“What will happen to Airdfinnan if Angus never returns?”
Father Aloysius smiled. “That remains to be seen. The King of the Isles would have Airdfinnan held by hands he can trust, though I believe we have shown our trustworthiness these fifteen years. And King William of Scotland would make it his own to grant to one of his allies, if he had the choice. Perhaps ’tis better for all to have such a key holding in the hands of the just authority of the church.”
So ’twas not only Angus who chafed for possession of Airdfinnan.
“’Tis fortunate indeed that you were still here, that you might recognize an imposter for what he was.”
Father Aloysius’s smile was cold. “He was not the first and he will not be the last. ’Tis my sacred duty to protect Airdfinnan from all who would seize it for their own greed alone.”
Their conversation was interrupted by hoofbeats on the wooden bridge. The sound echoed so loudly that it could not be missed.
Father Aloysius rose, his gaze bright. “And? What has been discovered? Bring the men here to me immediately!”
In short order, the three men he had dispatched made haste to the board. All three fell to one knee in homage to the man acting as their liege lord. Jacqueline wondered what pledge of fealty Father Aloysius had demanded of them. She then frowned as the one farthest from her flicked back his cloak.
’Twas of deepest crimson, and she knew the price of red dye well enough. Nay, this man could not have afforded this cloak.
And indeed, he had not worn it when he left. She would have remembered as much. Her mouth went dry, for she feared she knew precisely where he had found it.
Though the man who had worn it this morn would not have surrendered it easily. Jacqueline gripped the board, fearing the news they brought.
“He is dead, my lord. Cut down in the road and left to the picking of beggars.” The middle one then offered a sword and a familiar though bloodstained tabard.
Jacqueline leaped to her feet. “You killed him!” she cried in outrage. “You killed him so he could not press his claim to Airdfinnan! You are no priest—you are a murderer!”
The accusation was out before she considered the wisdom of uttering it. Jacqueline clapped her hand over her mouth in horror and stared at Father Aloysius.
That man waited, then responded with surprising calm. “You must forgive our guest for her outburst. She has survived a most fearsome ordeal.” Father Aloysius shook his head. “And indeed, ’tis not uncommon to hear that captives become sympathetic to the aims of their captors.”
Jacqueline did not believe her trust of Angus was displaced, but she held her errant tongue.
The priest took the tunic that had once been white and shook it out. Jacqueline knew the color drained from her face when she saw the fullness of the stain, for none could have survived any wound that would make the blood pour with such vigor.
The priest accepted the broadsword, with a satisfied smile.
Surely Angus was not dead? But ’twas unmistakably the sword of Fergus MacGillivray. What had happened to its bearer? Jacqueline swallowed and prayed for Angus with such fervor as she had never shown in prayer before.
“You have brought his corpse?” the priest asked, his fingertip trailing over the distinctive hilt of the blade. He flicked a glance to Jacqueline and smiled coolly. “’Tis our Christian duty to see that even this criminal might be buried with some grace.”
“Nay, my lord, we never saw it.”
Father Aloysius’s eyes flashed even as Jacqueline caught her breath with new hope. “What nonsense is this?”
“We found the tunic and the blade.”
“Found? Found?” He crumpled the tunic in his fist and cast it on to the board. “How does a dying man shed his belongings, without leaving his corpse?”
The men looked at each other. “’Twas an old beggar, a leper, who found him, in truth. He was dragging his plunder all away, intent on having compensation for his find from the Templar house some ways east of here. We relieved him of his booty.”
“And you let him go?”
At their sheepish nods, Father Aloysius roared. “But what of the corpse?”
“His directions were so garbled, my lord, that we could not retrace his steps, and, indeed, night was beginning to fall.”
“We desired only to bring you the news you awaited with all haste.”
Father Aloysius was not pleased by this, though Jacqueline was delighted. At least there was not proof that Angus had died—which meant she could hope anew for his survival. “Why did you not bring the man here? How else are we to be certain he speaks the truth?”
The men grimaced, and only one had the courage to speak in a hushed whisper. “But he was a leper, my lord.”
“We could not bring him here, lest he infect all.”
“Edmund was the only one to touch him, and look how he scratches at his hand already.”
The man who must be Edmund, the one who wore Angus’s red cloak, scratched his wrist furtively. “Would you bless me, my lord?”
“And why should I bless you when you have failed in such a simple task?” the older man snapped. “You have no evidence that a man is dead unless you see his body with your own eyes.”
The men stared at the priest in silence, until Father Aloysius heaved a sigh and rubbed his brow. “I apologize for my anger. I am most vexed that we are tormented by this criminal and would merely have assurance that he will plague us no longer.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Father Aloysius placed a hand upon Edmund’s brow and muttered a blessing, which seemed to relieve the man. Then the priest spoke firmly. “You will return to the site where you found this leper. You will bring me the body of the man who wore this tunic, or you will bring me the leper, or you will not return to this hall. Do you understand?”
“But, my lord—”
“But naught! I must have proof that this brigand who feigns to be the heir of Airdfinnan is truly dead. Already he abducted this novitiate and deceived her. Truly, there is no telling what other wicked deeds he has performed. I must know that he draws breath no longer if I am to sleep at night.”
