by Jayne Castel
“Aye,” MacKinnon growled, “and any man delivering him to me will be paid out his weight in silver.”
Gowan’s rugged face tensed. “I don’t have the outlaw … but I have news of him. Yesterday afternoon, I spied the Bastard and a group of his men in the woods east of Kilbride.”
Silence settled upon the yard.
“How many of them?” MacKinnon asked, his voice sharp now.
“It was hard to tell … their numbers were many though.”
Something dark and feral moved in Duncan MacKinnon’s eyes. Slowly, he turned to Carr, his face taut, eager. “Ready the guard … we ride out within the hour.”
Carr nodded and stepped back, preparing himself to do the clan-chief’s bidding. However, MacKinnon hadn’t finished yet. “Ye will remain here, as steward of Dunan, until my return.”
Carr halted, tensing. “Why?”
“My sister’s been meddling in my affairs too much of late,” MacKinnon growled. “I don’t want her in charge of the broch while I’m gone.”
Carr’s breathing slowed. “MacKinnon,” he began, making sure to keep his tone low and respectful. “I’m captain of yer guard … ye will need me if ye are to face yer brother.”
“My bastard brother,” MacKinnon snarled. “How many times must I correct ye, man?” He paused there, his mouth thinning into a hard line. “I can captain my own warriors, Broderick. Ye are more use to me here. Get the sick out of my broch and keep an eye on my sister. I expect a full report on her behavior when I get back … ye had better not keep anything else from me.”
A dog’s soft whine behind them drew the clan-chief’s attention then. Bran stood, tail wagging, impatient to ride out.
Favoring his hound with a tight smile, MacKinnon shook his head. “Not this time, lad,” he murmured, his tone gentling. “Best ye remain here too. Keep my seat warm while I’m gone.”
“Mother Shona … may I speak with ye for a few moments?” Coira halted before the abbess and lowered herself onto one knee. She’d found Mother Shona in the tiny herb garden behind the kitchens, a rambling space filled with profusions of rosemary, sage, mint, and parsley—as well as a number of healing herbs that Coira used in her poultices and salves.
“Of course, Sister Coira,” the abbess replied with a smile. The tension in Mother Shona’s expression betrayed her. She made the sign of the cross above Coira and waited while she rose to her feet.
“Lavender?” Coira asked, peering into the basket.
The abbess’s smile turned rueful. “I’ve had trouble sleeping of late … I thought the scent of lavender might help.”
Coira’s own mouth curved. “Aye … it should. My mother always said lavender soothed the soul.”
Mother Shona huffed a brittle laugh. “Mine could do with some soothing. The abbot’s presence here grates upon my nerves, I’m afraid … no amount of prayer lessens my desire to slap his impudent face.”
Coira’s mouth quirked at the abbess’s frankness. It was reassuring that Mother Shona also struggled with her baser instincts. It would make it easier to tell her what was on her mind.
“Mother,” she began hesitantly. “May I be frank?”
The abbess inclined her head. “Always.”
“I too have been a little on edge of late, although I must confess that the abbot’s presence here only plays a small part.” Coira paused, suddenly unsure how to phrase the rest. It felt strange, frightening, to expose her thoughts to anyone, even the abbess. Coira was used to keeping all her feelings under lock and key. “Craeg … the outlaw’s … stay here unbalanced me.”
Mother Shona’s eyes narrowed, her expression sharpening. “We’ve all been worried that MacKinnon might somehow track him here,” she replied softly.
Coira shook her head. “It’s not that … I mean … I don’t want MacKinnon here … and I’d never turn someone who needed my help away. It’s just that …” Coira broke off there once more. The Lord give her strength, this was harder than she’d anticipated. “Since Craeg left, I have found myself plagued by … distracting thoughts.”
The abbess went still at this admission, her brown eyes widening. Moments passed, and with each one, Coira’s throat tightened further.
I’ve made a mistake in being so open. Maybe she shouldn’t have confided in Mother Shona.
However, when the abbess spoke, her voice was gentle. “Ye are attracted to him?”
