Flame

by May McGoldrick

  “He wasn’t staying in the south wing with the rest of them. Before the fire, guests were usually lodged in the Old Keep, even those of noble blood. Athol was given the chambers you now occupy, m’lord.”

  Gavin’s mind instantly flooded with an image of the hidden passage that he knew linked that bedchamber with the south wing. When he looked back into the priest’s face, the man’s eyes flickered away.

  “Tell me about the night of the fire.”

  The chaplain paused, turning his face into the wind. “There was an evil that hung over the keep that night,” he said, raising one hand and pointing out over the loch. “The full moon was cold, bright. By the saints, the castle dogs kept howling like the devil himself had taken possession of them. And then there was...” the man paused again and looked straight into Gavin’s eyes. “Then there was the matter of the master!”

  “What about your master?”

  “For all the years I had known Sir John MacInnes, I always knew him to be a mild-tempered man. He was a strong man--when such action was called for--but not a violent one. He was never one to raise his hand in rashness or in anger. I never saw him beat a servant, even. There were times, m’lord, when I wondered if he were capable of rage.” The priest shook his head. “Until that night!”

  Gavin waited impatiently for the chaplain to continue, but the man’s eyes and attention seemed to be straying.

  A movement by the arched passageway that led to the courtyard drew Gavin's eye. Margaret, the mute serving woman, stared at them for a moment, then turned and disappeared. Gavin looked back at the priest.

  “What happened that night...exactly?”

  Father William shook himself out of his reverie and turned to face the laird.

  “Let us go and sit out of this wind,” he said, leading the warrior chief to a stone bench by the bluffs on the other side of the kirk.

  Waving off the offer to sit, Gavin stood with his boot up on the low wall, and gazed out along the shoreline of the loch, past the line of hills, toward the valley where the old abbey lay tucked away.

  “What happened that night?” he repeated without looking back at the priest.

  “‘Twas a fearful night. A night when God’s face was turned from us,” William began. “When the brawl broke out between Sir John and the earl, the air was foul with ill will. They had been arguing for two hours or more, starting over supper and continuing on without abatement. There were many harsh words passed between the two. If it were not for the presence of the ladies, I believe we would have had blood shed there in the Great Hall.” The priest’s eyes looked across the kirkyard. “Mistress Joanna took the quarrel quite to heart. I mean, being there at table with the two men arguing over her. She was a haughty and proud lass. Far too good for this cursed place. Though a woman, she knew her value far exceeded any piece of land, and she was not to be bartered for. All of us at the lower tables, we all felt sorry for her--sitting there with her eyes lowered, her fair skin turning more shades of scarlet...” William leaned down and plucked a clover from the grass.

  Gavin watched as the little man ground the clover into a pulpy mass between his nervous fingers.

  “And then the words between the two men became even more violent. Sir John finally lost his temper with the earl, and the warriors in the Hall began to separate into companies. Those of us who remained crowded into the corners, certain that blood would flow.”

  “Suddenly, Mistress Joanna got up and stepped down from the dais. The two men stopped and looked at her, and she let them have a piece of her mind. When she turned and stormed out of the Great Hall, ‘twas as silent as a tomb. And after her daughter left--before anyone could say a word--Lady Anne, the laird’s wife spoke out and eventually got the men to calm themselves and retire.”

  Gavin stared at the priest impatiently. “You have not told me why they were arguing. Why should Athol would be arguing about the daughter?”

  The cleric removed a set of prayer beads from his belt. Running the smooth wooden beads between his fingers, he looked back at the laird. “I do not know how ‘tis in the Borders, m’lord, but in the Highlands, land, power, and the clan’s good name stand above all calls for reason.”

  Gavin thought back over the age old feuding that went on in the lands around Ferniehurst, his keep far to the south. “‘Tis no different in the Borders, but that is no answer.”

