by Tracy Brogan
And as he railed, a realization formed within Fiona’s mind, like frost creeping across a windowpane one tiny fragment at a time. ’Twas the priest who’d seen her mother last. ’Twas he who carried her body into the hall the day she died.
“Was it you?” Breathless, she could scarcely form the words.
Father Bettney sneered, a madman gripped in disillusion, his movements jerky and uneven. Froth gathered at the corners of his mouth as he spoke.
“She had no shame, that one! No remorse.” He waved a fist, his words sizzling in the dry air.
Margaret’s breath was fast upon her neck.
“Such immorality demanded purification. I gave her every chance at absolution, but she’d not repent. She laughed in my face and called me a fool. Until I held her to the water.” He twisted back to them, his frenzied expression triumphant and certain. “Then she begged for forgiveness, sure enough.”
“The water?” Bile rose, hot and fast, but Fiona tamped it down. She reached behind to grasp Margaret’s hand. Her sister pressed closed against her, and Fiona felt her trembling.
“Aislinn Sinclair tarnished her soul with sin most grievous, but my grace brought her back to purity. ’Twas I who slew the demons of her lust. My prayers and intervention which allowed her death without sin.”
Fiona’s tongue, numb inside her mouth, could scarcely form the words. Yet she forced herself to form them, certain now at his answer. “You killed her.”
The priest snorted, a crazed, choking sort of laughter. “I saved her! I baptized her in that creek so her soul might be free in the kingdom of heaven! But for me, she’d be writhing in the fires of hell.”
Fiona’s throat scalded at his boastful confession. “’Twas murder, you vile monster. And nothing less! ’Tis you who God will punish.” She pushed at him, heedless of the danger.
He swung back, flinging her against the wall. Her head bashed against the stone. The impact drove the breath from her lungs. Dazed but determined, she tried to get up. Margaret ran to her side, but the priest knocked her away as well and stood upon Fiona’s skirts.
“I see they’ve made a Campbell whore of you as well.” His voice rasped, hot and rough. His eyes went glassy with rage and his twisted notion of morality.
Dread, heavy and dark as death itself, pressed down upon Fiona. Margaret rose slowly, looking from Fiona to the door as a commotion sounded in the bailey. Shouts from every direction began to echo outside the chapel.
The priest bent over, his breath a fetid stink upon Fiona’s face. “If Campbell bastards breach our gate, the soul of every dead Sinclair will be a curse on you. You led us to this!”
The disturbance grew louder. Fiona could not tell who shouted, or even from whence it came, but she prayed the king’s men had found their way in.
The priest grabbed her chin and pinched with one bony hand. “You are as worthless as your mother, you traitorous whelp.”
He reached back and grabbed the lantern with his other hand. In one swift motion, he flung it down against the tapestry piled on the ground. The old fabric smoldered but a second and then burst into flames. Margaret screamed and jumped to stomp it out, but Father Bettney rose and slapped her hard, knocking her to the ground once more.
Fiona scuttled to the side, away from the fire, but thought only of getting close to Margaret. Fear replaced her anger. He meant to kill them both, and none would save them, for she had failed in her duty. And her child would perish along with them.
The shouts outside grew more distinct, closer and more urgent. The priest cast a glance into the chapel. He turned back and picked up the keys up from the floor, and his hateful gaze came back to Fiona. Her heart nearly paused. She could not breathe or call for help. And where was Genevieve?
He pulled the extra robes from the wall and threw them to the burning pile. “’Tis fitting, I suppose, that you should die by flame.”
He stepped out of the sacristy and slammed the door. The metal scrape of lock and key scratched the air. The sound of something heavy crashed against the wood, and Fiona wondered if he’d tipped the altar over toward the door. Smoke began to fill the room as the robes ignited. She jumped from her spot and shoved with all her might against the door. It would not budge. They were trapped.
“She should have reached us by now,” John said, rising up to stare toward Sinclair Hall. They’d worked on the latch from their side for nearly an hour to no avail. The door stood firm, and they were no closer to reaching the chapel.
