Flame

Chapter 13

13

Down the hill, by the edge of the thick grove of trees that ran the length of the glen, Allan was supervising the butchering of the buck and the two does they had taken. Leaning on his hunting lance and holding his steed’s reins, Gavin looked on vacantly as the steward tossed scraps of the kill to the waiting dogs.

Joanna MacInnes had lost her mind. How could she not? he mused, thinking back on their meeting, and on her parting words prior to disappearing from his bedchamber as the dawn threatened.

It was certainly understandable that a young woman would be distraught and overwrought with grief after such a tragedy. But to live as she had been living for the past six months. The loss of her parents in such a fire—under such circumstances—could easily have tipped the balance of anyone’s reason. That must be it, he thought. It certainly seemed likely, at least, when one considered that in the aftermath she had willingly chosen a hermit’s life for herself, shunning all human contact, and then conjuring up some wild idea about that harmless old woman somehow committing a murder of such heinous proportions.

But she certainly didn’t look mad, he thought.

If he’d only taken more time this morning to question Joanna about her accusation, before she had simply stepped back into the passageway and vanished into the darkness.

And if it hadn’t been for his scurvy blackguard of a guest, he would have gone after her. It was a blasted devilish thing to have company who intrude on you when you least want them about, Gavin thought, steadying his restless horse. The damned earl was planning to stay through the week, and short of openly insulting the arrogant bastard—and starting a neighborhood war—the Lowlander didn’t quite know how to cut the other man’s visit short.

But still though, before leaving for their hunt this morning, Gavin had taken a moment to question the priest about the underground crypts that Joanna had spoken of. Gavin had not blinked an eye when Father William’s jaw dropped in surprise at his laird’s knowledge of the subterranean vaults.

With only the slightest pressure, Gavin had gotten the cleric to talk, though the information the man had conveyed had been cursory, at best. The tombs there were hundreds of years old, the priest had told the warrior, though he himself had almost no knowledge of who was buried there. But when Gavin had then asked if he knew how to take him down there, the priest had reluctantly nodded and said that the old priest before him had showed him the way. Looking out over the wall into the gorge where Gavin had encountered the falling rock, Father William had said there was an outside entrance to the crypt, and that he was fairly certain he could find it still.

It might be all for nothing, Gavin thought, watching the hound Max carry off a good sized chunk of meat. Still though, the laird was determined to seek out answers to those questions that had arisen in his mind as a result of Joanna’s appearance. A restlessness washed over him at the thought of her coming back tonight. Forcing himself to ignore the stirring in his loins, he drove the end of his hunting lance into the fallow ground. Perhaps a man with functioning reason would not have trusted her to return, certain that she would use the opportunity to escape him. But not Gavin.

An unspoken vow of trust had passed between them, and it was a pact that had made Gavin believe that she would come back. And when she did return, he wanted to greet her with information of his own. He could not bring himself to believe that Mater was a murderer, and he needed to know what made her accuse the old woman. But if he wanted to argue with her over who her parents’ killer might be, then he knew he had better know more of this keep’s history than he knew now.

Looking up the glen, along the line of trees, Gavin could still see no sign of Athol. The earl and the rest of his hunting party had taken off after a number of does, and frankly, this suited Gavin perfectly. It seemed that every time he had looked at John Stewart this morning, a dark, seething anger had coursed through him. And though the warrior refused to admit that he might be jealous of the man, knowing that Athol obviously had some shared past with Joanna raised an ire in Gavin that he could neither deny nor shake off.

She was not a child. He knew that. Her open and fiery response to his kisses told Gavin of her passionate nature. But it also spoke of her past experience. And all morning, like some thorn, the thought of her life before pricked at him. If this scurvy blackguard Athol were not a guest at Ironcross Castle, if he were not forced to look so often upon the Highlander’s damnably handsome face, then perhaps this thought would not be plaguing him so.

But it was, damn it!

Once again, Gavin drove his lance into the side of the brae, cursing himself for feeling this way. Never in the past had he cared a whit about a woman’s past. Virginity was an over-rated condition, so far as he was concerned. Why, though she was long dead now, Mary Boleyn—one of the finest women he had ever known—had been a mistress to a king and to heaven knows who else. His lips pressed into a thin line. So why must he feel this way about Joanna MacInnes?

Gavin stared darkly at his thick, scarred hands, wrapped around the lance. By the devil, man, he told himself, she stirs you to want her, but surely the draw can be nothing more than physical. No one knew better than Gavin himself how little the future could hold. This was l**t, he reminded himself, nothing else. Whatever else was pushing at him could...well, could go to blazes.

