Chapter 8

MOY CASTLE - JUNE 23, 1384

A s Moira expected, the guards outside the gates of Moy Castle were not buying the story Father McElduff was selling. Not that he was aware it was a story, nor that the guards were now eyeing auld Father Mac as if he were about to incite an insurrection.

The darker of the two guards examined her with suspicion. "How does she know Lady MacLean?"

"Part of her mother's family. Cousins." Father McElduff was oblivious to the role his thick Irish accent played in helping her story along. Lady MacLean was from the north of Ireland, and Father Mac lent Moira the credibility she needed as she was unable to speak for herself. The key to her lie seemed to work.

The fair-haired guard eyed her. "Mm. And what is her mother's name?"

Name?

Father McElduff looked at her. "Just use your fingers, dearie."

Name. She needed an Irish name. A common Irish name. At least then she stood a decent chance of making it inside. Using her signs, she slowly formed the letters for Father Mac. C-L-O-D-A-G-H.

Father McElduff winked at her. "Ah. Clodagh."

The blond man squinted his gray eyes at her. Saints. Perhaps she should have gone with Mary.

"Is something wrong wi' you that you cannae speak for yourself?"

Moira stifled an urge to roll her eyes. Aye. Something was wrong. Stubborn men who willfully refused to comprehend what she was saying. She tapped her throat.

Father Mac filled in the story, and Moira tried to affect her most pathetic look. "Lass lost her voice due to illness when she was but a child."

The two guards looked at each other before the blond man raised his hands in defeat.

Thank God. She was in.

"I'll go inside and ask her." He turned and strode toward the keep.

Oh no. Please be Clodagh, please be Clodagh.

Moira shuffled her feet in the dirt and tried to admire the sea loch surrounding her, acting natural. The dark man's eyes never left her, and when she mustered the courage to look at him after several minutes, a look of barely disguised contempt saturated his face. "Where did you say you hail from?"

Oh no.

Father Mac smiled broadly. "Kyleakin village, Isle of Skye."

Oh no.

The dark guard blinked. "Kyleakin. That's MacKinnon territory, isn't it?"

Oh no.

"Aye. I'm the parish priest at the Chapel of St. Mary. Moira here is the daughter of Father Allen. He…"

The dark guard clenched his teeth, his mustache curling over his lips. "Priests don't have daughters."

Oh no.

Father Mac put a soothing hand on the guard's shoulder then continued gesturing and explaining. "Ah. I see what you mean. 'Tis a controversial subject to be sure. But as you know, it's difficult getting a priest willin' to serve in the Islands and Highlands, owin' to the dangerous nature of the work and all. Why look at the mess in Jura. The church has in some circumstances made a dispensation for the continuation of…"

The swarthy guard drew his sword. Father McElduff continued, so wrapped up in his explanation he did not notice. "…ministry. In Father Allen's case he had already served for twenty-five years with a spotless record. When he married Joan MacKinnon, I told him—Allie, I says…"

The light-haired man reappeared at the doorway already running. "The name's Una! Seize them!"

The dark man snatched a stunned Father McElduff and hauled him toward the gatehouse.

On swift feet, Moira sprinted for the boat slip, but then thought of Léo and crashed to a halt, causing the light-haired guard to hurtle toward her, and she ducked. With a shout, the man crashed over her and rolled down the hill.

Thanking God for her habit of wearing trews beneath all her leines just in case there was a tree that was worth exploring, she wrenched her skirt up and tucked it into her belt. The light-haired man ran toward her and she sprinted beneath the gate, skirting around the perimeter of the barmkin.

The man was faster than lightning and she was forced to launch herself over a hay cart to get three paces in front of him. Dashing toward the keep, she raced up the steps and wrenched the door open, then stopped dead.

The largest man she had ever seen in her entire life glowered down at her. His arms came out and she ducked, then somersaulted off the steps over the head of the light-haired man.

Landing soft on her feet she tore toward the open-air stables at the northern barmkin wall. The blond man was on her heels in seconds, but she dodged out of his grasp, then ducked into the structure. Jumping from one stable to the next, she made her way across. Just as she'd almost made it to the other side a large stallion raised his silvery head and she nearly collided with him. Skittering, she almost fell but found her balance as she stood one foot on the wall, one foot on the back of the horse.

