Flame

Chapter 7

7

The sun dropped from sight behind the high walls of Ironcross Castle as Gavin descended the last hill into the gorge, and it was fairly dark by the time he reached the jumbled slabs of rock that leaned against one another beside the path. The rocks looked nearly white in the gathering gloom; there were dozens of the strange formations in the gorge, looking like an army of hideous monsters in the twilight.

He had never expected to be returning so late. But when he’d started for the abbey in the morning, he had never even hoped to learn so much in just one day.

Mater was certainly a fascinating woman. She had a kind of gruff charm about her that Gavin found quite engaging. Sometimes, the honest way that she spoke had been both heart-wrenching and enlightening. But as the afternoon had worn on, she had also spoken in what had the appearance of riddles. He was certain, though, that her words were intended to give him some clues about the origin of the curse that everyone believed hung over Ironcross Castle. After what he had heard today, Gavin knew that most of the truth that he was in search of lay in the combined histories of the abbey and the past lairds of Ironcross, both. What it was, however, she would not tell him.

In spite of her obstinacy in that, though, before the day had ended and Gavin had taken his leave, he was certain that he had somewhat effected a change in Mater. Though she clearly had no goodwill for the past lairds—and in spite of her open declaration that she would not trust him—she had become almost agreeable as the day went on. And before end of the day, Gavin had even spotted a few workers returning to the fields. Very few, he recalled, but today he had at least made a start.

Gavin’s thoughts were drawn back to the present by the tossing of his steed’s head as the trail narrowed. He patted him on the neck to calm him.

“Aye, Paris,” the laird said aloud, “I can see the castle as well. We’re nearly home, big fellow, and though those two dogs, Edmund and Peter, probably have eaten my supper, I’m quite certain they’ve saved some oats for your...”

The boulder, large enough to crush Gavin’s skull, grazed him on the shoulder with enough impact to unhorse the giant, sending him crashing into the rock wall beside the path.

Springing to his feet, he whipped his broadsword from its scabbard and peered up at the rocky overhangs for his attacker. His startled charger had skittered off into the darkness, but Gavin knew the animal would not go far. The silence of the night was unbroken, and the laird could see nothing.

His heart hammering in his chest, Gavin’s mind suddenly flooded with those words of warning. The curse! No laird of Ironcross Castle has died of old age for centuries. He shook his head, disgusted with himself. He was simply not going to allow nonsense to cloud his mind or rule his actions.

Moving cautiously across the path, Gavin knelt beside the boulder. One man could lift it—he was fairly certain of that. Two men could easily handle it, and perhaps aim it with some precision. One man, or perhaps even a woman, could roll it from a ledge. Gavin could feel blood running down the side of his face where he had struck the rock wall, and he flexed the muscles in his shoulder.

Quietly, Gavin sheathed his broadsword and drew his dirk. Holding the dagger in his teeth, he quickly crossed to the base of the mound of rocks and began to climb. This mound rose fairly high above the floor of the gorge, and there were a number of places that the boulder could have fallen from.

The night was still, but for the sound of Paris stamping and snorting with impatience a few yards down the path. Gavin climbed carefully, but there was no movement above. And there was no one to be found. Though it was dark, not a shadow moved anywhere, and he began to wonder if perhaps the rock had indeed fallen without human assistance.

On one of the ledges of the rocky formation, he stopped and looked about him. The walls of Ironcross Castle loomed up high and black, and the laird could see a sentinel lighting torches as he made his way along the parapet. Above him the stars were like diamonds on the black velvet sky. There was no point in going up any further, he decided. Not without a torch.

Shaking his head, Gavin sheathed his dirk and started down. At the bottom, he whistled for Paris, and the huge animal trotted over. With a grunt of pain, the laird swung up into the saddle and nudged the horse around toward the castle.

“Home, big fellow,” he commanded, adding, “and if in the future you see any more ghosts, you can be certain I’ll be paying you closer heed.”

Joanna froze at the creaking of the great oak door.

