavy. Too heavy. Only the brawniest man or two men could shift it.
But they must! They could not turn back now.
Lord, let the strength we need be given us now, she petitioned, and heaved for all she was worth.
Fergus did the same, but Mora was too distracted by her own fight to heed his grunts.
With a scraping as dear to her ears as angels’ trumpets, the slab moved to the side. A faint light shone from the crypt, a candle mayhap or torch, slanting through the crack they’d forced in the floor.
Gulping in dank air, she fell to again, Fergus alongside her. More grating and the shaft overhead further widened, like a sliver of moon.
She paused to catch her breath and leaned on Fergus, equally spent. Chests thudding, they gasped together.
She nudged Fergus. “Listen. I hear no one overhead.” The torment that so afflicted Niall and consequently Neil had seemingly halted.
“True—” Fergus panted. “If any of the MacDonald men are keeping watch they must have dozed off.”
A worse thought assailed Mora, that Niall had faded from this world and his guards departed.
No! He couldn’t have died, not when they were so near. The guard must intend to return. A light still shone, didn’t it? Niall could not be dead. She willed him to hold on, willed them both not to let go.
Again and again, she and Fergus put their whole being into sliding that rock aside, like the seal to a tomb. And it would be, if they didn’t shift it. The crevice must be wide enough to allow each of them passage into this hated chamber. And though she’d rather be most anywhere else, she’d move heaven and earth to gain entry. Truly, they’d stormed the gates of Hell.
A final groan from the grudging stone, and it slid far enough to the side to allow a man through. Who to go first?
It must be her, lifted up onto Fergus’s shoulders. She was the lightest. Fergus next. Then together they’d pull Neil up, all the while watching for any MacDonald men, and—
“Mora,” Neil summoned, his voice little more than a shadow, “anoint me now.”
Terror shot through her. She turned toward him. He laid prone on the earthen floor, gripping the torch, his face so pale, his eyes closed. As she watched fearfully, his eyelids drifted open, fluttered and shut again.
“No man remains above,” he whispered, “they locked me in the chamber and left me to die.”
Me? Were he and Niall one now in approaching death? Pray God the two would be united again in new life!
Mora curled her fingers around the hallowed vial nestled inside her stays and drew it out from beneath her mantle. The iridescent blue green color caught what little light there was in the peculiar beam. With the aid of the minute tool Fergus called a screwdriver he painstakingly pried the seal from the ancient vessel.
She held her breath.
Nothing spectacular happened. It seemed just as any unstopped vial of enormous age might, but this one was like no other.
Faith, she assured herself, feeling anything but.
Fergus passed her the sanctified bottle and she knelt beside Neil. His eyes remained closed, his face ashen. Fergus crouched by her and held the light while she bent over her beloved. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she made the sign of the cross on his chilled forehead.
Praying the tears of the blessed Virgin would work a miracle, she murmured, “We fly to yer patronage, O holy Mother of God, despise not our petitions in our necessities, but deliver us from all dangers. O ever glorious and blessed Virgin. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.”
A faint smile touched Neil’s lips. “Go now, Mora fair. Finish the task.”
“I cannot bear to leave you here alone.”
“You must.” His voice was faint.
She pressed her lips to his cold mouth. “I will come back,” she promised, willing it to be so.
“We won’t leave you in the dark.” Fergus slid the torch into Neil’s weak grasp. Then he stood, pulling Mora up with him. “Come on. We have seconds to do this. Pass me the glass to hold, while you climb through.”
He secured the vial in one hand and half boosted, half helped Mora scramble up onto his shoulders. Skirts draped over him, she climbed through the opening and into the crypt.
“What do you see?” he hissed after her. “Anyone there?”
By the light of a flickering torch on the stone that comprised the walls, she ran her gaze over the heavily shadowed room. It wasn’t an especially large chamber, but neither was it a hole. The pervasive chill defied all warmth, all hope, all love. And she sensed it had been thus time out of mind…beyond remembrance.
Overhead, the twisted forms and agonized faces carved in gray stone circled the room, souls in purgatory warning of the flames to come for the unrepentant. A reminder for mourners grieving their departed as those sealed here had already expired. Fortunate dead, spared the ghastly sight. Painted on one wall, a mural of knights on horseback rode to eternal judgment with lances and shields bearing the Holy Cross. In the arch above the door, leading, she assumed, up the stairs to the chapel were carvings of more gruesome figures with skeletal heads and bodies, as if she required any further
admonition of the torment that might well await them all if she failed.
