Flame (40 page)

“Loosen my hands,” the laird demanded. “I am
not going to let this...Athol!”

Gavin’s shout was not quick enough to alert
the Highlander. The hilt of the dirk struck John Stewart hard
behind the ear, and without a sound he crumpled in the doorway.

***

Through the darkness they moved. The
sputtering hiss of candles and the shuffle of feet on dirt and
stone were the only sounds that broke the deadly silence of the
cavern.

Clutching the burning candle in two hands,
Joanna felt her tears coursing freely down her face as she looked
at the back of Mater’s head and moved with the rest toward the
underground loch. The women had ‘honored’ her in giving her the
place behind the abbess, but as she walked, she could feel the eyes
of the rest of the white-robed flock burning into her back,
checking her every move.

She had no choice but to go along. She was
outnumbered and could not fight her way free of them, so she
decided to put on her best face and pretend to be both willing and
interested...at least until they reached the loch. The only hope
that was sustaining her now lay in what Molly had said about the
women witnessing the killing. If what she feared were indeed true,
perhaps Gavin was at least still unharmed.

Joanna felt with one hand for the small
dagger at her belt beneath the white robe they had given her. She
would die before she allowed any of them to hurt him.

She smelled the damp, cool air of the loch.
They were quite close now. As she followed Mater into the cavern,
Joanna scanned the area quickly in search of Gavin, but there was
no sign of him there.

By the edge of the water, though, on the slab
where she had noticed the dark stains, a small fire crackled by a
wooden table. Beside it stood Margaret, garbed all in white, as
silent and still as the dead.

She glanced along the water’s edge to the far
side of the cavern. There was no sign of the straw bedding or her
meager belongings. A shudder raced through her at the thought that
she had once taken refuge in this place, even walked upon this
altar of evil.

The women formed a half circle around
Margaret, and Joanna watched Mater move to the center beside her
sister. Silence fell over the group, and Mater raised her thin
hands in the air.

“Sisters!” she called. “For the souls of our
dead sisters, we invoke the Power.”

“Mater!” the women’s voices proclaimed in
response. “We invoke the Power.”

No sooner had the echo of the words died when
a swirling wind swept across the waters of the loch. Joanna felt
every hair in her body stand on end as she looked about her in
astonishment, the rushing air pulling at her robe.

“Sisters! For ourselves, in memory of their
pain, we invoke the Power.”

“Mater! We invoke the Power.”

This was not like anything she’d witnessed
before. The wind pushed at her. There was something in here with
them--a force, a power beyond anything she could explain. Joanna
stared as every one of the women raised their hands in the air,
swaying and allowing the swirling breeze to caress their bodies.
She felt the gentlest touch of a hand on her own face. Startled,
she turned toward it. But there was nothing but the air. Full,
charged, and warm as a summer night.

“They are here, sisters. They are with us,”
Mater chanted.

Stunned, Joanna watched as Margaret picked up
a candle and moved quietly toward the passage leading to the
slaughter chamber.

She was going to bring him here, Joanna
screamed inwardly, a shaky hand clutching for her dagger.

Mater and the other women began to chant
again, and Joanna’s eyes scanned the faces of the gathering. They
were all in a trance, swaying and calling as the air continued to
swirl around them. She looked at Mater’s face. The woman’s gray
eyes shone with the brightness of a hundred candles. She had the
Power. She
was
the Power.

Joanna looked down at the rock slab, at the
stains in front of Mater’s feet. The red stain...the blood.

She started shaking her head. “Don’t,” she
whispered. “Let me be wrong. Let it not be.”

No one heard her. The air was whipping about
them now with rapidly increasing violence. The sounds of the
chanting were now blocked by the shrieking wind. She brought her
hands to her ears, trying to keep out the sound. This was not real,
Joanna told herself. There was no Power!

The shrieking cries pierced her brain; she
could not keep them out. She shut her eyes, only to see things--the
courtyard, the summer moon. There before the bleeding iron cross,
the flames leaping up behind them, the innocent women of the abbey.
The brutality of men. She cried out, and the vision was replaced
with another. Duncan’s face. Mater’s.

