Flame

Chapter 6

6

Not a sheep. Not a shaggy red cow. Not a soul.

Gavin, riding alone toward the abbey, spurred his charger to the summit of the rocky, heather-covered hill. The last of the mists had burned off hours earlier, and only a few, solitary wisps of white marred a brilliant azure sky. But the land that met the new laird’s gaze was as empty as the vault of heaven.

To his right the waters of the loch curved away to the west. Beyond the line of peaks in the distance, Gavin knew that the Spey River flowed to the sea. And rising above the Spey, perhaps only a day or two away, sat Benmore Castle, home of the Macpherson clan. Twisting his body around, Gavin looked back over the ground he had traveled.

Above the hills, he could see Ironcross Castle, rugged and proud on its high ground overlooking the loch. It would be a good holding, he decided, once he rebuilt the south wing. And once he had dispelled the old beliefs in its curse.

The black-haired giant turned his gaze to the north. Drifting in the sky over the next hill, he could see a hawk circling and hanging in the occasional breeze. As he watched, the predator suddenly plummeted toward the ground, disappearing behind a jagged crest. To the north, the Earl of Athol was Gavin’s nearest neighbor. Gavin had seen him on a number of occasions. He was a relative of the king...and an odd man, this John Stewart.

Shrugging off his thoughts of Athol, he turned his attention back in the direction of the abbey. The place lay in a small valley leading up from the loch. Not far, Andrew had told him.

At the bottom of this hill, beside a grove of tall trees, Gavin spotted a handful of huts huddled together. Turning his steed down the slope, the new laird was disappointed to find the dwellings deserted. He had hoped to find farm folk on this trip to the abbey, but so far he had found nothing on his lands but jagged outcroppings of rock and the broad empty waters of Loch Moray.

As Gavin reached the crest of the next hill, he brought his charger to a halt. At the bottom of slope, beside a broad meandering creek, lay the ruined abbey. Stretching out from what had once been the front gates, a cluster of twenty or thirty cottages formed a thriving little village. On this side of the brook, an orchard of fruit trees ran in neat rows up the hillside, and shaggy red cattle grazed in a small herd in the pastureland. On the other side of the valley, he could see good-sized flocks of new-shorn sheep. Standing tall in his stirrups, Gavin let his eyes take in the fields of grain and other crops stretching up along the small, brisk running stream.

And he saw men and women working diligently on the land.

The happy shrieks of children drew the laird’s gaze back to the huts, and the edges of Gavin’s mouth turned up in a smile as he watched a dozen small, barefooted urchins running in playful pursuit of a dog. Allan had mentioned that Joanna had a fondness for the abbey. He could now see why. For the first time since arriving, Gavin was faced with life.

“You see? They haven’t all gone into Athol’s service,” the laird said aloud, patting the thick, muscular neck of his steed. “Well, what do you say we pay these folks a visit?”

As he rode down through the groves of trees that lined the steep hillside, Gavin considered what might have drawn these people to the ruined abbey. Certainly this valley was no better suited to farming or grazing than the land around the loch. He would need to entice them back, somehow, though perhaps they would be more than willing to come, were they to see that the new laird of Ironcross was not about to fall before some curse.

He would give them time. After all, these lands were as much a part of his domain as those surrounding the castle. It was just the distance that he wished he could do away with. Having the bustling activity of a working clan around him, that was what he missed.

Breaking out of the trees into one of the upper pastures, Gavin reined in his mount with alarm.

Not a man, woman, or child remained to be seen in either field, pasture, or village. Where he had seen workers bending to their tasks, there now lay discarded farm tools. Alert to possible trouble, he urged his stallion ahead slowly. Whatever had startled this community, Gavin could see no sign of it. As he approached the village, he glanced around at the freshly worked gardens, the baskets of vegetables abandoned in the flight. Before leaving Ironcross Castle, he’d strapped the scabbard of his broadsword to his back, and he now reached over his shoulder to loosen the weapon.

The little road that led up to the ruined abbey was eerily silent until, with a growl and a frightened bark, an agitated dog rushed at Gavin’s horse from one of the first cottages. The lone animal was the only sign of the group of children who had been chasing him so playfully only moments past. Without stopping, Gavin spoke sharply to the cur, and as horse and rider continued on, the animal retired to the hut he had defended with such valor.

Rather than stopping at one of the hovels and searching out the peasants who lived there, the laird decided to ride straight on to the abbey. Whether they were hiding in the huts or had fled into the trees beyond the orchards, Gavin was certain that their eyes were upon him. He could feel their presence, and he could feel their fear. It was he that they were hiding from, and the alarm his arrival in the village had caused disturbed him greatly. He tried to think back over everything that Andrew had said of his visit here. An odd lack of farm folk. Obviously, they had responded to his man in the same way that they had responded to him. They had simply vanished.

