Chapter 17

Chapter 17

How pleasant to see you both," Waldron said with a deep bow.

"Where is Princess Margaret?" Adela asked, looking bewildered.

Isobel grimaced. "I warrant she is in her bedchamber, preparing for bed, and would be most astonished to learn that she had sent for us. What do you want with us, you villain?"

Waldron looked amused. "What I'd like most, Mistress Wasp, is to have the schooling of you long enough to teach you a woman's proper place in this life."

"Indeed, Isobel, lass," Abbot Mackinnon said dulcetly, "a wiser woman wouldna speak to any gentleman in such an impertinent way. She'd show more respect, and forswear enmity, for good manners are the bulwark of civil behavior."

Isobel met his harsh gaze and said evenly, "‘The path of the just is a shining light,' or so I once heard you say, my lord abbot. If you are in league with this man, mayhap 'tis because you do not know his wicked ways."

"Such evil words corrupt good manners," the abbot said sternly.

"But truth is great and will endure," she retorted, grateful for once for her aunt Euphemia's deep-rooted habit of quoting Scripture and any philosopher whose words appealed to her. Isobel certainly knew Bible verses when she heard them, and if the Green Abbot kept spouting them at her, she would just spout them right back. "This man took me prisoner just a short time ago and threatened to let all his men have their way with me," she went on. "You once claimed friendship with my family, sir. Do you condone such fiendish treatment of your friends?"

Waldron snapped, "Enough of this farce. Abbot Mackinnon knows I serve the cause of God, His Kirk, and His Holiness the Pope. Therefore, I am without sin."

"If your god forgives what you do, he is no god of mine," Isobel snapped.

Adela gasped. "Isobel, you speak sacrilege!"

"You do, indeed," the abbot said. "Moreover, Isobel, Waldron is right. God forgives all who battle in the name of Christ and His Kirk, and He would want you to tell Waldron everything he wants to know."

"I'll tell him nothing," Isobel said disdainfully.

"Aye, lass, you will," Waldron said. "One way or another."

"Mercy," Adela exclaimed, clearly frightened. "Tell him, Isobel!"

"Even if I could, I would not, but I cannot, for I don't even know what they are talking about."

"This gets us nowhere, my lord abbot," Waldron said. "Take the lady Adela out of the room with you for a few minutes. I shall talk privately with Lady Isobel, because I believe I can quickly persuade her to tell me what I want to know. If I cannot, you must bring Lady Adela back, and we will see if certain of my more persuasive methods, when applied to her, will not loosen Lady Isobel's tongue."

Isobel glanced at the abbot to see if such ominous words would persuade him of Waldron's evil ways, but if they had any effect, she saw no sign of it. Clearly Hector and his grace were right, and the Green Abbot had long since lost any claim to goodness—if, indeed, he had ever had any.

Mackinnon took a firm grip of Adela's arm, and still doubtless respecting his office if not the man himself, she allowed him to escort her from the room with no more than a helpless glance over her shoulder at her sister.

As Isobel watched them go, she turned slightly away from Waldron and moved to slip her hand through the slits in her skirt and underskirt to the dirk in its sheath. But to her shock, she found no slit, for the gown was one that Mairi had ordered for her. Having found that it fit her well, she had not thought about slits in her haste to dress for supper. Feeling a distinct chill of fear, she turned slowly back to face Waldron.

"Come here to me, lass, and we will see just how brave you are," he said with a smile that she was sure emulated the devil's own.

Raising her chin, she straightened her shoulders. "I am not afraid of you," she said, hoping she could persuade herself of that, and quickly. As she held her ground, her steady gaze continuing to challenge him, she wondered briefly if Michael trusted her enough yet to believe her when she told him that she and Adela had not left the hall alone—if, indeed, she survived to tell him anything.

With a look of annoyance, Waldron moved toward her, and she backed away step for step, without taking her eyes off him, until she had backed into the wall.

"You see, my dear, there is no escape," he said with another of his horrid smiles as she looked frantically left and right and saw no weapon to help her, only two wall sconces of candles that burned with irritating cheer. "Now, we will begin."

