Sins of the Highlander (19 page)

“Father Kester, might I have a word with ye?” Mrs. Beaton cornered the young priest at his evening prayers before the altar of the chapel. Father Kester rose, crossed himself elaborately, and walked toward her. Bookish and long-winded, he didn’t even have a pleasant voice for singing the mass. Mrs. Beaton had thought him a young fool when he first came.

Now she’d see if he could be a useful young fool.

“Of course, Mrs. Beaton. I live to serve the souls here,” he said. “But please be brief. I was heading to my pallet. We who keep the canonical hours dinna get much sleep, ye ken. What’s this about?”

“Well, I’m usually not one to carry tales, but some troubling matters have come to my attention.”

“Troubling? In what manner?”

“In a spiritual manner, Father, else I’d not have come to ye,” she said primly. “I greatly fear an evil has come upon the people of Clan MacLaren.”

“Whist, ye needn’t fear.” He patted her shoulder as if he were very much older and wiser than she, though he was young enough to be her grandson. A sanctimonious, half-witted grandson. “My studies have prepared me to deal with every wile the devil may use to lure us into sin.”

“Indeed? And did they prepare ye to recognize and try a witch?”

His sandy brows shot skyward. Prosecuting a witch, especially if she could be proved to be consorting with the devil in the most lurid fashion, won a certain notoriety for the priest who successfully convicted and punished her. Father Kester was the ambitious sort.

“And who d’ye think might be wandering such a grave path of error within these walls?” he asked.

Unfortunately, his ambition was far greater than his intellect. Mrs. Beaton restrained herself from rolling her eyes. “Were ye no’ in the Great Hall at supper this night?”

“Ye mean the Lady Elspeth?”

“Aye, she was possessed of Satan himself, I’ll warrant.”

“Hmmm. I was at the other end of the hall when all the commotion started, and our laird spirited her out of the hall verra quickly,” he said, tapping his teeth with a long fingernail. “I just thought the young woman had seen a mouse. There’ve been plenty of them of late.” He shuddered. “Nasty wee beasties.”

Mrs. Beaton bristled at the slight to her housekeeping skills. “Well, she didna see a mouse, but she was seeing something else right enough, or so she claimed. The devil was showing her a battle, she said. The last battle, I’m thinking, and Elspeth Stewart was shrieking encouragement to his evil horde.”

“Ye’re certain of these things?”

“Certain as I’m standing here. I helped put her to bed whilst she raved,” she said. “Did ye no’ wonder how the MacLaren won his way back into the castle without coming through one of the locked gates?”

“No, I simply thanked God for granting us a miracle.”

Simple
is
right.
“I’m thinking another power might be responsible for his sudden appearance among us, and the devil used Elspeth Stewart to spirit our laird back into his stronghold. Witches can fly, ye ken.”

“I’ve heard of such things.” Father Kester narrowed his eyes. “I’d need proof, o’ course.”

“Oh, aye, there’s proof and more. Much more, and several who can bear witness to her unholy bent, and…” Mrs. Beaton lowered her voice to a whisper. “There’s an unusual mark upon her person, high up on her…well, best we not speak here where anyone might stumble on our counsels.”

“Will ye step into my private chamber?”

Mrs. Beaton nodded and followed him to his spartan little cell. She’d see the way cleared for her niece to become the lady of this place or know the reason why. By the time she was done with Father Kester, he’d be ready to light the fagots beneath Elspeth Stewart’s feet with his own hand.

***

“T’would be best for the sake of my good name that ye be seen leaving my chamber verra soon,” Elspeth said. “Albus is watching outside the door and forming his own conclusions. Besides, your people need to see ye in the Great Hall. Ye dinna realize how much heart they draw from ye.”

Rob argued for a bit but finally gave in. “I’ll check on ye later then,” he said.

“I usually sleep like the dead after a visit from my Gift,” she warned.

He kissed her cheek. “Verra well. I’ll no’ disturb ye.” Then a rogue’s smile tilted his lips. “But if ye wake in the night and wish to disturb
me
, slip under the tapestry and come to my chamber.”

“I might do that,” she said, wishing it could be so.

“I’ll just stay till ye’re asleep, then,” Rob said and would not be dissuaded. He pulled a chair next to her bedside to keep watch over her.

Elspeth closed her eyes, intending to feign sleep. But she was skimming the surface of slumber in truth, almost ready to sink into oblivion, when she heard the door latch lift and fall back into place. She forced an eye open.

Rob was gone.

