The Grants listened, spellbound, and stayed quiet as the old man collected his thoughts and then began to speak again.
“Ah, but here we come tae it. The church here is... I don’t know how much ye know about the workings of the bishopric, but I realised early on that for many, God is a secondary concern. May He forgive me, but I have for many years taken advantage of that fact. The institution wields great power here, holding lands and titles, resources overseas, mines and vineyards and all sorts of things. A great deal of trade comes through here, and the church gathers influence and wealth, power and privilege. Over the years, we have become more and more dominant, until today the Earldom of Orkney is but a token title, and the threads of all the real power have been gathered into our hands... into my hands. My wealth is... vast. But in the last few years, as I felt deep in my heart that my end was drawing near, I realised the wrongness of it. The people here... you must have seen it. They labour in poverty and destitution, ignorance and squalor, while the upper echelons of the church nobility wallow like pigs at the trough...”
He had become more and more agitated as he spoke and now broke off again in another fit of coughing. After a while, he lay back weakly and spoke in a calmer voice.
“So, I changed my purpose. I gathered intae my hand the lands and titles that hold the greatest influence here. The boy... I want tae acknowledge him as my rightful heir. I want him tae inherit. And when he does, Iain – my brother, you must see that he does – when he takes ownership of the lands and titles that I have gathered, he will be the key to the Earldom. He will be able tae reach out and take power back from the church at a single stroke. Indeed, with the power my inheritance will grant him, the people will accept him as the Earl in truth. He must inherit, Iain. My sins... my grasping, my hoarding, my greed... It is my wish that once I am gone, my sins should be allowed tae do some good for the future of this island province that has been almost my own independent kingdom. A secular Earl, divorced from the power of the church... that is what I would leave as my legacy. That, Iain, is what ye must do. That is what I have called ye all here tae witness.”
Relief seemed to take the old man as he finished speaking. He lay quiet, breathing shallowly, and his eyes flickered. No one moved. There was a pop as a log settled in the fire.
“Now,” said the bishop in a near-whisper, “I give you this.”
He reached up and groped at his collar and pulled forth a little golden key. He held it out, not to Iain, but to Alice. She took it.
“In the bureau there,” he said, pointing, “in the top drawer ye will find a packet and a document. Bring them here.”
Alice moved to the dark wooden bureau and unlocked the drawer. As he had said, she found a sheaf of papers sitting on top of a package tied with white ribbon and sealed with red wax imprinted with Rognvald’s own emblem, a leaping fish with a ring in its mouth. She brought them back to the bedside and handed them to Iain.
“Take them, brother, but do not open the packet until I am gone, and sit in the boy’s presence when ye do so. The package is his inheritance. The papers instruct that he is acknowledged my rightful heir and should be counselled and guided by ye and yer family in all he does until he comes into his inheritance. His claw-like hand grabbed his brother’s wrist with a sudden, vicelike grip. His eyes widened, and his breath came hoarse.
“Iain, there are others, many here who would stop my boy from inheriting. Many who would prefer tae see him die before he claims the Earldom. Others would use him for their own ends, tae claim the power for themselves! I have had tae tell some others about my son, of course, but the full extent of the powers that the inheritance would give him are known tae none. Be careful of whom you speak tae! There are those who would help, as well as those who would hinder. Do not trust everyone here...”
He was overtaken by coughing again, as the door opened, and Father Hallam returned, bearing a tray with a bottle, glasses, and dishes of sweet pastries. Placing the tray down hurriedly, the priest stepped forward to the bedside, glancing accusingly at the Grants. Iain slipped the sealed package inside his jerkin but kept the papers in his hand.
“Hallam has been my confidant in all this. I have acknowledged my son tae him, and he has sworn tae help ye bring the boy intae his inheritance.”
The ill man’s eyes fluttered wearily.
“Remember what I said. There are those who will help and those who would hinder. Sir Magnus Bain...”
Before he could finish his sentence, he gasped and fell back upon the pillows. Father Hallam leaned forward in concern as Alice felt John’s hand tighten on hers. Iain Grant looked down solemnly at his brother who let out a long, long breath, and did not draw another.
The Bishop of Orkney was dead.
Chapter Seven
“Well, would ye look at that,” said Peter, the cook. He had been one of the advance party put ashore ahead of the prisoner – the captain and the first mate staying on board, fast asleep and both sodden with drink. No one was in charge, but the old cook had been with the crew for so long that the rest of the men gave him deference and respect that belied his years. There was something about being the one who provided the meals, that caused the men to defer to him. There was also the fact that he did not drink and was intelligent and level-headed, a rarity among the crew.
To all intents and purposes, it was Peter who was in charge of the castle in the captain’s absence. The old man’s eyes sparkled in amusement and interest as Anne ushered Thorvald in, unmanacled, as meekly as if he were a well-trained hound. Thorvald stood attentively, quiet, waiting for his next command.