Coira nodded, feeling even more wretched than before.
Mother Shona let out a soft sigh. “Come, Sister Coira. Let us sit together for a few moments.”
The abbess led Coira over to the low wooden bench on the far side of the herb garden. Nestled up against a wall festooned with flowering honeysuckle, it was a sheltered, welcoming spot bathed in sunlight. Even so, Coira started to sweat as she took a seat. Inhaling the sweet scent, Coira waited for the interrogation to begin.
“Please don’t look so grim, Sister,” the abbess said with a sigh. “I’m not going to condemn ye.”
Coira, who had been staring down at her folded hands upon her lap, glanced up. “Ye should,” she replied, her voice rising. “A Bride of Christ mustn’t fall prey to lust.”
A soft smile curved the abbess’s mouth. “The vow of chastity is perhaps the hardest one for many nuns,” she replied.
Coira’s jaw clenched. “But it shouldn’t be for me,” she countered, hating the bitterness she heard in her own voice. “Ye alone know I spent years in a brothel, being used and abused by men. I should hate them.”
“So ye mean to say that ye have never before felt desire?” Mother Shona asked, surprise lacing her voice.
Coira shook her head, her gaze dropping once more. She twisted her fingers together, a sour taste flooding her mouth. “Would ye, in such circumstances?”
It was an impertinent question, but tension had given Coira a sharper tongue than usual. Moments passed, and she braced herself for a chastisement from the abbess. However, none came.
“I imagine some … who have been in the same position as ye … do feel desire,” Mother Shona said. She spoke slowly, as if choosing each word with care. “There will be women who will never leave the brothel … even if they have the opportunity to do so. Few would take the risk ye did in order to make a new start.”
Coira continued to stare down at her entwined fingers, her throat thickening. The abbess was right. There were a number of women she knew would always remain at The Goat and Goose. Some didn’t appear to dislike the life, and one or two actually seemed to enjoy servicing patrons. Others grew insensitive to the life over the years. These women had frightened Coira, for when she’d looked into their eyes, they’d been empty. She suppressed a shudder at the memory. She’d feared that she too would end up like that if she stayed.
“Aye, a nun should cast off all earthly desires … and that includes carnal sin,” the abbess continued when the silence between them drew out. “But that does not mean that most of us don’t struggle with the vow from time to time.”
Coira’s chin snapped up. She twisted around so that she faced the abbess squarely. “Have ye?”
Mother Shona smiled. “Ye know that my life hasn’t always been as sheltered as it is now.”
Of course, the abbess had barely escaped being raped and murdered when her convent on the mainland had been set upon by brigands. But there had always been a gap in her story. Mother Shona was always vague about the time she’d spent with outlaws before her arrival on the Isle of Skye. All Coira knew was that they’d taught her how to wield weapons.
“I have known carnal pleasure,” Mother Shona said finally, her words so bald that Coira resisted the urge to flinch. “I have known what it is to love a man … and to lose him.”
Coira stared at her, taking in the abbess’s finely boned face. The older woman looked sad.
Mother Shona’s gaze shadowed, and she sighed. “As ye know … after I fled from those brigands, I would have surely starved if a group of outlaws hadn’t found me,” she cont
inued. “They became my family for a time.” The abbess’s mouth lifted at the corners then. “A man named Aaron led the band. He was charismatic, strong, and so arrogant that just being near him robbed me of coherent thought. The moment he took me in, I knew that I was in trouble.”
Coira made a surprised sound at this, but Mother Shona pushed on. “During my time with the outlaws, I simply became Shona, a wild young woman who ran with the wolves. And after the first summer had passed, Aaron and I became lovers.” The abbess halted there. She met Coira’s eye once more, her gaze gleaming. “I was never happier than when I was with him. We had a hard life, but an exciting one. I never lost my faith though … my prayers were always sacred to me … and he knew what I’d given up to remain with him.”