Even though her head still pounded, she dragged herself from bed. With haste, she donned the skirt and leather bodice she’d worn when she and Rob arrived at
Caisteal Dubh
. She needed the broad skirt if she was to ride astride, assuming the horses hadn’t been turned out of the cave. Then she rifled through Lady MacLaren’s clothes trunk and found the warm cloak Rob had mentioned. As he described it, the cloak had a hood with a wee tassel and a fine copper brooch.

She plumped a pair of pillows and arranged them to mock a sleeping form. After she pocketed the tinderbox, she blew out the candle Rob had left burning. Then she slipped under the tapestry.

It was the first time she’d been in Rob’s chamber. The room was smaller than the one he’d assigned to her, the furnishings less ornate and more masculine. But there was a fireplace on the outer wall for heat instead of braziers. And the ceiling soared clear to the distant thatch on the top of the turret.

The massive bed looked soft and inviting.

What would Rob do if he found her snuggled between his sheets when he returned after supper? A number of wicked possibilities sprang to mind, and her body felt hot and achy at the mere thought.

This
is
the
chamber
where
he
bedded
his
wife,
she realized suddenly.

The fact that he invited Elspeth to join him in this very bed must mean the madness that drove him at first was fading. His wife’s ghost troubled him less and less. Elspeth wished she could stay and love away that last bit of bitterness and anger and grief from his heart.

But the only way to show Rob she loved him was to leave as quickly as possible. It was all she could think to do to stop her vision from coming to pass.

She lifted the latch and peered into the corridor. The space was empty, since Albus was around the curve of the wall, guarding her chamber. With extreme care, she pushed the door open and padded out and down the steps, running her fingertips along the stone walls to keep her bearings, since she didn’t dare a candle.

On the ground floor, she skirted the Great Hall and stepped into the bailey. Keeping to the shadows, she worked her way around the half-timbered buildings to the chapel.

Candles burned in the nave. She picked one up and carried it with her into the sanctuary. Stone angels stared down at her from the tops of columns before the ceiling soared in a high arch. No one seemed to be about, so she hurried to the altar and slipped beneath the cloth.

I
have
to
find
a
way
to
move
the
stone.

Lifting her candle, she studied the underside of the altar. Next to the hidden pulley and rope, she found a stout metal bar fastened to the underside of the altar. It seemed to be part of the construction, but the bar slid out from its fastenings easily.

Then she felt for the seam in the stone and wedged the sharp end of the bar into it. The stone lifted enough for her to slip her fingertips underneath it. She raised it another couple inches and then slid the flagstone off the opening with a grunt of effort.

And heard the sudden patter of footsteps. She pinched off the candle and froze in the darkness, ears pricked as the steps came nearer.

“There doesn’t seem to be anyone here,” someone whispered.

“I’m sure I heard something,” another voice said.

“This old chapel has many voices. Ye should hear the way the wind plays tricks on me sometimes.”

“Or mayhap the devil’s trying to spy on our meeting.”

“They do say the Prince of Darkness favors the hour of shadows. Perhaps we should speak more later. In daylight. And no’ here, ye ken,” the first voice said. “A witch knows where her enemies may be found.”

A
witch? What on earth are they talking about?

“Verra wise, verra wise,” the second voice said, but something about the hissed tone made Elspeth suspect the person speaking wasn’t sincere. “I’ll see ye on the morrow, then. After the laird parleys with the Stewart and Drummond again. Then we’ll see what’s what. Good even, Father.”

“God send ye rest.”

Two pairs of footfalls moved away from the sanctuary, heading in different directions, judging by sound. Elspeth waited until silence reigned for the count of thirty before she twitched so much as an eyelash.

Then she uncoiled the rope attached to the underside of the altar and let it drop into the dark opening. She swung her legs over the edge. She could see nothing below.

Something inside her shivered, and not with cold.

’Tis only a dark space. Nothing to fear,
she thought sternly as she started to lower herself. Then her grip on the rope slipped, and she slid the rest of the way down, burning her palms. She landed in a heap at the bottom. Her thigh screamed in pain, and she suspected such rough treatment would have it bleeding again.

Elspeth didn’t move for the space of several heartbeats. She strained to listen for any sound that indicated her descent was heard from above. Or attracted attention from anything that might lurk below.

Finally, she stood and felt for the torch. She’d simply dropped it after she stubbed it out when she and Rob used this secret way to enter the castle. It wasn’t there. Then she remembered that there were wall notches at the entrance to the cave. If Rob used the torch when he saw to the horses, he’d have replaced it in a holder on the wall when he was done.

Darkness-blind, she swept her fingertips over the rock walls and found the torch. After only a few tries with the flint, she managed a spark which caught, and the torch burned brightly. The smell of pitch and sulfur almost covered the mousy staleness of the underground space.

