Highland Surrender

by Tracy Brogan

  “Stop him? How?” Marg’s feet skidded on the floor. Fiona had forgotten her sister’s persistence, but for once, the girl would simply have to wait. She tugged her toward the door.

  “Patience, Margaret. Please, just trust me and do as I say. Understand?”

  Margaret nodded and followed, but reluctance marred her pretty face.

  Fiona opened the door and stepped into the corridor, glad it was still empty. They made their way through the hall and toward the kitchen. All about them, Sinclairs moved in and out, attending to their daily chores. Another ordinary day, just as her wedding day had been.

  The sisters reached the kitchen in a matter of moments.

  “Do you see her?” Fiona whispered.

  “There”—Margaret pointed discreetly—“that one is Genevieve.”

  Fiona recognized her, the lovely widow whose husband had been lost in a raid last year. She’d come to Sinclair Hall just months before Fiona had left. But when the girl turned, Fiona gasped. She was petite as a pixie, yet there was no mistaking the rounded curve of her abdomen. Fiona’s hands went to her own belly in solidarity, for Genevieve was clearly with child, yet John had said nothing. Leave it to a man to omit such a detail.

  There were few others in the kitchen. Still, discretion was necessary. She and Margaret wound their way closer, as if they had no specific aim, but when Genevieve looked up and saw them, she stepped back from her task in apparent surprise.

  “Lady Fiona.”

  What a beauty this Genevieve was. No wonder John’s eyes had gleamed with adoration when he spoke of her. Fiona smiled, hoping the girl would see an offer of friendship in the gesture.

  “Are you Genevieve?” she asked, just to make certain.

  “I am, my lady.” She curtsied and tried to brush the flour from her apron without success.

  “I have need of you. You must come at once.”

  Genevieve’s eyes rounded.

  Fiona leaned forward, casting a glance over shoulder to make sure none of the others might hear. “I have word from John,” she whispered. “Have no fear.”

  Walking fast, the three women reached the chapel, and Fiona nearly collapsed in relief at having not encountered Simon on the way. Inside, the building was dim and stank of old rushes and tallow. She was struck by the contrast, for the loving care with which the Campbell servants bestowed upon their place of worship showed. No such dedication was lavished upon this sad little spot. Perhaps ’twas why God never visited here.

  Fiona peered around, shivering at the thought they might yet encounter Father Bettney. Time away had not mellowed her dislike of him. Fortune prevailed, for he was nowhere to be seen.

  “What is this about, Fiona?” Marg said, crossing her arms. It seemed she had been patient long enough.

  “Come and kneel with me. If Father Bettney enters, I would have him think we pray. I must explain things to you quickly,” Fiona instructed. They walked toward the altar, and she lowered to a kneeling bench between the other two. She looked to the mullioned window to gauge the setting sun and knew her words must be swift and persuasive.

  As quickly as she could, Fiona whispered the details of Simon’s plan and John’s change of heart. She spared nothing, for if each knew the whole of the situation, they could take her place in case she somehow failed.

  “John is safe and near?” Genevieve whispered, her eyes glimmering with tears.

  Fiona nodded. “He is most anxious to see you.”

  The servant’s taut face relaxed a bit, though tension still radiated from her being and the hand rounded over her belly.

  Unbidden, Fiona did the same, as if to make certain her own babe was safe.

  Genevieve saw the motion and smiled. “You too, my lady?”

  Fiona nodded, but Margaret paid no heed, still rattled by the other news.

  “I do not understand,” she said. “John has been a Campbell all this time? And now he means to betray us? We are still his family.”

  Her voice trembled, and Fiona clasped her hand.

  “We are John’s family, Marg. And Simon’s too. I would do anything to change this if I could, but our brothers have put themselves on opposite sides of the crown. One of them will lose. There is no avoiding that fact now. I side with John, not only because his way is more certain to keep our clan safe, but also because he is on the side of right. Simon seeks to kill for vengeance only. John aims for peace with our king.”

