by Beth Trissel
Chapter Twenty-Five
All too soon those cherished hours of richest passion and utter contentment with Mora flew by. Like melted pearls, the precious night Neil spent in her arms dissolved into cold gray dawn. After a few hours of slumber, the bitter day was upon them and he found himself riding away from Donhowel on his father’s swiftest stallion. Already the castle was little more than a distant smudge, veiled by the glaze of snow.
Neil rode Barbary, so named for his fierce Pagan nature. White powder kicked up from under the big chestnut’s ground covering stride. Like the most stout-hearted warrior, Barbary tore into battle. But the spirited charger was also steadfast to those he regarded as his own.
Barbary had readily accepted Neil in place of his old master, offering yet another affirmation that he belonged at Donhowel. Now Neil must lay claim to that birthright, or fade into oblivion. He refused to go down without an all-out, to the death fight.
No need for a guide to the MacDonald’s chapel. The grim trek was seared in his mind like the stripes marking Niall in that crypt. Past pain, past wrongs, drew Neil back to an appointment with destiny. Whether or not it was a fatal meeting remained to be seen, but if he were about to die, he’d never felt more alive.
One of them had to survive to love and care for Mora. She mustn’t be left alone. Even as he thought this, Neil knew if the union of both men wasn’t possible, then only the old Niall could be with her. Neil had until the last rays of the setting sun before his final moments expired. His former self was fading fast. More and more, he felt Niall’s pain.
He glanced back through the fine flakes at Mora mounted astride the stout mare, Awin, trained to bear either men or women on its broad back. Steady, strong, fast, the gray mare would see them through to that fateful crypt.
Both horses’ breath blew white in the air, but these animals were well adapted to the wintry chill. The mare also bore Fergus who hadn’t the faintest notion how to ride and wasn’t about to begin now. He sat behind Mora, hugging her for dear life. Despite his uneasiness, Fergus was the image of gritty determination.
Mora, cloaked in a blue green arisaid over several petticoats, was so covered only part of her face peered out. But Neil had no need to look into her eyes to see her unflinching resolve. She’d put aside the bridal Gunne Sax gown from Mrs. Fergus to wear for the wedding she’d insisted would take place upon their return. With his whole being, Neil prayed this joyous event would come to pass.
All their wills were bent toward fulfilling their quest. Before more than a servant or two had stirred in the household, the three of them had dressed, downed a cold breakfast, stolen into the stable to pack provisions in their saddle bags and mounted up, a particular feat for Fergus who detested early rising. And so, their most unlikely trio had ridden off into the Highland hills.
Thankfully the wind had calmed, but the raw wet cut deep and snow powdered the rugged landscape. Not yet heavy on the ground, but drifts covered the ridges rising high above them. Neil would’ve thought he needed to rely on natural landmarks to guide him or directions from the occasional craftsman if he lost his way.
He didn’t. Niall’s suffering—now his—pulled him back to that place of torment like a strong tide.
Blinking against the snow, he cantered Barbary through a glen between the white hills. The sacred vial tucked in an inner pocket of the coat Betty Fergus had given him. One of the servants had darned the tear in his wool pants, and he wore them with stockings and leather riding boots. A singular combination, he supposed, but it worked for him.
As to weapons, the dagger rode in another pocket and the sword he’d used yesterday protruded over his left shoulder from the leather back scabbard fitted around his chest over the black coat. He liked the feel of that blade. It had served him well in the duel with Calum.
A duel with Red MacDonald would be even more challenging. He doubted Fergus would succeed with his light tricks again. No, Neil must face the savage Scotsman alone when he appeared, and Aunt Margaret seemed to feel he inevitably would. Mrs. Fergus couldn’t keep him bound in the future forever, if that’s what she’d done.
Likely The MacDonald was already on the prowl. Where might he attack, and when? Would it be an open challenge or a sudden ambush?
A young roebuck darted from some brush and fled across the path in front of them. Barbary snorted at the deer’s sudden flight. The edgy horse shared Neil’s guardedness, ears pricked, alert to any sound or movement.
