The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4)

by Rebecca Lochlann

  “I wonder who gave these their names?” Morrigan asked.

  “I’m not sure anyone knows,” Hugh said, “but I suspect the Picts.”

  The track decomposed into deep, grassy ruts. The landscape opened up as they achieved the summit of a hill; mountains piled before them, purple with heather. Crisp and cool, the breeze was redolent with pinesap and clover.

  Glenelg and the sparkling Sound lay behind them, and before them towered the Five Sisters, lined up so majestically it nearly stole Morrigan’s ability to breathe. To the south, Beinn Sgritheall was somehow comforting in its implacability, as though assuring her; here I am, still looking over you.

  Curran led them back towards the Sound along a narrow track hemmed in by brush and forest. He showed no hesitation— clearly he’d grown up here, and knew each hill and glen, all the lochs and everything in between. In time they came to the main village road, where they passed a blacksmith’s, a general store, and a mill. Beyond, squatting in the shadow of a hill, were the massive ruined barracks, built for soldiers in the last century. They started southwards, the bay on their right, and passed Glenelg’s Kirk, where William Watson delivered his sermons.

  But she was given only a moment to fret about the minister’s obvious dislike.

  “Father Drummond is a fine vet,” Curran told her. “A man of many talents.”

  “Are you, Father?”

  “We’re jacks-of-all-trades, these days.” Hugh gave a shrug. “So many of the folk have gone. Those who remain must muck in together or we’d not last a year. Your husband helps most, of course. He compares in certain ways to the old clan chieftains, those who carried the responsibility of their brethren from birth to death, and in return enjoyed vast power. Let’s say a clan member’s wife died. If he wanted to remarry, he’d have to address himself to his chief for permission, and the chief himself picked the woman. Aye. No doubt many drams of whisky were needed to dull the bitterness of that. Clan members had no choice in time of war, either. Their chief held the power of life and death over his tenants, from infant to old man.”

  “But Curran, he’s not like that, is he?”

  “Oh, no, my dear. Those days are long gone with Culloden. But Curran, and his father before him, earned the respect and loyalty of the few who were left here, on their own merit, not because of their name or birth. It’s why they call him Eilginn. He is their chosen honorary laird, over every speck of land between Àrnasdal to Loch Alsh, and east to Loch Duich. There’s nothing they wouldn’t sacrifice for him, and for you. They’d die for you if the need arose.”

  “I hope it never comes to that.”

  “It’s true, mistress,” Logan said.

  Hearing it from him moved her deeply.

  “You’ll see, once you’ve lived here awhile.” Hugh nodded. “These people, and the land, are not what you knew in the Low Country. Modern days have not yet come to Glenelg. Here folk are knitted to each other like wool in a scarf. They’ve had to be, for many reasons. Loyalty has meaning. Yet, I avow Glenelg is a special case.”

  “How so?”

  Hugh glanced after Curran, who had spurred his horse forward to speak to a middle-aged woman digging in a potato patch. The woman straightened, smiling, and rested her hand on the laird’s knee. The others pulled their mounts up to wait for him.

  “Most wealthy Lowlanders came here for one reason,” Hugh said. “Sheep. They saw the chance for profit and seized it. Much to their shame, many Highland lairds collaborated with them. In the old days that would never have happened, but poverty, and loss after loss changes things. Lairds had grown as poor as their crofters. After Culloden, everyone suffered persecution. Loyalty and duty died on that field, brought by wholesale slaughter and the rape of women and children. No surprise that history calls Cumberland ‘The Butcher.’”

  She had learned of Cumberland at school, but said nothing.

  He paused, exhaling. “Many of our lairds aped England’s aristocracy, and for that, they required gold. These crofts brought hardly a pittance, and when the potatoes rotted, they cost. Brocade and lace remained out of reach, until the landowners formed a plan.” A frown tightened the priest’s lips. “Randall Benedict sold Thomas Ramsay this estate on which to graze the Cheviot, and swore he’d already cleared the villages and people who lived here. Thomas purchased the land sight unseen, wanting a part in the profits. But when he brought his wife and son to Kilgarry that winter of 1854, he found rather more than he’d expected.”