Myles’s agitation mounted, his worry growing as the sky darkened. “We cannot wait any longer. The king will storm the front gate soon. Take us to the place where we might climb the wall.”
He signaled to the men. In seconds, each was on his feet and running toward Sinclair Hall.
“’Tis there.” John pointed as they ran. “See the spot that’s lower than the rest?”
Myles could just barely make it out in the dusk and shadows, but sure enough, he saw a dip in the stone wall. They ran until they reached the closest corner of the keep and then moved silently along the wall. No shouts of alarm sounded from overhead, and Myles offered up his thanks to God that they had reached this point. On they went until they stood just below the crumbled spot of the curtain wall.
“What lies directly on the other side?” Myles said to John.
“The granary. If a handful of us can get to the roof, we can wait there until we hear the king’s men at the gate,” John answered.
Myles eyed the wall. There was no way to get all of them up and over, but standing on the shoulders of another, a few could scale it. The rest would have to move along back to the gate and enter with the king.
’Twas no easy venture with their weapons and desire to remain undetected, but after several attempts, six of the men joined John and Myles upon the granary roof.
Myles peered into the bailey. Naught seemed amiss, no men positioned for battle. Perhaps Fiona had not succeeded with the gate, but it was obvious the Sinclairs had no notion of what was to come.
The sound of horses quietly on the move drifted up from the ground, so faint he was not sure he had heard it. But soon after, a hue and cry arose, and a crashing at the wooden gate rent the air.
“’Tis time!” Myles called out. He jumped down from the granary roof and moved quickly toward the hall. Chaos erupted and cries filled the air as Sinclair men scurried forth, unarmed and ill prepared, for who would bother attacking a worthless pile of rubble such as this?
The bailey filled with royal guards on horseback and a hundred more on foot. The air clamored with the clash of swords and the angry shouts of men.
“We must find Simon!” Myles shouted.
“Check the hall,” John replied over the din of clanging steel. “This way!”
John pulled Myles back to press against the wall. They moved in unison, unchallenged by any, for all the Sinclair men with weapons had moved toward the gate to battle with the king’s men, while John and Myles moved quietly along behind the fray.
“Here, through the kitchen.” John pushed him past a doorway amid the strident cries of maids. Running past the tables and the oven, John called out to them. “Do not be alarmed! Stay hidden and all will be well. If you see your men, tell them to surrender.”
They moved on, past other flustered maids running to and fro.
John grabbed one as she passed. “Bertrice! Have you seen my brother?”
Her eyes went wide as if he were a spectral vision. “He ran toward the bailey when the first shouts sounded. I thought you were in London.”
“I’m back. Now go to the kitchen and wait there.”
Myles followed fast on John’s heels as they sprinted across the great hall entrance and out to the steps. There, John paused a moment to absorb the scene. Mayhem sprawled before them, with men fighting in every corner of the bailey, some using blades, but just as many defending their spot with torches or pitchforks.
“Do you see him?” Myles asked.
John’s f
ace was strained, and sympathy flowed over Myles. These were not John’s blood kin, but they’d been the only family he’d ever known. Had he himself been in John’s place, he might not have been so brave.
“John,” a faint voice called.
Both men turned.
’Twas Genevieve waving from the steps beneath. Her dress was torn, and blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.
“Genevieve!” John raced down the steps toward the maid, and Myles followed.
“John,” she cried, “come quick! The priest is with Fiona and Margaret in the chapel.”
John hugged the girl to him with one hand and wiped away the blood with his other. “’Tis good, Gen. Run along and join them. You’ll be safe there, and when the fighting is over, I’ll come find you.”
She pulled frantically on his arm. “No! No, you don’t understand. ’Twas the priest who killed your mother. I heard him say so, and now he means to burn the chapel down with them inside!”