  The priest nodded grimly. “For over four generations, perhaps more, the earls of Athol have been trying to extend their lands southward from Balvenie Castle. I think it may be they have always wanted Ironcross Castle and Loch Moray. Word has it that in the old days, they tried to take Ironcross a good few times by force, but could never succeed. Then, when Duncan MacInnes was given the holding, the fighting stopped.”

  “So Duncan was the first of the MacInnes clan to be laird of Ironcross?”

  “Aye,” the priest answered. “The same that holds for you, held for them. They were given Ironcross by the king after the last of the Murray chiefs had died off or moved on to other holdings...for fear of the curse.” William frowned up at the new laird. “You see, they all knew about the curse, but most never believed in it until it was too late for them.”

  Gavin knew the man’s words were also aimed at him.

  “You say that after Duncan MacInnes took over this holding, the feuding with the Stewarts of Athol ceased. From what I know of Highlanders, I find it hard to believe they would give up so easily on what they wanted for so long.”

  “Aye, ‘tis true what you say, m’lord. But you see, the Murrays of Ironcross and the Stewarts of Athol have been sworn enemies since the days of Noah. Duncan MacInnes came here from Argyll, so there was no bad blood to begin with. And from the first, I understand that Duncan always made it understood to the earls of Athol that one day the two families could join through a marriage of some sort!” The priest shook his head. “But Duncan was blessed with sons, so no match could be made. Until...”

  “Joanna!”

  “Aye.” The man nodded. “I believe that was the earl’s thinking.”

  “But not the thinking of John MacInnes,” Gavin added. Bit by bit, things were becoming much clearer. “And Joanna was betrothed to James Gordon instead of Athol.”

  “Aye, as you say! And that was the reason for the earl’s visit to Ironcross that night. News of the match had just reached him.”

  “No pleasant surprise in that, I should think.”

  “Nay, m’lord,” the priest returned solemnly. “The earl clearly assumed that she...well, she being the last of this MacInnes line and heir to the holding, was rightfully his.”

  “So the father defended the daughter’s choice of husband, and the two men fell out with one another.”

  “The daughter’s choice?” The priest shook his head adamantly. “James Gordon was no choice of the lass’s, so far as I know. ‘Twas Sir John himself who had arranged for Joanna to marry the man. But being who she was, the lass was willing to please her father. I suppose, in power and fortune, Gordon was at least as fine a match as Athol, in spite of his title. But that wasn’t all!”

  “What else?” Gavin asked shortly.

  “Sir John wanted her away from this place. I believe he was the only one of the MacInnes lairds who truly believed in and dreaded the Ironcross curse--not so much out of fear for himself, but for what it might bring on his daughter and on any bairns she might bring into this wretched world. And James Gordon has his own kin to the north. Sir John knew that the man would have no interest in moving into Ironcross Castle. He wanted her farther away from here than Balvenie Castle, the Earl of Athol’s holding.”

  Gavin turned and looked into the face of the priest. “And this was the reason for his argument with Athol!”

  “All I know of it.” The priest stood up and tucked his prayer beads into his belt. “If that is all you wanted from me...”

  Gavin nodded and watched as William started across the kirkyard. As he moved out of the protective shelter of the c
hapel wall, the wind swept the clerical robes against his thin frame.

  The warrior chief, too, straightened and crossed the graveyard toward the arched passageway that joined the Old Keep with the south wing, separating the little church from the courtyard. Allan and the others he had spoken with had never so much as hinted that the fire in the south wing had been anything more than an accident. After all, accidents seemed to happen with great frequency here at Ironcross Castle. Perhaps a candle too close to a tapestry, or a flaming ember falling into the rushes on the floor.

  But what if the truth lay not in such thinking?

  The sounds of shouting and then horses came from the courtyard. Gavin looked up. John Stewart, the Earl of Athol, laird of Balvenie Castle, had arrived.

  CHAPTER 10

  The stillness, taut and charged with hostility, hung suspended in the air over the warriors in the Great Hall. The threat of violence lurked in every corner, and the few audible murmurs poisoned the air with low, menacing growls. On the walls, armed hunters and dying animals glared down from tapestries amid the mounted heads of deer and elk and boar.