Michael was quietly talking with Hugo and the High Admiral at the high table when Isobel and her elder sister left the great hall. Watching them go, and noting their escort's St. Clair tunic, he had returned to his conversation, thinking they must have decided to pay a visit to the garderobe tower, or even to take a short stroll outside to clear the claret fumes from their brains, as many others were doing.

Hugo sat on his right and Lachlan on his left with Hector Reaganach just beyond Hugo. Hector had been conversing with the gentleman on his right, but he turned now and caught Michael's eye.

"I'm guessing you saw your cousin depart some few minutes ago with our irritating, unmitered, and rebellious abbot," he said quietly.

"I saw Waldron and others from his table leave," Michael said, "but in watching them, I failed to note the abbot's departure. In truth, he looks unlike any abbot I've ever met, since he does not wear clerical garb. He blends into the crowd."

"Aye, few who do not know him well would recognize Fingon for a man of the cloth, even at home," Lachlan said. "Not only does he pay no heed to the dictates of Rome in his personal life, having lived with the same woman for years and sired a number of children with her, but he always wears the expensive clothing of a courtier. Moreover, as you have seen, he thinks nothing of disobeying a royal command by leaving the Holy Isle when it suits him. I warrant he believes his grace's illness foreshadows his demise, or he hopes it does. I know you look upon Waldron as your chief enemy. Still, you should pay closer heed to the abbot."

"I will indeed, sir, thank you," Michael said, chastened.

Hector began to say something, but Lachlan interrupted him to ask Michael if he had recognized the gillie who had spoken to Isobel.

Michael frowned. "He addressed her? I assumed that she had sent for a St. Clair gillie to escort her and Adela to their destination, but I saw them all only as they were leaving the dais. I never had a clear view of his face. Did you, Hugo?"

"Nay, because I could not see Isobel or Adela from here any earlier than that, myself, not without leaning well forward and looking down the table. Hector Reaganach's height clearly gives him an advantage over lesser mortals."

A tingling at the back of Michael's neck brought him to his feet, but his voice was calm as he said, "I believe I'll take a stroll myself, my lords, if you will excuse me."

"Nay, lad, we'll all go," Hector said, leaning down to pick up the famous Clan Gillean battle-axe from beneath his chair.

"You may go," Lachlan said, smiling lazily at his twin. "However, you must not all depart at once. 'Tis better if only Sir Michael and his cousin leave now. You may follow them, but it would be as well to have some idea first of their direction."

Hector nodded as Michael said, "You wait here, Hugo, whilst I ask the ladies Mairi and Cristina if Isobel or Adela said aught to them of their intentions."

He moved at once to the ladies' end of the table, where both women quickly apprised him of what they knew. Cristina looked worried, but Mairi said, "They can scarcely come to grief with my mother, sir, and even if they have left her already, you need not fret. Your lady is perfectly capable of looking after herself and Adela."

"Under most circumstances I would agree with you, madam, but I do not trust my cousin. If he managed to lay hands on her—" He broke off, unable to continue because for once his emotions threatened to betray him. The thought of Isobel in Waldron's hands was too much to contemplate. "If you will forgive me—"

"Wait," Lady Cristina said. "Surely, he would not harm her! He must know she has powerful protectors."

"I will see that he does her no harm, madam, but I must go at once." With a hasty bow, he returned to Hugo, saying quietly as he bent to collect his sword and scabbard from beneath his own chair, "The gillie told her that Princess Margaret had sent for them. Lady Mairi said they thought it odd, because her mother had left the hall, intending to retire, and she rarely entertains anyone after supper."

Hugo got up then, found his sword, and moved to stand next to Michael.

Michael told Hector they would seek the women first in Waldron's chamber, after which the two men wasted no time leaving the hall. Once away from the crowd, each slipped the long leather strap of his scabbard over his head and across his chest, then shifted his sword high onto his back, where he could more easily reach over his shoulder to draw quickly.

"If they came this way, would Isobel not have realized they were going in the wrong direction?" Hugo asked when a gillie directed them to a wing at the opposite end of the palace from their rooms, as well as the princess's chamber.