Fear, more powerful than the sun itself, burned over Myles. Without a word exchanged, he and John sprinted toward the chapel. His legs felt leaden. They moved too slowly. Even now, Myles could see smoke seeping from the windows and willed his body to go faster. The king had ordered him to capture Simon at any cost, but Fiona’s life was more important.
They reached the door and yanked it open, with Genevieve just behind them. The stench of smoke was strong, but only a whisper of it filled the chapel, and Myles gave a quick prayer of gratitude. They were not too late.
But Genevieve’s cry cut short his relief. “They’re in the sacristy!”
His gaze followed hers, and his heart lurched once more, for clawing out from the seams around the sacristy door came tentacles of thick black smoke. At the base of the door, the altar was tipped on its side, blocking the way.
“I tried to move the altar, but it was too heavy,” Genevieve sobbed.
Once more, the men sprinted, grunting as they pushed aside the altar. Myles pulled upon the latch, but it was locked. He pounded on the door.
“Fiona!” he shouted. “We are here!”
“Myles?” came her muffled call from within. She coughed, along with Margaret. “Hurry, please!”
She had not perished. He would save her yet. If he had to break through the stone walls with his own body, he would see her rescued from that room.
John unsheathed his sword and, with the hilt, smashed apart the lock. It took a dozen blows, but at last, it fell away. Myles yanked open the sacristy door. Smoke, thick and wicked, poured forth like a vaporous monster. Flames licked at one side of the tiny room, but he plunged in, heedless of the danger.
Just inside the door, he found them, Fiona and her sister, huddled near the floor. They coughed and cried, but were alive. Praise be to God. He scooped Fiona up into his arms and quickly moved her from the room. John stepped in behind and did the same with Margaret. They carried the women down the aisle and set them on the pew closest to the door and the fresher air.
Though her face was stained with soot and streaked by tears, his wife was safe and whole. The flames had not reached her. Joy burst within.
“Where is the priest?” Fiona rasped. “You must find him. ’Twas he who killed my mother.”
“He meant to kill us too,” Margaret sobbed, tears pouring from her red-stained eyes.
“I should have known.” John’s head dipped low as if the fault were his alone. “How did we not see it?”
“You did not see because you are fools! Blinded by your mother’s sins!” Father Bettney shouted from the chapel door.
Myles leaned back to draw his sword as the priest strode toward them with a pointed dagger in his fist. And next to him came Simon and a dozen Sinclair men.
Fiona’s lungs seized once more, finally free of smoke but clogged by fear. They were outnumbered, trapped once more inside the chapel. Simon’s eyes were ablaze and bore into John like hot irons. His loathing pulsed against the air.
John stood fast, but when he reached for his sword, his hand grasped at nothing. For he’d set it down when he picked up Margaret and was now unarmed.
Simon spit upon the floor, his sword out and at the ready. “I see no fools! Only traitors. And you, John, are the greatest of them all. You call yourself a son of Hugh Sinclair?”
Pungent smoke wafted from the burning sacristy, acrid and bitter. The wood above the room began to hiss and pop. And in the space of that moment, Fiona watched as John’s expression of despair transformed to quiet confidence.
“No,” he answered calmly. “I call myself a son of Cedric Campbell.”
Simon’s angry eyes went wide, then narrowed to slits. The Sinclair men around him murmured their surprise.
“You! I knew it!” Father Bettney wheezed, pointing a gnarly finger at John. “You are the spawn of their wicked union.”
Simon took another step and raised his blade with menace. “What are you saying?”
Fiona’s husband stepped closer to John, brandishing his own weapon, and her heart lodged in her throat.
“’Tis as it sounds,” John answered, the tilt of his jaw defiant. “Cedric Campbell is my father, and so I side with him. But before you wave that blade at me, know this. The king possesses the signature of every Highland chief who vowed to kill him. Each will be arrested, and he shall mete out punishment as he sees fit. Spare us, and he may yet spare you. I will beg him for your life. But if we die, so shall you.”
Myles moved closer still and aimed his sword at Simon. Two Campbell brothers against one Sinclair.
