by Jayne Castel
Coira straightened up, her gaze traveling over the girl’s slender form, to her flushed face. Lying upon a stuffed straw pallet, the girl wore nothing but a sleeveless shift. “My belly hurts terribly,” the lass groaned. “Make the pain go away, Sister.”
Coira’s breathing grew shallow, her chest tightening as she met the girl’s panicked gaze. She was only eight winters old; she didn’t understand what was happening to her. “I shall give ye some hemlock juice,” Coira murmured. “Hopefully, it will ease yer pain a little.”
The lass favored her with a tremulous, grateful smile, and Coira’s throat started to ache in response. Hemlock juice would only dull the pain, but it would not provide a cure.
It had only taken Coira a few moments alone with this girl and her mother, who was also poorly, to ascertain that the scourge had reached them. Both mother and daughter were at early stages, for there were no signs of swellings at the armpit or groin—the ‘plague boils’ that were said to form on the skin as the illness progressed. However, they both had a hacking cough, stomach pains and chills, and they were both horribly weak.
Also, Coira had noted that they had inflamed flea bites upon their arms, a sign that both mystified and confused her.
A few feet away, the mother started to cough, the sound muffled by the bundle of cloth she now pressed against her mouth. Coira had insisted they both did that, the moment she entered the dwelling.
She knew little about this illness, although she realized that most healers would try to fight it by bleeding the patient and rubbing certain herbs upon the skin. Coira—like her mother before her—wasn’t an advocate of bleeding. In her view, it merely weakened the patient.
With little news of the plague to aid her, she was forced to use her intuition now. Her mother had been a gifted herb-wife. She’d once told Coira that many illnesses were passed from one person to another by bodily fluid, or by breathing in the same tainted air as the afflicted.
It made sense then that if a patient had a cough, one should keep their distance. These were the first cases in Torrin, and Coira wanted to stop the illness from spreading.
Emerging from the cottage, Coira found Sister Mina waiting with a heavyset man. The farmer was pale and wild-eyed, and he didn’t look at Coira, but past her, toward the open doorway.
“Where have yer kin been of late?” Coira asked, pulling the door shut behind her.
“My wife went to visit her sister a few days ago,” the farmer answered. “She lives in a village near Dunan.”
Coira frowned. This was what she’d been afraid of. Of course, folk traveled, and when they did, they inadvertently brought the sickness home with them.
“Can ye do anything for them, Sister?” The farmer asked, desperation in his voice now.
“I’ve made them as comfortable as I can,” she replied softly. But I’m afraid I can do nothing more for the moment.”
The farmer’s gaze guttered, his jaw clenching. “I feel so useless,” he ground the words out.
“Attend to yer wife and daughter,” Coira answered, “but do not venture into the village or have contact with the other folk here. Ye must ensure the sickness doesn’t spread. I will make sure food is brought to ye.”
The farmer stared at her, his gaze hardening. He didn’t want such advice. It didn’t help his plight; it only prevented others from falling ill. But that wouldn’t aid his wife and daughter, nor him if he was to sicken.
Coira swallowed. How she wanted to give assurances—to tell him she had all the answers. Her throat aching, she nodded to Sister Mina, indicating that they should go. She then glanced back at the farmer. “I will visit again tomorrow,” she promised.
Heart heavy, Coira started back in the direction of the abbey. The farmer’s cottage lay on the southern outskirts of Torrin, apart from the other houses. That was a good thing, for if they could isolate the sickness, perhaps they could halt its spread.
The weight in her chest only increased, however, as she followed the path through fields of kale. Coira had taken precautions when entering the cottage and been careful not to touch her patients directly. When she returned to the abbey, she would scrub her hands with lye soap, but there was still a chance she could fall sick too.
Coira set her jaw. I can’t … the people here need me.
Ironically, that was often the fate of healers—dying from the same illness as those they sought to heal.
Forcing herself not to dwell on that possibility, Coira glanced up at the darkening mackerel sky. It was growing late in the day. The afternoon was odd, without the slightest breath of a breeze to stir the humid air. She didn’t like this kind of weather; it put her on edge.
