Chapter 7

CRàDH PRISON - JUNE 20, 1384

" O pen ye to me the gates of justice: I will go, and give praise to the Lord."

Léo crossed one ankle over the other, his lips reciting the psalm he was committing to memory this week. "This is the gate of the Lord, the just shall enter into it. I will give glory to thee because thou hast heard me: and art become my salvation."

He checked his memorization against the scripture and leaned his heavy head back against the stone. On cue, his stomach cramped and rumbled and he licked his dry lips, trying not to vomit the bit of porridge he'd been able to get down this morning.

It had been six months and nineteen days since he'd arrived at Cràdh, and his body had wasted away to a glimmer of the warrior he used to be. The trews Moira made were now loosely bound to him by Father Allen's old hose, his tunic as baggy as a gown. Every bone in his body hurt, every muscle was stiffened, every joint in pain. How long he could continue to hold on, he did not know. The only thing keeping him from death was Father Allen's increased visits and extra portions of oats and bannocks, which were now difficult to swallow without stomach upset. That—and the company of the voice that called itself God .

Testing to see if the voice would answer today, as it had each day, Léo spoke aloud to the empty room. "Es-tu là?"

The rasping sound of his voice echoed off the stone, and he waited.

I'm beside you.

Satisfied, Léo picked up the Psalter. "Took you long enough to answer."

It's time, Léo.

"Time for what?"

The door slat snapped open and for a moment Léo stared at it, trying to make sense of the brown eyes staring back, as if the voice had not just warned him something was about to happen.

The gruff voice of the guard lost patience. "Well? Get over here."

With a chorus of creaks and cracks, Léo struggled to hoist his aching body to its feet. Slowly, he shuffled to the door, expecting Father Allen. Yet as the door opened, a familiar, but strange, red-headed man stood in front of him, dressed in an immaculate MacKinnon tartan? 1 .

"Saints—it stinks in here."

On this they agreed. If he ever made it out of this filthy prison he would first seek a more substantial bath than the small bucket of water he was provided daily for drinking and washing.

"Come."

Léo hesitated. "Where?"

"Come."

"Out there?"

The man's eyes narrowed. "Yes. Come."

After six months of confinement in the windowless cell Léo could not believe his ears. He took a step forward, and then another, following the official down the long corridor and savoring the feeling of walking in one straight line. The darkness was punctuated by light from the torches on the wall. Sensing no sunlight, Léo disappointedly guessed it was night.

Time had long lost all meaning. When he was tired, he slept. When he was alert, he stayed awake. He marked his daily meal time on the walls, benevolence visits from Father Allen, and when he'd seen Moira, so he could predict when he may see her again.

A few moans echoed down the stone hallway as he followed the red- headed guard down the stairs. Every few moments the man turned his head to look back at him, his expression examining him as if Léo should know who this particular guard was. Yet his foggy brain couldn't make sense of who he was, or where they had met before.

At the bottom of three flights of stairs the man pushed open a heavy door and motioned him through.

Briny, damp air swept over him, chilling his skin. Damp grass touched the bottoms of his bare feet. His weary eyes drank in the horizon and the storm-tossed sea. Waves broke in choppy ripples. In the heavens, lightning flashed in rapid bursts as far as the eye could see. Wind swirled around him and over his dirty scalp. His senses were overloaded with wonder. A raindrop pinged off his arm. Then another. Then another.

The dark clouds opened and a downpour began. Léo opened his palms against the lukewarm drops and then extended his neck, letting the shower fall over his face.

To the unseen voice, Léo shouted through the storm, "Do you see this? It's magnificent. It's your creation. Your wind, your waves, your rain. It's you. I've missed this…so much."

You recognize me here?

In spite of himself, Léo laughed. "Yes, and it's good to see you, Lord."

The guard eyed him from the dry of the prison, a wary look on his face. "Who are you talking to?"

Léo rubbed his palms over his wet face, loosening dirt and smell, then running them through his hair. "I'm talking to my friend."

Not caring that he looked like a madman, Léo sucked in damp lungfuls of sea air and let the water baptize him. Crouching, he touched mud and grass, then lowered his face and breathed in the earth.

He rose and looked back over his shoulder at the guard, who stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his spear leaning against the wall. Why had he done it?

Desperate not to miss a moment of freedom he turned back to the ocean. If he jumped, could he swim to Skye? The ocean tossed and currents moved around the shore. No. Not until he was stronger. Maybe not even then. O God, if only .

As the rain slowed, the guard came forward, taking in his soaked appearance. "Maybe now you will smell better."

Léo smiled and squinted against the mist. "I hope so."

"I heard you talking to Father Allen about his dream today." Gales of wind almost drowned out the man's voice. "His dream about the snake, shedding its skin and slithering to higher ground?"

With Moira gone, and Father Allen's increased visits to Cràdh, Léo had spent much time with the old man discussing plans to take on new challenges. Although Father Allen had been vague about what these new challenges might be, Léo assumed he wanted to expand the church's ministry efforts at Cràdh. The shedding snake seemed to indicate that the time was right to take on the challenge, to look for an opening in the rock to climb higher.