From outside the open stables, the giant bellowed at her. "GET OFF GHOUSTIE! YE BANSHEE! "

Incredulous, she raised an eyebrow. The giant must be used to scaring people and getting his way. She jumped to the farthest wall and the giant almost caught her as she looped her leg over a bridle peg and hoisted herself upon the roof. High above the giant, she sprinted across the roof back the way she came. He followed her, screaming and swearing at the two guards who had not stopped her.

Twenty guards streamed from the gatehouse and surrounded the stable. A tattooed hand thick with ink came over the roof in front of her.

Her eyes found an escape route and she sprinted back across the roof toward the barmkin wall beyond, needing all the speed she could get. Hands out, she catapulted toward the curtain wall and got a hand hold on a corbel. It was enough. Fixing her other hand upon the curve of stone, she pulled herself up. Back strained, she hoisted her chin up, then shoulders, right arm, left arm, onto the wall.

The curly-haired giant looked at her with what now looked like fear. The light-haired guard raced to the edge of the stables and attempted the same jump, his fingers catching, but his weight causing him to slide off moments later. She tore toward the keep. She must find Hector.

I'm almost there, Léo.

The pebbled lime-washed surface of the tower keep made climbing difficult, but not impossible. Palms stinging with scrapes, she found the barest finger and toe holds as she sped upward, hurtling herself inside an open window.

A maid screamed at the top of her lungs as she crashed through the window and into a huge basket of linen. Saints.

Thighs burning, she sank into the linen and climbed toward the door as if walking through deep snow. After toppling herself out, she got to her feet and inched into the corridor. Servants were gathered at every window, backs to her, looking to see what the commotion was below.

Moira snuck toward the stairs. If only she could yell a name up the stairs and end the chase easily.

Below, guards clattered into the keep. The recovered maid burst into the corridor, pointing at her, screaming. Saints.

Rushing up the stairs and needing a place to hide, Moira reached a sumptuous corridor and burst through the second door, tripping over a chair.

The raw sounds of an infant screaming rent the air. A small red-haired woman stared at her, eyes wide with fright, a baby clutched to her chest. "Who are you? What do you want?"

Moira's hand went inside her dress, her lungs heaving in and out. A force tackled her from behind and she hit the floor hard, her chin colliding with the wooden floorboards, and pinned her to the ground.

"Don't move a muscle or I'll kill you." The voice was low and deadly, growling from the deepest parts of a man's being. Tears stung her eyes and something trickled from her chin. The missive. She couldn't reach the missive.

The two guards from the front of the castle burst into the room and doubled over, winded.

The dark-haired man gasped for breath. "The man who's …wi' her …is sticking to the story she …knows Lady MacLean and is …here to give her herbs."

The baby continued to wail. "Tis a lie, I've never seen her before."

The giant jerked her off the floor and pinned her arms behind her back. She needed to reach the missive; she couldn't let Léo down now. Summoning all her strength, she struggled against the giant trying to wrench her hands free.

"Stop struggling, I warned you. You come into my keep, threaten my wife and son, I'll kill you."

Threaten? Wife and son? By the saints. The Beithir. She stopped struggling.

The Beithir growled at her and hauled her up, shaking her. "Who are you?"

She shook her head and moved her mouth. I don't have a… He turned away and she rolled her eyes. Why ask then?

The blond man recovered breath first. "The man down there says she's a mute, Laird."

"There's one way to find out." With two large fingers he grabbed a pinch of her flesh and twisted as hard as he could. Pain erupted through her arm and she lost her footing, tears cascading out of her eyes, a disgusting soundless rasp coming from her useless throat .

Lady MacLean rushed forward. "Stop it, Hector. Stop!"

He let go of the flesh but kept his hands on Moira's arms and she struggled against him, angry now. One arm broke loose and she reached toward the top of her leine, but his hand grabbed hers again.

Fed up and longing to pay him back, Moira sank her teeth deep into his fist until he yelped and let go. Grabbing the missive, she thrust it in front of his face. He stopped and stared at her. She stared back into—into the same aqua eyes as her own. Breath rattled from her chest, and she waved it at him, exasperated. Take it, toad.

Behind him the two guards snorted in unison. Rolling his eyes now, the Beithir took it from her fingers.

