Page 74 of The Falcon Laird
“Hmph. It is still ale, and this is a day for hot soup and spiced wine.” Dominy tilted a brow at Christian. “So tell me the real reason we are out here today.”
“What do you mean?” Christian asked sweetly.
“I have seen how ye look at yer husband lately, and he at you. Hungry. John told me that a new pair of wild doves had mated and taken roost in the laird’s bedchamber—and he did not mean birds. And I think ye would never venture out without Sir Gavin now—unless ’tis for something Scots should know and English should not. Ah! Ye blush like a bride. It is a lovely thing.”
“Mating doves, indeed,” Christian grumbled, but her cheeks grew hot. Her love for Gavin was deepening quickly, not just because of his intoxicating touch, but for greater reasons she only scarcely understood. What lay between them was stronger than she could have imagined.
Dominy laughed. “So tell me how I can help.” She lifted her eyebrows. “Would ye be going out for a secret meeting—with a cousin?”
Christian felt quick relief. “Dominy, you are a true friend. Will you and the children visit with Moira today, while I go somewhere else?”
“And where is that?”
“Fergus arranged for me to get word to my—cousin to tell him I am free, and fine, since I was taken with the other ladies now in English captivity. Then we can return to Kilglassie before supper.”
“Are ye sure about this?”
“My cousin needs to know what I know.”
“Does he want to know ye’ve fallen in love with an English knight?”
“My loyalty will not change with that,” she said, unable to deny she indeed loved the knight. Hearing a raucous sound in the pine trees overhead, she glanced up. Two large ravens slid past, wings wide and outspread.
“Not a good omen, I think,” Dominy said.
Christian frowned and turned her attention to the children when her daughter yowled, her braid yanked again, and unceremoniously dumped Will off the pony’s back.
Soon, Christian saw the thatched roof of the Macnab house tucked by a hill. Beyond it rose the old stone tower of Saint Bride’s church.
Fergus could befound in the church tower, as Moira expected—but so were a dozen men who had gathered in the nave of the simple building. Some glanced at her as she entered, then turned back to listen as Fergus, at the altar with its white cloth and silver dishes, led prayers in Gaelic and then Latin.
Leaning by a whitewashed wall, Christian glanced up at the bare raftered ceiling, the pale walls and simple arched-stone windows. Closing her eyes, she listened as the men gave Latin responses, but she did not murmur the words herself; she had been excommunicated by the bishops in Carlisle. Even standing inside the chapel could be interpreted as breaking sanctity. But she loved this familiar little church, felt blessed and forgiveness by the peacefulness here. Fergus blessed the group with a sprinkling holy water and a chant over their bowed heads, and Christian wondered then how many of these men had been thrown out of the bosom of the Church as well yet prayed for salvation.
But she suspected why they were here. Inside the narrow east vestibule, weapons and armor were stacked and waiting for their owners to depart—bow and quivers, long-handled axes, iron-tipped staves, jumbled piles of leather and chain mail revealed the truth about the intent of these men.
Rebels all, and Fergus blessing them. She surmised they meant to join Robert Bruce, and Fergus meant to guide new rebels to the heather king while accompanying Christian to meet him. The men passed by her on their way out, collecting weapons and giving her a nod, a murmur, a shy glance. Some were familiar faces—a few of the workmen from Kilglassie with Iain and Donal Macnab, Fergus’s older sons. She had not seen them since the day she had returned to Kilglassie. Now they smiled and winked, old friends as always.
“My lady,” Fergus said, coming near as the men left.
“More men for Robert?” she asked in quiet Gaelic.
“The numbers of those ready to support him are growing. Some have lately been dispossessed of their Scottish holdings. Oliver Hastings has been free with the dragon banner of late. And King Robert’s hard-won victories here and there are giving the people more faith in the cause. They see now he is a courageous and worthy king who can defeat King Edward if he has enough support and arms.”
“Aye so. Shall we go, then?”
“First, come to the altar.”
“I cannot. I am banned. I should not even be in here.”
Fergus held out his hand. “Come.” She followed and knelt before the single step when he indicated. “The bishop of Glasgow sent letters to the parish priests,” he said. “We are allowed to reinstate any Scot who was excommunicated for aiding the Bruce. The king is still banned, but the Scottish Church will not let the souls of his friends fall into jeopardy.” He raised a little silver bell in his hand and began.
She bowed her head and listened to the sweet ring of the little bell and the intonation Fergus recited. She already felt sureher soul was safe on earth with Gavin. Now she drew a breath, relieved. “Thank you. Heaven will welcome my prayers again.”
“If Heaven bothers with the games of humankind,” Fergus drawled. “Come now. We have an audience with a king.”
“Pigeons,” John said.
“Not today, a Friday in Lent,” Gavin said as they trudged through wet bracken, their shoulders brushing past dripping pine boughs. “We should try fishing if you are hungry for this night’s supper. Christian and Fergus told me that the loch and the burns are always full of good catch.”
