’Twas laid at the master’s feet and opened. The master reached in and metal gleamed in his palm. “Three silver pennies. ’Twould indeed seem that matters are most dire.”
Father Aloysius smiled but had no chance to speak before Angus turned and strode toward the hall. “Where is he going?”
Annelise smiled. “Angus MacGillivray knows this keep better than any other. There are none more inquisitive than young boys.” She raised her brows and continued mildly. “Though, of course, as you are certain that he is an imposter, you have naught to fear.”
Father Aloysius, on the contrary, looked most fearful. Angus called for help, and Jacqueline was not alone in watching the door. ’Twas long before the Templars reappeared, lugging heavy sacks, though uncertainty made the time seem longer than it likely was.
“I see that loose board has yet to be repaired,” Angus murmured, and his mother chuckled. The men cast the sacks on the ground in a pile. The master untied the top one, reached in, and removed a gold coin. He bit it, nodded at its authenticity, then turned to Father Aloysius for an explanation.
“Nay!” Father Aloysius cried, and leaped to his feet. “’Tis mine, all mine! ’Tis wealth I deserve and wealth I shall spend for the greater glory of God!”
He snatched at the top sack but the master grabbed it. Father Aloysius seized the one immediately below and fled through the courtyard. To Jacqueline’s astonishment, the men parted ranks and let him go. She looked at Angus in consternation and he smiled slowly at her.
What did he know that she did not?
A shout carried from beyond the gates, followed by a splash. The master rolled his documents again and refastened their ties, apparently unperturbed. “I make my decision in your favor, Angus MacGillivray. Though ’tis not binding. I would be pleased to add my appeal should you petition the archbishop for the release of your hereditary property.”
The master looked up as Angus bowed. “The donation of the missing tithes would, of course, strengthen your chances of success considerably. And I have heard rumors, as well, that both kings are troubled by the possibility of Airdfinnan, a particularly key location, falling under the influence of their enemies. You would be well advised to make your allegiances soon to best clarify matters.”
“I appreciate your news, your counsel, and your support.” Angus bowed again and the master smiled.
“And I appreciate your earlier counsel and your return. Welcome home, Angus of Airdfinnan. Men of your ilk are welcome wheresoever they find themselves.” He stood and they shook hands firmly. “I look forward to a neighbor upon whom we can rely.”
“My lord master!” one of the men cried from the gate. “Father Aloysius has fallen into the river and disappeared!”
“Fallen?”
“He jumped, my lord, when he saw our sentries blocking the end of the bridge.”
“But did he not swim?”
“He clutched a sack, sir, and would not release it. Indeed, we offered him aid, but he spurned us to cling to his prize. He sank and did not rise again, until his body was down river and devoid of life.”
The assembly exchanged glances of horror, until Father Michael stepped forward. “A priest could not kill himself,” he said sternly. “For then he would be denied burial in sacred ground.”
“It must have been a slip then,” the master conceded, even as he held the young priest’s gaze steadily. “Let us be charitable to those who have departed this earth, in the hope that others will judge us with equal charity.”
“Amen,” said Father Michael, and the assembly echoed his blessing.
“But what of the treasure?” Jacqueline asked in frustration, even more confused when Angus and the master began to smile. “Surely there is naught amusing in losing it to the river?”
Angus stepped forward and opened the sacks, spilling the small stones that filled them onto the ground. It seemed that only the one set directly beside the master, the small one to which he held fast, was topped with golden coins. “Some men are worth their weight in gold,” he said.
“While others are not,” the master concluded firmly. “One does not win the trust of kings in matters of finance by being careless with riches. Your scheme was most fitting, Angus of Airdfinnan.”
“And your men were most adept at gathering suitable pebbles and switching the contents of the sacks.”
Chatter broke out among the other men and the master began to converse with his aide.
Angus turned to Jacqueline, his expression inscrutable. “There then is the end of your tale, Jacqueline.”
Jacqueline’s mouth went dry; she was certain Angus would ask her a question of great import. After all, he had proven himself and she had already pledged her love. But he said naught, simply watched her.
Duncan came to stand beside her. “I will escort you to Inveresbeinn, if you so desire.” He glanced between the two of them when neither moved, a curious expression lighting his features, then he addressed Angus. “I must admit that when my wife heard a knight had captured her daughter, she made certain conclusions about your intent.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed. She is of French origin and assured me that ’tis not uncommon for knights there to seize a woman they would wed. She thought you might be seeking a bride.”
“Then she thought wrongly,” Angus said so flatly that Jacqueline could not misconstrue his meaning. “I seek naught but Airdfinnan.”
“And if ’tis returned to you?”
“Then I shall administer it. Alone.”
The two men stared at each other, each one’s gaze as steady as the other’s.
“Has he touched you, Jacqueline?” Duncan asked, his voice low. “For if he has, I will compel him to treat you with honor.”
Jacqueline saw the resolve in Angus. She had offered all she had and he wanted naught of it. She realized in that moment that the only situation worse than being wed for her beauty would be that of being wed by a man who cared naught for her.
