Highland Surrender (41 page)

“What if I see someone?” Genevieve asked, hands crossed over her chest.

Fiona had no useful answer. “Distract them any way you can. And be loud about it. I’ll let you know when we are entering the passage.”

She turned toward the sacristy, and a chilled finger of dread trailed up her spine. That tunnel had been a place of ghosts and fear when she was young, and in truth, she felt the same way still. The only saving grace was that Myles waited at the other end.

She and Margaret walked quickly past the raised altar and into the room behind it. It was dark, with no windows, and a musky scent permeated the air inside. Fiona found a small lantern sitting on the floor. It was grimy with age and, once lit, gave off scant light, but she’d not thought to bring another, and she needed what little light it could offer.

She held it up inside the sacristy. Shadows danced on the gray stone walls of the tiny room, exposing cupboards lined up in rows and the priest’s robes hanging on a hook. The thought of secret love letters skittered through her mind, those written in Cedric’s hand and hidden by her mother, but Fiona dismissed that thought as quickly as it came. The Sinclair priest was a bitter man and would’ve had no part in that. If her mother had hidden letters, for certain they’d be somewhere else.

Apprehension filled her chest, and she sighed. At the sound of it, Margaret’s hand slid into hers.

“What do we do now?” her sister whispered.

Fiona looked over and met her eye to eye, for in the months they’d been apart, Margaret had grown nearly as tall as Fiona herself. Bess had been right. She was a child no longer.

“We must find the keys. The entrance is behind that rug.” She pointed at the opposite wall, to a tapestry, faded and moth-eaten. She walked over and pushed the fabric gently to the side to expose a small door, but the age-worn bar from which the fabric hung gave a crackle and a snap, and suddenly, the tapestry crumpled to the ground.

Fiona’s stomach plummeted with it, for now anyone who came into this room would know someone had entered. But it could not be helped. This journey had begun, and she must keep moving forth.

She pulled at the latch of the door, and it twisted easily in her hands. The door creaked as she pushed it open, but did not resist. Perhaps this would not be so difficult after all. But the entrance loomed, dark and forbidding. A smell of mildew assaulted her nose. A cobweb wafted out. This tunnel had not been used in some time—at least not by anything with just two legs.

“I found them,” Margaret gasped, “right where John said they’d be.” She had stepped to the corner where several jars and
baskets sat. She raised her hand and held the keys aloft. “They’re heavy.”

Heavy as Fiona’s fear, no doubt. She took them from her sister’s hand. “Fast work, Margaret. Thank you. But we’d still best hurry. I’ll tell Gen—”

Fiona’s comment was cut short by the sound of Genevieve’s voice.

“Oh, good evening, Father.”

God have mercy, Father Bettney had come. Fiona tucked the lantern into the corner and then moved to peek into the chapel.

There he was, striding toward the maid, the ever-present frown marring his face.

“What are you doing here, girl?”

Genevieve knelt once more upon the bench. “I am praying, Father. Will you join me?”

The priest’s eye twitched. “The hour grows late. Do your praying somewhere else.”

“But Father...” She paused and took a trembling breath. Her glance darted to the sacristy door before she cast her stare back to him. “My dear mother lies dying. I must pray for her soul, and is this not the holiest place?”

Fiona made the sign of the cross from behind the sacristy door. Lying to a priest, especially one as censorious as this one, did not bode well for their mission.

“If she lies dying, you should be by her side. Scat with you now. Back to the village.”

Fiona saw the indecision play over Genevieve’s features, and her own thoughts rioted in turmoil. What to do? Duck into the tunnel and hope the priest did not notice? Or step out and distract him from her purpose in the hopes he’d leave them be. Fear twined around her limbs and squeezed the breath from her
lungs. She glanced at Margaret. The girl was pressed against the wall, eyes wide in the semidarkness.

“Please, Father,” Genevieve said, “surely the Lord will pay greater attention to your pleas than mine. Pray with me for just a few moments. Then I may return to my mother knowing I have done my best.”

Time spun faster. Night would fall with relentless certainty. Fiona must act. In moments, the men would be at the gate. She could not fail them. Reaching over, she snatched the lantern back up and gripped the keys tightly in the other.