"Nay, how could she?" Michael asked. "We went right to our own chamber, where Henry joined us. Isobel would have no knowledge of her grace's location, and would trustingly have followed any gillie she thought to be one of our own."

They hurried up the spiral stone stairway to the next level and along the long corridor upon which it emerged.

"This cannot be right," Michael said a moment later. "These doors are all too close together. Unless each room here has two entrances, Isobel would not believe that Henry had put her grace into such a small one. Moreover, it is too quiet." His heart pounded as if he had been running a great distance at top speed.

"You go up to the next level," Hugo said. "I'll continue on here to make sure, then join you upstairs. I warrant Hector Reaganach will be along soon, too."

Michael did not wait to hear more but turned and ran back to the stairway, taking the spiraling stone steps two by two and hoping he did not meet Waldron on the way. As with most such stairways, the builder had given the advantage to a right-handed swordsman at the top rather than to an invader at the bottom. Thus, it twisted counterclockwise, putting Michael's sword hand near the oiled-rope banister. A man coming downstairs, the banister at his left, could hug the wall, thus using the widest portion of the steps and leaving his sword hand free.

Emerging at the next level, Michael saw that the doors were farther apart, indicating more spacious rooms. Furthermore, the corridor was wider and boasted a bank of tall windows along the outer wall, overlooking the front courtyard. More important guests would be housed here than on the lower floor. Indeed, the only sign that this was a bishop's home rather than that of a wealthy nobleman was the holy-water font at each end of the corridor for the convenience of his eminence's guests.

As Michael hurried along the corridor, Lady Adela emerged from a room near the end. She looked distressed, and a tall man with shoulder-length gray hair emerged behind her, holding her left arm in what most people would consider an inappropriate manner for a man not closely related to her. He retained his hold on her as he shut the door behind them and turned toward Michael. It was the abbot.

Although tempted to reach for his sword, Michael resisted the impulse, letting his hand rest easy at his side as he watched their approach. Knowing that Waldron had ears like a cat's, he did not want to make any noise until he had to, and the bright golden, dust-mote-strewn light from a sun low in the west made it unlikely that the abbot had recognized him or would fear one man approaching them. Lady Adela was another matter. She would know him at once.

She did. He saw as much in her eyes, but she did not speak. Still, she must have stiffened or otherwise given her captor warning, because he hesitated. He wore a long jeweled dirk in a sheath on his left hip, which told Michael that the abbot was right handed, but although Mackinnon shifted the weapon slightly as if to move its hilt more readily within reach, he did so with his left hand, his right still tightly gripping her ladyship's arm.

Careless of him, Michael thought. Waldron would not have made that error. Praying that the abbot would assume only that Adela had hesitated at seeing another person in the corridor, and that he was more concerned that she would cry out for help than he was about the lone gentleman, Michael continued toward them.

He heard hasty footsteps on the stairway, knew them for Hugo's, and a moment later, saw the abbot's eyes widen. The hand near his eminence's dirk moved slightly away from it, but he did not ease his grip on the lass's arm.

Michael went on as if naught were amiss. Hugo, too, remained silent, but Michael knew from his rapid footsteps that his cousin was moving up behind him.

Keeping his face expressionless, he strode on, moving to his right as if to give room for the pair coming toward him. Although he avoided looking directly at Adela, who was near the window wall and well to his left, he could see that she was not watching him as carefully as she watched Hugo. He noted that the abbot's hand tightened on her arm as they neared.

Knowing he had judged his timing well, he gathered himself mentally.

Two strides later, his right fist came up from his side and connected solidly with abbot's chin. Mackinnon reeled backward and went down so swiftly that Michael nearly failed to catch him. As it was, the abbot's head hit the floor with a thump loud enough to make Michael glance back at Hugo with a rueful grimace.

Hugo shook his head to indicate that he did not think the sound had been loud enough to carry far. His left hand was up, index finger at his lips, reminding Adela not to speak. She had not cried out when Michael had struck the abbot, and she nodded her understanding now without comment.

Michael signaled Hugo to look after their captive and the lass, then turned and strode silently to the door of the room from which the pair had come. Pausing there, he reached back for his sword.