"Aye."

The man looked out over the water. "The dream is telling you it's a good idea, then?"

Léo chuckled and took a deep lungful of fresh air and brushed his saturated hair away from his forehead. Aye. He had been close to losing his sanity several times. Only the weekly visits and the Psalter had given him peace. The drawing, a window to the world. His son's face, a reason to continue. Moira's affection, a hint of what could be. Why shouldn't every man at Cràdh benefit from Father Allen's charity?

"The dream does seem to indicate that the time is right. Father Allen has certainly kept me from perishing, from going insane. I think the challenge of expanding his work here would transform this place."

A brief ripple of something passed over the guard's face. "The laird made me keeper of the prison this evening."

Léo wasn't sure how to respond. "Congratulations."

The man crossed his arms over his chest. "It isn't a promotion of honor. It's a death sentence. A promise that I shall never leave Cràdh, delivered to me by your brother."

He had suspected as much. "At least you have the freedom to roam and to come outside."

The man narrowed his eyes, wiping mist from his forehead. "You were a marmalade for King Charles of France?"

Léo rolled his eyes. "Marmouset. "

The man rolled his eyes back. "An advisor. Vizier."

"Oui. Intendant en Chef des Greniers Royaux ."

The man looked at him as if he had just spoken in angelic language. "Sorry?"

"Chief Steward of the Royal Granaries. Responsible for the tax, construction, and maintenance of storage facilities, protection of the grain…"

"That's what I meant. You're a nobleman. Used to leading men and seeing to their care."

"Oui. Aye."

"What if I could grant you the freedom to roam the prison like I do? I need someone to help me run this hellish place. To help me plan the guard rotations, work on cleanliness, minimize disease and infestation…"

Léo kept his face neutral and watched the lightning flashing around the heavens, thinking regular access to fresh air could work wonders for his health and for his very soul. He eyed the man's tartan, skeptical. Nothing with the MacKinnons was ever granted for free.

"Why would you choose me for this?"

The guard shifted in his boots and looked back out over the sea. "I was given guard assignment years ago. It was a punishment for offending Niall, just after Colm's death. It's a punishment for us all."

The man's casual use of his father and brother's Christian name brought Léo to attention. He studied the man's face trying to place him. "What was your role before you came to Cràdh?"

The man moved in front of him, looking him in the eye."Chieftain of Mishnish since my father's death in 1370. Respected warrior under your father, during the MacLean conflicts of the 60s."

A memory resurrected in Léo's darkened mind. "Mowbray MacKinnon? Of Mull?"

"Aye. Born and raised."

Léo's mouth fell open. Mowbray had been a close ally of his father and integral to negotiating the tentative peace the clan formed with the MacLeans before the days of the Duart and Lochbuie houses. "I remember you. "

"It's why I brought you out here. Couldn't stand the sight of Colm's son caged like an animal day in and day out any longer."

"What did you do to offend my brother?"

"I told him he was a terrible leader."

It was the first belly laugh Léo'd had in seven long months. Tears streamed down his face and mingled with the rain.

"It's true. We've had no shortage of problems for fourteen years. One conflict after another, Fingon helping himself to clan gold til it was gone. Now this business with the Wolf. I know that's why you're here. You helped Hector MacLean save his wife."

Laughter ebbed away. Some days it was easy to forget why he was here and how long he would stay. That he had once done a noble thing and been imprisoned for it at the expense of his freedom and son was now hard to swallow. "Aye."

"There's a rumor you are good friends wi' the man. Like brothers."

"Aye." Why deny it? Hector was closer than his real brothers. Would he sacrifice his freedom to save Hector's wife and child again? Yes. The hard truth settled in his gut. He owed Hector his very life.

"Battle bonded? Some say Hector got blootered and ended up in France durin' the war days."

"Pontvallain." The most terrifying day of his life thus far.

Mowbray grunted. "Then what I propose may not be such a shock to you."

Wind kicked up off the harbor and a taste of sea salt spattered across Leo's lips. He licked them, grateful for the blast of sea, wishing he could dive into its cover. "More than helping you organize your prison?"

"Aye. Help me organize an uprising. You know well how your family punishes the just—the ones who would challenge their power and authority. Help me bring an end to their rule, to restore our clan to a place of respect among the Isles."

When Léo didn't respond Mowbray continued. "It wasn't my idea. It was Eoghan's."

"Eoghan O'Gallagher?" He'd heard the name many times from Father Allen. Suspicion eroded what he thought he knew. Constant mentions of Eoghan, then the offer to allow him to move around the prison freely, now an invitation to help lead an uprising. What did Father Allen know, and what was he up to?

"Eoghan is chief marshal of the Lucht Tighe ? 2 cavalry of the O'Donnell Clan, the high leader of their guard. Seems he was captured off the coast of Iona by Fingon's patrols. Discovered who he was and thought they'd hold on to him. Fingon keeps upping Eoghan's ransom amount, which is why he's still sitting here after three months. He's mad enough to want revenge."