He reined in the stallion. Mora drew up behind him on Awin. “Do ye see anything?”
Knowing she meant anyone, he shifted his narrow gaze at the stones on either side of the snowy path, some as big as boulders. Frosted tree trunks also offered ample cover, as did bends in the path. Treachery lurked anywhere and everywhere.
“No. Difficult to be certain. The snow is both to our advantage and disadvantage, all depending on whether or not we’re detected.”
“Surely not.” Mora’s voice was slight in the moisture laden air.
“We can barely see each other in this wretched stuff,” Fergus muttered. “Unless Red MacDonald has heat seeking goggles, how can he spot us?”
The bridle jingled as Neil held in his impatient mount. “I put nothing past him.”
“He’s not Superman,” Fergus argued.
“Near enough.”
“Well, we’re the dynamic duo, make that trio. Cripes,” he interjected. “It’s freezing out here. Don’t suppose there’s any chance of coming across a café. I could do with some coffee.”
Neil’s stomach rumbled and the chill had seeped into his bones. “Couldn’t we all.”
Mora wrinkled her nose. “Coffee tastes bitter. Hot spiced ale is far more desirable.”
“Fine,” Fergus mumbled. “Got any?”
“Not at hand.”
“Rather a moot point then.”
“I have a flask in m’ saddle bag. Kindle me a fire, Angus Fergus, and I’ll heat it fer ye.”
Neil smiled slightly at the banter between them. They’d have to pause for a hasty lunch soon, but he was eager to get on. “No time for a warming blaze, not to mention the unwanted attention a fire might attract.”
Nudging Barbary in the side, he urged him on into the white curtain. He and the horse remained alert. The MacDonald had an uncanny way of predicting their movements. Almost as if he, too, were some sort of seer. If that were so, Neil prayed the Scotsman foresaw his own doom and not Neil’s. Not that this was likely to discourage the madman. His ego and thirst for revenge superseded all.
Maybe Neil should’ve brought Calum with him. A contingency of MacKenzie’s would also be useful, but he’d decided the fewer of them slipping into MacDonald land, the better. The success of their quest lay not so much in the number of arms, but stealth, and the blessing of the Almighty. And if he didn’t make it back, he’d rather Calum and his mother remained in ignorance as to why.
He hadn’t revealed the full extent of his mission to anyone at Donhowel. Only that he must face the Red MacDonald. The bitter knowledge of his former failure in that contest and the consequent suffering gnawed at him. For his sake, for Mora and Fergus, for all their sakes, this time he must prevail.
****
Ahead of them beyond the copse of leafless trees and pines lay the MacDonald castle. Smoke from the great hearths tinged the air. Neil judged the distance to Domhnall to be about a mile, but he didn’t need to see inside the castle. The image of a weathered door stained with age, set in gray stone, and secured with a thick black lock burned in his mind. The portal to the past.
His past. The nearer he came to his former place of torture, the more distinct the memories grew. And with them, the anguish.
Niall’s suffering threatened to overwhelm him. What transpired in the past was now the present, and the two so intertwined that Neil found it increasingly difficult to differentiate between them. He’d never known the bite of the lash, yet his back stung from the stripes. He ached all over from punching fists an
d kicking boots. Several ribs were cracked, had to be.
Despite adequate food, he hungered as though he’d not eaten in several days. He’d had sufficient to drink, yet thirst tormented him. His mouth was dry, his lips swollen. Worst of all, was the weakness wearing him down.
Attempting to conceal his rapidly deteriorating state from the others, Neil trudged, each step a misery, through the small woods. They’d left their mounts loosely tethered among the trees to snatch at whatever vegetation they could crop beneath the snow. Both animals were trained to await the signal, a whistle. If MacDonald men came upon the horses, Barbary would pull free and rear up, defeating any efforts to seize him. The mare would follow his example.
Every foot Neil advanced toward the castle only worsened the appalling sensations. He was under assault. Was it bruising alone, or had his spleen ruptured? His medical training told him he couldn’t long live with a ruptured spleen. The severe ache in his upper left abdomen might only be from deep bruising, but he fought the mounting urge to double over.