Cowled monks chanting prayers for those in agony would be fitting if this were a monastery. It wasn’t. In the center of the crypt on a raised dais was an intricately carved reliquary, the fine wood painted with crimson, blue, and gold. The ornate lid was open and its contents removed from the box. Here was the original resting place of the holy vial.
That the MacKenzies had taken it was unarguably wrong; the horror committed to Niall in no way justified. Nor could she return the treasure now. They had infinite need of it.
At the other end of the modest sized chamber she spied a heavy door set in the wall. Shut and locked. It was behind this barrier that Niall must lie. All haste!
She didn’t dare call out and alert him she’d come for fear of summoning his tormentors. Rather, she crouched by the opening in the stones and hissed to Fergus. “’Tis as Neil said. No one’s about.”
“Yet. Take this and put it in a safe spot.”
She closed her fingers around the vial he extended, then set it down on a recess in the stone. She bent over the hole to grasp his hand and pull while he hoisted himself up over the side. He scrambled to his feet, and glanced around.
Fergus widened his eyes. He wrinkled his nose. “Charming. If I were to build a crypt, this is exactly what I’d have in mind.”
His sarcasm was lost on her. Slipping her hand back beneath her arisaid, she lifted the crucifix. Not trusting her trembling fingers, she whispered, “Please undo the clasp and get the key.”
Again the tiny tool came to their aid; Fergus sprang open the nub. He took the key, and she held the consecrated vessel. Together they darted across the stone floor. Let the demons sneer at them from the shadows. They were on a holy quest. She and Fergus, not the Red MacDonald, had the key and vial.
Mora was almost to the heavily timbered door when she heard, “Weil, I see ye’ve brought me back m’ treasure.”
A scream ripped from her pounding chest. The MacDonald strode into the crypt from the chapel. His tall figure cast a long most unwelcome shadow.
“Mora!” Fergus tossed her the key. “Go!” He dashed between her and The MacDonald. “Keep away from her!”
Once again, Fergus faced their nemesis. But his head reached below shoulder level of the big Scotsman. He could in no manner defeat the mighty laird alone. Even if he held a sword which he didn’t. But Fergus might hold him off for a vital moment.
A scornful gleam in The MacDonald’s eyes promised differently. “Think to defend the lady against me, do ye lad?”
The muffled cry of a sufferer roused from senselessness carried from beyond the locked door. “Mora!”
Shrieking, “Niall!” she bolted the few remaining feet to the wooden barrier. A roe deer couldn’t have run faster.
She inserted the key into the iron lock and turned. It clicked open.
“Blast me wie that fiery mist again lad, and I swear I’ll sever yer arms from yer body one by one.”
The growled threat iced her skin.
Mora hesitated. She couldn’t leave Fergus to be cut into pieces, but she had to reach Niall. Now!
She pivoted to see Fergus brandish the pepper spray in one hand. He shone the violet light in The MacDonald’s face with his other.
He blinked slitted eyes. “Step through that door M’ lady and ye shall perish wie yer beloved Niall. Gie me back what’s mine and no harm shall befall ye or yer daft friend.”
Whether or not this menace would keep his word made scant difference to Mora as she had no intention of returning his vial. But she paused in an unbearable state. Death she’d risk in an instant for herself, but to leave Fergus to be slaughtered—
A rustle and the clank of steel drew her stare to the dark figure emerging through the opening in the floor. Could it be? Was it possible?
Chestnut hair appeared then a pale, beloved face as Neil heaved himself through. He got to his feet in the distinct black coat, swaying slightly.
The MacDonald gaped at him. “You?”
“None other.” Weak but determined Neil reached over his shoulder for the claymore.
The dumbfounded Scotsman swung his head from Neil to the man he knew to be imprisoned behind the door, then demanded, “How the divil?”
“Never mind that now. We’ve a score to settle. Fergus, step away. Mora go on.” Firming his chin, he met Red MacDonald’s perplexed scowl with his hard gaze. “It’s me you want, MacDonald, it’s me you’ve got. Touch Mora to your dying regret.”
A great lump swelled in her throat. Never had she admired or loved him more. Even at his best, he couldn’t win this match. Niall would’ve stood a chance. Mayhap as one…
She took what she dreaded to think was her last glimpse of this man. God forbid—if there be any mercy in the world. Then turned and pushed open the unlocked door.
Light from the torch lent faint illumination to the gloom. In the center of the chamber stood a sarcophagus. The details of the carved image lying in repose above the stone coffin eluded her, but it must be the tomb of an ancient, revered MacDonald.
