True Highland Spirit (5 page)

It didn’t matter that the thought of murder turned her sick; she must protect the clan. She would go to Glasgow and do what had to be done. There was no other choice.

“I need to go after him.” Morrigan caught Alys’s eye. “I need ye to look after the clan while we all are gone.”

“Ye said I was no’ part o’ yer clan.” Alys pinched her lips together, and Morrigan realized her careless barb still stung.

Morrigan shrugged. “Ye’ve been granted a demotion. Welcome to the McNabs.”

Alys smiled brightly.

“I woud’na be so pleased. Ye’ve ne’er wintered wi’ us before.”

Alys sat beside her on the bench and took Morrigan’s hand in hers. “I will care for them, my sister.”

“I know ye will,” said Morrigan softly, giving Alys’s hand a squeeze.

Morrigan stood and strode from the room before Alys could say anything more. Emotions rose dangerously to the surface, and Morrigan could not afford to be anything but heartless.

She needed to begin her journey.

She needed to kill the bishop.

Morrigan slunk through Glasgow, just one shadow among many. She avoided the warm, delicious smells wafting from the Boar’s Head Inn. She skirted around the raucous laughter and inviting orange glow of the Sword and Thistle. She did not wish to be remembered. Not when her visit to Glasgow may end in murder.

Morrigan had spent the past two days trying to ascertain the location of the bishop of Glasgow and her brother Archie McNab. Not wanting to call attention to herself by asking questions, she had shadowed the local populace, listening to their conversations. She had discovered the bishop was alive and well, but of Archie she heard nothing. Perhaps that was for the best. If he had been arrested for attempting to kill the bishop, she was sure she would have heard something in the fishmongers’ gossip.

Trouble was, she had very few options. The bishop was alive. Archie was missing. And Morrigan was out of time. Her preference, if she had to kill someone, was to kill the author of the message demanding she kill the bishop. But who had sent the message? Only Archie knew the answer and he was annoyingly absent.

Morrigan skirted the town and slipped around to the back of Glasgow Cathedral toward the bishop’s castle, which served as the residence for the bishop. Sneaking around the back, hidden from view by thick forest, she leaned against the cool stones of the outer wall surrounding the impressive, five-story castle. She paused to think, surely there must be a better way. To murder a bishop was unthinkable. And yet, if she did not, how many of her clan would die? The soot-streaked face of the baby returned to her. The babe would die without food, as would her mother and many others.

The bishop’s life was the price for the survival of her clan. Her soul was also the price to be paid, for though her grasp on theology was weak, Morrigan knew that if she murdered a bishop, she would be damned to hell. One evil act would cost her more than he, for he would go on to his reward, while she would be doomed to burn in agony for all eternity.

Morrigan turned her face to the wall, the rough, damp stone chilling her heated skin. Was there any way to be forgiven for such an act? Morrigan considered what heroic act might undo a heinous murder, but she knew in her heart there was none. Once done, she could never be forgiven.

Morrigan climbed the back wall and crept through the darkness toward the bishop’s castle. Her stomach churned and she tasted bile. She swallowed hard. She must think of nothing except the necessity of the task ahead. If she did not succeed, her people would be killed.

Light spilled from an open window, casting a rectangular block of light on the shrubs around the building. Morrigan avoided it and snuck to the stone wall of the castle fortress. She pressed her shoulder against the rough, stone wall and crept closer to the open window.

“Will ye be needing anything else tonight, Yer Grace?” spoke a female voice from inside the window.

“Nay, thank ye. I’ll sit and read a while before I retire. Leave the candles, there’s a good lass,” replied an elderly, male voice.

Keeping to the side in the shadows to avoid being seen, Morrigan surveyed the room. An elderly man was sitting with his back to her, leaning slightly forward. The bishop made a perfect target. Could it really be so easy?