“Hurry,” she whispered to her sister. “She cannot hold the priest back for long.” She moved, fast but cautious, to the entrance of the tunnel and stepped inside. Margaret hesitated for only a moment, then joined Fiona over the threshold. Fiona reached back and pulled the door shut. With any luck, the priest might think the tapestry fell on its own.

The lantern offered little glow. They could see but a few inches before them. Fiona tried hard not to imagine the myriad of creatures scuttling away from the light. She felt a cobweb brush her face, like the hand of a ghost.

“We’ll be fine, Margaret. There’s nothing here but shadows and a few spiders.” She lied to her sister. Inside, she prayed silently for courage. Her heart beat like a rabbit’s, so fast she could scarcely breathe. Still, she put one foot in front of the other, and they inched their way forward. But only a moment passed before the door swung open and Father Bettney shouted.

“You there!” the priest’s voice boomed, echoing like thunder. “Come out at once. You’ve no business in this passageway.”

He loomed, a stark silhouette against the dim light in the sacristy. His reedy form filled the doorway like a leafless tree in winter.

Fear and frustration collided in Fiona’s lungs. What had become of Genevieve? There was no sign of her.

“Father Bettney, ’tis I, Fiona.” She held the lantern up to her face.

“Fiona?” His scowl deepened. He came forward a few feet and grabbed her by the wrist. “I heard you had returned. But you have no business in this tunnel.”

She tried to wrest her hand free, but his grip was made of iron. Quickly, he pulled her back into the sacristy, and Margaret followed.

“What antics are these?” he demanded, glaring from her to Margaret. The pockmarks on his cheeks stood out in contrast to the flush of his skin.

Fiona’s mind went painfully blank, and in the panic of the moment, she could think of no story to offer but the truth. It was her only hope of getting back into that tunnel in time.

“I am on a mission of mercy, Father. Please understand, it is imperative I unlock the gates of the passageway.”

“Why?” The question wheezed from his chest.

Lord save them, she did not have time for explanation! But surely a man of God, even a man as vile as this priest, would be on the side of saving lives.

“Do you know of Simon’s plans? To fight the king?”

His eyes narrowed. “If I did, what matter is it of yours?”

“’Tis a war we will lose, Father. Our good, brave men will perish. But the Campbells await entrance into Sinclair Hall. If we let them claim Simon, no Sinclair blood need spill.”

His face suffused with color. Words sputtered from his lips like spittle. “You stupid girl! What have you done? You would let our enemy in?”

His anger was an oppressive burst, smothering her with its intensity. Margaret moved behind her, and Fiona extended her own hands as if to calm the irate priest.

“They are not our enemy, Father. ’Tis a great sacrifice to hand over Simon. It breaks my very heart to do so. But if we forfeit him,
the truce will hold and Clan Sinclair will regain its rightful place among the great families of Scotland. The king has promised.”

“Lies! All lies, you foolish chit! I warned your brothers Cedric Campbell would turn you into one of them. Just as he did your mother.” He spit on the floor as if mentioning her left a vile taste in his mouth.

Fiona’s blood thickened in her veins. “What do you know of Cedric Campbell and my mother?”

Sweat beaded, slick and bright, upon his face. A rivulet ran down into the crease along his cheek. “I know she used this passage to sneak out to meet him, the conniving whore.” His voice sliced the air, the edges sharp enough to cut. He reached out and twisted the keys from her hand, throwing them to the corner. Fiona’s fear doubled at his accusation. “My mother was no whore.”

Contempt twisted his expression; his eyes blazed. “I know differently. Time and again, she traversed this tunnel to lie with him. I watched them, rutting like animals in the woods.”

Margaret gasped into Fiona’s ear, and the priest kept talking. His rage built with every word.

“Your mother was an adulteress! A faithless Jezebel!” He waved a knobby finger at their faces, his words coming fast and furious. “She had no loyalty to husband and none to her clan! And you, it seems, are cut from the same filthy cloth.”

And as he railed, a realization formed within Fiona’s mind, like frost creeping across a windowpane one tiny fragment at a time. ’Twas the priest who’d seen her mother last. ’Twas he who carried her body into the hall the day she died.

“Was it you?” Breathless, she could scarcely form the words.

Father Bettney sneered, a madman gripped in disillusion, his movements jerky and uneven. Froth gathered at the corners of his mouth as he spoke.