Standing in the center of underground crypt, the young woman looked around in terror. Never in the past had Mater and her cult entered the castle on any night other than the night of a full moon. At least, not on any night that she was aware of. Why were they coming tonight? The one night Joanna had chosen to finalize her plan for justice.

Panic swept through her at the heavy metallic clack of the door’s ancient lock. She knew she needed to hide, and she silently flew across the stone floor toward the shadowing recess beside the altar-like table. The oil lamp that sat on the table, burning eternally, flickered with the threat of exposing her.

The sound of footsteps echoed down the tunnel as Joanna threw herself into the dark refuge. Pressing up against the wall, she held her breath as the steps paused at the entry to the crypt. One of the thick pillars obstructed her view of the door, but Joanna suddenly realized that the trespasser was alone. There was no talking, no hushed whispers...this was no cult gathering. She waited, but there was no sound. Whoever stood at the entrance was waiting, as well. If the intruder came in and searched, Joanna knew she would be found. She put her hand to the dirk in her belt.

After what seemed to be an eternity, whoever it was moved on down the tunnel.

Joanna waited a few more moments, but no one returned, and she let out a long sigh of relief. But then, an urgent sense of worry tugged at her senses. There was something terribly wrong. It had to be one of Mater’s women who’d come, but why hadn’t she come into the vault?

Joanna wracked her brain as she stepped out into the crypt again. Why else would someone use that oaken door to enter the castle? These tunnels were never used as passageways by house servants, or by hungry peasants seeking shelter. Since the time Joanna had been hiding here, Mater and her evil followers had been the only intruders.

The young woman looked about, making certain she had left no clues to her presence there. Then she silently made her way out of the crypt. She wasn’t finished with what she had come here to do, but there was still about a fortnight left to the next full moon. There was still time left to plan her final revenge.

Standing in the pitch-black of the tunnel, she listened for noises, but there was nothing. Once again, the stillness of the earth enveloped her. To her right the long, deep caverns and passages, burrowing beneath Ironcross, awaited her. To her left the oaken door. It was so close. It seemed to beckon to her in the darkness.

She went to it.

Joanna knew the huge iron key hung suspended from a spike driven into the stone wall, and hesitantly she felt for it. The ancient metal was cool on her fingertips, and she took it down, slipping it into the lock and turning it.

Drawing a deep breath, Joanna opened the door and peered into the darkness behind her. There was nothing. No sound. No sign of life. Turning back to the open door, she stepped through and pushed cautiously along in the darkness. Soon the tunnel wall gave way to the stone walls of a small cave, and as the passage widened, a brush of cool night breeze swept through her hair. Like some starving beggar who finally sits at table, Joanna filled up her lungs with the fresh heather-scented air until she thought she might burst.

Suddenly, she was out from under the roof of cave, and above her the stars sparkled with a brilliance like no time she could ever recall. The ability to breathe, to feel the cool breezes pulling gently at her clothes, at her hair—these were sensations Joanna thought she would never experience again. Like a prisoner chained in a deep pit, she had sentenced herself to confinement inside this castle. For more than six months, she had buried herself in what was—for her—the labyrinthine tomb beneath Ironcross. And it was a tomb from which there could be no escape. Her death could be the only end to this sentence.

She raised her hands high in the air, allowing the soft night air to wrap about her, to caress her body.

A low whistle, and then the sound of a horse floated upward to her, jerking her abruptly out of her reverie. Joanna peered down over the ledge.

It was he. The laird.

She was close enough to him to hear the man grunt with pain as he swung up onto the charger.

As she watched him ride off toward the castle, Joanna glanced back into the gloom of the tunnel, and then looked over the edge again at the trail below. As accustomed as her eyes were to the darkness, she could see clearly enough to realize what had happened. There was a boulder in the center of the path. Whoever had passed by the crypt had pushed the rock from this ledge.

Joanna gazed at the new laird as he disappeared into the night. He had once again escaped death.

But how much longer could he survive the evil of this keep? Joanna asked herself. Till the next full moon? If the man’s luck could only last until then, she would set things right.

She would watch over him until then, she vowed. She had to.