“Aye, my lord.” They bowed and backed out of the hall, Edmund pausing to scratch his hand.
Jacqueline knew she had not heard the last of her outburst, though she understood that Father Aloysius would say naught of it before others. She took a step back when he turned to face her, his expression so ominous that she feared her own fate.
“Rest assured, Jacqueline,” he said smoothly, “that I shall not let you depart from this keep until I am certain of your safety.”
“But I thought to go immediately to Inveresbeinn.”
“’Twould be most treacherous.” The boy refilled the wine goblets and Jacqueline understood that this show of concern was for his benefit. “As your host, I cannot allow you to risk your own life so foolishly. Let us see this matter resolved fully first.”
Father Aloysius smiled, but his expression no longer seemed so kindly. “I am certain the abbess will understand. In the meantime, I will pray that you are released from the wicked delusions this man has obviously fostered within you.”
Jacqueline realized that she would not be suffered to leave without Father Aloysius’s approval and that he would not give it. She was a prisoner here, and at his dictate.
Oh, she should have listened to Angus’s warnings!
Indeed, she wondered how much the old priest guessed of her regard for Angus. She realized with dawning horror that she was being kept captive here not only to keep her silent concerning Angus’s claim but to bait the trap.
The priest believed her presence would draw Angus back to Airdfinnan. She could not be the cause of his demise!
Father Aloysius reached across and patted her hand once more, his tone sympathetic. “You are fortunate indeed to have escaped a man who scorns the law of men and God. You will see this in time, my child.” He glanced over the board. “Perhaps a sweet to end your m
eal?”
’Twas appalling that he could think of such social niceties at such a moment. Either Angus was dead or the departed men would see to it shortly. She hoped against hope that he had outwitted them and would do so again, but she feared for him.
They were three and he was one, after all.
Even worse, she knew ’twas her fault that he was hunted. If not for her, Angus would have been leagues away.
Before Jacqueline could reply, the priest had summoned a boy. “Go, Gillemichel, and fetch the box of figs for our guest, the one upon the high shelf in the kitchen.”
The boy flicked her a look that would have meant naught to Jacqueline, had she not heard Angus’s tale. As ’twas, her heart quickened in dread.
Figs! It seemed that Angus was not to be the only one who never returned from Airdfinnan.
Father Aloysius smiled at her as the boy disappeared. “We are honored to have received such a rich gift from a visiting priest. You must partake of this luxury.”
“I am afraid I have no taste for figs,” Jacqueline lied, “although your generosity is indeed gracious.”
The priest’s smile faded. “Nonsense! You are merely polite in declining extravagance. No doubt your mother raised you well.”
“Aye, she did, but ’tis true enough that I cannot bear to swallow figs.”
His eyes narrowed. “’Tis unusual to have such a distaste of a foreign luxury. Most would welcome the chance to indulge.”
“True.” Jacqueline managed a thin smile. “And ’tis foolish of me, perhaps. But I once heard a tale of a man killed by poison hidden in figs and since then I cannot force them down my throat. I would not waste your treasure, though your generosity in offering them is most appreciated.”
They stared at each other unsmilingly, each understanding the position of the other with painful clarity. The boy slipped the box onto the table, glanced between them, then retreated.
Neither touched the box.
“You should have one,” Jacqueline suggested, the devil having claimed her tongue. “Do not desist on my account, I beg of you. I should feel terrible if my whimsy tainted your delight in such a precious gift.”
His lips tightened. “In truth, I have eaten too much this day. Perhaps another time.”
Or perhaps not. Jacqueline was glad she had eaten well before Father Aloysius guessed her support of Angus. She might not dare to eat again within these walls.
How long would she be here? None knew of her presence here, so none would be inclined to rescue her. Save Angus, who was in no position to aid her. And if he came for her, they both would disappear. Despair swept over Jacqueline and she blinked back tears. The priest left her there, evidently confident that there was nowhere she might flee. The two guards hovering at the door watched her warily.
Jacqueline looked at the stained tunic upon the board and felt sickened by its portent. She folded her arms about herself and shivered. She had thought to do right but had disregarded Angus’s counsel and her plans had gone sadly awry.
But ’twas Angus who undoubtedly would pay the ultimate price. Aware of the watchful gazes of the guards but uncaring, Jacqueline bowed her head and wept for what she had wrought.
Angus had forgotten the grille.
Oh, he had a vague recollection of his father’s long-ago threat to put a metal grille over the drainage hole from inside the fortress. But on that day, some twenty years before this one, he and Ewen had been so impressed with their own cleverness in breaking into the keep that they had not paid much attention to their father’s bluster. Fergus MacGillivray had always taken such pride in his claim that Airdfinnan was secure beyond belief that they had expected him to roar when proven wrong.
Roar he had, but it seemed that Fergus had done more once his roaring had been complete. Now Angus regretted that they had never tried to repeat the deed, but there had been other challenges to face.