Then Elspeth retraced her way out. She crept down the long steps, mindful of the slick spots and listening to the steady drip of water through the rocks. She walked softly through the corridor with dark passages leading off at intervals. Once or twice in the corner of her eye, she thought she saw the gleam of feral eyes in the dark, but when she turned her head, they were gone.

Her heart pounded in her throat. She heard the scritching of wee claws on rock and held the torch aloft, banishing the shadows. The temptation to run snatched at her skirts, but she forced herself to keep to a steady walk. She never caught sight of any creeping thing, but she sensed movement in the shadows on all sides.

When she smelled warm dung and hay and heard the soft whicker of the horses ahead, she nearly wept with relief. Rob had been back to see to their care. There was water in their trough and fodder in the manger.

The soft starlight stealing into the opening of the cave was enough for her to see to saddle the mare, so she stubbed out the torch and replaced it in the wall notch. When she led the mare out, the gelding tried to follow, but she pushed him back and reblocked the exit.

“No, my fine lad,” she said softly. “There’s nothing for ye abroad in the world but misery. Stay with my Rob, now. He may need ye.”

As she mounted and rode in the direction of her father’s encampment, tears gathered in her eyes. She swiped them away.

He wasn’t her Rob. Not really. And he might not ever be.

Elspeth wandered the game trails, using the snow-kissed peak of Ben Vorlick as a touchstone to keep her bearings, always turning the mare’s head east toward the fighting men arrayed against her lover. It was still dark when she stumbled onto the outer edges of the armed encampment. Fortunately, the guard standing night watch was a Stewart man and recognized her when she responded to his challenge.

“If it had been one of Drummond’s men, they mighta thought ye was another camp follower come to—Oh! Begging your pardon, my lady. O’ course, ye’re not…oh, bugger!” the poor man stammered. Elspeth suspected the man’s ears were bright red, but it was too dark to be sure. “I shouldna ought to’ve said that.”

“No matter. Dinna think on it,” she said. “Take me to my father, and all will be well.”

Even though dawn was another hour away, her father wasn’t asleep. Alistair Stewart’s tent glowed with the light of a single lamp. The guards at the entrance didn’t try to stop Elspeth from pushing the flap aside.

Her father was sitting at his camp desk, a stack of missives on either side of him. But he wasn’t working. His face was buried in his hands. Elspeth suspected he wept. Or prayed.

“Father.”

He looked up, and the dark splotches under his eyes made her heart ache. Drawn and haggard, he’d aged a decade since she’d seen him last. Then his face lit in a disbelieving smile.

“If I’m dreaming, may I never wake,” he said softly as he rose to his feet.

She rushed to his waiting arms. “Ye’re no’ dreaming, Father. I suspect ye’ve no’ been asleep often enough of late for that.”

He rocked her in a great hug, which she returned just as fiercely. She knew she was blessed to have the affection of her parents when so many were distant with their offspring. Being the last bairn born to the House of Stewart was probably to blame for the way they doted on her, but she’d not complain, whatever the reason. She leaned into her father’s love, but it didn’t begin to fill the gaping hole where Rob should be.

Would Rob hate her when he realized she’d tricked him and run back to her father?

“How did ye manage to escape?”

The last thing she wanted was to divulge the secret of the back door into the castle. Rob had trusted her with it. She couldn’t betray him.

“That’s no’ important,” she said. “I’m here now, and I want to go home. Please, Father, take me home. Let’s go now.”

“There’ll be time enough for that.” He held her at arm’s length. “Tell me what happened to ye. Did the man force…did he hurt ye, daughter?”

She shook her head, knowing her father asked if she was yet a maiden. She hoped heaven would forgive her small lie to spare his sensibilities. “The MacLaren did me no hurt.”

Rob gave her only unspeakable bliss and the love she’d always longed for.

Her father released her and motioned for her to sit. She sank gratefully onto his clothes trunk. “Then your marriage to Lachlan Drummond can go forward.”

“No. I’ll no’ marry the Drummond. No’ after what I’ve learned of him.” Elspeth told him about Rob’s claim that Lachlan had raped his wife and driven her to her death.

“I’ve heard this rumor. Drummond denies it.”

“But I believe the MacLaren,” Elspeth said. “Lachlan Drummond is no’ the man ye think he is. Ye canna make me wed him. Please dinna try.”

“I’m your father, lass.” His voice held a hard edge. “If I say ye’ll wed him, ye will.”

Elspeth tried to control the tremors that threatened to take her, but failed. She’d been reluctant to wed before, but her parents had coaxed her into it with gentleness. Always indulgent, her father didn’t seem the sort to force her into a match.