The abbess paused then, her expression changing. Her eyes developed a faraway look, as she lost herself in memories. “Scotland was immersed in dangerous times during those years; we were engaged in a violent struggle against the English. Soon enough, there was an uprising, and our band got dragged into it.” Mother Shona’s eyes fluttered shut then. “I lost him in the battle that crushed Scottish hope. A few of us survived, but sadly Aaron didn’t.”
Mother Shona inhaled sharply, her shoulders squaring. “Without Aaron, living as a fugitive lost its appeal. I decided that I would take the veil once more. But this time I traveled to a far-flung corner of Scotland where I could leave my past safely behind me.” The abbess shifted her attention back to Coira then, and she gave a wry smile. “Ye see, Sister. Ye are not the only one with a weakness for handsome rogues.”
For a few moments, Coira was at a loss as to how to respond. When she did, her voice was subdued. “It must have been hard to go back to a nun’s life after all that.”
“It was … at first,” the abbess admitted. “But then I realized that it’s much easier to take a vow of chastity when ye know exactly what it is ye are giving up. I felt very lucky with Aaron. We had four years together … years that I will forever cherish. But because of that, I was able to give myself wholeheartedly to serving God.” Mother Shona’s gaze grew intense then. “What I’m trying to say … is that what ye felt for Craeg was natural. Ye are a woman, and he is a man … and men like him are difficult to resist. Take what ye felt for him, cherish it, and put it somewhere safe within yer heart. It is part of who ye are now, but don’t use it as a stick to beat yerself with. Such self-blame will only make ye miserable … and how can ye do the Lord’s work then?”
Coira gazed back at Mother Shona. Once again, she had no idea how to respond. The abbess had completely floored her. This woman’s wisdom had always been an anchoring force in the abbey, and it was no different now.
A little of the guilt that had formed a hard knot in Coira’s chest unraveled. Mother Shona was right; she needed to find a way to make peace with her conscience.
Silence stretched between the two women, and when Coira eventually broke it, her voice was subdued. “There’s something else, Mother … something I have never told ye.”
The abbess frowned, and Coira dropped her gaze to her lap, nervousness fluttering in her belly. There was a good reason why she’d never spoken of this to a soul. However, she might never have the opportunity to confide in Mother Shona like this again. She had to tell her everything.
Clearing her throat, Coira forced herself to look up and met the abbess’s eye. “Ye know of my past,” she murmured. “But I’ve never told ye about the man who is the real reason I fled to Kilbride … the man who nearly broke me.”
13
The Odds are Against Them
“CRAEG, WAKE UP.”
Gunn’s rough voice jerked Craeg from a fitful slumber. Sprawled out upon a fur in his tent—a lean-to that had been built up against the rocky side of the ravine—he’d been dreaming. It had been a pleasant dream. He’d been back at Kilbride again, and Sister Coira had been leaning over him, her cool fingertips tracing lines across his naked chest.
However, Gunn brought him rudely back to the present, and the vision of lovely Coira evaporated like morning mist.
“Satan’s cods, Gunn. What is it?” Craeg pushed himself up into a sitting position and scrubbed a hand over his face. His heart was racing after being torn from a deep sleep. He felt disoriented in the aftermath.
“Sorry to wake ye,” Gunn replied, not sounding sorry in the least. “But we’ve got a problem, and I thought ye would want to know.”
The last of sleep sloughed away, and suddenly Craeg was alert. “What’s wrong?”
“The two men from Dunan who joined our ranks a few days ago are both unwell,” he replied, his voice flattening. “I’m no healer, but I think it’s the sickness.”
A chill settled in the pit of Craeg’s gut at this news, seeping outward. It was as if he’d just stepped, waist-deep, into a freezing loch. “Where are they?”
“We’ve isolated them from the rest of the camp in a tent at the end of the ravine,” Gunn replied. “Ye had best come and see for yerself.”
Craeg walked through the camp, aware of the anxious gazes that tracked his progress. Unlike when he’d returned here from Kilbride, there were no cheery waves and relieved smiles. News of the two sick men had spread through the ravine—faster than any illness could.
If he was honest, Craeg didn’t want to go anywhere near the men from Dunan.