Beyond what had been the gates of the abbey, Gavin could see the ruined walls of the kirk. While much of the stone from the abbey walls had apparently been used to construct the village cottages, the kirk’s walls rose high above the rest. There was no roof on the building, though, and it had clearly gone unused for ages. A circle of stone huts, ruder than the thatched cottages of the village, sat to one side of the church, and as Gavin rode past the first one, he spotted the old woman.

She sat on a stone, feeding twigs into a fire. Yellow flames licked the bottom of a small cooking pot. Gavin dismounted, tossing the reins of his horse over the branch of a scrub oak, and approached her, watching keenly as she never once lifted her head or acknowledged him in any way.

“Good day to you,” Gavin called out pleasantly.

Finally, as she continued to work, the old woman’s gray eyes lifted slowly and fixed critically on his face. The Lowlander returned her appraising gaze with one of his own. She wore a veil of white, but a cross on a leather thong about her neck was the only indication of religious vocation. Her direct stare told him that she had no fear of him, though beyond that, a guarded expression hid any hint of what emotions lay beneath.

He came to a stop before her fire and crouched down across from her. “Your face is the first cheerful one I’ve come across since leaving Ironcross this morning.”

The arching of one thin eyebrow and a narrowing gaze made him retract his words. “Very well,” he said. “Yours is the only face I’ve come across to since leaving this morning.”

She lowered her eyes, seemingly directing her whole attention to preparing the fire.

“Are you Mater?” he asked bluntly.

“I am.” Her voice was strong, confident.

“I am Gavin Kerr,” he returned. “I come from...”

“I know who you are, laird,” she interrupted, lifting her gray eyes again to his face. The piercing quality emanating from their depths gave Gavin the impression that she knew more than just his identity.

He realized immediately that this was no woman for idle small talk. He also knew that she was not one to be questioned. There was something quite different about Mater, and he knew in his gut that it would be difficult to win her over. And it was true that he wanted to win her over. She was the first soul outside of Ironcross that he’d crossed paths with, but as the religious leader of the region, right now it was very important to Gavin that she accept his lairdship. From all he’d gathered from those at the castle, it was clear that the way to winning the trust of his folk was through Mater.

Mater’s attention was focused on her task. As she stirred the contents of the kettle, the picture of Joanna MacInnes flashed into Gavin’s head. It was so strange that he couldn’t shake her free of his mind. This morning, before departing Ironcross Castle, he’d followed his impulse and gone back to his room simply to look again at her portrait. It was there where Edmund had returned it, upon the hearth.

Gavin was certain now that none of his men had taken the painting. He knew that the three warriors would have taken more pleasure in gloating over their daring move than in actually stealing the portrait out of his chamber. But the whole thing still puzzled him. It was so strange to have someone go to the trouble of stealing that painting and putting it back where it had always been. The act served no purpose.

Gavin shook his head and tried to tear his eyes away from the fire.

“She would come here, you know, and do exactly as you have done.”

Mater’s words pierced Gavin’s thoughts like a bolt of the lightning. His eyes snapped up and stared into her gray eyes. “Who?” he asked unsteadily.

Mater’s eyes drifted toward the direction in which he’d come. “All alone, she would come to us, riding down that hill. She would get down from her mare and walk to this fire and sit so silently before it. Just as you are doing now.”

How could she know this? he wondered. How could she bring up Joanna’s name when he’d just been thinking of her? As far as Mater knew, he had never known the young woman. Despite what his heart kept trying to tell him, he never had so much as met her. He gazed across the fire at the old woman. One who can read thoughts, Gavin knew, can be a powerful friend...or an even more powerful foe.

“Your soul is tormented, laird,” she added. “But hers was troubled as deeply as yours.”

His face darkened and his eyes narrowed. As far as her words about him, Gavin knew his features reflected the grimness that he carried within him. But what she said about Joanna alarmed him. That portrait was a picture of youth and happiness and hope.

“Were you her confidante?” he asked. “Her advisor?”

“To her, I was Mater.”

Her simple declaration was powerful, but he wasn’t convinced. “A household of servants tell me she was happy,” he stressed. “And yet...”

“Those who knew her well are dead.”

“And you are the last living person who can tell me more about her?”

“Nay, not the last one,” she said enigmatically, shaking her head. “But there was a time when she would escape Ironcross and take refuge here. Aye, many a time we would spend a few hours here by this fire...here in the abbey.”

Gavin’s eyes drifted to the woman’s hands as she stirred the contents of now simmering kettle. “What was the reason for her misery?”

She didn’t answer his question, but instead picked up a wooden bowl.

“How could a woman of her age and place be plagued with sorrow as deep as...?” Gavin cut his own words short.

“As deep as your own?” she finished. “Nay, laird. How could a man in your place and position be so tortured as she?”

She dipped the wooden bowl into the kettle. Stretching her two hands across the fire, she offered him the steaming potion. Gavin took it.

“How?” He looked her in the eye, and then, surprised at his own openness, heard himself say plainly, “Grief.”

