Jacques (The Sword and the Spirit Book 3), page 14
Morag shivered and squeezed her eyes shut. Sleep eventually followed, haunted by dreams, their contents confusing, often bleak. A couple of times she opened her eyes to darkness and then slid back into an uneasy slumber. When next she opened them, the darkness beyond the portal had faded to grey, hinting at dawn’s imminent arrival.
By God’s grace, today will be my last day in this hell. Today, Ruaidri will come to take me home.
The mere thought brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them away and lay still, absorbing the silence. The absolute silence. She frowned. Had Alastair left already? She looked over. No, he was still there. Oddly, in the same place as the previous evening; a dark silhouette, leaning against the paler wall of the cave. Were his eyes open? They seemed to be. He was no longer smiling, though. His jaw hung slack, his pallor greyish in the dim light.
Puzzled, she sat up and peered at him. Is he asleep? Nay, he cannae be, not with his eyes open. Sick, maybe?
An ominous sensation slithered down her spine.
“Alastair?”
He appeared to be looking right at her, yet he didn’t respond. Nor did he make any sound. He simply sat there, silent and unmoving. Morag rubbed her eyes and willed him to move. “Alastair, stop this, I beg of you.”
As she stared at him, an inner voice whispered something at the edge of her brain. A hideous truth she did not dare believe. She dug her fingernails into her arm, praying that this was nothing more than a bad dream. That she would awaken and give thanks for the relief. But the nightmare of Alastair’s terrible silence continued.
Whimpering, she grabbed a fistful of earth and hurled it at him. It hit him square in the face, striking his open eyes and gaping mouth. He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.
“Wake up, you bastard!” A sob escaped her. “Do you hear me? Wake up!”
But he didn’t awaken. Nor would he ever, she realized. Her earlier proclamation returned in full force, crushing her with its cruel irony.
“One day, Alastair MacAulay, I will look upon your dead face and give thanks for your demise.”
“Nay,” she cried, and pressed her hands to her mouth. But there was no escaping the terrifying truth. At some time during the night, Alastair MacAulay had breathed his last. Which meant he would not rise up that day, ready himself, and go off to meet Ruaidri. He would not collect the ransom, or leave the piece of parchment that would tell Ruaidri where to find her.
Which means…
Still staring at Alastair’s lifeless form, Morag shrank back, her mind reaching for a semblance of faith. Something that allowed her to believe she might survive this unthinkable nightmare. But reality swooped down like a bird-of-prey, sank its vicious talons into her hope, and snatched it away.
She would never be found. The cave had become a tomb shared by two people; one of them already dead, the other buried alive.
It was only a matter of time.
A keening sound arose in Morag’s throat. A wail of absolute terror. A desperate cry for help that she knew no one would hear.
No one.
Chapter Eighteen
Jacques opened his eyes to the chill of early dawn and the piercing cry of a bird-of-prey from somewhere overhead. He expelled a breath, relieved to be free of the clutches of a troubling dream. He recalled no clear images, but rather felt a suffocating burden of fear and hopelessness. The dream had culminated in a haunted scream, one that seemed to come from beyond the boundaries of sleep. As apparently it had. Only it belonged, not to some poor tortured soul, but to a bird soaring aloft.
A measure of doubt existed, nonetheless. He felt unsettled, as if he’d missed something important. He sat up and looked over at Pierre, who was already on his feet, preparing the horses. If there had been such a scream, the man would certainly have heard it, though he showed no sign.
“Did you hear that?” he asked, anyway.
Pierre half-turned to look at him. “Ah, you’re awake. Did I hear what?” He threw a quick glance skyward. “The bird? Aye, I heard it. Why?”
“No reason.” Jacques shrugged off his unease, bit back a yawn and scratched at his jaw. “Did you rest well?”
“Well enough, though I can’t imagine this climate is good for the bones.” He continued with his preparations. “I’m eager to be on our way. Half a day, you said?”