  “Us,” Logan said. “Those who refused to board Randall Benedict’s bloody ship. We’d survived two months in the forest. He’d burned Glenelg and anything we could use for shelter.”

  Morrigan shrank from the terrible expression of hatred and bitterness on Logan’s handsome face.

  “Logan was only eight,” Hugh told her. “Forced into manhood before his time.”

  The young groom’s lip curled. He spat on the ground.

  “I wasn’t much help,” Hugh said. “Of course I wrote to Randall Benedict in Edinburgh, again and again, but he never replied. We received a pittance now and then from the Parochial Board, but the Destitution Board refused our requests since the tenants were offered paid passage to Nova Scotia. Many days those folk survived on rotted potatoes and dulse they scraped from the rocks. Sometimes they tried to dig tunnels in the earth, but the ground was frozen. In the beginning, they sought shelter in the old barracks, but when Randall Benedict heard of it, he sent his men to roust them out, and then kept it guarded. They ended up in the Pictish ruins in Gleann Beag.”

  He blinked the tears from his eyes unashamedly. “Forgive me, lass, for dredging up this awful history the day after your wedding. I don’t know why I’ve done so.”

  “No.” She worked to keep her voice neutral as thunder reverberated from a fast-approaching cloudbank. “I want to know. My kin were part of what you’re telling me?”

  “Aye.” His white brows rose. “Your da, both your aunts, your dear mam, your grandmam—”

  “My father wouldn’t allow anyone to speak of it. I know almost nothing,” Morrigan said earnestly.

  Hugh paused. She saw him absorbing this information. Out of respect for Douglas, he’d no doubt find a way to dodge the subject, like everyone always did.

  But Logan walked his mount closer to her. In a clipped voice, he said, “When Thomas Ramsay came to Kilgarry, mistress, he went out exploring and found the last of us. Seventeen were left to die that day in November when we were cleared. Ten lived to tell the tale, partly due to your father. He labored with the Devil’s own stubbornness to keep us alive. I was afraid of him before we were cleared. But by the time Thomas Ramsay saved us, in February, I knew him better. Your da gave me his boots so my feet wouldn’t freeze.”

  Morrigan couldn’t meet the groom’s intense, long-lashed gaze. The old, suffocating obstruction lodged in her throat. Harsh, glittering light off the waves in Glenelg Bay made her head throb and created strange coronas. Humming filled her ears. For the first time in a long while, she feared she might swoon.

  “Your mam gave birth on the ground, in the forest,” Logan was saying. “The midwife had boarded the emigrant ship, so all she had for help were your aunts and your grandmam. There was a storm that day, and for many days after.”

  She’d always known her mother died giving birth to her. But no one had told her that Hannah hadn’t had a midwife, or a bed to lie in, or a roof, and no walls but what the trees offered. Some part of her may have known, but with the help of an incomplete story, she’d managed to lie to herself all these years, to paint a less gruesome picture.

  A chasm dropped away before her. She felt herself tumbling, her head no longer attached to her body.

  Curran returned. “Morrigan, come and meet Eleanor—”

  “Wait, Curran.” Hugh held up his hand.

  Their voices echoed. The chasm yawned. The ground tilted.

  As clearly as if it were happening before her eyes, she saw great white walls and crimson colonna
des buckling, choking pillars of dust ascending, along with terrified screams as once-solid earth roiled into a tidal wave and the sky exploded in fire and ash.

  Stoirmeil reared, caught the bit in her teeth, and vaulted forward. Lost in the vision, unprepared for her horse’s abrupt leap, Morrigan tipped and fell.

  The back of her head collided with the ground. Constellations of stars exploded, followed by thick blackness; pain sheared through her ankle, culminating in a blinding fire that was centered in her womb.

  The babe.

  She heard a cry, and the shout of a man, before everything faded into nothing.

  CHAPTER NINE

  MORRIGAN LAY WITHOUT moving, keeping her eyes closed. Her ankle and head were throbbing. She wasn’t sure what had awakened her, but thought it might have been Curran’s voice, gravely with unfamiliar anger.

  She had fallen off the horse. After being so curt with Aunt Ibby, after saying I’ve never lost my seat, she had, and when it could do the most harm.