  “Are you certain? Perhaps it is the Campbells who make you believe such a thing. They are the enemy, you know,” Margaret said.

  Fiona wrapped an arm around her sister’s shoulders and gave a squeeze. “No, sweeting. ’Tis man’s pride which is the enemy. We are merely caught up in it.”

  Margaret still looked doubtful, but Fiona had run out of time to convince her.

  “Listen, I must go into the passageway and unlock the gates. Will you come with me and hold the lantern? Genevieve can keep watch for any who might enter the chapel. We cannot fail at this.”

  Myles, with John pointing the way, led the king’s men along the rocky shoreline until they reached the outer entrance of the passageway. They had come on foot and left the horses back with the king, so progress was slow. But at last they found it, hidden among huge stones and covered by thick branches that appeared to have been growing there for ages.

  John drew his sword and swung at the thick wood, the metal of it clanging against the rock.

  “Be quiet,” Myles said, “or you give them warning.”

  He did not trust John fully, no matter that he was Fiona’s brother, or indeed, even his own. But now it seemed they must work in tandem. Myles pulled the branch up, and John swung so that the blade missed the rock and struck the wood. It snapped in two, and they moved on to the next.

  “See you do not slice me by accident,” Myles warned.

  John cocked one brow, as if to say it would be no accident at all. Perhaps his brother did not trust him so much either.

  The sun set as they hacked at the remaining branches. Finally, the door was clear, and Myles leaned forward to tug the handle. Locked, still. He hoped Fiona was having success on the other side. With nothing to do but wait, Myles told the men to sit and rest while they had the chance, and so they settled upon the rocks.

  “How many gates line this passageway?” Myles asked John after another moment had passed.

  “Three. This one here, one at the very entrance near the sacristy, and one about halfway in between. It’s near two hundred paces from here to the other end. If I had thought of it, I’d have unlocked the gates before coming to Dempsey. ’Twas a foolish oversight and would’ve kept Fiona from this task.”

  “She seems up to the challenge,” Myles answered, though his breath came shallow as he thought of her and their child inside those walls.

  John met his gaze. “She is up to any challenge. But I should not have allowed Simon to force her into marriage. I failed her in that.”

  Myles bristled at the implication he was not a worthy husband, but John continued.

  “Yet it seems you are well suited. And I think she cares for you.”

  “We are well suited. And she does care for me.”

  John’s gaze was earnest. “Do you care for her as well?”

  “I do.” He could say more on the matter, but now was not the time.

  “Then be true to her. Truer than our father was to his wife.”

  The words were spoken softly, but Myles felt the sting of John’s discontent. It must be no easy thing to learn you are a bastard son. And Myles himself had struggled with the disappointment he’d felt in hearing the earl’s confession. He’d thought his father above such things, flawless in his judgment and deportment. But it would seem even the Campbell chieftain harbored mortal flaws.

  “What are our options of entry if this fails?” Myles asked, bringing his thoughts to the matter at hand.

  “Our options?” John replied.

  “Yes, if Fiona cannot open the gates, what
other method have we to get inside? Besides the front gate, of course.”

  John looked in the direction of Sinclair Hall, although not much could be seen from their vantage point.

  “There is a weak spot in the north wall. It’s half-crumbled, and perhaps it could be scaled. I cannot say for certain. It may have been shored up while I was away. But Fiona will not fail. As long as she can get past Simon, all will be well.”

  His words were confident enough, but his tone implied it was himself he sought to convince. Myles reached out and tried the door once more.

  “Perhaps we should try to pick the lock from this side. It would give us a head start if Fiona is delayed.”

  John nodded, and they set to work trying to dismantle it.

  “She’ll not fail,” John said again, but both men knew she might.

  CHAPTER 41

  “THE ENTRANCE TO the passageway is behind the sacristy,” Fiona whispered, trying to mask the tremor in her voice. “John said the keys would be in a jar near the door. Margaret, we will search while Genevieve keeps watch within the chapel.”

  “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 s
ave 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.”