Page 3 of Fallen
It hurt her to hurry her stride, to make her way hastily out of ‘The Warren’—the tightly packed network of alleyways of Dunan. Above it all rose the grey bulk of the broch, threatening against the stormy sky. MacKinnon’s lair.
Reaching the busy market square before the North Gate, Coira worked quickly. She bought herself some oatcakes and cheese for the journey, and then made her way toward the gate itself, where she joined the trickle of travelers out onto the road beyond.
The wind was harsh beyond the fortress, battering the high stone walls that surrounded Dunan and tugging viciously at Coira’s cloak. Despite the chill morning and the dank smell of an approaching storm in the air, cottars still worked the fields around the MacKinnon stronghold. This time of the year, many of the fields lay fallow, but it was a time to enrich the soil, to dig in compost, and there were plenty of hardy greens, such as kale and cabbages, which grew all year round.
Coira hesitated only a moment in front of the gate, before she turned left and took the road that circuited Dunan. She’d already made her decision about which direction she was headed in: west. North would take her into MacLeod lands and to the port village of Kiltaraglen. But there was nothing there for her but a life just like the one she was fleeing—and she had no intention of ever working in a brothel again.
Instead, she took the road that headed into the depths of the wooded vale behind Dunan. Tall, dark pines spread up the hillsides, their pungent scent lacing the chill air. This road would take her to the wild western shore of Skye, and the only place upon this isle that could give her sanctuary.
Kilbride Abbey.
Warmth spread through Coira’s belly at the thought of her destination and the safety that awaited her there.
It was an irony really, after she’d worn a habit for MacKinnon’s pleasure just a short while earlier. She was not pious and hadn’t been brought up in a god-fearing family. Her parents had died when she was barely ten winters old, both from a deadly fever that had raged through the isle one winter. They’d left her an orphan, and for a while, every day had been a struggle against starvation. Finally, desperation had brought her to Maude’s door. She’d been taken in, first as a servant, and then, when she grew into womanhood, as a whore.
After what she’d endured during her twenty winters, she found it hard to believe in God. If such a force existed, it was cruel indeed and cared nothing for her happiness.
But the abbey wasn’t just a place where pious women could live in contemplation. It was a sanctuary from a world that was both harsh and cruel. Coira had heard that the abbess of Kilbride was compassionate, and that she’d given many women shelter and a new start.
Drawing her cloak close against the howling wind, which now had spots of rain in it, Coira lowered her head and walked toward the mountains. And as she did so, she touched the small silver ring upon her right hand, tracing its intricate decorations with a fingertip.
The ring gave her strength; it made her feel as if her mother was watching over her.
For the first time in years, Coira looked toward the future with hope.
Ten and a half years later …
1
Uncanny
The village of Torrin
MacKinnon territory,
Isle of Skye, Scotland
Summer, 1349 AD
“DO YE THINK I have the plague?”
The old man’s raspy voice filled the smoky cottage, and Coira heard the note of fear in it.
Straightening up from where she’d been mashing herbs together with a small wooden pestle and mortar—creating a comfrey poultice that she would rub upon his chest—Coira met his eye. “Ye have the grippe, Colin … and it’s settled upon yer lungs. But it’s not anything more serious.”
“But how do ye know?” The farmer’s voice rose as he pushed himself up against the mound of wool-stuffed pillows.
“The pestilence has not yet reached this corner of Skye,” Coira replied evenly. “And the symptoms are different to what ails ye.”
Over the past year, Coira had heard tales from travelers and visitors to the abbey about the dreaded sickness, some of them conflicting. However, she didn’t want to frighten her patient with the details.
“But whatarethe symptoms?” Colin pressed.
Coira heaved a sigh. “Chills and weakness of the limbs … and terrible cramps to the belly,” she murmured, “and then, as the illness takes hold, dark pustules appear on the body.”
As expected, Colin visibly blanched at this description. Coira had to admit that the symptoms did sound ghastly; she’d been on the lookout for them ever since the plague—which had wreaked havoc over Europe, England, and Scotland—had crossed the water to the Isle of Skye.
She was as sure as she could be that no one in Torrin had yet shown signs of it.