  A female spoke. “Calm yourself, Master Curran. Panic will do no good. Let me see what’s what.”

  “Curse that dog.” Aye, Curran definitely sounded angry. Morrigan sighed and opened her eyes. She was in a dim, echoing, rather chilly place, lying on something hard. A strange woman was folding her skirts up above her knees, exposing her. With the skirts out of the way, she lifted Morrigan’s legs at the knees.

  Morrigan jerked upright, crying out, but as she met the woman’s gaze, she careened into a sense of recognition so potent that her agitation was completely quelled.

  A greenish shimmer surrounded the woman’s face. She frowned at Morrigan, then, “Welcome,” she said, and smiled, her expression transforming to genuine pleasure.

  “Morrigan.” Curran came forward and clasped her hand, breaking the spell.

  “What is she doing?”

  “Don’t worry.” He kissed her forehead. “This is Eleanor Graeme, the midwife.”

  “May I examine you, mistress?” the woman asked.

  Morrigan received the reassurance of Curran’s nod. “Aye.”

  “Lie down, please.”

  Morrigan was glad to obey, as sitting up so quickly had awakened an intense wash of dizziness. The midwife bent to her task, leaving Morrigan to clench her teeth and grip Curran’s hand. “When you fell,” she said soothingly, “you hit your head and one of the horse’s hooves struck your ankle. I fear it’s swollen, but it isn’t broken.” She paused before adding, reluctantly, “And you’re bleeding a bit from your womb.”

  “Bleeding?” Morrigan tried again to rise but Curran prevented it. Oh, Aunt Ibby. You were right. I’m losing my baby.

  Eleanor withdrew her hand and washed in a basin held by Rachel Urquhart. “Aye,” she said, “but I feel no contractions, and it’s not uncommon to have a bit of bleeding the first few months. You mustn’t sit up though. You’ve had a shock. D’you feel any cramping?”

  “No.” Morrigan placed her hands on her stomach, concentrating. “I’m just dizzy.” She looked up at Curran. “What happened?”

  “It’s my fault.” Rage dug grooves alongside his mouth. “The damned dog bit Stoirmeil on the leg. That’s why she bolted.”

  “Antiope did it?”

  “Father Drummond said I couldn’t shoot her without your permission.”

  “No!” She bolted upright again. The dizziness swirled, coming dangerously close to vertigo.

  “I see he was right.”

  “Promise me, Curran. She didn’t know.”

  “Lie back Morrigan, please, darling.”

  She did, reluctantly, and regarded the midwife as she dried her hands. “Do I… know you?”

  Eleanor nodded. “You seem familiar to me, as well. I grew up in Edinburgh, mistress, lived my whole life there until your husband convinced me to come here. Could it have been in the city?”

  “I’ve never been to Edinburgh,” Morrigan said.

  Rachel Urquhart dipped another cloth in the water and laid it gently over Morrigan’s injured ankle. Agnes Campbell peered over Eleanor’s shoulder, clucking her sympathy. Morrigan had a feeling Agnes would always be nearby when anything out of the ordinary happened.

  She closed her eyes, afraid she was going to vomit.

  “Master Curran,” Eleanor said, “I want you to take your wife home in a wagon. She’s to have bed rest, without relations, if you’ll excuse my bluntness, and no more riding until after the child is born. None at all, for any reason. It shouldn’t have happened to begin with, since, as you say, she’s near three months gone.” She paused, still frowning. “I think you’d best put off the kirking.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame,” Agnes cried.

  “The kir-kirking?” Opening her eyes, Morrigan regarded Curran fearfully. What now?

  He waved his hand in dismissal. “A church custom. It’s supposed to bring happiness and good luck to the newlyweds.”

  “It’s more than that, Master Ramsay,” Agnes said sternly. “Dire consequences follow those who have no kirking to bless the marriage in the eyes of the parish.”

  “Not another bad omen,” Morrigan said. “We have to go.”

  Curran tightened his grip on her hand. “I won’t risk it. We’ll put it off a week. It’s not important.”

  “No. Promise me, Curran, promise you’ll take me to this kirking, for the wean’s sake… for the wean.”

