LITMIR.BIZ

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enough arms to force their way.”

      Eric grinned, seeing the priest at the entry to the great hall. “Welcome, Father MacKinley. I was about to send for you.”

      “You’re looking extremely well.”

      “Yes. The sickness is gone.”

      “Is it?” the priest asked. “I have a feeling that an illness far worse festers within your soul.”

      “My soul is of little interest to me at the moment, if you will forgive me, Father.”

      “Whether I forgive you or not—”

      “Let’s not get into a philosophical discussion, Father, on my soul. There are other matters to be discussed. First, Garth, I am very hungry.”

      “Aye, sir.”

      He turned to leave.

      “Garth.”

      The man paused, looking back. He was wary, but also worn.

      “I have no real liking for bloodshed and death. But if I—or any of my men—are poisoned here, the retaliation upon those here will be swift and any who die at your hands will wish that they had been taken by the plague. You understand that.”

      “Aye, my lord. That was made quite clear at the beginning of your illness by your man, MacDonald.”

      Eric smiled. Thank God for Peter MacDonald. His right hand. Because of Peter, and this priest, he had lived. When he should have died. When he would have gladly died. He dared not think too long on that fact. Dark clouds seemed to fog his vision when he did so, and the dull pain would begin to thud again, and he wanted to rage, and tear the place apart stone by stone, though nothing would bring back Margot and his daughter.

      “Good. Bring food. Father MacKinley, sit.”

      Garth left the hall, hurrying to bring food as bidden. As bidden, Father MacKinley sat, his eyes wary.

      “So, Father, tell me about the state of affairs.”

      “The state of affairs?” MacKinley said. “War, I believe. It has been war here, as long as I remember.”

      “Ah, yes, it’s a way of life, isn’t it? Here, Father, you know exactly what I am asking you.”

      “I’m sure that you know everything that is going on, and that your man, MacDonald, has brought you up to date.”

      “Yes, but I would like to hear your assessment of the current situation at the castle.”

      “People have stopped dying. Most of the poor deceased have been burned in great heaps just beyond the walls.”

      “Most of the dead.”

      “Your wife and child are buried in the wall with the late Lord Afton.”

      Eric stared down at his hands for a moment. “There will be masses said,” he murmured quietly.

      “There have been masses said. All men are equal before God.”

      Eric allowed his mouth to curl just slightly. MacKinley was either a fool or a very brave man.

      “Where is your mistress?”

      MacKinley stiffened at Eric’s evenly voiced question.

      “Gone.”’

      “That’s evident. Gone where?”

      “Back to her brother.”

      “The young widow, returned to England to be a pawn in another advantageous marriage.”

      “Gone back to the love and care of her family.”

      “When did she leave?”

      “I don’t remember—”

      “When?”

      “Several days ago.”

      “How many?”

      “Perhaps five . . . or six.”

      “Ah. So she cannot have gotten far.”

      “She has been gone many days. It would be folly to pursue her.”

      “But she has gone on foot.”

      The priest frowned, and Eric knew he was right.

      “How—”

      “She departed through a secret tunnel, certainly, or my men would have known. So, at the least, she started out by foot. I think I will be able to find her.”

      “She was not responsible for the death here. She saved your life.”

      “I survived. She is not capable of saving lives. My wife is dead.”

      “She is not a magician.”

      “She has the reputation of a healer.”

      “But no man can work miracles.”

      “I repeat, my wife is dead. And my babe. A child as innocent of evil as any soul could be.”

      “But what matters here—”

      “Nothing else matters. My wife and child are dead.”

      “But you have survived,” MacKinley said, leaning forward in sudden passion. “God willed that you should survive, and so you should be on your knees in gratitude, and let go the innocent woman who aided you in that survival. Thank God, and embrace life, and the world will again begin to hold substance, there will be a reason to live, you will find a reason to live—”

      “Father, you needn’t speak so passionately, as if I were a lost member of your flock,” Eric said dryly. “There is a reason to live. Scotland.”

      “A man must have more to live for, sir, than bloodshed and battle. You have lost much, but gained much. You hold this castle, and your man, Bruce, is king. Therefore—”

      “Oh, he is king. But he does not hold Scotland. Where was the lady going?”

      MacKinley frowned “I haven’t lied to you in any way. I have told you; Lady Igrainia is on her way to her brother, the young earl.”

      “But there was no party to escort her; I have been abed and ill a long time, but I am aware of what goes on here. My small party of men hold the workings of the castle. Some of the poor men drawn to arms in the name of Edward of England have readily changed sides. They might as readily change back, but . . . not while we hold the power. Few of the workers and craftsmen who have survived care much who holds the castle, as long as they may live and work and continue surviving. Anyone loyal to the king of England languishes in the dungeons below where the rot of death must still permeate the stone. There was no way for you to provide an escort for the lady of the castle. Therefore, she is traveling alone, or with a maid or manservant, no more. And even on the border of England, she wouldn’t dare let her true identity be known. She would be far too rich a prey for even a loyal English outlaw to overlook. So . . . She has donned some poor woolen cloak, and gone out on the road as a poor pilgrim. Am I correct?”

      MacKinley didn’t need to answer. His cheeks were flushed.

      “You must leave her be. She is not guilty of any harm.”

      Eric felt a rising fury within him. “She was the wife of Afton of Langley. Langley played host to the king’s men sent to murder Scottish nationalists and imprison, humiliate and torment their wives. She is as guilty as original sin, Father.”

      “You’re wrong. You must not harm her . . . you must not . . .”

      Eric cast the priest a look of total disdain. “I have no interest in your lady witch, priest. But she has a value to the cause of Scotland. You know what has befallen certain noblewomen of our country, Father. Word has gone out faster than the wind.”

      Garth came into the room carrying a large tray. A fresh haunch of venison lay on the tray with a loaf of bread and

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