"Eoghan wants a prison uprising so we can escape?"

Mowbray shook his head and lowered his voice, though there was only the wind and the waves to hear them. "He wants a clan uprising to install you as chief. To overthrow Niall and fight back against the Wolf."

Léo almost burst into another fit of belly laughter. "No. The answer to that is no. If you want a brother to overthrow Niall you're looking for Fingon. I don't want to be the chief. My home is in Calais, with my son."

Mowbray's face hardened and his fists clenched. "It's a good thing Colm cannae see you now. I know who he named as his successor."

The sea swelled and a white wave broke over the rock in front of Léo, drenching him in seawater. He wiped the water out of his eyes.

The voice spoke clearly into Léo's heart. It's time. Stop running.

Léo's heart pounded in his chest, and he looked at Mowbray, the urge to deny his most deeply held secret stealing his strength away. At once he was transported to the Chief's darkened chamber, his dying father lying beside his dead maman. The chieftains of the MacKinnons lining the walls, surrounding them as his da held onto his hand. Niall and Fingon were arguing in front of the fire about who would receive what from the treasury on Staffa, paying little attention to their father's final moments.

Da pulled him to himself and placed his right hand upon his head. "Behold, I name my heir. He will become as a multitude, and his descendants will rule over this land as an everlasting possession. I give you one portion above your brothers in repayment for the great wrong I have done to your mother. God be with you, Chief Léonid Cormac MacKinnon."

It had been his father's dying breath, naming him chief and charging his chieftains to endorse him. One-by-one, each chieftain knelt and pledged their fealty—and signed their death warrants.

Léo grunted. "If you haven't noticed, all the chieftains for our septs? 3 were killed within three days of my father's death. There's not a man alive, besides you, Niall, and Fingon, who knows that. How did you know it, anyway? You weren't there, your father didn't even make it back to Mishnish before they killed him."

"Colm told me months before he died what he was going to do. Once the chieftains were killed and you disappeared, I knew you must have been confirmed. We were the only sept to maintain an independent chieftainship, but only thanks to Chief Lachlan MacLean's promise of a full out war on Niall if he set foot on Mull to capture more land. Niall was too scared of Lachlan and his ties to the King of the Isles to risk the cost of battle. Though he wants Mull, badly."

Léo had never told a living soul that he was Chief of the MacKinnons. Not even Hector. Unlike his father's chieftains, he knew how to stay quiet and save his own neck. It was a position he wasn't born to, a position he did not want.

"All I want is to see my son."

"You're Chief of the MacKinnons, Léonid. Like it or not, they're your responsibility. They need you."

"Who've you told I'm chief?"

"Father Allen and Eoghan. No one else knows."

If Father Allen knew, Moira likely knew. "Whoever knows is at acute risk of death. Do you swear that they are the only two who know?"

"I swear it."

"What of Father Allen's daughter, Moira?"

Mowbray wavered. "It's likely she knows, though I cannae say for certain."

Protectiveness flooded him, and he was filled with his warrior's instincts to watch over and protect her. "You must get her away from here if she knows. It isn't safe."

"Only if Niall finds out."

Desperation overcame him and he took Mowbray's plaid in his fist, pulling him close with the last bit of his strength, " No one must ever find out. Do you understand me? If you truly recognize me as chief then understand that this is the last I will discuss it. I'll help you take care of the prisoners and improve our conditions but I will not put anyone at risk to overthrow Niall."

Mowbray squinted against the rising wind then stepped back from Léo's reach. "I'll need to be taking you in."

Léo's shoulders drooped, strength fleeing from him as quickly as it had come. His refusal would cost him his freedom. Taking one lasting look at the storm-tossed sea and one final breath of fresh air, he followed Mowbray inside.

At the point he should have exited the stairs at the fourth floor Mowbray kept climbing. "Aren't I going back to my chamber?"

"You don't live there anymore."

At the sixth floor, they exited onto the parapet. They stopped at the western tower and Mowbray unlocked the door, then climbed the short flight of stairs.

The tower room was twice as large as his cell, and a lancet window was notched into each of the four walls. A crude hearth, smaller than his last, was built into the corner. Tucked against the wall was a narrow, but very real, bed, covered with blankets and a pillow. He staggered toward it and touched its clean blankets. A small desk sat beside it, the Psalter resting on it, and Moira's pictures propped up against the wall.

" You can walk the parapet at night. The parapet guards are loyal to the King of the Isles and will not bother you. They're trapped here day and night like you are. Your door is unlocked during the day, but stay in here. Open the door if ye wish, but don't travel the walls until night falls."

Léo nodded, dumbfounded by Mowbray's mercy. "I understand."

Mowbray pointed to the charcoal drawing propped against the wall. "Is that your son?"

"Aye. Gabriel."

His eyes softened. "There's one thing I know. Chiefs can see their bairns whenever they want."