“Nay,” she said quietly, biting out the words. “He has been a man of honor.”
Angus, to his credit, flinched. ’Twas so subtle a move that Jacqueline doubted that any saw it beyond herself.
She gritted her teeth and made to turn away, furiously blinking back her tears. Duncan offered his arm, his expression grim.
“Jacqueline.”
She halted but did not turn when Angus uttered her name. He came to her side and she did not look up, for she feared he would see the expectation in her eyes.
“My mother granted me this last eve, and it seems now ’twould be a fitting token for you.” A lump rose in Jacqueline’s throat, but Angus offered a small branch of some flower.
’Twas heather, she saw as she accepted it, though the blossoms were white. It had been dried carefully, perhaps the previous autumn. Jacqueline looked up to find Angus sober. “She told me then ’twas a symbol of hope conquering adversity.” He smiled crookedly. “That seems indeed to be the gift you have brought to this endeavor. I thank you.”
Jacqueline stared at him, her heart in her throat. When he said naught more, she dropped her gaze and made to turn away.
“I would have one token from you, before you leave.”
Anything! Jacqueline’s heart cried, but she forced her voice to remain calm. “Aye?” She studied him, unable to fathom his thoughts.
“Aye. A single strand of your hair, if ’tis not too bold to ask.”
She glowered at him that he should ask for such a token. “Why?”
“Because ’tis unlike any I have ever seen. It seems wrought of spun sunlight and is a marvel finer than gold.”
Because ’twas beautiful. Now Jacqueline was prepared to weep, but she would not do so before him. She separated a strand and wrenched it from her scalp, fairly tossing it at him in her annoyance.
Angus coiled it carefully in his palm, seemingly unaware of her frustration. Then he smiled at her, that slow smile that lit his features and made her heart pound. He ca
ptured her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm, folding her fingers over his embrace.
“Be well, vixen,” he whispered for her ears alone, his voice uncommonly husky.
Then he was gone, striding back to the men, tucking his treasure into his glove. Jacqueline’s eyes stung with tears but she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Perhaps, for all his faults, Father Aloysius had been right in this.
Perhaps one could not truly know the heart of another in so short a time as she and Angus had spent together. Jacqueline found Duncan regarding her, sympathy and understanding in his eyes. He lifted one brow in silent query.
“To Inveresbeinn,” Jacqueline said firmly, stuffing the piece of heather into her belt. “And with haste. I have dallied too long with the doings of those who do not concern me.”
Chapter 20
The lady of Airdfinnan found the new abbot of the monastery, whom her husband had endowed, on his knees in her garden.
Annelise halted, not particularly wanting to talk to the priest and definitely not wanting to share her first visit here. But Father Michael heard her and straightened, wiping the dirt from his hands onto his cassock and regarding the result ruefully.
Then he smiled at her. His smile was filled with the innocence of a cherub, though there was a twinkle of mischief in his eyes, and she had already heard the music of Ireland in his voice.
“It seems unfitting for me to welcome you to this place,” he said, “when you undoubtedly know it better than I.”
Annelise would not be swayed by his manner or his words. She straightened, unconsciously summoning the stance of the lady of the manor though it had been long since she had stood thus.
Her gaze trailed tellingly to a clump of marguerite daisies, and when he glanced in that direction, her heart skipped. She made an obvious survey of the garden and was surprised to find that it had not fared so badly.
“It has been tended.” She looked to the priest and noted now the pride in his gaze. “By you.”
“I could not bear to watch such a treasure fall into ruin.”
“But you were not here when I left.”
“Nay, I have been here but a year. These gardens were thick with weeds but I could see its beauty even when ’twas marred. ’Twas like the beauty of a woman, which changes as she ages, becoming both less and more than before.”
“One does not commonly hear priests speak favorably of women.”
His smile broadened. “I am not a common priest.”
They watched each other, still wary.
He stepped back and gestured in welcome. “Will you not enter the garden that you created?”
Annelise looked at the daisies again. Though they were not yet in bloom, the clump was even more sizable than it had been when she planted it. She hoped the flowers were yet as beautiful and abundant and dared only now to wonder what she might have done if she had found the plant dead.
She was standing before the daisies, assaulted by memories before she even knew that she had taken a step. As she touched one bud, nigh to bursting, her tears began to fall.
Conscious of the priest beside her, she snapped off the bud, crushed it in her fingers, and turned away, holding it to her nose. Its sharp familiar smell was like a blade through her heart, and she closed her eyes, thinking of where this plant’s roots had found their strength.
“Oh, Fergus,” Annelise whispered.
The cursed priest was too young to be deaf and he missed naught. “Fergus? Was that not the name of your lord?”
She spun to face him, wanting only that he be gone. “And what of it?” she demanded.
“But why...?” The priest’s gaze flicked to the small cemetery in the village, then back to the daisy, to the ground and to the bud in her hand. His eyes narrowed and she knew before he spoke that he was too clever by far.
“He is buried here? Why? Why is he not laid to rest in hallowed ground?”
“Ask your church!” she cried, and made to flee.