“About that, aye,” Jacques replied. He shivered, rolled the stiffness from his neck, and got to his feet. He needed to move, to shift the chill from his limbs. The fire, all but burnt out, served no purpose anymore. He bent to retrieve his blankets, intending to give them a shake and dislodge any debris, but paused when something fell from them. A small object, neatly wrapped in a familiar piece of linen. The sprig of white heather, he realized. Odd. He regarded the leather pouch on his belt, wondering how the buckled closure had come undone.
Praying the delicate sprig hadn’t been damaged, he unwrapped it and studied the little flowers, which, though faded, were still intact. He heaved a sigh of relief, anticipation stirring in his veins.
By midday, God willing, he’d be with Morag again. He’d waste no time, either, asking Ruaidri for permission to marry the girl. In his heart, Jacques felt he’d done all he could do as a Templar. And returning to a secular life would not make him any less devout. Nor would it break the invisible bonds of brotherhood. They would endure always. But he wanted a wife and a family. He wanted Morag.
Allowing himself a smile, he rewrapped the sprig and tucked it back into the safety of his pouch. A short while later, he and Pierre left the small clearing much as they’d found it, and set out under cloudy skies.
“I confess I’m glad to be gone from there.” Pierre crossed himself as they emerged from the trees and resumed their previous path. “There was something unsettling about that place.”
Jacques raised his brows, surprised by the admission coming from a man who never showed fear. He glanced back at the expanse of forest, which stretched off into the distance. A mist hovered over some of the tree tops, as if one of the clouds had descended from above. He recalled his strange dreams and silently agreed with Pierre. It was an unsettling place.
That same day.
Ruaidri and Ewan had set out at dawn, heading east, following the directions they’d been given. For the most part, they travelled in silence, and arrived at the foot of Meall Dubh a few hours later, just as a light drizzle started.
“This is far enough.” Ruaidri reined in at the foot of the rise and gazed up at the dense stand of pine that stood out like a stain on the face of the hillside. “I’ll go alone from here.”
Ewan also tugged his horse to a halt. “I dinnae like this, Ruaidri. Not one bit.”
“I dinnae like it either, but I’ve no choice.” Ruaidri dismounted and unfastened his sword.
“The entire thing has a bad stench,” Ewan went on, as he dismounted and looked about. “There’s a madness about it. Something that doesnae quite make sense.”
“I agree.” Ruaidri handed his weapon to Ewan. “The only thing we ken for certain is that our sister is being held captive. And I still believe it’s MacAulay who has her.”
“That would certainly explain the madness,” Ewan replied. “If she’s come to harm, I swear I willnae rest till I find the bastard, no matter who it is.’
Ruaidri untied the bag of gold from the back of his saddle and settled it on his shoulder. She’s already come to harm, he thought, though to what extent remained to be seen. “If all goes to plan, I’ll be back in a while,” he said. “In the meantime, keep your eyes open. And perhaps have a wee talk with God.”
By the time he reached the trees, the drizzle had turned to heavy rain, and the ground underfoot sucked at his boots. He paused a moment, breath clouding the air, leg muscles burning from the climb. Then, with a brief look back at Ewan, he entered the shadowed pinewood, senses on alert. The possibility of a trap certainly existed, and he had no defence against any would-be attackers.
The soft hiss of rain on the trees accompanied him as he moved toward the northeast corner of the small wood, as instructed. He followed a winding trail, trusting his sense of direction, since there was no definite path. He had no impression of being watched. To the contrary, he felt isolated. Totally alone. A perception that bothered him for reasons he did not dare examine. As Ewan had stated, there was a certain madness to all of this.
At last his destination came into view. A dilapidated stone hut, blanketed by pine needles, moss, and other woodland debris. A shelter of sorts, likely built for shepherds or hunters. Ruaidri approached the open doorway and paused. Blinking the rain from his eyes, he pivoted slowly, seeking any sign of movement among the trees. “I have the gold,” he shouted, hoisting the bag above his head like a battle trophy.