Having heard the door shut behind her, Isobel watched Waldron carefully, trying to forget all that Michael had said about his cousin's prowess and remember all that Hector Reaganach had taught her about how to defend herself. Waldron was tall, muscular, and clearly menacing, but Hector the Ferocious was taller, broader, and surely more powerful. Not that she had ever actually bested Hector, but she had thrown him once, quite by accident, simply by following his instructions.

She had known without his telling her that only the great difference in their sizes had caused that absurd fall. Standing close behind her, he had bent over her, showing her how to grasp his arm and elbow and explaining how she should position herself. As he talked, she had suddenly thrown her hip into his thigh in the manner he had shown her only a few moments before. To her great delight and astonishment, and to his own, as well, he had toppled right over her to the ground.

She could not, however, expect Waldron to be so innocently cooperative. Nor would she voluntarily turn her back on him.

He was still about four feet away when she reached up, snatched one of four candles from the sconce above her right shoulder, and hurled it at him.

He knocked it to the floor, even paused to stamp out its flame, then look another step toward her.

"Don't come any closer," she snapped, grabbing another candle. "I am not afraid of you."

"You should be afraid, lass," he said grimly. "You should be very afraid, because I am already angry that you are putting me to this trouble. If you don't drop that at once, I will not only punish you for your insolence a few minutes ago, but I'll make you even sorrier for having the impudence to wave that thing at me."

She could see for herself that he was angry, and his anger was frightening, but his voice did not stir the hairs on the back of her neck the way Michael's did when he was angry. Waldron reminded her more of her eldest nephew, Cristina's son, who at the age of six, balked of something he wanted, had thrown a tantrum in the hope that pure fury would gain it for him. Remembering how Hector had handled that incident made her wish she were three times Waldron's size and could simply take a strap to his backside to teach him manners. Despite the gravity of the situation, her lips twitched at the ludicrous thought.

"By the Rood, woman, do you dare laugh at me?" he demanded, closing the distance between them in less than a heartbeat.

She brought the candle upward as hard as she could, the way Hector had taught her to use her dagger, but Waldron struck like lightning and sent it flying. It hit the wall and went out before she was entirely aware that she no longer held it.

Gripping her wrist so tightly that she cried out, he yanked her to him and slapped her hard across the face.

Her ears rang, but her free hand flashed up and fisted itself as it lashed sideways hard across the end of his nose, and she had the satisfaction of hearing him grunt. His hand went up to strike again, but at a whisper of sound from the doorway, he flung her aside instead and snatched his sword from its scabbard.

Landing hard on a hip, she looked up to see Michael in the doorway, his long sword out before him in both hands, at the ready. He did not glance her way. Indeed, she thought both men had already forgotten her existence. Their gazes locked, they circled slowly, each waiting for the other to attack.

She opened her mouth to shout at them to stop, to remind them that they were in a house of God, or near enough to count as one. But realizing she might distract Michael and thus give Waldron a chance to kill him, she held her tongue.

Michael's usual calm had enveloped him the moment he saw Waldron shove Isobel away. Watching him closely, he wondered which his cousin wanted more, the location of the treasure or Michael's death. If the former, Michael might have an edge. If the latter … He realized in that instant that it did not matter a whit which it was, because whatever his cousin's intentions had been at the outset, the moment the two swords clanged together, Waldron would care only about besting him, for so it had always been. Once begun, the competition was all that mattered.

Waldron feinted, but Michael had known he would and did not address the feint. Instead, he waited a split second until Waldron was pulling back, and then he thrust hard and straight. But the parry came as quickly, and his fingers vibrated as his sword did, its steel ringing from the clash.

He did not want to kill Waldron in front of Isobel, but he believed he would not have to, because Hugo would hear the noise and come. He need only fend off Waldron's attack until then.

The thought gave him pause, because he knew that such thinking did not augur well for his own safety. He must put the lass out of his mind completely, a task he had already discovered to be much harder than one might think.

Movement beyond the swordsmen caught Isobel's eye just then, as a small door at the back of the room opened.

"Michael, look out!" she cried.

Two men stepped into the room, swords drawn, but Michael seemed to ignore them, for he did not take his eyes off Waldron.

"I'll deal with him," Waldron snapped. "Take the lass!"

