“Och,cave,” Harriet said. “I thought perhaps something else.”
“I suppose he could have meant anything. Or nothing.” Glenna sighed. “Any matter, I don’t mind telling you alone that I fear what will happen if he continues to recover. God forgive me even speaking aloud any negative should he live, but when he discovers what has happened at Roscraig during his illness…”
“And the situation his daughter now finds herself in?” Harriet suggested gently. “I wish there were something more I could do to help, milady.”
“Oh, Harriet, I already don’t know what I would do without you,” Glenna said. “Da would have likely died had you not come. But he’s asked me who sent you; he’ll likely pose the same question to you.”
“Why, nae one sent me, milady,” Harriet said with a wide-eyed blink. “I came to Roscraig with my son from Edinburgh, where we worked in a shop.” Harriet Cameron gave Glenna’s arm a squeeze and then led her back toward the kitchen doorway, confiding, “’Tis why I prefer to stay in the kitchens, you see—I canna tell what I doona know.”
* * * *
Tavish pushed at the heavy trunk until it thudded against the solid rock at the rear of the small alcove and then quickly ducked away as grit and pebbles rained down on him. Dubhán stepped back in the same instant, sputtering and swiping at his face. Tavish joined the monk and peered through the flickering candlelight to regard the hiding place.
From where Tavish stood in the narrow, steeply domed cave, the alcove where the chest rested appeared to be nothing more than another cleft in rock, or perhaps only a streak of the black and green mosses that grew along the fissures in natural striations. Although Dubhán said that few pilgrims came the way of the cave now, the cavern could be full of people and Tavish doubted any of them would notice the secret niche.
Still, he felt he must ask. “Nae one else knows, Dubhán, you’re certain?”
“Those remaining in the village know of the cave, of course, laird,” the dark monk replied in his usual calm tone, although his words were deeper and eerie here in this subterranean hole, supposedly once a refuge for an ancient mystic. “The few who knew aught of its alcoves are dead now. All save Frang Roy and Laird Douglas, that is.”
“Frang Roy has been exiled,” Tavish reminded the monk. “And Iain Douglas…poses little threat to me.”
“You seem very confident that the laird will die,” Dubhán mused. “His passing would certainly remove many objections the king might have to you holding Roscraig.”
Tavish wondered if the monk was investigating his conscience with such leading remarks. “By the time Iain Douglas would ever discover I’ve made use of the cave, either I will be laird in the king’s eyes or I will have left Roscraig.”
“I see.” The robed man took hold of the stubby, mottled candle and held it up, looking around the walls and ceiling of the cave, and the shadows fled behind some stones, rose up tall from others, and seemed to chase each other malevolently. “You take a risk yourself, though; what if something should happen toyouandyoushould die? An accident? Sickness, like that which befell Roscraig? You have made a firm enemy of Frang Roy.”
Tavish looked Dubhán in the eyes. “I’ve had worse enemies. Captain Muir knows of my plans. He would come for the trunk if I could not.”
“I see. What of Lady Glenna?”
“What of her? Naught I do is any concern of Miss Douglas’s.” But the mention of the woman pricked again at Tavish’s conscience, and so he sought to turn the conversation away from her. “But you understand that I am placing a great deal of trust in you, Dubhán.”
Now it was the monk’s turn to meet Tavish’s gaze squarely. “Come now, laird. I am a man of the lord above all else. I shall speak of it to no one save him.”
Tavish held out his hand. Dubhán looked down at it for a moment, a slight crease in his usually smooth forehead, as if he was temporarily perplexed at the offer of cooperation being extended to him. Then he moved the candle to his left hand and grasped Tavish’s hand firmly, the monk’s grip a strange combination of smooth skin and strong, sinewy grasp.
After the agreement was sealed, Dubhán blew out the flame and replaced the candle on the makeshift shelf, and Tavish stooped to followed Dubhán into the narrowing throat that led from the cave. The two men paused a moment on the stone ledge that fronted the small opening, taking grateful breaths of fresh air. From this vantage point, Tavish could see naught but the sparkling waters of the firth until he looked down at the sheer cliff beneath the overhang and the boulders submerged in the shallows of the Forth. And although Tavish Cameron had taken his own turns climbing theStygian’smast, he did not care for the way his body felt as though it were tipping forward against his will when he looked over the edge.
Dubhán’s sandals scraping on stone drew Tavish’s attention back to the firm land beneath his feet, and he set his mind to the task of not slipping to his death along the sheer precipice as he followed the monk up the treacherous path.
Tavish continued to follow Dubhán through the moss-covered monuments toward the small cottage crouched at the edge of the wood, the stone structure nearly overtaken with ropy, arm-like vines. Some of the markers in the clearing were in the shape of crosses; some small, square slabs; others tapering fingers. Many were inscribed with words in the old tongue, but most only bore a symbol or two meant to identify the departed.
Now, Tavish wondered that anyone at all knew the names of all the dead that populated this quiet cliffside burial ground. Some were his ancestors, no doubt, and the idea of it brought a pleasant wash of gooseflesh to his arms. He belonged to this land, just as surely as Roscraig belonged to him.
The tallest monument seemed youngest, a large cross standing crisp and straight and strong behind a wide mound of new grass. Dubhán stopped and turned back as Tavish paused there. A smaller obelisk was to the right, older than the cross monument, and with an English engraving:Margaret Douglas.
Glenna’s mother, Iain Douglas’s wife.
“What killed Margaret Douglas?” Tavish asked suddenly. He looked up in time to catch the surprised expression on Dubhán’s normally placid face.
“’Twas thirty years ago, laird. Lady Glenna was only a few days old.”
Tavish huffed a breath through his nose, wondering why he cared. He looked back at the stone. Thirty years ago—he and Glenna were nearly the same age, then. “Childbed fever, likely.”
“It takes many a young mother.” Dubhán glanced at the sky. “If you will excuse me, laird; it is nearly midday.” He paused, and his expression brightened as he gestured with his palm to the quietly decomposing cottage behind him. “You are welcome to join me.”
“I must decline, Dubhán. It seems the Tower is to play host to a growing tide of visitors leading up to the king’s arrival, and there is yet much to be done.”
