Jacques (The Sword and the Spirit Book 3), page 13
Alastair returned after a short while and threw more wood on the fire, a gesture which gave Morag a little more comfort. Then he picked up the remains of the grouse and tossed it to her. “Breakfast,” he said, and bent to retrieve his cloak. “If you feel like yelling for help while I’m gone, go ahead. You’ll be wasting your time, mind. Sound doesnae escape these walls easily. And besides, there’s no’ a living soul within three miles of this place, and no one ever comes near.”
“When will you be back?” The question spilled out unbidden. Worse, her voice had a definite ring of panic to it. Angry at what she saw as a display of weakness, she clenched her fists. Alastair, to her mild surprise, didn’t mock her, but appeared to ponder.
“I dinnae ken for sure, lass,” he replied, picking up one of the saddlebags. “By nightfall, I should think. Before, if all goes well.”
Then he turned and disappeared into the murky light of dawn.
Morag peered into the surrounding shadows, trying not to think of the unearthly things that might linger within them. “He’s right,” she muttered, her teeth chattering as she settled onto the furs and curled into a ball. “The dead cannae harm me. Only the living can do that.”
Chapter Sixteen
Ruaidri and Ewan stood at the castle gate and regarded the reason for their summons. The lad must have been no more than six summers, scrawny, with a tangled halo of dark curls framing a flushed face. Small, too, the top of his head barely at the level of Ruaidri’s waist. A sackcloth bag dangled from his right hand and, judging by the breath heaving from his lungs, he’d been running hard and fast. And judging by the streaks of tears on his cheeks, he’d been running in terror.
“I swear I dinnae ken what it is, Laird,” the lad said, his lip quivering as he held out the bag to Ruaidri. “’Twas Satan himself told me to bring it. All in black, he was, sitting atop a big black horse.”
Ruaidri took the bag, which by its weight appeared to be empty, but he could tell something rested within its interior. He untied the string closure, reached into the depths, and pulled out a roll of parchment. Of course, he knew what it represented. It took all he had not to unfurl it and read the words written there. He was desperate to read them. Dreading it, as well. But he summoned up what little composure he had, and stayed his hand.
“A child,” he said, as much to himself as anyone else. “The bastard sent a child with the ransom demand.”
“Using fear as a weapon,” Ewan replied, his expression grim.
Ruaidri nodded and crouched to face the frightened boy. “Your name’s Rabbie, aye? Fingal’s lad?”
The lad sniffed. “Aye, Laird.”
“And where were you when this man appeared, Rabbie?”
“On the east side o’ the loch, on the shore near auld Lulach’s croft. I was cutting reeds when he came charging from the trees.” He gave his head a vigorous shake. “’Twas no man, though, Laird MacKellar. ‘Twas the Devil for sure. Scared the shite out o’ me, he did.”
“Did you see his face?” Ruaidri asked. “Can you describe him?”
“Um…nay. He wore a hood and a mask.” The boy shrugged. “I saw only his eyes. Red, they were.”
“Red.” Frowning, Ruaidri rose to his feet. “His eyes were red.”
“Aye.” The lad chewed on his lip. “Well, sort of. Da’s go a bit like that when he’s had a drink.”
“Bloodshot,” Ewan offered.
Ruaidri silently agreed. “Was he armed?”
“Um… aye. He had a sword.”
Ruaidri exchanged a glance with Ewan. “And what did he say to you, Rabbie?”
The lad wiped a grubby sleeve across his nose. “He asked if I knew where Castle Cathan was, an’ I said I did. Then he gave me the parchment an’ bade me take it to Laird Mac…I mean, to you. Said I had to run as fast as I could and nae stop at all or speak to anyone.” The boy’s eyes filled with fresh tears. “He said he’d be watching, an’ he’d ken if I didnae do exactly as bidden, an’ if I disobeyed, he’d find me an’ skin me alive.”
“Did you see him leave?” Ewan asked. “Did you see which way he went?”
The lad shook his head again. “Nay. I looked back the once an’ he was still there, watching me like he said he would. I didnae dare look back after that. I jus’ kept running.”
