Flame (8 page)

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 do not 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 do not trust you,” she said. “They are
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 did not know me.”

“Still, I trust you.”

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

“Because I have done nothing to incur your
ill will. Because I wanted us to be at peace. You did not 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.”

“‘Twas no 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 have 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 have 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. ‘Tis 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 will earn
their respect and trust. I will earn yours.”

“Aye. So you can betray us.”

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

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 a
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 are nearly home, big fellow, and though
those two dogs, Edmund and Peter, probably have eaten
my
supper, I am 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, Gavin 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 the warrior knew he would not go far. The silence of
the night was unbroken, and Gavin 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.
The Lowlander 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 Gavin began to wonder if perhaps the rock had
indeed fallen without human assistance.

On one of the ledges of the rocky formation,
the warrior chief 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 warrior swung up
into the saddle and nudged the horse around toward the castle.

“Home, big fellow,” the laird commanded,
adding, “and if in the future you see any more ghosts, you can be
certain I will 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.