Flame (5 page)

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.

If what the priest had just said was true,
then Gavin knew this stranger had to be a peasant. The Lowlander
had investigated what passages he could in the burnt out wing, but
he had reluctantly put off exploring the tunnels leading below. He
would need a torch, and preferably a guide, for that little
expedition.

In fact, he thought, he could use a torch
now. The chapel, dark and musty, offered little to refute the
cleric’s words. The few long, thin windows provided hardly any
light or air in the sanctuary. No ornaments of value adorned the
altar. Only a cross of wood, studded with iron nails, hung on the
wall above it. That was all.

Surveying the rest of the interior, Gavin
nodded toward the steps leading down into a dark alcove. “The
crypt?”

“Aye, m’lord.” The note of contempt in the
man’s response was obvious, and, though Gavin was unsure what it
was directed toward, he was tiring quickly of the little man.

“Get a candle.”

As the priest returned with a light, Gavin
started down the steps into the crypt. It was a low, square
chamber, with stone tombs lining the walls. Some were adorned with
the effigies of knights, their carved stone swords beside them. As
William kept up a running commentary on the relative superiority of
past generations, Gavin discovered the low doorway into another
area, and, taking the candle, led the way into the newer part of
the musty chamber.

“Sir Duncan had this part built before my
time here. That is his tomb, with the stone carving. His sons never
had much opportunity to plan for their own burials.”

“Where are Sir John and his wife and
daughter?”

William’s face looked yellow and quite
unhealthy in the flickering light of the candle, and he seemed to
hesitate before answering. He gestured with a toss of his head.

“In the kirkyard, m’lord.”

Gavin stared at the man a moment. “I want to
see where you’ve put them.”

“Aye. This way.”

As he and the priest retraced their steps,
Gavin considered what would be involved in reentering the previous
lairds and their families in the crypt.

The sun that had broken through briefly in
the early afternoon had once again been swallowed up by the clouds.
As Gavin gazed out over the low wall that separated the kirkyard
from the sheer cliffs above the loch, he could see the storm to the
west sweeping in over Cairn Liath and Cairn Ellick, hiding their
summits in a cloud. The wind had picked up considerably, and Loch
Moray’s waters were now a churning mass of whitecaps.

Gavin followed the little priest to a large
slab by the cliff.

“Here, m’lord,” Father William said
brusquely. “We put them here. Close enough to Sir John’s brothers.
They lie over there.” The man pointed at two other slabs not far
away. Sir John meant to have his brothers moved inside the crypt.
As you can see, the good Lord didn’t see fit to give him time for
that.”

Gavin looked back to the large slab before
his feet. “You say all three lie here?”

The awkward pause in the priest’s response
was obvious, and the new laird turned his gaze on the man.

“Do they lie here?” he repeated.

“Aye, for all that we could tell.”

“The bodies were burned?” Gavin asked.

“Aye,” the priest replied with disgust. “Like
hell’s own demons, they were. All burnt. All lost...” The man’s
voice choked. “There were so many of them. The wing was filled with
Sir John’s servants and the ladies’ maids...”

Father William faltered and came to a stop.
Gavin crouched before the slab and placed a hand on the tomb. It
felt strangely warm to his touch. In a moment the priest
continued.

“We couldn’t tell one from the other. We
found no one in the laird’s chambers nor in Mistress Joanna’s room.
Most of the bodies lay in a heap at the stairwell. Some of the
maids, we think, may have tried to leap into the loch.” The priest
looked away at the turbulent waters. Drops of rain began to spatter
the stones around them. “We found traces of blood and torn linen on
the cliffs, but no bodies. It seems the rest all ran into the
corridors. That’s where we found them. All charred and heaped
together.”

“Where you able to recognize them?” Gavin
came to his feet.

The man slowly shook his head. “Nay. The
laird was a goodly sized man, though, so we could be fairly certain
of him, and his body lay apart, with two women by him. So we
wrapped those three and placed them here. The rest...the rest we
buried there.”

Gavin looked in the direction that the priest
pointed. A dozen or so graves with new grass sprouting on the dirt
mounds could be seen in the corner of the kirkyard. The little man
walked unsteadily toward the graves and stared down at one set
slightly apart from the others. The rain was starting to fall
harder now, but neither man took notice of it.

“Who is buried in that grave?” Gavin asked,
following the other man’s gaze. “The one away from the others?”

“Who?” The priest’s head snapped around
toward the other graves, his eyes avoiding the laird’s gaze. “Why,
one of the servants.”

“Why is it separated? If they all died
together, why bury this one apart?”

“Because she did not burn like the others,”
William answered irritably. “She was one of Lady MacInnes’s serving
lasses, and she broke her neck leaping from a window in the
tower.”

“Perhaps a better way to die,” Gavin said
quietly, looking intently at the carefully tended grave. “What was
her name?”

“Her name?” The priest ran his hand over his
eyes. “I cannot remember.”

A bolt of lightning lit the sky.

“Iris!” he blurted quickly. “That’s it. Iris,
I believe ‘twas.”

Thunder rumbled after the earlier flash. A
movement by the chapel drew Gavin’s attention. A woman stood
holding folded linens in her hands. Gavin recognized her as
Margaret, the mute sister of the steward.

The little man mumbled something Gavin
thought must have been an apology and hurried over to the
woman.

The Lowlander turned his attention back to
the graves at his feet. Death was something that he was no stranger
to. As the laird gazed at the earthen mounds, it occurred to him
that losing those he loved was something he’d been facing all his
life. Strange, he thought, that some pain never ends.