“Will they die?” Sister Mina asked finally, breaking the silence between them. They were halfway back to the abbey now, the high walls outlined against the sky.
“The odds are against them,” Coira admitted. “I will not lie to ye. And I fear that this is just the beginning of things.”
She glanced left at the novice, expecting to see fear upon her face. Yet Sister Mina’s gaze was steady, and although she was a little pale, she looked resolute. Not for the first time, Coira was pleased that she had Sister Mina to assist her. Panic wouldn’t do them any good now. She needed someone with a cool head at her side.
However, Sister Mina didn’t speak again, and Coira withdrew into her own thoughts. They continued in silence and, a short while later, re-entered the abbey.
To Coira’s surprise, she found the yard in front of the kirk filled with men and horses. Rough male voices and laughter echoed over the grounds, shattering Kilbride’s tranquility.
And then Coira saw that the warriors—for they carried claidheamh-mors at their sides—wore sashes of a familiar green and red plaid.
MacKinnon.
14
Breaking Bread
“THIS IS POOR man’s fare, Mother Shona.” MacKinnon’s voice rumbled across the table where the abbess and her senior nuns—Coira among them—ate quietly.
“I apologize for the frugality, MacKinnon,” the abbess replied, her voice toneless. “But we live simply at Kilbride … as the Lord would wish.”
“Aye … but ye have important guests.”
“If ye had sent word that ye were planning to stay at Kilbride, we would have made preparations,” Mother Shona replied gently.
MacKinnon snorted, and Coira started to sweat.
Years had passed since she’d been this physically near him, but the man could still instill terror in her.
It wasn’t Coira the clan-chief sat next to this evening, but Sister Magda, at the far end of the dais. The sisters and their guests—the clan-chief and the abbot—lined the long table upon the raised platform at the end of refectory. Yet, even so, MacKinnon’s presence dominated the space. Coira had deliberately avoided looking in his direction since taking her seat.
The devil is sitting at my table.
Bile bit at the back of Coira’s throat. Gaze downcast, she tried to ignore the crawling sensation that now covered her arms and chest, and the horror that made it hard to breathe.
MacKinnon is breaking bread with me.
As guests at the abbey, the abbess had been obliged to invite MacKinnon to eat with them, while extra tables and benches for his men had been dragged into the refectory. The warriors’ voices echoed loudly in what was usually a tranquil space. The other nuns and the monks were seated a few feet away, hunched over their bowls of stew, faces pale and pinched.
Coira didn’t blame them. MacKinnon and his men brought an atmosphere of aggression into what was usually a silent, peaceful time of day.
This evening the odious company had killed Coira’s appetite for her supper of mutton, leek, and carrot stew served with coarse oaten bread.
Opposite Coira, Sister Elspeth wore a sour expression as she helped herself to some bread. She disapproved of any man setting foot inside the abbey—yet now there were so many of them that they far outnumbered the women here. The abbot was forced to
share the guest lodgings with the clan-chief, while the monks had shifted over to the dormitories with the nuns—something that Sister Elspeth was still fuming over. Meanwhile, MacKinnon’s men would sleep in the byre and stable complex.
You couldn’t go three paces without spying a man inside the abbey now. It had put all the sisters, including Coira, on edge.
“How long do ye plan to remain at Kilbride, MacKinnon?” Sister Elspeth’s sharp voice lashed across the table. Coira, who’d just taken a tentative mouthful of stew, nearly choked. The nun had drawn herself up and was staring down the table at the clan-chief. Her thin body vibrated with outrage—an emotion that she clearly could no longer suppress.
Long moments passed, and when MacKinnon didn’t answer, Coira chanced a look in his direction.
She immediately wished she hadn’t.
Heavens preserve her, he and Craeg looked so alike. They had the same arrogant bearing, chiseled jaw, and brooding good-looks. The shape of their mouths and noses were identical.
A hard knot clenched in Coira’s breast, her pulse speeding up, as she stared at him. Fortunately, he wasn’t looking in her direction. Instead, he watched Sister Elspeth, his expression shuttered.