Biting back a guttural groan, he poked his head around a whitened trunk and squinted past the sheen of flakes. His twisted middle knotted even more tightly.
There stood Domhnall on a mound, built not for luxury but defense, as Neil’s castle home had been. But unlike Donhowel, this rocky fortress possessed no majesty or beauty. Its imposing aspect announced to all who passed that here was an impregnable structure. Built centuries ago from blocks of stone, the massive castle had a square keep and thick walls in the Norman style of architecture. Such castles were generally dark, cold, and brooding. Domhnall couldn’t have appeared more so.
The snowy grounds surrounding Domhnall had been cleared of trees and shrubs. Even the grass and heather were kept short to prevent trespassers from gaining furtive access to the walls, and from there, surging through the gate into the inner ward, the bailey.
Mora paused beside Neil and peered beyond the trees. “Nary a man is about in this foul weather. But they may watch from the wall or windows.”
He spoke through gritted teeth. “No one is on the wall.”
Fergus slapped his snow-covered fedora against his side and focused on what lay ahead. He gave a low whistle. “Damn, Neil. How do you propose we cross this open area then get through a barred gate in the castle wall, let alone into the chapel, without being seen? I’m guessing we won’t be given a hearty welcome. Where exactly is the chapel, anyway?”
“It doesn’t adjoin the keep, but stands in the bailey.” Neil pointed, singling out the stone structure, its steep gabled roof worn by wind and weather. A marked tremor shook his gloved hand. And it wasn’t only due to the cold, but the growing weakness spreading through his body. “There, between the two walls in the outer ward.” His chest rose and fell with his words as if he’d run hard.
Mora swiveled her head at him. “What ails ye?”
He labored to reply. “More and more, I feel as Niall does. Hear what he hears. At first, it was like murmurs on the wind, now louder.”
The jeering resounded in Neil’s head. Was it one man, two, three? He couldn’t tell. The voices ran together. Harsh. Unbearable. He covered his ears to shut them out, but couldn’t deafen the goading. “Do you not hear them?”
White-faced, her eyes pools of alarm, Mora shook her head. Fergus surveyed him with pity in his gaze, also the look he wore when scheming.
“What of Red MacDonald? Did you see or hear him?” he asked.
“Not among these men.”
“So, he could be anywhere?”
How long Niall had undergone this torment, Neil didn’t know, but it was coming down on him now at its zenith. He struggled to shake it off, to fight back, and seize the upper hand. But this wasn’t a duel. He had no chance. Niall was losing the battle, again, and taking Neil with him.
Unable to bear the suffering one single moment longer, Neil sank down, moaning, onto his knees in the snow. The sun was already low in a shrouded sky. Impossible to gauge how long he had before sunset. He must get up and make his way to the chapel, but the crushing weight held him down.
The force that was Mora knelt beside him and circled her arms around his aching shoulders. “Ye mustn’t stay here—” Her voice cracked. “We’ve come so far. Neil, please. Do not give up.”
Her plea reached him as if in a noisy throng, but her entreaty needed no words. For her, he would sacrifice all. Taking a breath, he reached deep inside to summon the fortitude to see this task through. It was as though stones were heaped on top of him.
He struggled to rise and sank back down. Fergus bent over and gripped Neil’s sore arm. “Mora, give me a hand. We’ll see Neil through if we have to carry him.”
Between the three of them, Mora tugging, Fergus pulling, and Neil, drawing on more strength than he thought he possessed, he staggered to his feet. The thirst was terrible. His voice little more than a croak, he asked, “Have you anything to drink?”
Fergus fished in his pockets and produced a juice pouch. “Pomegranate.”
Not a flavor Neil normally savored, or Fergus either. Probably why it remained untouched. He reached for it like manna from heaven. His fingers shook so hard Fergus stuck the mini straw attached to the packet through the tiny hole. He passed the pouch to Neil, who sucked it down, squeezing to get every last drop from the partly frozen juice.
