Jacques (The Sword and the Spirit Book 3), page 12
“About what?”
“The Templar gold stowed somewhere on MacKellar land, and dinnae insult me by denying its existence. I reckon it’s hidden somewhere in that church, and I’ll be needing some of it afore I tell your arsehole brothers where to find you.” He bent to her ear again, his vile breath souring her nostrils. “They’ll never find you otherwise, mo chridhe. I guarantee it.”
“Well, you’ve proved me right, Alastair MacAulay,” she said, through gritted teeth. “I was right to deny your proposal. Only a cloth-brained wench would consider marrying you.”
His right hand lifted and, expecting a blow, Morag flinched, making him laugh. “Och, I’d have enjoyed taming you, lass. I still might, yet.” His hand returned to her ribcage and slid upwards, stopping just beneath her breast. “Tell me, has that French Templar scratched his itch with you yet?”
Morag tensed. “You’re disgusting.”
“Aye, I am.” His hand inched higher. “Has he?”
“Nay, he hasnae!” She shoved at his arm with her own. “He’s no’ even here anymore.”
“Where’s he gone?”
“Back to France.”
There followed a pause. Then, “Christ. He’s either got a hefty pair of bollocks or he’s lost his wits. The latter, I suspect.” He shifted his weight. “Obviously didnae think too much of you, lass, if he’s away home.”
Morag gritted her teeth. “You couldnae even begin to understand his reasons for leaving, Alastair.”
“If he’s gone back to France, what’s to understand?” he countered. “He’d better no’ be wearing that white garb anymore. I hear they’re using Templars for kindling over there.”
It would have hurt less if he’d struck her. As she opened her mouth to reply, the horse sidestepped again and Morag’s focus shifted as she became aware of something up ahead. A series of strange black shapes among the trees. A structure of some sort, crudely built and, apparently, long abandoned.
A prickle of apprehension wandered over her scalp.
“What is this place?” she muttered, more to herself than Alastair. He answered anyway.
“’Tis a place of great evil.” He sniffed. “At least, it is for those daft enough to believe in such horseshit. I dinnae hold with the stories. The dead hold no fear for me.”
A place of great evil? Morag searched her brain for knowledge of such a place, cursing the persistent throb in her head, which dulled her ability to think.
The shapes became clearer as they drew near. Massive stones, five of them, hewn into shape by human hands centuries before. They jutted from the earth like giant fingers, forming a half-circle. Three of them stood upright. The other two stood drunkenly askew, as if they’d been impacted by some great force.
A pagan shrine, then, lost to time. Such things were not uncommon in Scotland, but this one had an unsettling presence. Morag’s flesh crawled with unease as she regarded the ancient site.
Did Alastair actually live here? She saw no sign of a shelter. No hut or croft where a man might sleep. She wondered where he’d been for the past year, if his unbalanced mind had completely detached from any and all reason. How did he live? Was there any semblance of sanity left at all? Did he mean her physical harm?
An unexpected stab of pain shot through her head and nausea clutched at her stomach. She gripped the horse’s mane as the world around her tilted and her vision assumed a strange pinkish hue. If not for Alastair’s arm about her waist, she’d probably have ended up on the ground, though he didn’t appear to notice her distress. She feared what unseen damage he might have done to her skull.
God, help me. Breathe, Morag. Breathe.
The world righted itself as Alastair steered around the great stones. The horse set its ears back and snorted in obvious disapproval. Morag shared the animal’s unease. The surrounding silence was palpable and the air carried a faint odour of decay, like that of a stagnant pond. It occurred to her that she’d seen no sign of life since she’d awoken. The buzz of a fly, perhaps, but naught of warm blood. No birds, no deer, no small woodland creatures.
They moved past the stones and followed a rough path along an exposed vein of black rock. It jutted from the earth like the sharp edge of a sword, as if a giant warrior lay buried there, his exposed weapon resting at his side.
Something about the image tugged at Morag’s memory.
“I confess I’m in a fine mood.” Alastair’s voice split the silence, startling her. A lusty belch followed. The subsequent whiff of wine, and whatever else fermented in his belly, caused Morag’s nostrils to flare in disgust. He still abused the drink it seemed, though she wondered how he came by his supply. Hadn’t Brochan mentioned something about communion wine being stolen from the kirk? Maybe Alastair was the culprit.