A scream louder than the rest tore through
the vision, and Joanna pressed her hands tighter against her ears.
“No more!” she cried. “No more!”

Suddenly, a deadly silence fell over the
group. Joanna opened her eyes slowly, certain that all eyes would
be upon her. Amazingly, the gazes were not directed at her, at all,
and she followed their stares to the darkness of the opening into
which Margaret had disappeared. The air was dead and still.

Another scream cut through the semidarkness.
A woman’s scream. But it wasn’t her own voice, Joanna realized. And
this was no shriek of the wind.

With a wailing cry, she appeared. Lurching
out of the opening of the passage like some wounded animal,
Margaret staggered into view, wild and weeping.

“Ma...ki...Ma...ki...va!” The woman babbled
incoherently as she cried and ran toward Mater. The candle was
gone, and in its place, Joanna could see, Margaret held a long
dagger.

“Where is he?” Joanna cried out, pushing
forward. “What have you done with him?”

Hands clutched at her, grabbing her by the
wrists and arms, and Joanna writhed to free herself as Margaret
went down to her knees, started shaking her head and trying to
speak.

“Ma...ki...va...ki...Wi...ki...la...”

“What are you saying, Margaret?” Mater asked,
moving forward and raising her up. “Where is Allan?”

Joanna watched Gavin being pushed into the
light. His face, hard with anger, lacked its normal color, and his
huge frame tottered unsteadily on legs that she could see were
bound at the ankles.

With a cry, she leaped forward to run to him,
but the hands of half a dozen women held her firmly in place.

Behind Gavin, Allan stepped from the tunnel
and stopped short. The steward’s face was hidden beneath the
sloping roof of the cave, but the point of the gleaming dagger that
he held to Gavin's back spoke clearly of his intent.

“What is the meaning of this?” Mater’s voice,
cold as mountain snow, chilled the very air in the cavern.

“‘Tis the full moon, sister. ‘Tis the day to
remember.”

This was not the same man that Joanna had
known. Something was wrong. It was in his voice, his eyes. Joanna
felt a cold fear wash down her back, and she pulled at those who
held her.

Mater took one step in her direction without
ever taking her eyes from the Allan’s face. “Why have you brought
the laird here.”

Dropping his torch on the ground, Allan laid
the blade of the dirk against Gavin's face and then shoved him with
his other hand toward the rock slab by the loch. Joanna bit at her
lip as a thin line on Gavin's cheek opened and blood began to run
down his face and drip off his chin. Gavin turned and glared
fearlessly at the man.

Mater’s voice cut through the air with an
edge as sharp as Allan’s blade. “I asked you why you have brought
this man here?”

“He is the laird. ‘Tis his blood that we will
sacrifice.”

Joanna tore a hand free, and she shook her
head. The man was mad. Allan’s face was a mask of fury, and she
knew that he meant to do Gavin harm.

“Our saints never intended for us to shed
human blood. ‘Twas never our intention to bring more violence into
this world.”

“Ha!” Allan shoved Gavin closer. “Whatever
their intentions were--or yours--it makes no difference. Violence
begets violence, and the vengeance of God will fall on the sinner,
to the seventh generation...”

“Nay, brother!” Matter argued. “This is
wrong! ‘Tis the
remembrance
of their sacrifice that brings
us back here. ‘Tis the power of the saints that we invoke, and
their protection that we seek. There is no vengeance in
forgiveness, Allan. You must release the laird. We will not go
against the will of our long-dead sisters.”

“No matter how strong your hatred?” he
shouted. “I know what lies in your heart.”

“You know nothing.”

“I know the evil that blackens the hearts of
these men, and still you think I can let him go?”

“Aye, Allan! You will let him go.” Mater
answered emphatically. “No matter
what
life has brought
us--suffering or pain--it does not matter. We will not defile the
memory of our sisters.”

“Defile? Perhaps you have forgotten what that
word means,” he rasped, shoving Gavin into the circle of women and
onto the slab of stone. He stared at Mater, and she looked back,
unflinching. “But I have not forgotten
you
, used and thrown
like a dog into the night. I have not forgotten how I watched you
bleed your unborn bairn into the dirt beneath the iron cross.”