“She had no shame, that one! No remorse.” He waved a fist, his words sizzling in the dry air.

Margaret’s breath was fast upon her neck.

“Such immorality demanded purification. I gave her every chance at absolution, but she’d not repent. She laughed in my face and called me a fool. Until I held her to the water.” He twisted back to them, his frenzied expression triumphant and certain. “Then she begged for forgiveness, sure enough.”

“The water?” Bile rose, hot and fast, but Fiona tamped it down. She reached behind to grasp Margaret’s hand. Her sister pressed closed against her, and Fiona felt her trembling.

“Aislinn Sinclair tarnished her soul with sin most grievous, but my grace brought her back to purity. ’Twas I who slew the demons of her lust. My prayers and intervention which allowed her death without sin.”

Fiona’s tongue, numb inside her mouth, could scarcely form the words. Yet she forced herself to form them, certain now at his answer. “You killed her.”

The priest snorted, a crazed, choking sort of laughter. “I saved her! I baptized her in that creek so her soul might be free in the kingdom of heaven! But for me, she’d be writhing in the fires of hell.”

Fiona’s throat scalded at his boastful confession. “’Twas murder, you vile monster. And nothing less! ’Tis you who God will punish.” She pushed at him, heedless of the danger.

He swung back, flinging her against the wall. Her head bashed against the stone. The impact drove the breath from her lungs. Dazed but determined, she tried to get up. Margaret ran to her side, but the priest knocked her away as well and stood upon Fiona’s skirts.

“I see they’ve made a Campbell whore of you as well.” His voice rasped, hot and rough. His eyes went glassy with rage and his twisted notion of morality.

Dread, heavy and dark as death itself, pressed down upon Fiona. Margaret rose slowly, looking from Fiona to the door as a commotion sounded in the bailey. Shouts from every direction began to echo outside the chapel.

The priest bent over, his breath a fetid stink upon Fiona’s face. “If Campbell bastards breach our gate, the soul of every dead Sinclair will be a curse on you. You led us to this!”

The disturbance grew louder. Fiona could not tell who shouted, or even from whence it came, but she prayed the king’s men had found their way in.

The priest grabbed her chin and pinched with one bony hand. “You are as worthless as your mother, you traitorous whelp.”

He reached back and grabbed the lantern with his other hand. In one swift motion, he flung it down against the tapestry piled on the ground. The old fabric smoldered but a second and then burst into flames. Margaret screamed and jumped to stomp it out, but Father Bettney rose and slapped her hard, knocking her to the ground once more.

Fiona scuttled to the side, away from the fire, but thought only of getting close to Margaret. Fear replaced her anger. He meant to kill them both, and none would save them, for she had failed in her duty. And her child would perish along with them.

The shouts outside grew more distinct, closer and more urgent. The priest cast a glance into the chapel. He turned back and picked up the keys up from the floor, and his hateful gaze came back to Fiona. Her heart nearly paused. She could not breathe or call for help. And where was Genevieve?

He pulled the extra robes from the wall and threw them to the burning pile. “’Tis fitting, I suppose, that you should die by flame.”

He stepped out of the sacristy and slammed the door. The metal scrape of lock and key scratched the air. The sound of
something heavy crashed against the wood, and Fiona wondered if he’d tipped the altar over toward the door. Smoke began to fill the room as the robes ignited. She jumped from her spot and shoved with all her might against the door. It would not budge. They were trapped.

“She should have reached us by now,” John said, rising up to stare toward Sinclair Hall. They’d worked on the latch from their side for nearly an hour to no avail. The door stood firm, and they were no closer to reaching the chapel.

Myles’s agitation mounted, his worry growing as the sky darkened. “We cannot wait any longer. The king will storm the front gate soon. Take us to the place where we might climb the wall.”

He signaled to the men. In seconds, each was on his feet and running toward Sinclair Hall.

“’Tis there.” John pointed as they ran. “See the spot that’s lower than the rest?”

Myles could just barely make it out in the dusk and shadows, but sure enough, he saw a dip in the stone wall. They ran until they reached the closest corner of the keep and then moved silently along the wall. No shouts of alarm sounded from overhead, and Myles offered up his thanks to God that they had reached this point. On they went until they stood just below the crumbled spot of the curtain wall.