“I’d like to see the expressions on your brothers’ faces right now,” he went on. “I warrant their mood isnae quite as jovial as mine.”
The remark, and the image it created, drew tears to Morag’s eyes. Ruaidri and Ewan would be utterly heartsick. Ruaidri especially, who’d undoubtedly be blaming himself for her abduction.
It wasn’t your fault, Ruaidri.
Alastair’s grip on her strengthened as he turned the horse down a sharp slope. It looped back the way they’d come, descending into a deep gully, hemmed on both sides by lofty walls of natural rock. Daylight, what little remained of it, barely penetrated the dismal depths.
They were below the ancient stones now. Morag peered up at them. From this angle, they seemed taller. More ominous. Another chill ran across her scalp.
“What is this place?” she asked again. “It must have a name.”
“Chateau MacAulay,” Alastair replied, and fired a wad of saliva past her ear. “Though you likely ken it as Holger’s Pit.”
The elusive memory at last revealed itself in her mind, and with it came the stories, the grisly tales of torture and death. She gasped and twisted around to look at Alastair. “Nay,” she cried, “You cannae mean—”
The sudden movement caught up with her, sending a fresh burst of pain through her skull. A crippling wave of dizziness followed a heartbeat later, sending the murky surroundings into another violent, nauseating spin. The world bled colour again. Not pink this time, but a rich, deep red. Like blood.
“Christ help me,” she whispered, as the red faded to black.
“Wake up!”
The man’s gruff voice had a resounding echo that drew Morag from the darkness. It had a touch of annoyance to it, as well. Then something—someone—nudged her foot, startling her. “Come on, lass. Open your eyes.”
She opened them a smidgen, only to close them again as the brightness of a flame blinded her. The residual image remained on the inside of her lids, however, stirring her sluggish senses into consciousness. The softness of fur rested against her cheek. Her head played host to a low rhythmic pulse of pain. She breathed in the pungent odours of woodsmoke and roasting meat, neither of which erased an underlying stench of human leavings. She tried to move, but her sluggish limbs refused to obey.
Worse, with her growing awareness came an ominous sense of foreboding. Something was wrong. Something had happened. The horror of it lingered at the edge of her brain, like a predator waiting to pounce. Fearful of tempting it forth, she lay quiet and willed it to go away.
The man nudged her foot again, more forcefully this time. “Come on! I ken you’re awake.”
His voice was familiar and had an urgency to it. Perhaps even a touch of fear. Maybe she needed to awaken. Maybe sleeping was the thing to be feared. Swallowing over a dry throat, Morag turned her face away from the flames and opened her eyes again. More confusion, as her sluggish brain struggled to make sense of the craggy surface overhead, which rippled with firelight and shadows. Then one of the shadows, much larger than the rest, loomed over her.
“About time,” the man said. “Sit up. Look at me.”
She groaned. “Where…?”
Snarling, he grabbed her elbow, and pulled her to sitting. “Did you no’ hear what I said?”
With a yelp of pain, Morag tugged her arm free and used it to brace herself against a swirl of dizziness.
“Look at me, lass,” the man said, snapping his fingers in her face. She did so, and the resulting shock brought back all that had happened in sickening detail.
She felt for the tenderness at the back of her skull and cast a fearful glance around the cavern. Shaped like a shallow dome, it was loftier than she’d imagined, with a roof that rose to the height of two men. Wider and deeper, too. Despite the fire and a couple of flickering candles, the outer edges remained in darkness.
Growing up, she’d heard the terrifying stories about what had occurred here. The tales had kept her awake at night, fearful of the monsters lingering in the shadows. Holger’s Pit was believed to be a cursed place. A portal to Hell. Holger had been a Norse giant and a depraved madman, suspected of torturing and killing many innocent souls. When at last hunted down, he’d set himself alight rather than be taken captive, and laughed as the flames consumed him.