“Where’s McArthur and the others?” the cook asked.
“Dead, all but one,” Anne replied shortly. “They attacked me on the transport boat. Thought they could take the prisoner for themselves. Luckily, I was with them. There are three bodies in the boat pulled up at the cave entrance. Another two in the water, and the last sent back to the ship tae give report tae the captain.”
“You killed six men, single-handed?”
“Five. Where do I put this prisoner?”
The old man shrugged.
“Top floor of the lower tower. The lock’s good, I checked. Do ye need me tae roust up a couple of men to help you take him up...?” Peter saw the foolishness of his words, Anne needed no help, that was clear. She smiled at him.
“Thank ye, I think I can manage.”
“Aye,” he responded quietly, “I think ye can.”
The lower tower was, as the name suggested, the smaller of the two. The castle was a dilapidated place, windy and draughty, and the higher tower was in a state of disrepair so bad that none of the rooms were habitable, or even usable. When the place was occupied, a watchman was maintained in the lookout spot at the top, and that was an unenviable duty, for the stairs were many, narrow and steep, and the room at the top was draughty and bare.
The lower tower was in a better state, but that was not saying much. However, there were still a few rooms left in the upper stories, which were wind and watertight, and one had been found which had a sturdy lock on the door. There were dungeons, too, but their reputation was evil, and no prisoner whose life was of value would be taken there.
Anne made Thorvald walk ahead of her the whole way up the stairs, carrying a jug of water and a bit of hard bread and cheese, which was all the cook was able to give them that night.
“Supplies are poor, I’m afraid. The captain assures me there is more tae come, and I look forward tae it. Until then...” Anne had looked at the food and grimaced in distaste.
“Well, this is ye,” she said as they reached the top floor at last. “Get the door.”
Amused at being asked to open the door to his own prison, Thorvald smiled wryly and put his shoulder to the door. It creaked open, and he stepped inside. There was little furniture and a damp-looking mattress. Cold air blew in through the opened shutters. He gave her a look.
“It’s better than the dungeons, trust me,” she said.
“That’s good tae hear. Yer eye looks better. Eat yer bread and try tae get some sleep. I’ll be back.”
“Do I get a kiss this time?” Thorvald did not know what prompted him to ask, but she looked at him quizzically before her face dropped to a frown.
“No.”
She turned and left, closing the door firmly behind her and turning the key in the lock, rattling the door to make sure it was sound. Thorvald listened to the woman’s footsteps as they echoed down the tower stairs. He realised that his hand was raised to the corner of his mouth, where she had kissed him. Just because I could, she had said. He shook his head at himself and turned his attention to his bread and cheese.
* * *
Incense filled the great cavernous chamber of Kirkwall cathedral. A veritable army of monks and priests, backed by many laypeople, filled the hall nearly to bursting. Chanting and singing punctuated prayer and sermon as Bishop Rognvald Grant’s congregation marked his passage into the next world.
The bishop would not be buried for some time yet, and this service to pray for him was to be the first of several. It was a lavish affair, presided over by a kindly-looking, elderly gentleman of venerable appearance, with grey hair and a round, generous face, bright eyes and a ready smile. This, they were told, was His Excellency Benedict, who would take over the office of bishop in a separate investiture ceremony once all the proper forms had been adhered to and the old bishop was finally interred in his resting place. For now, Benedict was the acting bishop, taking most of the authority of the role, without being able to claim the full title. They had met him briefly earlier, and he had taken their hands and offered words of comfort, promising a more extended conference with them once the service was over.
The bishop’s body lay upon a trestle table draped in a cloth of gold at the front of the great hall, decked about with flowers and the symbols of his office. Benedict stood at the front of the crowd, his raised hands and eyes praying fervently toward the ceiling, calling out in Latin for forgiveness for the dead man’s mortal soul.
Alice stood, slipping out along the shadowed edge of the hall. Her eyes stung from the incense, and she desired a breath of fresh air. Also, she had not seen Iain for some time. Earlier, John had pleaded weariness and gone back to the rooms in the bishop’s palace that had been set aside for their use.
Alice kissed her husband goodbye, saying she desired to stay with Iain.
“He should not be alone just now,” and John had smiled down at her, his one eye twinkling.
“Thank ye, my love,” he said and hugged her tight.
Alice stepped outside into the weak sunlight and found that a fine, cold rain had started to fall. The rainy air was rich with the smell of the sea, and the steady, shifting wind had a sharp snap to it that cleared the head. She drew a deep breath and snugged her cloak more tightly around her, looking to find her father-in-law. She found him after a moment, sitting upon the step of the cathedral with his head bowed.
“Iain?” she asked quietly. He lifted his head.