This, he knew, would be the perfect time for an ambush. A well-aimed arrow from a hidden assassin would fell him easily. By the time Ewan came looking for him, the attacker, and the ransom, would be long gone. He strained his ears, listening for the unsheathing of a blade, or the telltale creak of a bowstring, or the careless snap of a twig underfoot. But only the steady hiss of rain disturbed the silence.
His apprehension grew.
Then, from somewhere above, came the croak of a raven, a harsh, mocking sound that shook Ruaidri’s brittle nerves. Uttering an expletive, he bent to pass through the doorway and breathed in a lungful of damp stale air.
The inside showed signs of human occupation, though none appeared to be too recent. The firepit had obviously not been used in ages. Only a single faint footprint told of a visitor at some time in the past, its origin a mystery.
Place the bag of gold on the floor.
Descend to the glen, slowly.
Count to one hundred before returning.
The details of your sister’s location will be left in place of the gold.
Failure to comply, in any way, with our demands, will be a grave mistake.
Any attempt to trap or track us will be a grave mistake.
There will be no second chances.
No mercy given.
You will never find her.
Never.
Ruaidri cursed his growing sense of apprehension, set the bag on the floor, and left.
“Thank God,” Ewan said, as Ruaidri returned. “At least it wasnae a trap.”
“Saw no sign of one.” Ruaidri turned to look at the hillside, the tops of the trees now skimmed by patches of low cloud. “Did you see anyone at all?”
“Not a soul. They’ll likely make their way over the summit, so we’d no’ be able to see them from here.” Ewan regarded him for a moment. “What is it, Ruaidri?”
He grimaced. “Probably nothing.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning…” He blew out a breath. “I dinnae like what my instinct is telling me, Ewan, and it’s telling me there’s no one up there. I didnae see or hear anything that indicated a human presence, other than my own.”
“You’d better be wrong,” Ewan said, after a pause, shifting his gaze back to the wooded slope. “Nay, you have to be wrong. They’re probably making off with the ransom as we speak.”
“Well, we’ll soon find out,” Ruaidri replied. “I’ve done exactly as instructed, and I reckon they’ve had enough time to make off with the goods. I only pray to God that they’ve kept their end of the bargain.”
“Should I come with you this time?”
Ruaidri shook his head. “Nay, ’tis best you wait here. I’ll no’ be long.”
And God willing, when I return, we can go and find Morag.”
The rain had stopped by the time he reached the woods again. He followed the same path, stopped a short distance away from the shelter, and regarded the small doorway with trepidation. Silence, more profound now that the rain had ceased, surrounded him. He looked down, seeing soft indentations in the earth—a solitary trail of footprints that led straight to the shelter. His footprints.
Only his.
His throat constricted as he moved forward and peered through the doorway, knowing what he would see. And what he would not see. Sure enough, the bag of gold sat where he’d left it. Untouched.
His mind whirled, sickeningly, and he placed a hand on the door lintel to steady himself.
They’ve been delayed, that’s all. Please God, let that be all it is.
He moved a few paces from the shelter and slowly pivoted, searching the shadows for any sign of life. “Where are you, you bastards?” he shouted, his words shattering the ominous silence. Then, in a desperate murmur, “Where are you, wee lass?”
You will never find her.
Never.
He groaned and closed his eyes, unwilling to answer the nagging suspicion that whoever had her was not coming to collect the ransom. The likelihood of finding Morag without clues or direction would be close to impossible. She could be anywhere. Unwanted and disturbing images slid into his brain. God forbid she should be suffering as he once had, locked away in perpetual darkness. Worse yet, that she be at the mercy of the same man who had imprisoned him.
It makes no sense. Why demand a ransom and not come to collect it?
He gave himself a mental shake and drew breath. He needed to keep faith. The day was not yet over. Whoever had taken her would surely show up eventually. With no other choice, he retraced his steps once more, clutching at threads of ever-diminishing hope, the alternative unthinkable to him.
Ewan’s expectant expression faded as Ruaidri approached. “Christ have mercy,” he muttered. “They didnae show, did they?”
Ruaidri turned to look back at the trees. “Not yet.”