He caught her arm, the solemnity in his eyes keeping her from shaking off his grip. “I know naught of this. Tell me.”
“Your predecessor forbade it. Your predecessor declared he would bury no unshriven pagan in hallowed ground. ’Tis that simple.” Annelise took a deep steadying breath. “So I had him buried in his favored corner of the garden. There was little else I might have done.”
The priest was not waylaid so readily as that. “But why? Was Fergus not baptized?”
“Of course he was baptized!” she retorted, as vigorous in her defense of her beloved as always. “My parents would have never permitted the match otherwise. They insisted upon it, but that man swore that Fergus had never converted in his heart and that he thus had no right to sleep with the blessed.”
Father Michael studied her silently, undoubtedly seeing too much, though she could not look away. “You loved him.”
“I still love him,” she said fiercely. “He was the blood of my heart and the father of my sons. He sheltered me and loved me and protected me and was all a man should be to his wife. And more. And yet more.”
Annelise took a shaking breath, fury driving her to say more than she should. “And yet the church in its infinite wisdom has seen fit to separate us. Those who were once joined for all eternity before her doors have been parted for all eternity by her doctrine.” Her tone turned bitter. “Forgive me, Father, if I do not see God’s grace in this.”
She marched across the garden, hating that the priest had destroyed her moment with Fergus and hating more that she had revealed so much of herself. Mostly she hated that she owed him for the welfare of the daisy that marked Fergus’s grave.
“’Twas said by a mentor of mine that we can only hate that which we once have loved,” the priest said quietly behind her. Annelise halted, old manners keeping her from being so rude as to walk away while he spoke to her, but she refused to turn to face him. “You were raised in the embrace of the church, were you not?”
“Aye.” She could not help but glance halfway over her shoulder, wondering what ploy this priest used against her.
“And you loved all her ritual and ceremony, all her hymns and readings, all her tales and faith.”
She heaved a sigh, unable to lie about this. “Aye. Once I was fool enough to believe such nonsense.”
“You still believe it.” The priest touched her shoulder, having drawn close without her noting it. She saw only understanding in his gaze. “You feel betrayed, and this is the root of your anger.”
“And who would not feel betrayed by this injustice?”
He smiled sadly and shrugged. “None. You are right to be angry.”
“Do not dare to tell me that this is part of God’s plan.”
He sobered then. “I am but a priest. I cannot speak for God, much less explain his plan. I know only that he is a great and loving God and sees far beyond what we might see.” She opened her mouth to argue, but he lifted a finger. “His greatest weakness is his reliance upon men, who are fallible and weak and oft short of vision.”
“A fine consolation ’tis to Fergus,” Annelise argued. “And what of me? When the rapture comes and I am joined with my parents, what am I to tell them has happened to the fine man they chose for me? Am I to tell them that Fergus has been consigned to hell because of the error of a fallible priest?”
“Nay. With your permission, I shall write to the bishop of this diocese and request his approval that Fergus be buried anew, with all the ceremony of a Christian, in the cemetery beside the chapel. It cannot be argued that my predecessor had an entirely clear vision with regard to your spouse’s soul.”
“You would do this?”
“I would do whatsoever I could to restore the faith of a woman so cheated as you.”
Now her tears rose with a vengeance.
“Who lies in the cemetery? I had thought it to be Fergus.”
“’Tis my firstborn son, Ewen. He alone lies there.” The priest stepped closer, but ’twas she who raised her
hand this time. “’Tis time I tell the rest of it. Your predecessor”—how Annelise liked to not call him by name—“has a greater sin upon his shoulders. When Fergus lay dying, he went to him, to hear his last confession. After all that had been, Fergus refused him, for he did not want this man to know anything else that might be turned in his own favor.”
She took a deep breath. “And there, while my husband lay dying in our own bed, that so-called priest told him how we would be parted for all time. He told Fergus that he had shamed me and tainted me by not truly embracing the faith. Fergus said naught but I knew that he feared he had betrayed my father’s trust. He concerned himself with such things, with trust and pledges and vows.”
“But not with faith?”
“Nay. He called it sophistry.” Annelise shook her head, the tears scattering when she did. “’Twas the most learned word he knew, and I never was convinced he knew the meaning of it.” She smiled through her tears and the priest chuckled sympathetically. He was cursedly easy to talk with. “But Fergus was a good man and a good husband. He was as good a Christian as he knew how to be.”
“’Tis all that can be asked of any of us.”
“One would think so. But his last words to me were an apology and a plea for forgiveness.” The bitterness rose again within her. “Fergus had naught for which to apologize and naught that man might have had the capacity to forgive. Is this the charity offered by the church? Is this the nature of forgiveness and compassion? Is this grace, to steal the dignity of a man while he lies dying? If so, I want none of it!”
Annelise glared at Father Michael, furious anew, but he did not flinch from her gaze.
“I cannot answer for the deeds of another.” The priest spoke softly, then pressed her hand. “But I offer a chance to make this right. You have only to ask, my lady, and I will send my request this very day.”
She exhaled shakily and turned away. “Then I beg of you to do this thing, for the sake of his memory if naught else.”
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