With an effort, Gavin closed his mind to such thoughts and turned his attention back to Allan. Dismounting from his horse, he started down the slope toward the older man, his thoughts once again on the underground crypts and what little the priest had been able to tell him.

As the laird approached the small group of men, the shaggy hound Max loped over. As Gavin slowed down, the beast jumped up and placed his large paws against Gavin’s chest, stretching out his neck and l*****g the master’s face.

Dropping the reins of his horse, Gavin grabbed the scruff on either side of the dog’s face. Scratching behind the dog’s ears, Gavin turned to the steward and caught his eye. “I thought these dogs were raised to be hunters,” he said gruffly. “They’re as gentle as lap dogs.”

“Most are better trained. But this one somehow is a bit confused.” Allan shook his head at the animal. “We should have beaten him more, I should think.”

“Nonetheless, they performed well today.” As the steward nodded in acknowledgment of the compliment, Gavin pushed the dog off his chest and turned to eye the piles of meat already dressed and ready to go. “Not even counting what Athol and his men might bring back, I should say we have had a successful day.”

“Aye, m’lord. It will all be put to good use.”

Gavin bent down and picked up a stick, throwing it for the dog. As Max raced off after it, the laird turned and faced the steward. “What do you know of the crypts that lie beneath Ironcross Castle, Allan?”

The look of shock in the steward’s face was quickly replaced with an expression of bewilderment.

“Well?” Gavin prodded, unwilling to give the other man a chance to recover from the suddenness of the question.

“How do you know about...?”

“Why is it that this is the first question everyone asks? Is it so strange that I should know about the crypt? Is there something f*******n in my knowing what lies beneath my own keep?”

“Nay, m’lord.” The steward shook his head quickly. “I meant no disrespect. “Tis just...I mean...m’lord, no one has talked of or gone down there for years...that I can recall. I am just a bit taken aback that you should have heard about it. I don’t know that many in the keep even know that there are crypts beneath the castle.”

“Well, some know. And I assume a few who even remember how to get down there.” Gavin frowned. “Though I continue to marvel that, the other day when I was asking who knew their way about the passages, no one spoke up. Not even you.”

“It’s not what you think, m’lord.” The steward again shook his head. “We all mean to serve you. It’s just that those crypts, being so old...well, no one has any reason to go there anymore.”

As the steward’s voice trailed off, Gavin frowned. Perhaps in expecting his new serving folk to confide in him, he was expecting too much. If he was not going to make them fear him, then he had to gain their trust—and then hope for their confidence. But then there was still the question of that vault. There was too much being kept secret from him.

“So who is buried in that crypt?”

The steward paused as he looked uncertainly from Gavin to a prospect down to a glen to the west.

“Who is buried there, Allan?”

“Many,” the older man said quietly. “The crypt you’re speaking of holds many tombs, m’lord. The old folks used to say, it is not one spirit that hunts Ironcross Castle, but many.”

An awkward silence fell between the two, and Gavin became aware of the strong, gusty wind that was whipping up, startling the dogs and worrying the horses. Gavin realized that he no longer had the steward’s attention. The old man’s gaze—his very soul—seemed distant, withdrawn, in another world.

Gavin’s mind drifted back to Joanna. She knew about that crypt. Surely, the belief of these people in the spirits that were haunting the castle and the passageways had only helped keep her from being discovered.

But did she know anything of the origins of those who were buried there? Turning and looking at the still distant expression in the steward’s face, Gavin felt his impatience to know more growing stronger. Curses, spirits, long-forgotten crypts...

Gavin shook is head. As strange as the answer was that Joanna had given him to his question about the murder of her parents, she, too, clearly believed that there were human hands involved in these killings.

“Allan,” Gavin barked, drawing the man’s attention back to him. “These folk that you speak of—the ones lying in the crypt—who were they and where did they came from?”

The steward looked back, seemingly unwilling to offer any answer.

But Gavin was not about to give up. “And how long has it been that they have been buried there?”

Allan took another long pause, and Gavin took a step toward him, losing his grip on his rising temper. But then, responding to his laird’s obvious impatience, the steward opened his mouth and spoke.

“The age of that vault goes back beyond the memory of anyone living. For certain, it’s more than thrice my age. And as for the names of the dead, all I ever was told was that they’re saints, m’lord. From the abbey.”

“From the abbey?”

Allan met Gavin’s questioning gaze. “Aye, m’lord. That’s all I know for certain. Over the years, though, as the curse...as the accidents began to claim more and more of the lairds of Ironcross, peasants began to make up tales about the crypts and the powers of those buried there. As a lad, I remember them coming.”

“You remember who coming?”