However, those eyes—iron-grey—weren’t Craeg’s. MacKinnon was thinner than she remembered, his shoulders lacking the outlaw’s breadth, his face bordering on gaunt. His dark hair, although the same peat-brown as Craeg’s, was cut much shorter.
And no scar disfigured his face.
Coira’s heart calmed just a little. No, they weren’t identical. And when MacKinnon spoke once more, the gulf between the two brothers widened further.
“As long as it takes, Sister.” His mouth twisted into a sneer. “Why … do ye disapprove of our presence here?”
“I’m sure Sister Elspeth is merely curious,” Mother Shona cut in smoothly. “We aren’t used to having so many visitors, and do wonder at the reason for yer arrival … especially with so many of yer guard.”
MacKinnon shifted his attention from Sister Elspeth, who was now scowling, to the abbess. “Word has reached me that Craeg the Bastard and his band are sheltering near Kilbride,” he replied. “I’m here to find him.”
Coira flushed hot and then cold. She lowered her spoon, her heart now hammering against her ribs.
No one at the table spoke. However, Father Camron wore a shrewd expression, his gaze flicking from MacKinnon to the abbess.
“Have ye seen any of the outlaws?” MacKinnon asked after a pause, his attention never leaving the abbess. His voice had lowered, and Coira shivered. It was a tone she knew well, one that screamed ‘danger’.
Mother Shona didn’t react. Her face remained a mask of serenity, her eyes guileless. “No, we have not.”
“Are ye sure?”
“We live sheltered lives inside these walls,” the abbess replied, her voice as steady as her gaze. “The outlaws could well be nearby, and we wouldn’t know. However, none of the sisters have reported seeing anyone suspicious.”
“And yet a man from Torrin tells me that he has seen them … in the woods no more than ten furlongs from Kilbride’s walls.”
“As I said … we are sheltered here.”
Silence fell once more at the table, tension vibrating through the air. MacKinnon still stared the abbess down although Coira noted how the muscles in his jaw flexed. He was angry, and suspected that Mother Shona was hiding something.
The knot in Coira’s breast clenched tighter. He suspected right—and if he ever discovered the truth, it would be over for all of them.
Long moments passed, and then MacKinnon’s attention shifted to the abbot. “Father Camron … how long have ye been visiting the abbey?”
“Nearly two weeks now,” the abbot replied, helping himself to a cup of ale.
“And ye have not seen anything to arouse yer suspicions?”
Coira’s breathing hitched, her heart now racing so fast she started to feel dizzy. Suddenly, she wanted to dive under the table and cower there like a beaten dog. She felt exposed seated at the same table as MacKinnon—and was grateful that he hadn’t yet noticed her presence at the far end of the dais.
But the abbot had long been looking for an opportunity to cause trouble—and now it had arrived.
Father Camron’s mouth curved into a small, wintry smile, an expression that did not warm his dark eyes. “I’m here in the role of inquisitor … did ye not know, MacKinnon?”
The clan-chief raised a dark eyebrow. “And why’s that?”
The abbot raised his cup to his lips and took a leisurely sip, aware that all eyes were now upon him. For the first time since the meal had begun, the abbess’s serene mask was slipping. Tension now bracketed her mouth, and her gaze had narrowed.
“Of course, ye know about the two nuns who have mysteriously left the order of late,” the abbot continued.
“Aye … ye know I do.” The words were uttered roughly, a sign that MacKinnon’s patience was thinning.
Coira wondered then whether the abbot would dare raise the issue of MacKinnon’s own part in Leanna’s disappearance.
Her fingers clenched around her spoon. Father Camron was playing a game, and from the glint in his eyes, she knew he was enjoying it. For the first time since arriving at Kilbride, he felt in control.
“The Pope takes a dim view of such things,” he said after a pause, clearly deciding to steer clear of the clan-chief’s poor behavior. “I have written to him, and he has given me permission to investigate Mother Shona.”
MacKinnon inclined his head. “And have ye found any condemning evidence?”