Morag saw no sign of the horrors that had once taken place there, but Alastair’s occupation of the cave was quite evident. An open graveyard of animal bones littered the floor around the hearth. A pallet lay adjacent to the back wall, near the fire. Beyond that stood a small barrel, with a couple of bows, a quiver of arrows, and a sword propped up beside it. Other bits and pieces lay here and there; wineskins, wooden plates, tools, chains and ropes, items of clothing, a couple of saddles, all scattered haphazardly. Several saddlebags also lay in a disorganized heap nearby. There was no sense of order. Only chaos.
“Look at me!”
The harsh demand, echoing off the walls, startled her. She lifted her gaze and regarded her captor again. The interim months, it seemed, had not been overly kind to Alastair MacAulay. He’d always had a feral look about him. Even more so, now. Unkempt tawny hair hung down past his shoulders, matching the beard that obviously needed grooming. His face, what she could see of it in the low light, appeared haggard and weatherworn. Only his eyes were precisely as she remembered; close-set, red-rimmed, and glittering with all the cunning of a fox.
Another madman who has taken up residence in this hellish place.
“You have my permission to speak,” he said, frowning at her with an expression that, oddly, seemed to be one of concern.
“I have naught to say to you.” She cast another fearful glance around the cavern and suppressed a shiver. “Except you willnae get away with this.”
His frown cleared. “I already have. My plan is iron-clad and willnae fail. Unless, of course, your brother refuses to pay up. But I suspect he’ll comply, since he likely wants you back in one piece.”
She glared at him. “May your cock rot.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “Ever the lady.” Rocking on his heels, he tucked his thumbs into his sword belt. “Hungry? I cooked a grouse.”
She gritted her teeth, hating to be at his mercy. “Thirsty.”
He nodded past her. “There’s a spring there, behind you, leaching from the wall. The water’s good, so help yourself. There’s a bucket there too, should you need to use it.”
A weight dragged at her leg as she twisted around to look for the spring. Understanding followed instantly. With a cry of dismay, she bent and pulled her skirts aside. An iron shackle, attached to a chain anchored in the nearby cave wall, held her firmly by the ankle.
“Och, nay, you cannae…!” She tugged at the chain, which held fast. “Take it off, Alastair. Please.”
He shook his head. “It stays on till your brother comes to get you, which shouldnae be too long, assuming he cooperates.”
“Take it off!” She bared her teeth. “I willnae be chained like an animal.”
“Cease your griping, woman. ’Tis no’ as though you cannae move about. You have furs to sleep on and you’ll be fed and watered.” He sat down by the fire and pulled a chunk of meat from the roasted grouse. “The last poor bastard who wore that chain likely didnae fare so well.”
She gasped and regarded her fetters with fresh horror. “Nay!”
He chuckled. “Och, I’m toying with you, lass. The chain belongs to me. The shackle too. The anchor was already here, though, so it could well be the spot where auld Holger chained up his victims.”
Fury warmed Morag’s cheeks. “I swear you’ll be damned to Hell, Alastair MacAulay. Only a godless man would jest about such things. That you choose to live in such an evil place is proof that the Devil has already taken your soul.”
He shoved a piece of meat in his mouth and shook his head. “I dinnae believe in such shite,” he said, chewing as he spoke. “Like I said, the dead are nae threat. Only the living.”
“I thought you were dead.” Morag hugged herself. “I hoped you were dead.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“It’s been months since you disappeared.” She glanced around the cavern again. “Have you been hiding here the entire time?”
Alastair shoved another piece of meat into his mouth and poked at the fire with a stick, stirring a fresh flame. “None of your business.”
She huffed. “Well, you willnae get away with this.”
“Aye, so you keep saying, and it’s becoming tiresome.” He pulled the cork from a wineskin, took a long pull at the contents, and then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Thing is, I have naught to lose by trying, whereas your arsehole brothers stand to lose their wee sister.” He belched. “So, I believe the advantage lies with me.”
She parted with another huff. “I still cannae fathom why you did what you did to Ruaidri. Holding him captive like that, starving him near to death, and sending your henchman to kill him. What was his name? Tasgall, aye? And then you killed him, a man who had stood by you and shown you naught but loyalty. And as for how you blackmailed Cristie, your own sister—”
Alastair emitted a low growl. “Watch that mouth o’ yours, lass. You’ve just described what I’m capable of.”