“Peasants, m’lord. Poor, ignorant folk. Leaving gifts in the vault to ward off the evil...and not just the evil of the curse. Like pilgrims they would come from all over the Highlands—MacKenzies and MacLeods, Campbells and MacIntyres. You’d think it was Jerusalem. But in those days, we had no laird who spent any time at Ironcross, so there was no one to pay any mind to people from the hills tramping around beneath the castle.”

Allan looked out at the thin sliver of loch visible at the end of the glen.

“Go on,” Gavin ordered, stirring the old steward from his reverie.

“That all ended when Sir Duncan MacInnes became master of Ironcross Castle. He ordered the common folk to stay away, and ordered a punishment for those who were found trespassing in the passages.” Allan shrugged his broad, old shoulders and looked away again. “No one goes there anymore. That is why no one in the house would dare to go into the passages. No one has been down there in ages. That is why no one remembers.”

“Why, Allan, would a laird of Ironcross bury someone from the abbey in the caverns beneath his own castle? Why not in the chapel yard? Why not in the kirkyard at the abbey? Saints or no, burying them here makes no sense.”

“I...I don’t know, m’lord.”

Gavin’s face clouded over at the steward’s inability to satisfy his questions.

“How much do you think Mater knows of the history of those people?”

Allan stared at his master and then began to shake his head slowly “I don’t...”

“You don’t believe she knows?” Gavin glowered. “Or you don’t think she’ll tell me?”

“She...it surely would not be wise...”

“Wise? To question Mater? Why, Allan?”

The steward hesitated, but then looked positively relieved at the sound of horses in the distance. Gavin turned and looked up the glen as Athol and his men broke out of the wood and rode along the edge of the trees. He could see a pair of does draped across the saddles of the earl’s men.

Watching his guest approach, Gavin turned again to the steward. “It seems we have taken more than we need. Prepare the earl’s kill, and advise the men that on our way back we’ll be stopping at the abbey.”

“The reason for this visit, m’lord,” Allan asked hesitantly, his face showing his perplexity. “Do you intend to try to question Mater? About the crypt, I mean.”

“Aye.” Gavin nodded, looking into the steward’s face. “It is clear to me I’ll not be getting much information from my own people...unless I care to cudgel it out of them. I’m thinking I can learn a great deal more speaking with the woman.”

The steward showed no further willingness to speak, though concern was etched on his features. With a look of disgust, Gavin turned and mounted his horse. Of course, he thought, whether she is willing to tell me what she knows is a different matter entirely. Shaking his head, he nudged his steed down the steep hill where Athol and his men waited.

From the time Joanna had named Mater as the one responsible for the killings, Gavin had been looking for an excuse to visit the old woman before meeting with the lass again. There was something very unsettling about this whole thing. On his last visit to abbey, Mater had spoken of Joanna as a frequent visitor. She had spoken of her as a friend. But Gavin also recalled how she had spoken in riddles when she had answered his questions about the young woman. Now, knowing that Joanna had been alive all along, he couldn’t help but wonder if the old abbess knew the truth as well. But then, how? And more importantly, why—unless she saw the woman light the fire with her own eyes—should Joanna MacInnes go from seeking out the old woman’s company to calling her a murderer?

“So, you were able to run a few of them down,” Gavin said, approaching his neighbor.

“Aye,” the earl replied with a nod. “And we could have taken two more with little effort. With no one hunting here of late, you should have plenty of meat to stock the larders of Ironcross.”

Gavin ran a hand down the side of Paris’s neck. “Well, I’ve thought of a more worthy use for the meat that we’ve gathered today. We’re stopping at the old abbey on the way back to Ironcross. I plan to drop off some of the meat our party killed. While we’re there, I thought I might visit a few moments with the abbess, Mater.”

Athol’s silence drew Gavin’s eyes to the Highlander’s face. His expression had darkened visibly, and his gaze was directed past the glen—in the direction of the abbey.

“If you don’t wish to accompany me there, we could meet back at the keep. My steward will accompany you and make certain you’re comfortable.” Gavin watched the changing shades of color in the earl’s face.

“Aye,” the earl said finally. “I have no desire to see the old woman or her sad pile of stones. I’ll meet you back at Ironcross.”

As Gavin struggled to hide his satisfaction, Athol’s sharp, gray eyes turned to the warrior’s face. “Tell me,” he said in a conversational tone. “Were you welcomed there...when you first visited them?”

“How would you know if I visited them before?”

Though the Highlander never averted his eyes, Gavin noted the changing hue in his face.

Athol’s voice was steady when he responded. “I just assumed you’d been there. The abbey ruins and the land around it have been the undisputed property of the Ironcross lairds for...the devil knows how long. I simply assumed you would have wanted to meet her right away.”