Ruaidri heaved a sigh. “You’re a brave wee lad, Rabbie, and you did the right thing bringing this to me. Dinnae fear. I’ll no’ let this devil harm you, all right?” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Are you hungry?”
Rabbie’s eyes widened a little. “Aye, a wee bit.”
“Then you can rest here a while, have something to eat, and when you’re ready, I’ll have someone take you home.”
“I’ll see to him, Laird,” Duncan said, stepping forward.
Ruaidri nodded his thanks and then turned to Ewan. “Let’s see what this whoreson is demanding,” he said. “I’ll be in my chamber. Find Gabriel and have him join us.”
By the time Ewan and Gabriel arrived, Ruaidri had already read the missive twice. Now he read it a third time, aloud for their benefit, barely able to keep the tremors of emotion from his voice.
The missive clearly detailed where and how the transaction would take place. The location; a small remote glen, laying inland to the south, its eastern edge rising up to a steep wooded slope, known locally as Meall Dubh. Ruaidri, unarmed and on foot, would climb the slope and enter the woods. At the north-eastern corner of those woods, near the summit of the hill, he would find a stone shelter, unused.
He was instructed to leave the gold inside the shelter and return to the foot of the slope, during which time the exchange would take place, unheard and unseen. Then, he would climb the slope once more to collect the written directions, which would have been left in place of the ransom.
Ruaidri’s nostrils flared as he all but spat out the last paragraph.
“The bag must be completely filled with Templar gold or the exchange will not take place. These are the terms, no negotiation. Your every move will be watched. Should you decide the lass is not worth the price, she will be taken from these shores and sold elsewhere. Be assured, without direction you will never find her.
Never.
Midday tomorrow.”
Ewan closed his eyes. “Christ have mercy.”
Gabriel frowned, but said nothing.
Ruaidri set the parchment down and regarded the two men. “There’s an issue I wish to address before we discuss this any further.”
Ewan fidgeted. “Which is?”
“The ransom itself.”
“What of it?”
“They’re demanding Templar gold specifically, but gold is gold, and if I could meet the demand personally, I would. But I cannae. Therefore, I’m obliged to ask your permission—”
“Dinnae dare finish that sentence, Ruaidri,” Ewan said, teeth gritted. “I cannae believe you even thought to begin it.”
“Indeed.” Gabriel nodded his agreement. “It occurs to me that if not for the Templar gold, Morag would not be in this predicament.”
Ruaidri acknowledged with a grim smile. “Then you should know I intend to meet their demands and cooperate fully.”
“Their demands?” Ewan grimaced. “I doubt there’s more than one person involved. I reckon he’s working alone.”
Ruaidri sighed. “I tend to agree. And believe me, I want nothing more than to call his bluff, set an ambush, and tear pieces off him till he tells us where Morag is. But I cannae take that risk. If it all goes wrong, the odds of finding her will be near impossible.”
“Assuming all goes as planned, the danger then lies in what might follow,” Gabriel said. “No one outside of Castle Cathan knows about the gold, and few know about the church. If word gets out…”
“I’ve thought about that as well,” Ruaidri replied. “And I dinnae have any answers right now. I reckon we’ll deal with it if and when we have to.”
Ewan grunted. “Aye, one thing at a time. Do you know of this glen he mentions?”
“Aye, I do. ’Tis a half-day’s ride from here, or thereabouts, on the edge of Campbell territory. That being so, I’ll be leaving at dawn.” He fingered the sackcloth bag. “I’ll need to visit the Round Church today, of course, and fill this.”
“If I understand the instructions correctly,” Gabriel said, “there’s naught to stop whoever this is from taking the gold and disappearing without leaving any clue as to Morag’s whereabouts.”
Ewan huffed. “You understood correctly, aye.”
Ruaidri rubbed his jaw. “’Tis my biggest fear. It sickens me to be entirely at this bastard’s mercy, obliged to trust his word.”
“I cannae blame you for that, given your suspicions,” Ewan said. “Did you keep any of Alastair MacAulay’s old missives, by chance?”