Mission done, she collapsed to the floor, resting her head upon her knees. All that. To deliver a message for a man who didn't care a thing for her. Her breath heaved and she sprawled out upon the floor spent.

"Léo?" The expression of every person in the room looked confused as they stared at the Beithir.

The woman rocked the baby back and forth and he quieted in her arms. "What about Léo?"

The Beithir stepped over her and yanked her up by her collar. She dangled, no longer needing to fight back. "How do I know this is from Léo and not some trick?"

Fixing her eyes on his and staring back, showing him he did not scare her in the least, Moira stuck her hand inside her leine and produced the necklace. The Beithir's eyes went wide and he dropped her, her back banging against the wooden floor.

His voice wavered. "Léo is alive."

The two guards rushed over, looking at the missive in the Beithir's giant hands.

The blond man squinted at it. "It's in French, I can't read it."

The dark-haired man pointed to a word. "I can read that. Moira. The man outside says she's Moira Allen, daughter of a priest."

Moira got to her feet, brushing tufts of spirally curls out of her face.

Beithir studied her. "You're Léo's Moira? His woman?"

His woman? No. Not at all. Judging from Léo's enthusiastic apology, the man would rather kiss a pig than claim her as his own. She shrugged her shoulder and pointed to her name on the paper and mouthed, I'm Moira.

"How did you meet him?"

Moira held up her hands and felt invisible bars.

"Prison?"

She nodded her head, then ran an imaginary sword through her left shoulder and mimicked blood gushing from her wound.

Lady MacLean's eyebrows shot up. "We thought Léo was run through at the chest, but it could've been the shoulder."

Moira walked up to the Beithir and took an imaginary knife to his shoulder, patted it, flipped maggots into it, and wound an invisible bandage around it.

Understanding smoothed the great giant's features. "You cared for his wounds when he got to prison?"

Finally. They were getting somewhere.

The Beithir gave her a skeptical look. "He isn't one who easily trusts. How did you gain his trust?"

He wasn't? That was news to her. They had only met thrice, and he was comfortable enough to kiss her the first time, insult her the second, and give her a missive the third. A memory of his heated kiss upon her lips made her stomach flutter, but she refused to let herself blush and be thought a woman of loose morals. That was Léo's idea, not hers.

She took the bag from her back and opened it, taking her charcoal and paper out.

Hector read her words as she wrote them. "My father is the prison priest. He looks after the more important prisoners of the MacKinnon family. Once a week, he visits Léo in prison and brings him benevolence gifts from the holy church. I helped him when Léo was brought in near death. Then, we became..."

She paused. What were they? The Beithir's ice blue eyes squinted. "Friends. I sketched a picture of Gabriel based on his description…"

What else did she know? Nothing, really. Why was she here? The question reformed in her mind and she pushed it away. Because it was the right thing to do. Because of Gabriel.

Moira wrote the only other detail that she knew. "His wife's name is Taya." Hector paused, something protective in his voice. "Théa." His pronunciation of the name matched Léo's. "T-h-e-a, short for Théodora." Their aqua eyes met. "I knew her."

Moira put her charcoal to the paper. "That's all I know."

"Is he well?"

She scrawled an answer and Hector read it. "His wound is healed but he's rapidly losing weight. The change in his appearance is shocking. And he is languishing without his boy. I'm…worried for him."

Sniffing began across the room as Lady MacLean looked down into her baby's face and wiped tears away.

The Beithir's eyebrows drew together. "And the conditions?" He paused while she wrote. "His, better than most…but not good. No windows. No fresh air. Almost seven months."

He growled and paced the room, his hands balling into fists. "And there is no possibility of breaking him out as we did with my wife?"

Moira looked to the ceiling, considering how best to explain, then flipped the paper over and sketched her answer. He watched as she drew the shoreline of Skye, the sound, Pabay, and the great prison, its walls, towers, and seven stories. Beside the tower she sketched a century? 1 of soldiers, and on the neighboring island of Scalpay she sketched two more centuries.

The blond man eyed the map and the sketch of Cràdh and traced the shore with an ink-darkened finger. "Look at the accuracy of the coastline. It's better than our map."

Moira swatted his hands away and filled in the Kyle Akin and the village, and the hills surrounding it, then Loch Alsh and Kyle Rhea. On the shores of Scotland she sketched five more centuries spread out along the coast. Beside it she sketched a wolf howling.