He held no interest for her. Nor any other secrets that might be hid in this foul place.
In unspeakable desperation, she sought Niall. There!
He sat bound, leaning against one wall amid the final resting place of the dead. She’d imagined him in just such a cell. Anger flared in her. They’d left him here, tortured and alone. To perish.
Once more, he’d faded into senselessness. His head hung down on his chest. She rushed to him and knelt at his side. “Niall. I’m come.”
No reply.
Shaking him, she called, “Niall!”
He lifted his head. Tears blurred her vision, nor could she have seen his expression in the murky light, but she sensed his dazed astonishment.
“I ne’r thought to see ye again,” he said hoarsely.
“I’ve brought ye the gift of life, I pray.”
“I fear ’tis too late fer me. Gie Red MacDonald what he asks and flee this evil chamber, dear one.”
“Niver.”
“Forgive me, m’ love. I cannot…” His head sagged down onto his chest.
“There’s naught to forgive.”
Her chest ached with the violent sobs she held back. Blinded by tears, she took the tiny bottle and tilted the precious fluid onto her fingertips. The clash of steel and grunts of men engaged in deadly combat sounded as she lifted his chin and anointed his chilled forehead.
Voice quavering, she uttered the same prayer she had for Neil in the passage.
Intently she waited for something. Anything. Their past, present, future—everything depended on Niall!
Nothing.
Body limp, his head sagged in her grasp.
God’s blood! Was it all for nothing? She feared, even now, the sun was about to set and Neil’s time at an end.
No! She’d not accept that.
Should she flee back to the larger chamber and lend him her aid, such as it was? She possessed no weapon, but as she lived and breathed, she’d fight like the very devil to defend him.
Through the crack in the door, she glimpsed Neil stagger under a blow he only just deflected. The MacDonald lunged after him and she lost sight of the two. How Neil was even on his feet she couldn’t fathom. A greater power than the evil that brought them here drove him now.
Could she do less?
Grief tore at her like the teeth of a vicious beast, but she was resolved. No matter what, even if both Neil’s perished from this world, she’d never forsake them or her quest. Hope lay in fulfilling that mission. And that hope lay in here with Niall.
Once more, she grasped his unresponsive shoulders. “Believe me, love, there is a way. Life is within yer grasp.”
He made no reply.
God help them. She’d given her all. Sobs racked her chest and she slumped beside him.
In the midst of unspeakable pain, a gentle whirr fluttered over Mora’s head, like the flutter of angel’
s wings. And a woman whispered in her ear. “For your faith.”
Then the most unlikely fragrance in the world charged this chamber of death, the delicious scent of damask roses, imbued with the earthy warmth of myrrh. And where only gloom had been, a sacred glow now illuminated the room. She breathed in the sweet perfume and gazed about her in wonder. The mystical light seeped away into the corners, as though angels had come and departed.
A clatter of metal echoed—a blade falling to the stone floor. And the swords in the adjoining room grew silent.
“Where in blazes did the bastard go?” sputtered The MacDonald.
“Where you won’t find him!” Fergus shouted back.
Heart in her throat, Mora riveted her gaze on the crypt. Fergus, alone, faced The MacDonald.
“Black magic is afoot here! Ye are the divil’s own henchman wie yer vile arts!”
“Yes! I’m a great wizard!” Fergus proclaimed, “And you had better run before I turn you into a boar, which you most surely are!”
A rapid footfall slapped on the stones as The MacDonald hastened from the crypt. But he shouted, “Ye shall burn fer this, ye foul fiend!”
“Only if you catch me before I transform you! Flee fast and far, Red MacDonald!”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Gone? Neil was gone?
Paralyzing shock. Mora should’ve expected this. But the actuality of Neil’s sudden departure took her unawares.
Like being seized by the throat—or slammed by a great wave and rolled head over heels. Was he joined with Niall now? Or had he made the ultimate sacrifice?
In an anguish of uncertainty, she turned back to Niall. He still sat shrouded in the murk. She clasped his face in her hands.
Warmer. Relief left her weak.
A low moan issued from his lips. He seemed to be coming round. Thankfulness welled in her alongside the fear that he mightn’t have any memory of his life as Neil.
Dearest Neil, what if no thought remained for all they’d shared together these past few days, no memory of their adventures? The brief but all-consuming hours with him flashed before her mind’s eye…his courage, humor, wit, and tender passion, that quality of gentleness he’d shown even to his cat. Most of all his love. How she’d cherished knowing he esteemed her above all others.