“Nay, the parchments have been cleaned,” Ruaidri replied. “Why?”
“I was thinking you could compare the writing.” He shrugged. “Find out if your suspicions are correct.”
“I didn’t know you suspected MacAulay,” Gabriel said. “The man is dead, surely.”
Ruaidri grimaced. “I’ve never been convinced of his death, Gabriel. Men of his ilk tend to avoid martyrdom.” He picked up the missive again and studied the untidy but confident penmanship, which told him little other than the scribe had obviously been educated. “The writing isnae familiar to me, but I can easily apply his voice to these words. It sounds like him. Arrogant, with a good measure of madness. In any case, this is no peasant. He’s nobility for sure, or someone well-bred.”
“Right, we’d best prepare.” Ewan rose to his feet. “We should leave now for the church, and I’ll be going with you tomorrow as well, Ruaidri. No arguments.”
Ruaidri shook his head. “The instructions say—”
“You have to make the exchange alone, aye, I ken,” Ewan countered. “But they dinnae say anything about someone staying back while you do it. If he—or they— are watching, they’ll see I’m nae threat. I’m going with you and that’s that.”
Chapter Seventeen
Alastair had spoken true.
The cave mocked Morag’s cries for help, bouncing them off its granite walls in a hail of echoes. Her last scream had ended abruptly, for it suddenly occurred to her that other desperate voices had once filled the bleak space. And none of them had been heeded either. Not ever.
The thought of adding her voice to the voices of those who had died there seemed sacrilegious. Almost a desecration. Alastair was mad, but she doubted he meant to kill her or he’d have done so already. And she knew Ruaidri would pay whatever price had been demanded, though she hated that it would be paid in Templar gold.
But she would survive. All she had to do was wait and pray.
So, she settled down and waited for Alastair to return. She even forced herself to eat some of the roasted grouse, telling herself she needed to stay strong. She tried to steer her thoughts onto positive ground, summoning up images of young Kennett. Thoughts of Jacques, too, though they brought their own measure of sadness with them. She prayed for him. And prayed for herself.
The fire eventually burned itself out, and Morag pulled one of the furs over herself to ward off the chill. Time passed, unmeasurable.
She didn’t remember falling asleep.
When next she opened her eyes, it was to the sound of her breath rattling in her lungs. Without moving her head, she glanced about, seeing no sign of Alastair. The light beyond the cave entrance had grown markedly dim, signalling the end of the day, which meant he’d likely be returning soon. Then a sudden thought stilled her laboured breathing. Heart quickening, she sat up and stared at the cave entrance. Was it evening? Or had she slept through the night, and the cheerless light actually belonged to a new dawn?
Because if this is a new day, that would mean he didnae return last night. What if some misfortune has befallen him? What if he’s injured and unable to return? A growing sense of panic drew a soft cry from her. What if he’s dead?
God help her, she’d never be found. She’d surely die here; a slow, torturous death from starvation, akin to being buried alive. Panic, like cold hands, squeezed her throat as she tugged on the chain that held her, the rust-coated metal chafing her hands. The stake, hammered deep into the rock, scorned her attempt.
“Come on,” she whimpered, through gritted teeth. She dropped the chain and pushed at the iron fetter, trying to force it over her foot. The harsh metal shaved her flesh raw and brought tears to her eyes. The pain, and the sheer futility of her effort, only added to her mounting terror.
Then a sound drifted in from outside and she held her breath, straining her ears, wondering if she’d imagined the rattle of horse harness.
“Please, God,” she whispered, hardly breathing as her gaze once again fixed on the entrance. At last, to her absolute relief, a familiar silhouette appeared in the opening.
Alastair! Oh, thank God. Thank God!
Morag brushed the tears from her eyes, pulled her knees up to her chin, and covered her bloodied ankle with her skirts. Then she drew a steadying breath and tried to hide the relief that undoubtedly showed on her face.
He approached and tossed a rabbit’s carcass on the ground. “Miss me?”
“Terribly,” she replied, not without some measure of honesty.