Slowly she pulled a bolt from her quiver and held her crossbow in place with her foot to draw the bow. She loaded the crossbow with a shaky hand and took aim at the bishop. She took a deep, silent breath of the cold, night air. One twitch of her finger would send her to hell eternal.

Morrigan hunched her shoulders and stared at the ground. She could not do it. And yet, her people would die if she did not act. The mothers, the children, the babe whose life she had so painfully saved. No, she could not let them die. The bishop was old. He had lived a good life, or at least a long one. It must be done. There was no other choice.

She held up the bow again. All she needed to do was pull the trigger. She bit her lip and closed her eyes. She must do it. She must. Her eyes shut, she placed her finger on the trigger.

Suddenly, something hit her in the stomach, knocking the wind from her lungs. Her crossbow triggered, firing the blot harmlessly into the castle wall. She fell backward onto the ground, someone forcing her down, covering her mouth. Fighting for breath, she knocked the man hard on the side of his head and tried to wriggle free. He grabbed her wrist before she could grab her knife and held a blade of his own to her throat.

“Hello? Is someone there?” called the bishop.

Instinctively, Morrigan froze, as did the man who held her.

“Ye be needing me, Yer Grace?” asked a woman’s voice.

“Och nay, sorry. I thought I heard something outside.” The bishop’s shadow loomed large in the window of light.

“Probably some animal,” said the woman. “Here, let’s close the shutters afore ye be hurt by some wild thing.”

The light dimmed, but Morrigan remained still. She would toss off her attacker soon enough, but first she wanted to make sure the bishop had stepped away from the window.

Her attacker also seemed to be waiting. He smelled of woodsmoke and something familiar. She was engulfed by the vague memory of something pleasant.

Things were getting out of control. In a swift move, Morrigan reached up with her legs, grabbed the man’s head between her ankles, and flung him and his knife from her. In a flash, she scrambled to her feet.

The man lunged forward, knife in hand, but stopped himself with a jerk. In the dim light his face became recognizable. “Morrigan,” his lips spoke her name without sound.

It was Jacques the minstrel.

Morrigan dove for the crossbow and came up pointing it at the wayward minstrel. He dropped his knife and slowly raised his hands. Only then did Morrigan realize she was pointing an unloaded crossbow at him. Why did he not cry out or run away? She slung back her crossbow and drew her sword. Still he made no movement. Her mind was spinning. What was he doing there?

She blinked hard to dispel him, but he was no apparition. It was the minstrel. The first man she had kissed. The only man she had kissed. The man who had since warmed her dreams. The man who just saw her try to kill the bishop. What was she going to do with him now?

She gestured him back toward the gloom of the outer wall and followed him, making sure to retrieve his knife and the bolt that had bounced off the wall. They reached the far wall and stopped. What was she supposed to do? Jacques still made no move to escape and seemed content waiting for her to decide his fate, yet Morrigan was at a loss of what to do next. A true mercenary would kill the witness and return to finish the business with the bishop.

Her limbs were heavy and her heart pounded. She barely had the strength to raise her sword. She needed to get away and think it through.

“Climb over the wall,” she hissed to the wayward minstrel. “Dinna try to escape for I can load my crossbow faster than ye can run.”

He nodded and easily pulled himself up and over the wall in one fluid motion. Morrigan scrambled after him, not easy with a sword in hand but she managed. On the other side he waited for her, making no attempt to run. She gestured toward the forest, and he obliged her by walking into the trees.

When his back was turned, she quickly sheathed her sword and loaded her crossbow, following after him into the forest. The minstrel made no attempt to escape, even when he walked through thick brush and she lost sight of him for a minute. She rushed after him, sure he would take the opportunity to flee, but she found him waiting for her on the other side, his face obscured in shadows.

After walking a good ways up a hill through the thick forest, Morrigan deemed it safe to stop. It was time to do what needed to be done. She must kill the minstrel and go back to finish off the bishop.

Ice flooded her veins, as if she had been plunged into a frozen loch. Morrigan shivered involuntarily in the silver moonlight.