Leaping to her feet as the men turned toward her, Isobel darted toward the doorway through which Michael had come. As she reached it, Hugo appeared before her, grabbed her, and pulled her through it, stepping past her with drawn sword as he did. Hector was a short distance beyond him in the corridor, bent over the Green Abbot, with Sir Henry, of all people, peering interestedly down at them.

Hector finished tying a knot, saw Isobel, and stood. The clanging sounds in the room behind her increased in both number and volume.

"Oh, hurry, sir," she cried. "There are three swordsmen in there against just Michael and Hugo."

Sir Henry smiled. "Sakes, lass, that will but give that pair a bit of exercise."

Hector cocked his head. "If I'm not mistaken, the noise within has already ceased. Also, however, Fingon appears to be stirring at last, so if you'll keep an eye on him here, Sir Henry, I'll just have a look in there."

Isobel noted that, despite Hector's confidence and the sudden silence, he removed his battle-axe from its sling as he approached the doorway. Then Adela rushed forward to hug her, and Isobel spent the next few moments reassuring her sister that she was quite unharmed.

"It all happened so fast that I scarcely had time to be afraid," she said. "It seemed as if you had just walked away with the abbot when Michael arrived. It is the first time I've been glad that he walks as silently as a ghost."

"Aye, he does move like a wraith when he wants to," Henry said.

"He ran to that doorway, though," Adela said. "His face was white, Isobel. I think he was truly frightened."

With a gimlet eye on the abbot, Sir Henry said, "Lady Adela has already described how you were tricked into coming here, my lady. I am most displeased that you should have been treated so whilst a guest in this household, and by a member of my own family. Pray be so kind as to accept my profound apology."

"Oh, thank heaven, there they are now!" Adela exclaimed.

Isobel had already seen them. So relieved was she to see Michael safe that she wanted to run and hug him, but she was not sure he would appreciate such a display of affection, or so much as a hint of her previous concern. She had noted before that men seemed to take such behavior as an insult to their skill. Moreover, had he not said that she need never worry when he had a weapon in hand?

Waldron and his two minions, weaponless now, walked together, with Hector, Michael, and Hugo following them. As they approached, Henry said, "What the devil do you think you have been doing, cousin?"

"I?" Waldron shrugged. "You would do better to ask your impulsive brother how it is that he dared to strike down a holy man who is very likely the most powerful man of the Kirk anywhere in the Isles and western Highlands."

Instead of rising to this bait, Henry regarded him shrewdly and said, "It appears that he struck you, too, cousin, or did you forget and walk nose first into a door before you opened it?"

Waldron's face reddened, and he shot Isobel an evil look.

Michael moved to stand beside her, and as he did, his hand brushed hers.

Welcoming its warmth, she smiled at him.

Henry said, "Although, plainly, you do not want to answer my questions, cousin, you have abused my hospitality, both of you, making me think little of you, my lord abbot, or your so-called holiness. A holy man does not trick young women into danger. Nor does any man who thinks himself a gentleman, Waldron, and until now I believed that you at least made some pretense to act as one."

Waldron shrugged again, saying, "You speak well for a thief, Henry. But, as you will learn, thieves never prosper."

Henry shook his head. "Michael told me about this fancy of yours, but since to believe it, I must likewise believe our revered grandfather was the thief in question, or— No, 'tis worse than that, is it not? He had to have been one of a gang of thieves, if your version of events is true. But we know he was an honorable man."

"It matters not whether he believed he was guarding the contents of the Templar treasury or stealing them," Waldron snapped. "Our present Pope, like his predecessors, has commanded that every item that vanished when the Templars fled Paris be returned to the custody of the Kirk. Do you dare to defy His Holiness?"

"The Pope wields no power here," Henry said softly. "Nor do I believe that we ken the whereabouts of anything that belongs to the Kirk of Rome. What I do believe, however, is that I have come to the end of my patience, Waldron. You are no longer welcome here, nor at castles St. Clair or Roslin. I shan't order you out on the instant, but neither may you continue to roam freely about this household."

"You hold no authority over me," Waldron said.

"Nor over me, certainly," the Green Abbot declared.