He never knew his mother. She’d died bringing
him into this life. His father and two older brothers had been
rough tutors--they’d showed him a kind of love, one based on
loyalty and strength and courage. But then, all three of them had
been cut down in one day--fighting against the English at Flodden
Field. He himself had been injured that day. He himself had faced
death’s raw visage. And if it hadn’t been for Ambrose Macpherson
saving his life--he would assuredly have had his throat cut by the
battlefield scavengers.

Though that had not been his destiny that
day, he wondered now--as he had wondered often since that day--if
death held the only end to pain.

Gavin strode back to the slab, now nearly
black with the falling rain. Small wisps of steam, like souls
released, rose from the surface.

Staring at them, he thought of another grave.
In his mind’s eye he saw Mary, her dark hair swirling around her
pale skin in the summer wind. She had been the only woman he’d ever
allowed to get close to him. Odd, he thought, he had spent almost
all of his life in the service of his king. A man of action, a man
of war. He had seen the world, and he had known the beds of many
women. But with Mary, he had known something else. He had learned
about the yearning of two souls, about the opening of hearts. But
then she had died as well. Her life snuffed out before his eyes.
Taken from him--like all the others he had ever loved.

The rain suddenly began to fall in earnest.
Driven by the wind, it lashed at his face.

Again, looking down at the dark stone
covering the grave, Gavin felt the dying fire in his heart and knew
the cold misery of his life.

For death awaited anyone ill-fated enough to
be loved by Gavin Kerr.

She was cold. She was miserable. He was a
hateful man. He had taken away her shelter.

Cursing him, Joanna stepped out of the dark
water of the underground lake. Shivering, she climbed the odd,
stairlike rock formation onto the flat, stone slab where she had
left her “new” clothes. Slipping into the shift, she held up the
dress she had managed to steal from Gibby, the cook, earlier
tonight.

Joanna glanced again at the dark stains on
the rock, close to where she had laid her dress, and peered up into
the darkness of the cavern ceiling far above her, wondering what
could have produced such a mark on the rock. Shrugging, she turned
her steps toward the small fire on the other side of the cavern,
where she had made up a bed of rushes and straw stolen from the
kitchens.

Picking up her old shift from the bed, Joanna
tore a strip from it and tied it around her waist. Throwing her
ragged cloak over her shoulders, she felt the warmth spread slowly
through her, and a moment later, she pushed her long, golden hair
to one side, wringing out the water out and combing her fingers
through her tresses. Then, with a deep sigh, she crouched as close
as she dared to the small fire.

Absently watching as the light of the flame
danced against the roof and walls of the cavern, Joanna’s eye was
suddenly drawn to what looked like markings on the cavern wall not
far from where she sat. Taking a burning stick from the fire, she
walked toward the wall and held the makeshift torch high. She could
just make out figures--a cross and beneath it, the prone stick-like
figure of a woman. Not far away, on a level with the woman, another
stick figure could be seen clutching what looked like a head by the
hair and, in the other hand, a large knife. Odd drawings, she
thought, feeling a chill prickle along her neck and scalp.

Walking back to the fire, she seriously
pondered who might have painted the figures. They looked like the
work of a child. There were so few children anymore.

Seating herself again beside the small blaze,
Joanna used more strips from her shift to wrap up her scarred
hands. Then she let her mind drift back over all that had
happened.

Late in the day, as she had crept as close as
she dared in the concealing darkness of the tunnels, she had heard
the sound of men in the south wing of the castle. The new laird
seemed to have put every available hand in Ironcross Castle to work
tearing away the wreckage. But in doing so, the damned Lowlander
was taking away what little safety and comfort she had. The sound
of axes chopping through burned wood and the ripping sound of
plaster had filtered down to her. But then, at last, when it all
had fallen silent for the night, Joanna had stolen back through the
passages to her room in the tower in search of what she could
salvage. All her meager possessions, even the rag she wore as a
dress, had been cleared out.

Nothing had gone right since he’d arrived.
Nothing. Joanna tried to ignore the rumbling growl of her stomach.
Even her foray into the kitchen tonight had been a failure. Well,
not a total failure. Gliding through the pitch black chamber, she
had been lucky enough to stumble on this old dress, folded on a
bench in the corner. At least she wouldn’t have to haunt the castle
wearing only her shift.

Not a comforting image, she thought,
gathering her knees to her chest. Her face clouded over. She had a
bit more than a fortnight before the full moon. So few days to
build her courage and finally go through with her plan of revenge.
But until then, she wouldn’t sit back and let this Lowland usurper
ruin her existence. Not one bit, she thought, brightening.

From the time she was a bairn, she’d been
hearing about the Ironcross curse. She’d heard the women talk of
its ghosts. Aye, she knew the truth of it now.

But as for the ghosts, this Lowlander must be
hearing some of the same tales.

A mischievous glint crept into her eyes. Let
the shadows rise, she thought. Let the ghosts of Ironcross teach
this laird a lesson about disturbing a spirit.

***

Still clothed in his wet garments, Gavin
gazed out through one of the small open windows into the pitch
black of the moonless night. During the day, one could see the loch
from this chamber, as well as the trail of hills leading southward
toward the abbey. On a night such as this, one could not even see
the boulder-dotted gorge below, and the only sound was the
pattering of the rain and the occasional echoing rumble of far-off
thunder.

He was not to be disturbed, he’d said before
retiring to the master’s chamber of the Old Keep. In the morning,
Andrew would ride north to Elgin and collect enough carpenters to
rebuild the south wing of the castle--and a stonemason to build the
tombs for the family of his predecessors.

Aye, for you, he thought, turning to the
portrait of Joanna MacInnes, propped up on a chest by the fire.