Simon ran a hand across his jaw, his eyes darting swiftly from one man to the other. Smoke continued to sting the air. The timber ceiling began to smolder.
“Kill him,” the priest cried. “He is a whoreson and a traitor. He has cost you Sinclair Hall!”
“Shut up!” shouted Simon. “Let me think.”
A primal growl erupted from the maddened priest. He shoved Simon to the side and bolted forward, aiming his dagger directly at John’s heart.
Fiona screamed. Her husband stepped in front of John, knocking him away, and plunged his weapon deep into Father Bettney’s gut. Flesh gave way to steel, and the priest’s gurgle of surprised agony made her stomach heave in revulsion.
Myles twisted the sword, jerking it upward toward the priest’s ribs; then with his booted foot, he pushed the writhing priest from the blooded tip. Father Bettney clutched his wound. Blood spurted forth, some splattering on Margaret’s cheek, and the priest crumpled to the ground.
Simon lunged back, swinging his blade at her husband, who deflected his strike.
In an instant, shouts rang from the entryway. A dozen men or more, all dressed in royal colors, raced inside the chapel. The king commanded them amid the fray.
Fiona gave another cry and pulled her sister and Genevieve away. The three of them pressed against the wall as a battle broke out in earnest. The haze of smoke increased as men swung their swords or used their fists and daggers.
Fiona looked for an exit, but there was no easy path from where they were to the door. And in truth, even had there been, Fiona was not certain she could look away.
Steel upon steel and the grunts of men, striking and falling, competed with the sound of Margaret crying softly, and the crackle of wood around the altar igniting. Fiona hugged her sister close and used her smoke-stained sleeve to wipe the blood from Margaret’s face. Genevieve pressed against them, never letting her gaze waver from John.
Off to one side, Fiona’s brothers waged a battle of their own. Faces flushed, the sheen of exertion and anger bright upon their foreheads. They raged, now the fiercest of foes. Fiona’s heart split asunder at the travesty of them pitted against each other.
“Forfeit, and live to see another day, you fool,” John said, striking a blow toward Simon’s shoulder. “I will plead for clemency on your behalf.”
Simon weaved and ducked. “Another day of James’s rule? I’d rather die, you filthy bastard. How could you do this to me?” He
swung and missed.
“To you?” John cried. “You gave no thought at all of sacrificing Fiona. This is no different.”
They battled in a circle, moving round pews and over kneeling benches, coming ever closer to the women. Fiona looked about for a weapon of her own. She’d join this fight and see it end. She plucked an iron candlestick from its hook upon the wall.
Simon jumped a bench and huffed from the effort. “Fiona is nothing but a girl,” he cried. “You were my brother!” He lunged, slicing John upon the arm.
John winced and clutched the wound, nearly slipping on the rushes. Simon smiled with deadly intent, sensing triumph. He thrust with all his might toward John’s chest.
Genevieve screamed and tried to jump forward, but Fiona held her back and watched the blow fall short.
A sudden look of amazement claimed Simon’s face. His weapon clattered to the floor, and he clutched his own chest. Between his fingers, the tip of a blade protruded through his ribs. He’d been skewered from behind.
The king stepped around him, breathing fast, a smile of victory upon his face. “He may have been your brother, you traitorous cur. But I am your king.”
The battle had ended. Simon and the priest lay dead upon the floor, along with far too many good and loyal men. Fiona brushed a tear from her cheek and searched the faces of those still standing, though it was hard to see through the haze of thickening smoke.
At last she saw him, standing on the far side of the chapel, battered but alive. Her husband!
He seemed to be looking through the smoke as well. Then he turned and caught her eye. A tired smile tipped the corners of his mouth. She stepped away from Margaret as Myles hurried across the room. His arms, wondrous and steady, pulled her tight against him.
It was over. The fighting and the plotting and the fear. She could hardly breathe from the relief of it. Tomorrow, she would grieve for Simon and the men they’d lost, but in this moment, all she would do was cling to Myles and thank the Lord for finally listening to her prayers.