She picked up the wooden spoon and continued to stir again. Gavin brought the bowl to his lips.

“A man who conceals his grief,” she said, “will find no remedy for it.”

Gavin paused. “I don’t conceal it. I simply wonder if there is a remedy for it.”

“You haven’t been searching for one.”

“Perhaps no remedy exists.”

"What happens if I were to tell you that I have the answer?”

He just stared.

“Would you believe me?”

“This is foolishness.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“I’m not here to discuss my grief.” His tone was curt even to his own ear, but unexpectedly, he saw Mater’s eyes soften with understanding.

“Learn to weep, laird, and you will learn to laugh again.”

Looking at her, it occurred to him that she spoke as if she’d known him for years. And despite what he liked to admit, he knew that he did indeed conceal his grief beneath his fierce exterior. Gavin stared at her more closely. From the time that he was a lad, he had never wept. He recalled once wondering if, once started, he would ever be able to stop.

He looked down at the bowl in his hands, and his thoughts returned to Joanna and her pain.

“For whom did she grieve?” he asked gruffly.

“The answers to your questions about Joanna MacInnes await you at your keep.”

He shook his head. “All who knew her closely—the ones who could answer any questions about her—they are all dead. You said so yourself.”

Gavin watched the spark again come back into her eyes as Mater looked at him straight in the eye. He waited for her to say more, but she didn’t. Feeling the weight of the bowl in his hands, he brought it to his lips. The brew was soothing and warm as it went down.

A moment passed as Mater watched his face. Gavin returned her gaze and then finished the broth, as a curious frown creased the brow of the woman.

“Not all,” she answered then. “They are not all dead.”

Staring at her from behind the lowered rim of the bowl, Gavin waited, hoping to learn more. But the old woman was clearly done with their chat. He watched her as she raised herself to her feet and picked up a satchel that lay on the ground. Gavin sensed that he was being dismissed, but he had no desire to leave. Not yet. So he pushed himself to his feet as well, and fell in step beside her.

For the next couple of hours, Gavin walked with her as she wandered through the sun warmed hillsides surrounding the valley. Something about the way the sunlight fell on the river, on the rocks and the grass—something in the time they shared—reminded him of days he had spent as a lad in the hills around Jedburgh Abbey in the Borders. He didn’t press her to tell him more, and she seemed to tolerate his presence. He helped whenever she allowed him to—pulling a stubborn root, holding her satchel when she would relinquish it. But when they eventually reached the fields where Gavin—from the top of the hill—had seen villagers working the land, the new laird bent down and took up in his hand a cast-off hoe.

“Why are they hiding?”

“They don’t trust you,” she said. “They’re afraid.”

“But why?”

She turned her gray eyes up to his face. He could feel the sun on his back. But she never squinted or raised a hand to shield her eyes against the light. “What makes you so trusting?”

There was a sharp edge to her voice, and Gavin frowned at her, trying to understand what her question had to do with the overwhelming fear that could drive an entire village into hiding at the sight of one man.

“I decide where to place my trust,” Gavin answered.

“You accepted the broth out of my hands and drank it unquestioningly.”

“I would not pass an offering of hospitality,” he argued.

“I could have poisoned you.”

“Aye. You could have, at that. But I trusted you.”

“You didn’t know me.”

“Still, I trust you.”

“Why?” she almost hissed, frustration becoming apparent in her wrinkled features.

“Because I’ve done nothing to incur your ill will. Because I wanted us to be at peace. You didn’t run away and hide like the rest of them. You stayed out and faced me. For all that you knew, I might have come to harm you. But you trusted me, so I trusted you.”

“It was not trust, you fool,” she snapped. “I have no fear of any violence that you or any other man might bring down upon me. At my age, I have no fear of death.”

“Nor do I,” he said coolly.

She bit back her next words, and they stared at one another in silence. Gavin spoke again.

“I’ve come to the Highlands in peace. I am here to be laird, and I want the trust of you and these people.”

“They fear you. They hate you.”

Her harsh words were a blow, but Gavin shrugged them off. “I’ve done nothing to deserve their hate.”

“Perhaps, laird. But the ones before you have.”

Gavin stared for a moment. There was so much that he needed to learn about these people—about Ironcross Castle and its past. His words were clipped when he spoke again. “I cannot change what is past. I can only control the present. I can only work for the future well-being of all who live on these lands.”

“Ha! You think you can control the present?” She lifted a finger and pressed it against his chest. “You cannot force us to hear you. Nay, laird. You will have to bear the price of your predecessors’ guilt. It’s too late to—”

“Nay, Mater.” He cut her short, wrapping his giant hand around her bony fingers. He knew how easy it would be to crush them in his grip, and he could see in her face that she knew it too. But he just held the hand—gently—and let the flesh of his palm warm the coldness of her old bones. “Nay, Mater. I shall earn their respect and trust. I shall earn yours.”

“Aye. So you can betray us.”

“I do not betray a trust,” Gavin growled. “That I vow.”