Allan reached out and grabbed Margaret by the
shoulder, bringing her roughly to his side. The mute woman’s knees
buckled, and she crumpled onto the rock.

“And look at her,” Allan pointed at the woman
at their feet. “
This
is our sister. A whore! But still our
sister. And what of her? She has not spoken since that night, but
she has not forgotten...and neither have I!”

The echoes of his voice had died away in the
cavern before Mater spoke again.

“That was so long ago. That injury was done
to me, and...”

“
He
is the cause of the injury!”
Allan’s bloodless face turned to Gavin. “‘Twas he who has caused us
pain.”

“Nay, Allan. ‘Twas Duncan. And he is long
dead.”

“I know Duncan is dead, sister.” He continued
to stare at Gavin. “I killed him. I had to wait many years, but I
killed him. As I killed his sons. Aye, they have all died for the
sins they committed against our sisters. But none died as I had
wanted them to. Only the priest died as he deserved! Too much
secrecy, too much concern about what the whole world should
know.”

“Allan, you don’t know what you are
saying!”

“I know what I am saying,” he shouted. “You
think I am mad?”

“Allan...”

“Do you think ‘tis easy to carry a secret in
your heart for your whole life?”

“A secret?”

“Aye, ‘tis I who carry the curse of
Ironcross. ‘Twas our great, great grandsire who was steward to the
laird that summer night.” His eyes were wild. “
He
killed the
first laird. And his son and his grandson and his, in turn, have
kept the curse alive. Aye, sister. We are the curse!”

Whirling around, Allan kicked Gavin's legs
from under him and yanked the laird’s head back, exposing his
throat.

“I am the curse of Ironcross, sister. I am
the hand of God. Now give me the cup and the dagger, and we will
wash clean, once again, the sins of Ironcross Castle. Get me the
cup, Margaret!”

Gavin jerked his head out of the steward’s
grip as Margaret struck at Allan. With the speed of lightning, the
dagger in her hand flashed through the air, stabbing Allan in the
chest. “Ki...Wi...yu...ki...Wi...ki...ki...”

Stunned by the attack, the steward stared at
the blade and hilt of the knife protruding from his breast, and
then at his sister, still crying out in broken words and weeping as
she backed haltingly away from him.

Gavin's move was quick. Dropping to his side,
he swept the steward’s feet with his own bound legs, and Allan
dropped like a stone to the slab. Gavin was on him before the man
could move, using his shoulder to drive the dagger deep into his
heart.

As the laird kept his full weight on the man,
the only sounds in the cavern were the last gurgling breaths of the
steward, and the soft, whispered echo of a gentling wind.

***

Joanna shook off the hands holding her and
dashed to his side. Ripping the dagger from her belt, she cut away
the ropes binding his ankles and wrists. Gavin moved off the dead
steward, but never even had a chance to get to his feet before
Joanna threw herself into his arms.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” she
sobbed, unable to hold anything back. “I was sure that this was the
end.”

His arms pressed her fiercely against his
chest. “I love you, Joanna.” He rocked her in his arms. “‘Tis
finished now.”

His voice was still strained, and she quickly
pulled away, checking him for signs of injury. His face was pale,
but before she could open her mouth to voice her concern, he
silenced it with a kiss. And there, in the silence of the cavern,
the two clung to each other, savoring that simple act of love.

A moment later, Joanna helped Gavin to his
feet. Aside from the cut on his face, he didn’t seem to be wounded,
but he still appeared to be weak. He wouldn’t allow her to fuss
over him, though, and together they made their way to Mater.

The group of women had moved off the stone
slab, and the old abbess stood at the center of them, her arm
around Margaret. As the group separated, letting Joanna and Gavin
enter their midst, the young woman saw Mater’s eyes lift and meet
the laird’s gaze.

“You know that we had nothing to do with
this.”

“I know,” Gavin replied. “Your brother, it
appears, had a ritual of his own.”

“As children, we were told of the Ironcross
curse,” Mater started. “We learned the tales of the women. The
stories of their deaths, and of the deaths of the lairds, as well.
But there was never anything said of our father or grandsires being
in any way responsible for any of it.” The old woman shook her head
emphatically. “They were the stewards, ‘tis true. But I cannot
believe they were killers.”