Page 62 of The Falcon Laird
“Peat fires do not provide good light, and we have documents to read,” Hastings said. He shoved back his mail hood, the harsh jangle emphasizing his irritation. “Fetch some candles, Faulkener.”
“I’ll fetch a torch for you,” Fergus said, stepping forward.
Hastings spun in surprise. “Who the devil are you?”
“Fergus Macnab, rector of Saint Bride’s church,” Fergus replied. “God’s greetings. I’ll be back with lights, then,” he said brusquely, and left the room.
Christian frowned, standing in the shadows, and wondered what scheme Fergus had in mind. She had never known him to behave subserviently to any Englishman.
“That man is a Celtic priest,” one of the men said. “What is he doing here in Kilglassie?” Christian looked at the large man who had spoken, and that he had saw the tonsure and embroidered robes of a wealthy English priest.
“Fergus Macnab has been priest at Saint Bride’s for years, and his father and grandfather before him,” Gavin said. “I will not say him nay on his right to be here, Ormesby.”
“Father and grandfather? I suppose he is married with brats of his own. Do you allow that man to administer your own communion? Intolerable,” Ormesby said. “As baron here, you have the right to appoint another priest to the parish. I will send you a list of candidates. This Macnab is of the Scottish Church,and aside from his pagan habits, he is likely a supporter of Robert Bruce. He should be ousted from his position.”
“We do not need Scots preaching to the people when we can replace them with English priests,” Hastings said. “The Scottish clergy are as rebellious as their king. They teach the people that it is no sin to kill infidels or Englishmen. Both causes, the Scots priests say, are holy.”
“Rebellious priests indeed,” Ormesby said. “We sent timber to the bishop of Glasgow last summer to repair a bell tower. But he built a seige engine with it and took back an English held castle for the Scots.” He snorted with disgust and lowered his bulk on to the top of a clothing chest, grunting heavily.
“And Bishop Wishart is now in an English dungeon, where he’ll build not more weapons against King Edward. We cannot hang a bishop, but we do not have to let him free,” the third man said. His Scottish birth was obvious to Christian. She frowned. The longer she waited, the more angry she would become at what she overheard. And sooner or later, her presence would be seen.
She stepped out of the shadows. “Bishop Wishart is an old, frail man, and deserves greater kindness than that,” she said.
“Christ’s tree!” Hastings said. “What are you doing here!”
Although Gavin said nothing, his sharp glance pierced hers. Head high and back straight, she could face Gavin fearlessly. But she was afraid to look at Hastings. Gavin’s steady stare, though grim, offered a sense of safety. She walked over to stand by his side.
“And who is this pretty wench?” Ormesby said pleasantly. “Was it you playing the harp when we came up the steps, girl? After you fetch us wine you may play for us.”
“She is no servant girl,” Gavin said. “Philip Ormesby, I present my wife, Lady Christian MacGillan of Kilglassie. My lady, this is Dungal Macdouell. You know Oliver Hastings.”
“I do,” she said, bowing her head, though she trembled all over like a green alder branch. Gavin placed steadying fingers around her elbow.
“Faulkener!” Hastings barked out. “This girl—”
“I am supposed to have died,” she said. “But I recovered from my illness.”
“Holy Jesu, it is the girl in the cage at Carlisle,” Ormesby said. His full lips hung open as he stared at her. Macdouell, too, ogled her.
Hastings turned to glower at Gavin. “A month ago, you told the king that this girl was deathly ill and would not last the week. You took her out of that cage—and took her into your custody—knowing it would be treason to disobey the king.” Both Ormesby and Macdouell nodded and directed disapproving frowns toward Gavin and Christian.
“I trust she is here as your prisoner,” Ormesby said.
“She is my wife,” Gavin said. “King Edward himself suggested the marriage. And Oliver witnessed the king’s direct order to release her.”
“Edward released her into your custody so that you could escort her to a convent to die,” Hastings growled between his teeth. “You decided what you wanted.”
“God decided she would live,” Gavin said. “Not even your priest would dispute that authority.”
Ormesby cleared his throat. “However, God allows righteous men to pronounce punishment on criminals. She was imprisoned. She should be in custody at a convent, if not back in Carlisle.”
“She was never formally accused of any crime,” Gavin said. “She was neither tried nor sentenced.”
“Only captured and held in a savage manner,” Christian said. “Just as you hold the other Scottish women captured at the same time as I was—including our queen.”
“And we have let none of them go but you,” Hastings said. “That was clearly a mistake. You should be returned to our custody.” Christian felt Gavin’s grip on her arm tighten.
“They still live?” she asked.
