Flame

Chapter 9

9

The rising gusts of wind swirling around them in the kirkyard made the diminutive priest look frail against the power of the nature. The small plot of ground that Father William had been turning with the sharp stick appeared black against the pale gray of the south wing.

“The Earl of Athol was here at Ironcross the night of the fire.”

Gavin stared in surprise.

“How was it that the earl escaped the blaze while the rest perished?”

“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 knew Sir John MacInnes, I always viewed 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 Gavin to a stone bench by the bluffs on the other side of the kirk.

Waving off the offer to sit, the laird 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.

“It was 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, it was 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 haven’t 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 don’t know how it is 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. “It’s 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, it’s 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. It was 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 chapel wall, the wind swept the clerical robes against his thin frame.

The laird, 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.