“Alice, my dear,” he gave her a wan smile. “Where is yer husband?”
“John has gone back tae the rooms prepared for us. He was tired from the journey and wished tae get a few hours’ sleep before we travel, as I’m sure we must do soon.” She framed it as a question, and he answered with a wry twist of his mouth.
“Aye,” he answered gruffly. “Just as soon as yon priests have finished anointing everything in sight with liquid gold and praying tae the Lord for humility, eh?” She answered with a smile. The service inside did seem to involve a great deal of chanting and singing, and the anointing of feet and hands with various costly liquids – oil and rosewater seemed popular. Alice much preferred to pray simply and without grand ceremony, as her mother and father had taught her, and found herself repelled by the spectacle. She knew her father-in-law felt the same.
“Ye don’t find it impressive?”
“Ach, ‘tis impressive enough, tae be sure. But it doesn’t seem... I don’t know. It doesn’t seem right. It’s like my poor brother said right before the end. God is a secondary concern. It seems nothing more than a great display of wealth tae me. It seems tae me that God is not likely tae be impressed by wealth, but by deeds.”
As if on cue, a great cheer came from inside the church, and the singing and shouting burst out anew. As one, Alice and Iain stood and walked away, Iain rolling his eyes.
“I could do with a drink, something simple and without ceremony. What do ye say?”
“I say that there’s a clean-looking tavern just over there,” and taking his arm, she guided him across the deserted plaza through the falling rain.
Once they were settled in threadbare chairs by the smouldering peat fire of the inn, Iain seemed to relax a little. He drank deeply from the mug of beer and ate some bread and cheese and a bit of roasted meat, still hot, cut from the edge of a spit over the fire. Seeing the food, Alice found her own appetite and ordered some for herself. The stocky Orcadian who served them gave them an interesting look but did not ask questions. Evidently, strangers were not uncommon here in the port town of Kirkwall. Equally, the native curiosity and ear for gossip common to a pub landlord were in evidence.
“Well, that’s certainly better,” said Iain clearing his plate. “It’s amazing what a mug of beer and some simple food can do for a body’s temper, eh?”
“Aye,” said Alice, her mouth full with the last bit of bread and cheese. She washed it down with a final swig of beer and waved her mug at the landlord, who beamed at them. They were his only customers.
“Were ye thinking of yer brother?” Alice asked, and Iain nodded.
“We were never close, ye know, always very different tastes in life. He went off tae the church so young and left me with our father, and the estate and everything tae manage. He was the younger son, ye see, so it was always easier for him. He was always going tae have more choices in life than me. When it came down tae it, it was either the army or the church for him, the younger son. And he was never a fighter. Our father, well...” he trailed off, gazing into his mug. “He was a hard old bastard, was Alexander Grant. No mercy for weakness. He fought on the right side in the first rebellion back in 1715, but he got away with it after his side lost, and paid no consequences.”
He laughed.
“Rognvald and our father hated each other. Ye should have seen it – the rows they would have, and old Alexander so livid he’d threaten Rognvald with a drawn sabre. ‘I’ll cut ye from ear tae naval, ye little swine,’ he’d shout, ‘and then gut ye like a pig and hang yer entrails from the castle battlements as a lesson tae disobedient sons!’ Then our mother would come in and set about him with a broom handle. She was the only one who could talk him down when he was in a fury. I’d get Rognvald out of there, and a few hours later they’d all be at peace again. Christ, what a family.” He shook his head. Alice was shocked. She had had no idea that Iain’s upbringing had been so stormy. No wonder he took such a gentle, patient hand with his own children.
“When did Rognvald go off tae the church?”
“As soon as he turned seventeen,” said Iain, his eyes distant. “The old man was furious, of course. ‘A priest? A priest? What use is a priest tae man or beast? The country is crawling with them!’ The blasphemous old sinner, he could have done with a priest himself! But I think that even then Rognvald had an idea that the church could offer a man a great deal more than just penitence and suffering. He went tae a local fellow, the priest in the church at the next town over from us, and he took him in and started him on the path. He would write letters... tae me, mainly, and tae my mother, but I never really saw him again. I came up here when he had his ceremony and became the bishop, and he was kind enough. But once we’d laughed at the old memories of our father and reminisced about our poor mother, we found we had little enough tae say tae one another. He was busy with the politics of his bishopric,
I was busy with my estate and family. When my poor Bess died – ten years back now – he wrote, and sent a gift of money, but he didn’t come down. I resented that at the time and didn’t write tae him for years after. We got back in touch eventually but...” He shook his head, gazing sadly into the bottom of his mug. “It seems sad, really. A wasted opportunity.”
Alice reached across the distance between them and took his big hand in hers.
Fighting For A Highland Lass (Defenders 0f The Highlands Book 3) Page 5