"These are the Wolf's forces?"

She flipped the paper over. "Part of them."

She flipped back to the map and sketched a bìrlinn, then pointed to it and made corresponding rectangles in the water. Sixty.

"By the saints." Moira wasn't prepared to hear the heartbreak in the Beithir's voice and she put a hand to his muscled forearm. He looked down at her. She flipped to the back of the paper.

The Beithir spoke her written words. "‘There's something you don't know.' What? "

She motioned the dark man and the light man to come farther into the room and got up and closed the door. Drawing a deep breath, she wrote the information she had resolved not to share unless they could be trusted. "Léo is Chief of the MacKinnons." The Beithir looked at the sentence and then to his wife. "What do you mean?"

Her charcoal flew over the paper. "He was named chief on his father's deathbed and confirmed by his father's chieftains before they were killed. Mowbray MacKinnon confirms the story to my father."

The Beithir's face drew tight. "How do you know Mowbray? ‘He's the new keeper of Cràdh Prison along with half a century of MacKinnon guard loyal to the King of the Isles forced to prison assignment. Mowbray has a plan'—a plan for what?"

Moira took a deep breath praying to God her father would be protected. "To restore Léo as rightful chief and to overthrow Niall. Mowbray believes it was Niall's plan all along to kill or capture Léo. I believe his sister Elspeth may have tried?"

The Beithir looked at his wife who rocked the now-sleeping baby, a look of stunned disbelief on her face.

"Aye. He and my wife were both captured. Tavish, Elspeth's husband, tried to kill Léo but didn't succeed. Léo always has been as resilient as a cat. Able to come back again and again from the brink of destruction."

Moira remembered her father's eerie words about Léo. The Beithir's brow furrowed as he read her words. "My father thinks he is anointed. He said the clan has always thought so. It's why his brothers, and sister, and stepmother, hate him. It's why Father and Mowbray want him to be installed as chief."

"Does Léo know about this?"

Moira hesitated. Despite her father's orders to lie and say Léo approved of the plan, she couldn't do it, even if it was for the good of their cause. "He will know soon."

"What do you and your father have to do with all this?"

The concern for Léo evident on the Beithir's face made her answer honestly. "Father wishes to avenge the death of my mother. Niall MacKinnon ordered her to Dun Ringill to care for his leman who was ill with pox. When Maw could not save her he… "

Tears blurred her eyes. The worst day of her life. The day Father resolved that they would pay, and everything changed. He'd been consumed by grief. Consumed by anger. Consumed with revenge.

"Weighted her legs and sank her in the sea."

The dark man swore then looked abashed. "Sorry."

She did not know whether he was apologizing for swearing or her mother's terrifying death. Maybe both. The man stuck out his hand. "Murdoch MacFadyen."

She grasped it, and opened her mouth, ready to say Aileen, but stopped. Instead she mouthed, Moira Allen.

The light-haired man came forward and stuck his tattooed hand out. "Calum MacLean."

Lady MacLean placed an arm around her shoulder and squeezed. "Cara MacLean."

The Beithir looked at the paper and then at Moira, eyes still suspicious. "You explained how your father is involved. How are you involved? Why cross an ocean to deliver a message you can't read? What if it contained information that could get you murdered? Why not send your father? Why fight your way into a keep and past twenty highly trained guard?"

Why indeed? It had taken much convincing to make Father stay behind and come alone. The chains around her heart rattled, and she touched the charcoal to the paper. "I don't care about the plan to overthrow Niall. If Father came, I knew he'd push you to support their cause and attack now, forgetting Léo's interests and your safety. All I want is for Gabriel to know his da is alive, and for Léo to be with him. I came to see that word got to Gabriel."

The Beithir nodded once. Moira tugged on his sleeve and continued to write. "I'm sorry I lied to get in. I'm sorry about running from you, I didnae realize you were Hector. Sorry I jumped on your horse. Sorry I broke into your keep and scared your wife and baby. Sorry I bit you." She had run out of room on the paper. Please God, don't punish me.

Emotion spilled over the Beithir's face, and he picked her up and embraced her, squeezing all the breath from her lungs. "Thank you. Thank you for coming all this way. Thank God for you. You saved his life."