“Lord Drummond and I have made some solemn agreements, and…” Alistair Stewart must have noticed the way she shivered. He poured a horn of wine and pressed it into her shaking hands. “All right, daughter. I’ll see what I can do.”

Elspeth grasped his hand and pressed a kiss on it, relief making her slightly light-headed. “Thank ye, Father. Now, I know ye dinna approve of the Sight, but I must tell ye I’ve had a visit from my Gift.”

Stewart shook his head. “Oh, lass—”

“Please listen. I’ve had this same vision half-a-dozen times but never understood why I was shown it. Now its meaning has finally become clear to me. Believe me when I tell ye, ye’re in mortal danger.” She set down the drinking horn, heedless that it bobbled and overturned. The red wine spilled, pooling like a bloodstain on the camp carpet. Elspeth dropped to her knees before her father. “If ever ye bore me the slightest filial love, call your lieutenants to ye. Ye must strike the camp and be ready to ride at first light.”

***

“The siege is lifted! They’re leaving,” Hamish called down from the battlements.

Rob sprinted across the bailey, strapping on his sword and buckler as he went. Hamish’s summons had been so urgent he hadn’t even taken time to check on Elspeth before he threw on his clothing and bolted out of his chamber. He’d peeked under the tapestry last night and saw her still form in the bed. After her terrifying outburst in the Great Hall, he’d decided to let her sleep undisturbed.

“Come see for yourself!” Hamish shouted and looked through Rob’s “Grandsire’s Eye” again. “Stewart has struck his colors. He’s withdrawing.”

Rob climbed the steps to the ramparts, taking them two at a time.

“Wait! Who’s that with him?” Hamish said, still peering through the system of lenses. “A woman!”

“Wherever there’s an army, there are always camp followers,” Rob said, snatching the looking device from him and bringing it to his eye.

“That’s no camp follower,” Hamish said. “That’s a noblewoman.”

Rob recognized the hooded cloak, and his gut sank with foreboding. The woman reined in her mount and turned to look back at the castle. Her face came into sharp focus in the center of his wavering lens.

“Elspeth,” Rob whispered.

“Aye, I thought as much, but I didna wish to say so until ye’d had a chance to see for yerself,” Hamish said with a heavy sigh. “All that unholy racket she made at supper must have been a ruse to lessen our watchfulness of her. But she didna slip out any of the gates. We’re locked down tight as a tick. How the devil did she manage to escape?”

Rob knew, but he couldn’t say. He’d trusted her with the secret known only to the lairds of the castle, and she’d used the secret passage. Now she was riding off behind her father on the mare Rob had bought for her in Lochearnhead.

“Elspeth!” he shouted. His voice echoed back from the surrounding peaks. She didn’t turn to look this time.

Rob handed the Grandsire’s Eye back to Hamish. Then he raced down the steps to the bailey, bellowing for his groom to saddle a horse for him.

“What are ye doing?” Hamish dogged his steps. “Stewart may be leaving, but Drummond’s men are still out there. If ye set foot outside the castle walls without a flag of truce, they’ll cut ye down in a heartbeat.”

“Then get me a white flag.”

A glossy bay was led from the stables with just a simple saddle on its back. Rob was glad the lad had realized there wasn’t time to adorn the horse with the MacLaren’s showy accoutrements.

“Ye’re no’ thinking clear,” Hamish said, blocking the way. “With the Stewart leaving, Drummond willna honor a truce. And the man willna give ye the fair fight ye deserve now that ye no longer have anything he wants,” He lowered his voice so only Rob could hear. “Think, Rob. Ye’re no’ a man who can do as he pleases. Ye have a whole clan depending on ye. If the lass wished to stay with ye, she’d still be here. Ye canna risk yer life to go after her like a lovesick pup.”

“Ye presume too much on our friendship.” Rob glowered at him. “Get out of my way.”

When Hamish didn’t move, Rob threw a punch. His fist landed on his friend’s jaw with a bone-crunching thud. Hamish might be built like an oak, but his jaw had always been brittle as Frankish glass. He reeled and staggered out of the way.

Rob started to mount the horse, but someone clubbed him from behind, knocking him solidly at the base of the skull with a blunt object. He dropped to his knees.

Pinpoints of light burst in his brain, and Rob’s vision tunneled. Before he winked out completely, he heard Hamish say, “Now look what ye made me do, Rob. I broke yer Grandsire’s Eye on yer thick skull.”

***

Mrs. Beaton bustled into the chapel, looking for Father Kester.