He’d been awaiting the arrival of the pestilence for a while now, and the chill the news had given him had not yet abated. But he couldn’t show fear or weakness in front of his people. Every man, woman, and child here was his responsibility. They had all come here to aid him, and he wouldn’t turn his back on them.
Until this morning, things had been progressing well for the outlaws. Craeg had deliberately been taking his men out on patrols and letting locals catch glimpses of him. One of them was sure to bring word to MacKinnon.
The pungent, woody aroma of burning sage greeted Craeg as he approached the long tent pitched in the shadow of an overhang. Someone had lit burning pots of herbs outside the door. Sage was said to chase away the dark humors that caused sickness. However, right at that moment, Craeg didn’t set much store in its ability to ward off the pestilence.
Fenella stood outside, waiting for him, and when Craeg halted before the entrance to the tent, he met her eye. “How bad is it?”
“They both have terrible pains to the belly, and are racked with chills. I’m told these are the first signs,” she murmured, her blue eyes shadowed.
Craeg set his jaw. Great. “I should speak to them,” he said, hoping the reluctance didn’t show in his voice.
“Don’t get too close,” Fenella warned. “They’ve developed coughs as well.”
Craeg set his jaw. Fenella’s words weren’t making him feel any better—yet he’d never been one to shy away from unpleasant tasks, and so he ducked his head and entered the tent.
A single brazier lit the cramped interior, although the fug of peat-smoke couldn’t mask the sour odor of illness.
Two figures lay either side of the brazier, their bodies covered with blankets.
Craeg’s gaze swept from the face of one man to the other. They were both awake, both staring at him with fever-bright eyes, their faces taut with fear and pain.
“I’m sorry, Craeg,” one of them, the youngest of the two, croaked. “We didn’t mean to … but I fear we’ve brought the sickness here.”
“Ye have had contact with it at Dunan?” Craeg asked, fighting the urge to retreat from the tent.
“Aye,” the man rasped. “I served in the Dunan Guard … but when some of the other warriors fell ill, I panicked.”
Craeg went still. “Ye served MacKinnon?”
The man nodded. “Long have I wanted to join ye … to help the folk of this land rise up against him. With the sickness rife in Dunan, I took my chance.”
Craeg held the man’s desperate gaze, not sure whether to be angry, flattered, or exasperated. Right now, he felt all three emotions. After a pause, he shifted his attenti
on to the second man in the tent. He was a hulking fellow, the sort that would have been useful in a fight, if he hadn’t been so ill.
“Are ye from the Dunan Guard as well?” he asked.
The man shook his head. “I’m a weaponsmith,” he said, his weak voice at odds with his powerful frame. “I lost my family to the sickness … and when it didn’t touch me, I thought that perhaps God had spared me.” The man halted before taking in a labored breath. “It seems I was wrong.”
Stepping out of the tent, Craeg sucked in a deep breath. He was grateful for the steadying aroma of burning sage, and that Fenella and Gunn were both waiting outside for him. Gunn had an arm around Fenella’s shoulders, and the pair of them wore somber expressions. Craeg’s breathing slowed. God knew how much contact these two had already had with the sick men.
They might be infected … and so might I now.
A prickly feeling rose up within Craeg then. Gunn and Fenella had been with him from the beginning. They were family to him.
“Does anyone recover from the plague?” Craeg finally asked, dreading the answer.
Gunn shrugged, his expression unusually helpless. Next to him, Fenella’s full lips flattened. “From what I hear, it spares some folk,” she replied, a husky edge to her voice … but few who develop the sickness appear to live through it.”
Bile stung the back of Craeg’s throat. Not what I was hoping to hear.
Inhaling deeply once more, Craeg shoved the slithering chill of fear aside; it was the last thing he needed now. Instead, he had to look for a solution. Perhaps there was some way these men could be cured. They needed a healer—a skilled one.
Coira. He didn’t like the idea of putting her at risk, yet without her skills, these men would most certainly die.
Craeg raked a hand through his hair and met Gunn’s eye. “Get Farlan … he’s the fastest rider amongst us. I need him to deliver a message to Kilbride.”