His giddiness cleared slightly, and a slender ray of hope shone in the impenetrable darkness. “I heard something in the voices that might prove valuable. One man spoke of a secret tunnel.”
Mora cocked her head at him, and Fergus bent forward. “Into the castle?”
“Yes. He said my clan would never find that way in if they came for me, which he assured me they wouldn’t.”
Staring into the curtain of snow, Neil considered the agonizing truth of that declaration. The Neil he was blurred with the Niall he’d been in a meld of emotions. “No one came.”
Mora’s gentle warmth pressed close. “Because they thought ye lost in the fire at Strome castle, not carried off to the black hole at Domhnall. I am here, my love, and yer dearest friend. Let go of bitterness and ponder.”
Fergus clasped his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Neil, but she’s right. Did that man say anything more? Like where to find the opening to this passage.”
He strove to snare that critical piece of information from the many taunts hurled at him—Niall. A word repeated in his fevered mind, an evil sounding word. “It leads from something called the Schull beneath the castle wall and comes out under the chapel.”
Fergus slapped his hat back on his head. “Into the crypt?”
Neil managed a nod. “What else lies beneath the chapel?”
Fergus spoke animatedly. “Our first real break.”
“Nae. The snow is,” Mora reasoned, her manner pensive. “Schull, ye say? I recall mention of a rock by sech a name. Thought it but a tale. Ye are certain he said schull?”
“Certain.”
“What does it mean?” Fergus asked.
Neil staggered to the side as though his knees were giving out. “Just as it sounds—a human skull.”
Closing supportive arms around him, Mora and Fergus joined him in sweeping their gaze over the terrain. He struggled to focus his burning stare and make sense of the maddening riddle.
Nothing.
“There must be a singular outcropping not far from the castle walls,” Fergus said. “No one would dig a very long passage through hard earth and stones. Just a tunnel that extends enough of a distance from the castle for men to come and go surreptitiously when needed.”
Neil agreed, but images ran together. He couldn’t see straight. His desperation grew, along with the shudders he could no longer control.
Mora shifted more of his weight onto her support. “That great rock,” she waved her hand, “is adrift with snow, but if ye imagine it away, are those not great black eyes gaping back at us?”
Fergus answered excitedly, “So they are. Never thought I’d be so relieved to see
a skull.”
The gruesome face took form before Neil. “There’s the nose,” he said hoarsely. “The opening of the tunnel must lie, literally, in the mouth concealed by snow.”
“And this miserable weather will give us the cover we need to make it there undetected,” Fergus said.
“God willing.”
Mora lifted her glistening gaze to Neil. “Why should he not?”
The glaze of her tears reminded him of the sacred relic he carried filled with the Virgin Mary’s tears. “It’s time to give the vial to you.”
She opened her mouth in protest, but he placed a quivering finger over her lips. “I lose strength by the moment. It’s up to you and Fergus now. Once we’re inside the crypt, you’ll need to warm it. The liquid may be partially frozen.”
“I have a lighter,” Fergus offered.
“Be careful not to crack the glass, then undo the seal. Mora, anoint my forehead. Preserve some for Niall. Remember, he mustn’t see me.”
“How do we prevent him?”
“He’s in a small chamber off the crypt, barely conscious.” Neil sensed his life force slipping away.
She swallowed hard. “How many men guard the crypt?”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps only one remains. Fergus and I will overpower him while you go to Niall.”
“Where will ye be?”
He exchanged glances with Fergus then met her tremulous query. “Swiftly dying, I fear. Hurry, sweetheart, and whatever happens, save Niall.”
“I’ll save ye both,” she whispered fiercely.
“You may not be able to.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Fergus led the way. Guided by the blue light of his strange torch, Mora and the two men made their cramped trek through the underground tunnel. The damp scent of earth filled her nose; Neil’s labored breathing her ears. She traveled between him and Fergus, praying the weight of the tunnel wouldn’t choose this moment to fall in upon them. Or that they’d find it caved in up ahead, their way barred.