“Delayed,” Ewan said, nodding as if to affirm his own conclusion. “They’re just delayed, Ruaidri, that’s all. Likely due to the weather.”
Ruaidri heard the fear embedded in Ewan’s voice and endeavoured to keep it out of his own. “Aye, I’m sure that’s all it is,” he replied. “We only need to wait.”
Chapter Nineteen
Something was amiss.
Jacques knew it before he’d even dismounted. A pall hung over Castle Cathan like a shadow, silent and cheerless. The welcome from Duncan had, at first, been exuberant, but quickly became subdued. After the man’s initial greeting, a measure of caution crept into his voice, and his eye contact wavered.
“Is everything all right, Duncan?” Jacques asked, sliding from the saddle.
Duncan gave his head a slight shake. “Nay. In truth, things are no’ right at all, though your safe return will be gladly received, to be sure.” He nodded to Pierre who had also dismounted. “Welcome to Castle Cathan, Father. Your ministrations will also be appreciated, no doubt.”
A chill brushed across Jacques’ scalp. “What’s happened?”
“Gabriel will explain,” Duncan replied. “You’ll find him in the hall, I should think. Or the chapel.”
“Gabriel?” Jacques cast a worried glance toward the main keep. “Where’s Laird MacKellar? And Ewan?”
“They’re no’ here right now.” Duncan heaved a sigh. “I dinnae think I should say any more, Jacques. ’Tis best you hear it from Gabriel. Go ahead, both. I’ll see to the horses.”
“What, by all things holy, is going on?” Jacques muttered, as they approached the keep.
“Nothing good, I fear,” Pierre replied.
Being midday, most folks had gathered in the great hall for the repast, and a low hum of voices drifted into the corridor. Not the usual animated chatter that Jacques might have expected. He took a deep breath as he approached the doorway and, with Pierre beside him, paused on the threshold.
His gaze went directly to the head-table. The empty head-table. Frowning, he looked around the room, seeking Gabriel.
Seeking Morag.
As Jacques’ presence became noticed, the murmur of voices slid into silence and all eyes turned his way. From somewhere came the brief solitary wail of a young child. Then, at the far end of the room, a man rose to his feet. Gabriel.
Only Gabriel.
Feeling oddly like an intruder, Jacques moved into the hall. One question, out of the dozen or so milling around in his brain, pushed to the forefront. He knew Ruaidri and Ewan were absent. But where was Morag? For if she’d been there, she’d also be on her feet. He shrugged off the impression that the silence was sympathetic. Respectful. Hinting at something he did not dare to consider.
“Brother!” Gabriel’s greeting, boldly spoken, shattered the stillness. He stepped forward, extending a hand. “You are returned safe. The answer to our prayers, may God be praised. And you are not alone, I see.”
“’Tis good to see you, Gabriel.” Jacques closed his hand around Gabriel’s, whose calm expression was belied by a small tic in his cheek. “This is Father Sabatier.”
“I thought as much,” Gabriel replied, inclining his head. “I’m honoured to meet you, Father. Welcome.”
Pierre nodded. “My thanks,” he said, frowning.
Aware of all eyes on them, Jacques looked past Gabriel to where Breanna and Cristie sat. Cristie, with little Kennet in her arms, had obviously been crying. Breanna smiled at him, and then lowered her gaze.
Fear settled like a ball of ice in the pit of Jacques’ stomach. “It appears things are not as I left them,” he said. “What’s going on, Gabriel?”
“Not here, Brother,” Gabriel replied. “Come with me.”
Jacques cursed, pushed his chair back, and wandered over to the open window of the chamber, breathing deep of the salt air. He could barely grasp what he’d just been told.
Morag, violently snatched away. Father Iain, injured, his prognosis still uncertain. A tomb, violated. And a ransom note, demanding Templar gold.
It rendered him numb to his core.
“Ruaidri and Ewan left at dawn,” Gabriel said. “The location is a half day’s ride from here, apparently.”
“Do they have any idea who has her?” Pierre asked.
“Ruaidri does,” Gabriel replied, after a moment. “A suspicion only.”