At first she’d thought it a good thing that Elspeth Stewart had taken herself out of
Caisteal Dubh
by some nefarious means. But now it was evident that the witch had sunk her claws into the laird’s soul so deep, he could barely be restrained from following her to his doom.

Hamish had carried the unconscious MacLaren up to his chamber, and Mrs. Beaton had left Margot to sit with him. After Hamish left, Mrs. Beaton strapped the laird to the bed to prevent his escape. Margot was under instructions to spoon in the tea laced with henbane whenever he stirred. With any luck at all, the MacLaren could be kept in drug-induced oblivion for days.

Long enough for Mrs. Beaton to see Elspeth Stewart was gone for good.

Mrs. Beaton’s gaze swept the sanctuary. The priest was nowhere to be seen.

“Father Kester!” she called again, her tone strident with irritation.

The priest appeared from the sacristy and walked toward her, folding his hands into the capacious sleeves of his robe. “Peace, Mrs. Beaton. This is the House of God. He’s no’ pleased by the sound of a voice raised in anger.”

“Aye, and I’ll warrant He’ll no’ be pleased if ye let a witch escape His justice either.”

“But Providence has protected us. She’s gone. Elspeth Stewart is no longer within our walls.”

“Aye, but she still troubles the House of MacLaren. Even now our laird raves on his bed, half out of his mind with her curses.”
And
henbane.
“Ye must follow the witch and see this thing through to its divine end if there’s ever to be peace in this place.”

Father Kester frowned. “I was watching from the ramparts with everyone else. She’s under the Stewart’s protection now. Even if Lady Elspeth
is
a witch, it’s up to Alistair Stewart’s priest to convince him to give her up for judgment.”

That wasn’t likely to happen. It was a rare father who would surrender his own child to the flames.

“Mayhap ye noticed that she’s no longer in Drummond’s good graces,” Mrs. Beaton said. “I’ve no doubt there’s a marriage that willna go forward.”

“How d’ye know this?”

Didn’t the man have eyes? “If there was still going to be a wedding, Drummond would have been riding beside his betrothed, would he no’? Instead, he and his men hung back and left the field only after the last Stewart man had quit. There’s no love lost there, or I’m mistook.”

“Hmmm,” Father Kester said.

Honestly, would she have to put every single thought into the man’s head for him?

“Dinna ye see? Ye must go to Lord Drummond,” she said with urgency. “Tell him the Almighty calls him to hold a witch trial for Elspeth Stewart, and see if he’ll no’ jump at the chance to aid ye in your righteous cause.”

“We’ll need witnesses,” Father Kester said doubtfully.

“And we’ll have them. Leave that to me.” Mrs. Beaton had half-a-dozen serving girls she’d brought with her from Beaton lands when she took this position. They owed her their living. She could twist them into giving whatever testimony was wanted. “Go ye now, and I’ll be but half a day behind with all the proof ye’ll need.”

***

Travel was a muckle of trouble. From the moment the castle gates closed behind him, Father Kester felt the sky lowering on him. The world was too big, too wild a place for a man of peace to take comfort in it.

Give him the tranquility of a monastery, the quiet of a scriptorium, the diligent hum of scholarly pursuits, and he was a happy man. Instead, Father Kester bounced along on his mule, sure the beast was trying to step in every hole along the way.

He was more surprised than anything when he overtook the rear of the Drummond column, which was traveling at the pace of their wagons and baggage. A man of the cloth was welcomed most everywhere, but he was further surprised when he was hustled into Lord Drummond’s tent after he made his first request to speak with the laird. Evidently, anything related to Elspeth Stewart was of keen interest to the Drummond.

While Father Kester laid out his case for the witchery of Elspeth Stewart, Lord Drummond listened with the intensity of a fox eyeing a rabbit hole. When he was finished, silence descended for the space of several “Our Fathers.” Finally, the laird rose from his chair and paced for the length of a few “Hail Marys.” Father Kester began to fear Lord Drummond harbored tender feelings for the lass and might do him hurt to silence him.

“Ye’re certain ye can convict her?” Drummond asked, his voice like the whisper of snakeskin through dry leaves.

“With or without her confession, aye,” Father Kester said. “There is enough evidence.”

“Ye’ll no’ shrink from burning her?”

“‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,’” he quoted. “I’m a man inclined to mercy, but I must please God rather than myself.”

After he was ushered from the presence of the laird with the injunction not to speak of his purpose to anyone until Lord Drummond gave him the sign, he began to wonder what might happen after the trial.

Perhaps Father Kester would be given charge of a monastery. A group of monks would be so much easier to manage than a castle full of sinners. Being able to pick and choose who would copy scripture all day and who was fit only to weed the turnips would be a lovely post indeed.