  And at the head table, the two leaders seemed to be making no serious attempt to dispel the gloom or to ease the tension.

  Gavin Kerr stared thoughtfully at the crystal goblet in his hand. The wine, red and potent, glowed in the light of the fire in the great hearth. It was difficult for him to ignore the seed of suspicion that the priest had planted in his mind. From the time he’d greeted the Earl of Athol and his men, a coldness had taken control of him, driving his actions. Gavin knew he was not very proficient at hiding his feelings, and he was certain that the tall, lean Highlander had read the distrust in his face. Now, sitting at the long table with the haughty, silent man, he wondered if John Stewart was indeed responsible for the deaths that had taken place here last fall. Athol had reasons for desiring revenge, and he had the opportunity.

  The Lowlander eyed the men crowding the hall. Tonight, before everyone had seated themselves at supper, Gavin had drawn his steward, Allan, aside, and had questioned him again about that dreadful night. The steward had told him that when the fire was out--when it was clear that no survivors existed--the Earl of Athol and his men had immediately left Ironcross Castle. Nay, Allan told him, they had not bothered to stay so long as to bury the dead. What would drive a man to flee such a catastrophe, Gavin wondered. If not the demons of guilt, then...what?

  Gavin knew some of Athol’s warriors. There were some very fine fighters among the Stewart company. Indeed, too many hands rested on the hilts of swords in the flashing light of hearth and torch. The warriors from both sides were watching them carefully, taking their signals from the two leaders. Edmund had seated himself with his men by the door to the courtyard, and Gavin could see Peter amidst his fighters.

  Gavin knew the value of his own men, and he knew they could win a fight against Athol’s company. But it would be a bloody victory, and for what? This was no time or place to settle the crimes of the past. Besides, he reminded himself, he had no proof...yet. He still needed to give the man the benefit of the doubt. After all, the Earl of Athol carried the blood of the royal family in his veins. John Stewart had been cousin to James IV--the king whom Gavin had honored above all men. Spilling John Stewart’s blood would require irrefutable proofs of guilt.

  He turned to the nobleman sitting at his side. Athol’s hair had been adorned with thin braids that mingled with the rest of the long, dark red locks that he wore down his back. A bit of a dandy, Gavin thought, eyeing the jewel encrusted broach that held his tartan of red and green in place. He would not make the mistake of underestimating the man, though. He had seen Athol wield a sword at a number of tournaments, and his speed was lethal.

  Gavin forced himself to speak. “We have begun work on the south wing.”

  Athol lifted his goblet of wine and drained it. “I knew your Border men were renowned for their prowess in battle.” His face had the faintest trace of mirth in it. “I did not know they were builders as well.”

  “My lads would tear down and rebuild the gates of Hell if I commanded it.” Gavin stared out at the tense fighters who were watching them with the eyes of hawks. He lightened his tone perceptibly and looked back at his guest. “I have already sent a man to Elgin to fetch the needed carpenters and stonemasons. I plan to rebuild that wing as it once was.”

  “You waste no time.”

  “From what I understand, when you are laird of this keep, time is a precious commodity.”

  “Time is precious for all of us,” Athol replied vaguely, before turning his gaze again on the Lowlander. “But tell me, Gavin Kerr. Do you believe in the curse of Ironcross?”

  Gavin filled up his guest’s cup and then did the same for himself. “You have lived in this region for all of your life. What do you believe?”

  The Highlander paused thoughtfully as he brought the wine to his lips. Then he let his gaze range over the Hall before returning to his host. “What I believe matters naught. But it appears that history is on the side of believing.”

  “Then you believe in these curses and ghosts and the violent death that goes with being laird of this keep!”

  “Perhaps I do.”

  Gavin took a long moment before continuing. “Then why did you press your claim to be the laird of this holding? Do you not value your life?”

  A sudden flush darkened Athol’s expression.