After a pause, Gavin accepted the other man’s reasoning. “As you say, I’ve been there before. She is an interesting woman. But to answer your question, they’re not the friendliest lot, if I take your meaning correctly. But what makes you ask?”

The Highlander leaned forward on his horse, patting his steed’s ebony colored neck. “Well, I don’t know how much you have heard, but over the years quite a few of the peasants from your lands have moved onto mine. Some looking for work, others simply wanting the protection of a laird.”

Gavin had been told that much by the priest and he nodded.

“The stories that these simple folk brought with them always led me to think that there was something very peculiar—perhaps even dangerous—about this abbey.” Athol stared at his host. “And the old woman.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Stories about...” Athol waved a hand at the direction of the glen. “About women being the ones there...strange and savage women...living and working the fields. And other stories about men being abducted from the lands around Ironcross and held as slaves on the abbey lands. Wild stories about using these men only for planting his seed in a wife. About them being drowned in the loch afterwards...or burned.”

“And you believed these tales?” Gavin asked incredulously.

“Of course not.” Athol just shook his head. “I attributed it all to the excuses these men felt they needed for leaving behind the lands their families had worked from the time of Noah. But I suppose there is always anger in a man who sees women who can survive without him. My opinion changed, though, when I faced their hostility myself.”

Gavin's attention was riveted to the earl now.

“That first summer Joanna came to Ironcross Castle, I was a frequent caller. She was no stranger to the Highl...”

“This was last summer, I assume.” Gavin could hear the hostility in his own voice, and looked down the brook as Athol’s gaze flashed toward him. Though this was certainly not the time, something in Gavin wanted to wring the man’s neck.

“The summer before last,” the earl said slowly. “The first summer that Ironcross became her home. I was a constant guest here. But she was sent back to court in the fall, only to return the following fall with news of her...” He stopped, his face as dark and as fierce as a winter storm.

Joanna had returned to Ironcross betrothed to James Gordon, Gavin knew. How could he forget, his own face hardening in anger. She was alive and still legally bound to him. The hostility that both men were feeling almost crackled in the air between them. In a moment, the visitor’s face cleared a bit, and he continued with his story.

“Well, that is finished. But that first summer, I soon found that she was a constant visitor to the abbey. And any time I questioned her about the place, she showed such enthusiasm for the people and what they were doing there that one would have thought she had discovered a band of angels living among the rest of us mortals.”

“And in her praises of the folk there, did she also include the abbess Mater?” Gavin asked.

“Aye, her the most.” The Highlander nodded. “That old woman was the source of all that was good at the abbey, so far as Joanna was concerned. She looked at Mater with awe for the old woman’s spiritual influence over her flock of followers. She definitely admired and respected the woman.”

Gavin tugged at his ear and looked off at the crest of the hill, working hard to stifle the questions that were gnawing at him. Then what happened? he wanted to know.

“As I said, for most of my years as the laird of Balvenie Castle, I had heard the stories about the abbey. But when...when I set out to woo Joanna directly, I decided I needed to know the truth about the place...and about Mater. So I accompanied her there.”

“And did her description of the place, and of Mater, agree with what you saw?”

Athol’s gray eyes fixed on Gavin's face. “With the exception of Mater, I never saw a soul. It was quite odd, being the beginning of harvest time, but the crops just stood untended in the fields. No one was working the land at all. It was the eeriest thing I think I ever saw. That first day, when we left, I asked Joanna about it, and she just said that my presence must have frightened the peasants off. Perhaps the next time, she said, they might be more accepting.”

“Was it any different when you went back?”

Athol gave an empty laugh. “Nay, it was no different. But stubborn as I am, I thought I could force my will on a bunch of women. That is all I thought them to be. Frightened, faceless, invisible women. In the end I was the one who was made to feel invisible.”

“Through all of this,” Gavin asked, his face grave. “How did Mater treat you?”

“She tolerated my presence, I think, because of Joanna. But she never once spoke to me, or included me. I went perhaps a half-dozen times, until Joanna asked me to stop. It had become very clear that my presence with her at the abbey was putting some kind of pressure on her relationship with those women. So, in the end, she choose them over me.”

Gavin looked away from the Highlander’s grim expression. There was much to sort through in his words. But one thing was immediately apparent. The force of the connection between Joanna and those women, including Mater, had been stronger than anything she’d felt for this man. It was clear Athol had thought himself a suitor, and one with a claim to her hand in marriage. But Joanna had rejected him, first by excluding him from her world and then by becoming betrothed to another.

Gavin looked again in the direction of the abbey. Though he had much to learn from Mater, he suddenly knew that whatever information Joanna had to share, it was perhaps worth more than anything he could learn from Mater, Allan, Athol, or any of the rest of them.

Joanna alone appeared to hold the key of the past.