  He shook his head stubbornly. She tried to construct a better argument, but Eleanor interrupted.

  “We’ll see how you do the rest of this day,” she said. “Let’s get you home, mistress, and into bed. I’ll fetch my herbs and bring them round.”

  Morrigan glanced at Curran, at the disappointment and anger on his face, and wondered if he blamed her for this. “I swear there’s no pain but for my head and ankle,” she said. “Everything where the babe is feels fine.”

  His expression remained angry, but he nodded.

  Logan was sent off to find a wagon they could borrow. Eleanor rearranged Morrigan’s skirts and Curran gathered her up. Over his shoulder, Morrigan saw a leaded glass window. They must be in William Watson’s church. As usual, thinking of him made her nervous and embarrassed. Was he hovering nearby? She hoped not.

  “Our secret is no longer secret,” she whispered.

  He warmed a little. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “As long as our baby is well, I don’t care. Do you?”

  She pushed away the memory of the minister’s wintry gaze at the wedding cèilidh. No doubt he’d suspected from the first. “No.”

  Outside the kirk, great old yews threw cool shadows. Gravestones poked through the grass, some neat, some slanted and overgrown with lichen. As Curran carried her towards the gate, the etching in one stone startled a gasp from her.

  “What?” Curran said anxiously. “Is there pain?”

  Through a suddenly pounding heartbeat, Morrigan said, “That grave….”

  “Aye, it’s your mam’s.” Father Drummond opened the gate and approached. “I was going to tell you, before you were thrown.”

  “You can see it later,” Curran said. “We must get you home.” He shifted her in his arms.

  “She’ll never rest if you don’t let her see it now,” Eleanor said.

  Sighing, Curran carried her to the grave and put her on her feet, supporting her on her injured side. But she wanted to be closer. With his help she dropped to her knees and touched the carved letters. Hannah Stewart, it said, and below that, Beloved, 1833-1853.

  “This gravestone,” she said. “These flowers. Who…?”

  “Seaghan.” Tears brimmed in Agnes’s eyes. “He carved the stone, and every week he brings flowers. He never forgets.”

  Rachel nodded, tears collecting in her eyes as well.

  Morrigan stared. Beloved.

  Hugh squatted on the other side of the headstone. “You resemble your mother, my dear.” He turned away, blinking, his forehead creasing as he gazed over the quiet graveyard.

  “Come now,
we must get you home,” Curran said.

  Hugh remained where he was, one hand resting on the stone. He stared down at the grave as Curran carried Morrigan under the yew and through the gate, where Logan waited with horses and a wagon.

  She tried to picture the priest in those days before the clearings. Perhaps he’d been handsome, with those long lashes and that thick head of hair. She wondered what color it had been when he was young. What was that, in his face? Grief? Regret?

  Pewter clouds covered the sun. A flash of lightning rent the air, followed by an ominous rumble.

  “The devil take this day,” Curran growled as he wrapped her in a plaid.

  Eleanor climbed into the wagon and cushioned Morrigan’s head in her lap.

  Before they got halfway to Kilgarry, the wind picked up and it started pouring, but the thick plaid kept out the worst.

  Fionna, Tess, and Violet came at a run when they saw the wagon. Tess rebuilt the fire in the master bedroom while Violet helped Morrigan change into a nightgown.

  At last she lay in warm comfort. Curran went off to his dressing room and changed into dry clothes. When he returned, she held out her hand to coax him onto the bed beside her. “Are you vexed with me?”

  “Don’t be daft.”

  “I shouldn’t have insisted on riding.”

  “I’m responsible for this, not you. Not just riding but all of it. I took advantage of you. If you’re hurt, it’s me that’s to blame.”

  Had he taken advantage of her? It seemed she’d tried her best to lure him into doing what he’d done that day.

  Driven by guilt, she touched his mouth and pressed forward for a kiss, drawing him closer.

  His kiss was cool, the sort of peck he might give his sister or mother, and almost immediately he pushed her away, but at that moment, Eleanor came in, carrying a tray. Brows lowered, she set the tray down with a sharp clatter.

  “Were you not listening?” Glaring at them, she put her hands on her aproned hips.