Feeling a gaze upon her, Coira glanced over to where Sister Elspeth was watching her. Of course, all of the nuns knew about her run-ins with the abbot. And the warning glint in the older nun’s eye told Coira that Sister Elspeth knew Camron was going to drop her right in it.
Coira’s spine tensed. There was nothing she could say or do; she was trapped.
“The abbess is far too lenient with her nuns,” the abbot drawled, favoring Mother Shona with a quick, nasty smile. “She allows them to practice with weapons … to take witching hour walks outside the abbey walls with no explanation.”
And then, Father Camron looked straight at Coira.
The world stopped, and it felt as if, for an instant, so did Coira’s heart.
All gazes at the table swiveled to her—including MacKinnon’s.
And when he looked at Coira, his expression froze. Until this moment he’d been so intent on his conversation with the abbot and abbess that he’d barely paid any attention to the senior nuns seated around the table.
But he did now.
MacKinnon and Coira’s gazes fused. The years rolled back, and suddenly Coira was cringing upon a soiled bed at The Goat and Goose, watching as MacKinnon loomed over her.
Despite that the air was close inside the refectory, Coira’s limbs started to tremble as if she’d just caught a chill.
“How many of the nuns have behaved this way?” MacKinnon asked. His voice was soft now, barely above a whisper.
“Just this one.” Father Camron’s tone was jubilant. “Sister Coira.” He paused a moment before adding. “Although I suspect there are others who are just as deviant.”
MacKinnon ignored the abbot’s last comment, his attention never wavering. “Sister Coira.”
“Aye … two of my monks found her practicing with a quarter-staff in the orchard over a week ago. She wields it like a man.” The disgust in the abbot’s voice was evident, yet MacKinnon continued to ignore him. “And I suspect her of fornication.”
An unpleasant smile twisted the clan-chief’s lips. His gaze then shifted to Mother Shona. “I need to question this nun,” he drawled. “Alone.”
Coira’s breathing choked off, sweat now trickling down between her breasts. Mother Mary, No.
The abbess scowled, her face growing taut as she cast a worried look at Coira. “Why?”
MacKinnon inclined his head, his gaze narrowin
g. “If she has been outside the abbey walls at night, she may have had contact with the outlaws.”
Mother Shona drew herself up. “If ye have any questions for Sister Coira, ye can ask her here.”
A heavy beat of silence passed, and then MacKinnon leaned forward, his gaze snaring the abbess’s. “I think ye misunderstand, Mother Shona,” he said coldly. “That wasn’t a request … but a command.”
15
No Way Back
COIRA WALKED INTO the chapter house on trembling legs.
She couldn’t believe Mother Shona was allowing this meeting to take place, that she was letting MacKinnon bully her. The abbess knew the full story about Coira’s past—of her history with the clan-chief.
But, unlike the abbot, MacKinnon wasn’t a man you defied.
MacKinnon’s threat had hung over the air, like the heavy pause between a lightning flash and a thunderclap. They’d all sensed the danger, and when Mother Shona had dropped her gaze, giving her silent assent, Coira had felt as if the walls of the refectory were suddenly closing in on her.
The same sensation assaulted her now, as she walked into the chapter house. Deliberately, she left the door open behind her, but even so, the usually lofty ceiling and large windows seemed oppressive this evening. Outside, it was still light—for night fell very late this time of year—and as such the banks of candles that lined the walls hadn’t been lit.
In the center of the space, MacKinnon awaited her.
He stood still, legs akimbo, hands hanging loosely at his sides. Yet his gaze tracked her every step across the floor.
Pulse throbbing in her ears, Coira halted a few feet back from him. She was relieved that her long skirts hid her shaking legs, and she clasped her hands together in front of her so that he wouldn’t see how they trembled.
“My last visit … I knew it was ye,” he greeted her, his voice a low rumble.
Coira forced herself to meet his eye. “I wasn’t sure ye recognized me,” she admitted. The steadiness of her voice surprised her. One thing her experiences over the years had taught her was self-control, it seemed.