  “‘Tis no secret,” Gavin continued, motioning for a serving lad to bring more wine. “You and Sir John made no attempt to hide your feelings on the night he died. As I hear it, this Great Hall was filled with onlookers, as ‘tis now.” Calmly, he paused as he refilled both of their cups. “But why should you want it so badly, and then leave it the next morning--barren, unprotected, and ripe for the taking?”

  “You push the bounds of a new...friendship.”

  “Do I?”

  “Aye. ‘Tis none of your business what went on between the MacInnes lairds and the Stewarts of Athol, and I owe you no explanations for anything I do. But I will tell you this...my claim was fair.”

  Gavin returned the man’s steady gaze for a long moment. “Perhaps that is so...friend.”

  Athol hesitated and then reached for the goblet. Several of the visiting warriors were restlessly stirring in their seats--as were Gavin’s men--but no weapons had yet been drawn.

  Athol’s look at Gavin told him that his neighbor was also very aware of the nearness of a confrontation. After taking another drink, the earl spoke again, clearly trying to keep his voice calm. “How...how much progress have you made in that wing?”

  Gavin paused a moment and then nodded, acknowledging Athol’s effort to diffuse the potential violence between their men. “You can see for yourself.” He rose from the table. “Come with me, and I’ll show you.”

  ***

  From the commotion in the kitchens, she had known the keep was overflowing with guests--and she knew who the visitor was. But Joanna still had a ghostly reputation to maintain.

  It had been a difficult day for her, though, and one without sleep. The cursed laird had his man and Allan exploring the passages for most of the day. After she had returned from the tower chamber, she had kept an eye on them, trailing them as they made it as far as the subterranean tunnels, but not so close that they had any idea she was there. Oddly enough, Allan did not seem to be very familiar with the passages, and so the two hadn’t been able to go very far. They never even came close to the south wing. But Joanna was becoming quite weary now. Real ghosts, she supposed, don’t need much rest.

  But at last the deed was done, and Joanna smiled as she closed the panel beside the hearth in what had been the study. The passage entry where she had nearly been caught by the new laird was of no use to her now--with the floor all torn away and the panel nailed shut--but another small panel on the opposite side of the hearth was close enough for her to continue plaguing the man.

  So after everyone had settled down to their supper in the
Great Hall, she had crept back to the laird’s room, taken her portrait once again, and brought it back here.

  Once, long ago, Joanna had prided herself on her strength and perseverance. Admittedly, she had even been a bit mischievous as a lass.

  It was good again to have a chance to be human again.

  ***

  Gavin glared at the smiling image.

  It took great restraint on his part not to curse out loud at the sight of the portrait hanging yet again on that blasted wall. Drawing in his breath deeply, he scowled at Edmund, who stood at his elbow gaping dumbly at the picture.

  Tearing his eyes from the painting, the laird tried to pretend that nothing was amiss. Gavin stepped into the open area and continued with the explanation of the renovations he had planned.

  “As you can see, we are still in process of pulling down those walls. My thought is to rebuild, using a style that I have seen in my travels.” Gavin hesitated, noticing that his guest had not followed him into the room. Athol remained standing in the entry way, his eyes focused on Joanna’s portrait. As the Lowlander looked into the earl’s face, he sensed something far different than what he had expected to find there. For Gavin saw no guilt, and his jaws clenched tightly in response.

  There was longing in Athol’s eyes as the man gazed on the portrait.

  Gavin turned away, fighting off the insane possessiveness that he could feel flooding through him. And it was insanity, he knew. He wanted to shrug off this intruder, climb the ladder, and carry the picture back to his chamber. As he had done before. As he would do again.

  Athol broke the awkward silence, and his voice was husky, almost reverent. “I didn’t know anything survived the fire.”

  “She did,” Gavin put in shortly.

  “Why have you left her there?”

  “To oversee the work!”

  Athol’s eyes darted to Gavin. A glimmer of wry amusement flickered in their depths. “I see that the madness that runs rampant in these hills has affected you as well. I would pay a fine price for that painting if you could bear to part with her.”