Morag heard the implied threat, but she had one final arrow that begged to be loosed. “Well, you’re right about one thing, Alastair MacAulay, and that is, you’ve naught to lose. You lost everything when last you tangled with the MacKellars.”
To her bewilderment, Alastair appeared nonplussed by her scorn. He wiped his fingers on his trews, reached back, and pulled a couple of parchments from one of the saddle-bags. “I wrote these while you were snoring,” he said, squinting at the papers. “The first is a letter addressed to your brother, Ruaidri MacKellar, Laird of Castle Cathan. It explains what I have and what I want. What I have is you. What I want is a bag full of Templar gold to be delivered to a specific place on the morrow at midday. My instructions are quite clear, and must be followed to the letter if he wishes to learn of your whereabouts. I’ll be delivering it to him today. Anonymously, of course.” He scratched at his beard. “I havenae quite figured out how to place it in his hands yet, but I’m sure I’ll sort it.” Setting the top parchment aside, he gave Morag a quizzical look. “Are you following me so far, lass?”
She huffed, but said nothing.
“Good.” He turned his attention back to the parchment still in his hand, and waved it at her. “This is a list of directions on how and where to find you, which will be given in exchange for the gold. The way I’ve planned it, however, means there’s naught stopping me from simply taking the ransom and leaving no clues as to your whereabouts. Do you understand what I’m saying, Morag MacKellar? I dinnae have to give you back. I dinnae have to let you live.” He held a corner of the paper close to the flame. “I dinnae have another piece of parchment either, so if anything happens to this one…”
Morag gasped as the corner caught fire. “Alastair!”
Smirking, he blew out the flame. “Now, tell me again how I lost everything when I tangled with the MacKellars.”
She furled her lip. “I hate you to the depths of my soul.”
He laughed, tucked the papers back in the saddlebag, and rose to his feet. “I ken you do, lass, and it excites me. I swear I’m tempted to take the ransom and you as well.”
Morag shuddered inwardly. “I’d rather die.”
“Another alternative worthy of consideration,” he replied, and strode toward the cave entrance. Darkness lay beyond it, black as pitch.
“Where are you going?” For the first time, Morag wondered at the hour. How long had she been unconscious?
“For a piss and to ready the horse,” he said, over his shoulder. “It’ll be light soon, and I have a ransom note to deliver.”
Morag waited till he’d left, and then studied the shackle around her ankle once more. Kicking off her shoe, she pointed her toes and tried to push the iron band over her heel, whimpering at both the pain and the futility of her effort.
There has to be a key somewhere.
She eyed the saddle bags, which seemed to be the most likely place to look, and wondered if she could reach them. With a reassuring glance at the empty cave entrance, she crawled toward the fire, only to be jolted to a halt by the chain. She then lay flat on her belly and stretched out a hand, tears of sheer frustration burning her eyes. “Please, God. Please.” But she couldn’t even reach the fire, let alone the saddle bags.
Overcome by fatigue and a growing sense of hopelessness, she pillowed her arms and rested her forehead on them. “Damn you, Alastair MacAulay,” she said, breathing hard. “I swear I’ll—”
“By Odin’s balls, lass, do you really think I’m that daft?” The mocking voice echoed around the cavern walls. Morag lifted her head to see Alastair grinning at her from the entrance.
She pushed herself onto her knees. “One day, Alastair MacAulay, I will look upon your dead face and give thanks for your demise.”
He laughed and turned away. Weary to the bone, Morag crawled back to her pile of furs, her attention drawn to the wall beyond. It had a dark, vertical stripe, caused by water trickling from a crack higher up in the rock. The spring Alastair had mentioned. The sight of it renewed her neglected thirst, and she shuffled over to catch some of the drips in her palm. Her belly growled as she drank, though she had no desire to eat. Alastair would be leaving soon, and the anxiety of being left alone sat like a lump of lead beneath her ribs. At least, she thought, there’d be some daylight. She couldn’t begin to imagine being left alone in the dark.