Swaying slightly, his scrutiny of her continued, but with the addition of a frown. Her previous fear had not quite ebbed. Had he heard it in her response? “Aye, well, providing your brother pays the ransom,” he said, “you’ll be missing me all the more after tomorrow.”
Morag couldn’t help but ask. “And if he doesn’t?”
“Then he’ll be missing you permanently. But I’m guessing he’ll pay up. And while I’m thinking about it.” He pulled the shackle-key from his pocket and waved it at her before placing it on a natural stone shelf by the entrance, well out of her reach. “He’ll be needing this.”
She huffed. “No matter what happens to me, Ruaidri will never stop looking for you, I guarantee it. If it takes the rest of his life, he’ll find you and kill you.”
Alastair snorted. “I’ll never submit to a MacKellar blade. I’d submit to my own first.” He dragged his forearm across his brow, pulled a dirk from his belt, and picked up the rabbit. “Hungry?”
She didn’t answer, only watched in silence as he set the fire and prepared the rabbit. Something about him seemed different. He appeared agitated. Almost confused. Occasionally, his lips moved as if speaking silent words. As well, a faint sheen of sweat glimmered on his brow, and his hands visibly trembled as he worked.
The effects of too much wine, perhaps.
No sooner had the assumption crossed her mind than he picked up one of the wine skins, pulled the stopper, and tried to draw from it. A moment later, he uttered a curse, tossed the skin aside, and picked up another. That, too, appeared to be empty, judging by the way he hurled it against the wall.
“Bollocks,” he muttered, scowling as he continued to prepare the meal. Morag pondered. Maybe too much wine wasn’t the problem at all. Maybe he suffered for the lack of it. She dared to goad him.
“You seem to be a wee bit out of sorts, Alastair. Is it a drink you need, perhaps?”
His lip furled as he skewered the rabbit. “Careful, lass. I’m no’ in the mood for any nonsense.”
She tapped a finger to her chin. “’Tis said men who are enslaved to the drink get the trembles if they’re deprived of it. They see and hear strange things, too. Hellish things that dinnae exist. Is that true, Alastair? Are you seeing things that are no’ really there? Are there demons muttering in your—?”
With a roar, he lunged forward, dropped to his knees, and grabbed her by the throat. “Did you no’ hear what I said?”
She let out a choked cry and tugged at his wrist. “Let… let me go, you’re choking—”
“Aye, there are demons muttering in my ears,” he growled, his foul breath wafting over her face. “Do y’ken what they’re telling me to do to you?” Still holding her by the throat, he squeezed her breast with his free hand. “You should be mine. You were supposed to be mine.”
“Take your hands… off me!” Morag hooked her fingers and went for his face, but he jerked out of reach.
“I’d have given you anything you wanted, Morag MacKellar.” Chest heaving, he released her and sat back on his heels. “Anything at all.”
“You still can,” Morag replied, drawing a shaky breath. “I want you to let me go.”
“I will, when your brother gives me what I want. Now, keep your damn mouth shut, or I’ll shut it for you.” Mumbling to himself again, he returned to preparing the meal.
Morag touched her throat, where the pain of his grip still lingered. The fire blurred behind a sudden veil of tears as the shock of his assault took hold. Yet she couldn’t help but feel some gratification at his intense reaction. Words were her only weapon and her barbs had undoubtedly stung, though she realized she’d pushed him far enough. As he’d already pointed out, he could kill her if he wanted to and still collect the ransom. That being so, she resolved to stay quiet.
Later, despite having no appetite, she took the meat he offered, forcing herself to eat from necessity. Alastair, meanwhile, ate like a man long starved, sucking the small bones clean before tossing them aside. Then he belched, wiped his greasy beard on his sleeve, and stood. “Dinnae go anywhere,” he said, and wandered out into the night, likely to relieve himself. Morag settled down on her furs, curled up, and closed her eyes.
When he returned a short while later, she feigned sleep, peering at him through her lashes. With another belch, he settled by the fire, leaned back against the wall of the cave, and stared into the flames. Then, as if aware of being watched, he turned to face her and, to her great surprise, gave a wistful smile. “Anything, lass,” he said. “Anything at all. Damn you.”