On this day Angus was put much in mind of his brother and their boyish pranks, for he had faced a goodly share of challenges. He had persuaded the guards that he was a leper when they had considered arresting him, and then he had circled around Airdfinnan without being spotted. Ewen would have delighted in this game.
But after all of that, Angus had not been able to see the drainage hole when he reached the far side of the keep. He had feared it had been blocked up.
There was no other way into the keep if it had, so he had dared to check. He found it, just where he recalled, though submerged some two feet below the river’s swirling surface.
Yet his father had ensured that an iron grille was locked over its mouth. Angus lingered low in the water and considered his choices as he reviewed the stationing of the guards.
They were everywhere that he would have placed them himself. ’Twas as if Aloysius expected a confrontation, and not one from a single man. Angus eyed the walls and knew he could not scale them unseen, not even on this side and not even with a grappling hook. There was not so much as a shadow to hide a man. He could not pass through the gates, and this was the only breach in the walls.
Indeed, he had not even been certain he could squeeze through it. He was no longer a boy of ten summers—but then, ’twas not of import if the way was barred. He took a deep breath and ducked beneath the surface, forcing his eye open. ’Twas a lattice of cursed complexity, as one might have expected from a man so concerned with defense as his father.
Angus swore silently, fearing what fate befell Jacqueline, for she had been within the keep for hours. In frustration, he grasped the grille and twisted it hard. His father would be sorely vexed to know the result of his planning!
The grille moved.
Desperate for breath, Angus broke the surface, inhaled greedily, and dove down again. He grabbed the grille again and wrenched it, vastly encouraged when it shifted again.
Another breath and he tried again, the metalwork coming free suddenly in his hands. He broke the surface, then leaned back against the wall and breathed heavily, lifting the metal just slightly from the water that he might examine it.
And Angus smiled when he saw the rust. If the water rose this high with any frequency, it would have been only a matter of time before the grille drifted free upon its own.
Father Aloysius was apparently less concerned with worldly matters than Fergus had been, for Angus knew his father would have checked this potential weakness each year when the waters receded.
Providence was again upon Angus’s side. He closed his eye, recalling how the drain had inclined slightly from the opening, perhaps for half a dozen paces, then turned sharply vertical. Once there had been only a wooden trap over that opening, so that none would step into the hole, but he and Ewen had easily pushed it up into the courtyard from the underside.
He would hope that ’twas still thus, and he would hope that he could hold his breath long enough to reach that far. If the water was high enough that he could not take a breath at that grille, or if ’twas sealed, he would be hard pressed to return this far to take that second breath.
He would not think of the practical uses of this drain. Indeed, ’twas the least of his worries. He would not consider his own terror of being trapped below the earth in a space of men’s devising, a space cold and wet and dark where a man might easily breathe his last. Nay, he would think of the light shining through the grille at the other end and ignore the shadows betwixt here and there.
He would think of Jacqueline.
Angus’s heart pounded with only the anticipation of what he would do, he told himself, not with terror. The demons gnawed at his thoughts, gleeful that they might soon be able to seize his wits, but he struggled to ignore them.
The fact that he might fail did not change what he had to do. Angus took a trio of deep breaths, remembered his brother’s optimism and spirit, then dived beneath the murky surface once more.
Chapter 16
For the sake of her curiosity, Jacqueline sought the wondrous garden of Edana’s tale. She could not bear to think of that st
ory having no foundation in truth.
She was delighted when she found it at the rear of the keep, though ’twas secured behind its own high walls. There was one gate in those walls, one wrought of fancifully turned iron bars and locked against intruders. Jacqueline hung on to the bars and peered inside as best she could.
It looked as most gardens did in the spring, half of the plants appearing dead and the rest clearly uncertain whether they desired to live. Someone had tended it recently, for ’twas not unkempt, but there was naught in bloom.
She craned her neck and peered through the bars, then squeaked in surprise when a man cleared his throat behind her.
’Twas another priest. He nodded and drew a key from his cassock. “Good day to you. You must be the guest of whom Father Aloysius spoke.”
“Aye, I suppose I must be that guest."
He gave her an odd look, then unlocked the gate and stepped through it, excusing himself as he passed her. He pulled the gate resolutely behind himself, shrugging apologetically.
“May I see the garden?”
He hesitated, then shook his head. “I think it would not be for the best.”
“Whyever not?”
His gaze flicked to the hall, then he smiled at her. “I should not like to displease Father Aloysius. He prefers that the garden not be visited overmuch, and truly I am here on his sufferance.”
“What does that mean?”
“I have a fascination for plants and herbs, though Father Aloysius has no obligation to indulge me. I heard of Airdfinnan’s gardens years ago and when I was sent to this area last year, I wrote and asked to see them.” The priest smiled. “They were much neglected and there are many here that I cannot name, but I have persuaded Father Aloysius to let me tend them in the hopes that much can be learned.”
“They do not use the herbs in the kitchen?”
“It appears none has the skill.”
“Then why do you not have an apprentice?”
He looked at her, then shook his head, bemused. “I have wondered much the same, though ’tis not my place to question the decisions of those above me.”
Stolen Brides: Four Beauty-and-the-Beast Medieval Romances Page 118