"You are both wrong," Henry said in a harder, colder tone than any Isobel had yet heard from him. "On Orkney, gentlemen, I am the only authority."

Waldron laughed. "Faith, Henry, you are not even Prince of Orkney yet, and will not be until your precious ceremony on Sunday!"

"Again you err, cousin. I have been Prince of Orkney since the second day of this month, when the Norse King officially installed me at Maestrand in Norway. That ceremony was small, because his grace King Haakon preferred it so, and also because we could not expect many of my new subjects to journey to Norway, but he likewise agreed that a much grander ceremony should be held here, so that the people of Orkney might meet their prince, clearly understand the duties and privileges of his position, and welcome him. And so it shall be on Sunday at the cathedral. However, I already hold the power to mint coins and make laws. Likewise do I hold the power of the pit and gallows. So try me further tonight only at your peril."

Michael watched Waldron carefully, knowing that his cousin was capable of moving swiftly and needed no weapon in his hand to be lethal. Clearly, he had not known about Henry's trip to Norway, and just as clearly, the news displeased him, but nonetheless he retained his unruffled demeanor. His two minions likewise seemed more relaxed than one might expect under the circumstances.

Waldron said, "What do you mean to do with us, Henry?"

"I do not want to cause a scandal by throwing you and our lord abbot into the dungeon, supposing his eminence the bishop even possesses one," Henry said. "However, your behavior does not incline me to trust your word that you will create no more trouble, even if you were to offer that word. Would you?"

"I don't think so, no."

"Exactly, so I will suppress my dislike of scandal sufficiently to confine all four of you to your separate chambers under strong guard. Yes, Michael?" he added, although Michael had not spoken.

"I think you are being too lenient, sir," Michael said. "You would do better to find a stronger, more reliable place of confinement. The abbot here has already defied orders of the High King of Scots and the Lord of the Isles that ought to have kept him confined to the Holy Isle."

"I warrant that neither the King nor MacDonald set his own guards to keep him there," Henry said. "I shall not make that error. Indeed, I believe I hear my lads coming now," he added as noise from the stairwell heralded new arrivals. "I took the precaution before following Hector Reaganach up here to have my captain of guards gather a few men and send them after me."

A short time later, ten of Henry's men led the four prisoners, their hands trussed behind them, back to the stairway. Since Henry and Hector followed, Michael decided that he could safely remain with Isobel, who had been watching the proceedings with interest but now regarded him somewhat warily.

Lady Adela, on the other hand, glowered at Hugo, who had likewise remained behind and chose that moment to say something to her. Raising her chin in much the same way that Isobel did when she was angry, Adela said, "You have no authority over me, sir, and I will thank you to remember that."

His voice low, Hugo spoke again. Michael's ears were particularly sharp, and although he could not hear every word, he thought his cousin was taking the lass to task for having left the hall with only an unknown gillie as escort. Glancing at Isobel, he wondered if she feared he would say something similar to her.

He grinned at her.

The slight, unexpected tension Isobel had felt evaporated, and she realized that she had been waiting to see if Michael would take her to task as Sir Hugo was so clearly doing with Adela. Just then, her sister whirled from Hugo and began to stomp angrily toward the stairway.

"Just one moment, my lady," Hugo commanded sternly.

Over her shoulder, Adela snapped. "We are not married, so you have no right to speak to me as if we were, sir. Indeed, I would not marry you if you begged me!"

"Never fear, lass; I won't," he retorted. "I don't intend to marry for many years yet, for even the Bible says that a woman's heart is but ‘snares and nets, and her hands as bands.' As for marrying a wasp-tongued shrew like yourself—"

Isobel watched in shock as her usually staid sister turned to the holy-water font, now beside her, snatched the water-filled glass liner from its stone bowl, and dashed its sanctified contents right into Sir Hugo's angry face.

As the outraged Hugo grabbed her by the arm, Michael stepped hastily forward, took the glass liner from Adela, and put a hand on Hugo's shoulder.

Adela glared equally at both men, jerked her arm from Hugo's grasp, then turned on her heel and stormed toward the stairway.

Choking back bubbles of laughter, Isobel hurried after her.