“The night, it is cold. My cloak is yours.” The minstrel slowly unpinned his brown cloak and held it out to her.

“Keep it,” said Morrigan. She hardly wanted his kindness. She needed him dead. He had seen her; he knew she was going to kill the bishop.

The minstrel placed the cloak over a low-hanging branch and backed away. Morrigan took a few steps forward to ensure he did not get too far out of range, catching sight of an ominous shape by his thigh—he carried a sword!

“Yer sword, drop it!” She held the crossbow with two hands, aiming carefully. Why had he not attacked her with it? “Drop it!”

The minstrel complied without hesitation and backed away from the sword. Morrigan approached slowly and picked up the sword. It was cold and heavy in her hand. A long sword, a warrior’s sword. Why would a minstrel carry that?

“What were ye doing outside the bishop’s window?” Morrigan barked.

The minstrel shrugged. “Enjoying the sights. The bishop’s castle is quite impressive, no?”

It was a lie, but said so boldly and with such confidence that she had to force herself not to be drawn into merry conversation.

“Why do ye carry such a sword?”

“I am told the Highlands are a dangerous place, yet I have found it quite hospitable. That is for most of my visit.”

Morrigan glared at him. She was getting nowhere. Did he not understand she could kill him? “Why do ye no’ ask what I am doing here?”

“But I would never ask a lady impertinent questions, in particular when she is pointing a weapon at my head.”

“A common occurrence for ye?”

“I should hope not! But I feel I must learn from this for my future edification.”

“Yer future is quite uncertain, sir.”

The minstrel’s lips hinted at a smile. “Ah yes, that I can see with much clarity. I fear you may seek retribution for my breaking a most important rule of conduct.”

“And what would that be?”

“Never kiss the sister of your host.”

The ice in Morrigan’s veins melted instantly into fire. She gulped the cold night air, trying to cool herself down. It was good they were standing in near darkness because she had a horrible suspicion she would otherwise be caught blushing. Damn that minstrel. She needed to get away for a few minutes and clear her head.

“Sit down wi’ yer back to that tree,” Morrigan commanded.

The minstrel complied, casually reclining back against a tree. If he was concerned for his safety, he hid it well.

Morrigan stepped around him to the back of the tree. “Yer hands,” she commanded, and he readily complied, placing his arms behind himself around the tree. It was almost irritating, his lack of fight. Why would a man carrying such a sword let her tie him to a tree without any resistance? And with what was she going to tie him?

“My bootstraps might work if there be nothing else.”

Morrigan exhaled through gritted teeth. “Give them to me.”

The minstrel did so quickly, which only added to Morrigan’s frustration. She was supposed to be taking him captive, rendering him helpless. Why then did she feel he held the power?

She tied his hands behind the tree securely. If he thought she would be gentle or did not know how to tie a knot, he would soon learn his mistake. Morrigan stomped off without sparing him a glance, taking his sword and cloak with her. She tromped through the brush, not caring for her direction. She needed to get away from the mysterious minstrel and his confusing actions and befuddling words. Who was he?

Morrigan sat on a fallen tree trunk and tried to think. She had a mission. She had to kill the bishop. And she had to kill… the minstrel? She put her head in her hands. It was all starting to sound like some tragic ballad. How could she have possibly gotten herself into such a mess? The McNab curse. No matter what they did, it always came out wrong.

In the cold darkness, Morrigan realized nothing about her situation had changed. She still needed to kill the bishop, and if she left the minstrel alive he could tell everyone who did it, which could bring retribution onto her clan. Hellfire, how she hated her life.

One thing was for sure. The night would end in death.

Morrigan sat on the tree stump as the night air grew cold, and the silver moon rose above the trees. She considered many different options, but they all circled back into the same set of facts. The bishop must die to save the clan. The minstrel must die because he saw her. Morrigan pressed her head in her hands. Her damnation was complete; she was already in hell.