The Firebrand

ISBN 0451409426

Copyright © 2011 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: May McGoldrick Books, PO Box 665, Watertown, CT 06795.www.JanCoffey.com

First Published by NAL, an imprint of Dutton Signet,

a division of Penguin Books, USA, Inc.

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Jervaulx Abbey in Yorkshire, England

August, 1535

“Your father is dead.”

Frowning through the mud that covered his lined and weary face, the knight looked steadily at the three young women. They stood together by the hearth, their stunned faces golden in the glow of the small fire. Only a few candles lit the small abbey chamber.

“You should know that he died true to his beliefs. Like Thomas More and Bishop Fisher, he couldn’t be forced to sign the King Henry’s Oath of Supremacy. No matter what they did—no matter what the torture—Edmund Percy would not be crushed.”

He fixed his eyes on the youngest daughter as tears, glimmering like watery diamonds, suddenly splashed from her cheeks onto the stone floor.

“They murdered him in his cell. They feared to bring him to Westminster for a trial, so they came at him in the night like vile and bloodthirsty cowards. A guard I know told me the blackguards cut Edmund’s throat. He fought them manfully, but a dog’s dagger put an end to his worthy life.”

Benedict, the tall monk standing by the door, rasped out his concern. “Where is his body? Will it be returned to Yorkshire for proper burial?”

“Nay, the body was carried to…”

A small sob escaped the youngest daughter’s lips as she suddenly bolted for the door. No one attempted to stop her as she brushed past the monk and disappeared into the blackness of the corridor.

“Continue,” Benedict ordered, motioning to the other two sisters to remain. “There is more that we must learn.”

***

Grief clawed at her insides, tearing the very breath from her lungs.

Leaving the chapter house, Adrianne stumbled down the three steps, ignoring the hands that reached out to help. As she ran across the abbey courtyard toward the stables, she saw only the blur of her own tears.

He was dead. Her father was gone. Forever.

She flew into the stables, her hand finding the mucking shovel by the door. Adrianne’s shoulder banged hard against the rough wood of the stalls, but her body was numb to the pain. She staggered through the dark, finding her way to the empty stall. Grief turned to fury, and she lashed out with the wooden shovel, flailing away at the stone and wood walls.

An entire year of hoping, praying, that Edmund Percy would be released from his unjust imprisonment had all been for naught. Her father was dead.

Adrianne kicked at an empty feed bucket and slung the shovel into a corner. She punched at the stable wall until blood ran from her knuckles. But she was senseless to the pain.

Images of years past flashed through her brain. Her father, tall and handsome—the gentle warrior whose heart always shone through his clear blue eyes. Her mother Nichola—the serene beauty who ruled Edmund’s heart with the same affection with which she shaped the lives of the three daughters. The family she’d had. The love they’d shared. Gone. Gone.

“Gone!” She spit out the words in anger as her bloody fist again slammed the wall. The sharp pain in her hand this time broke through the wall of insensibility, and she sank to the ground, the tears once again flowing freely.

The images were burning in her brain—of Edmund Percy’s arrest, of their mother frantically trying to hide their daughters, of the massacre of innocent servants, of blood that had been left staining the walls and floors of their manor home. It was all too clear.

Sobs shook Adrianne’s slender frame. Helplessness like nothing she had ever known drained her very soul. She leaned her head back against the stone wall and wept.

When Catherine entered the stables, the sight of her younger sister collapsed in the stall added yet one more wound to a grieving heart. Adrianne’s black hair had come loose from its braid. The gray dress, torn at the sleeve, was covered with dirt and straw. As the youngest Percy daughter looked up, the streaks of blood and dirt, mingled with tears, drew Catherine immediately to Adrianne’s side. She lay the wick lamp she carried carefully in the straw.

“What have you done?” She touched a bruise on her sister’s forehead, another scratch on her cheek.

“Don’t!” Adrianne brought a hand up to ward off her sister’s gentle touch. But Catherine’s gaze immediately fell on the bruised and bloody knuckles.

“By the Virgin! Adrianne, what have you done?”

“Please don’t!” A sob escaped the younger woman’s lips. “Please don’t lecture me on what I should or should not do. Not now. And please don’t pretend that this news of our father is another lie.”

There was a long silence. Two matching pairs of blue eyes met, each sister seeking consolation in the other.

“This time, I believe it,” Catherine said at last. “This news of Father’s death was first taken to the Borders to the far north. Mother sent this knight back to us. He had a sealed letter from her. He delivered it to Laura and me after you left the abbot’s chamber.”

Adrianne dashed away at the tears on her face and straightened where she sat. “What does the letter say? What news is there of Mother? Is she safe where she is?”

“She assures us that she is safe, but as always she does not concern herself as much with her own well-being as with ours.” Catherine took a kerchief out of her sleeve and started wrapping it around Adrianne’s knuckles.

“Did she say anything about the Treasure of Tiberius?”

“Aye, but ‘tis all a jumble of riddles…as always! Words about ‘the map’ and our responsibility to keep it safe as our father did before us. References about how we should protect the sections of the map that she will send to us. The only thing that is truly clear is how real the dangers will be from those who will pursue us for it.”

“So this game we have been playing.” Adrianne met her sister’s gaze. “Laura’s elaborate plans we three have been carrying out. All the wee caskets we’ve been burying in every corner of Yorkshire. All those sketches and riddles to lead those who seek the treasure on to the next false destination—do you believe ‘twill still serve any purpose?”

“Aye, that it shall.” Catherine nodded. “Especially now, for Mother believes that ‘twill be only a matter of days before a warrant is issued for the arrest of the three of us, as well. In fact, she mentions the king’s Lieutenant, Arthur Courtenay by name. He has been just waiting for this opportunity to come after us.”

Rage rushed into Adrianne’s face. “He wouldn’t dare do so while Father was alive. Well, let him come. This time we will fight him to the last drop of our blood. There will be no imprisonment…no waiting…“

“Adrianne," Catherine’s hand firmly clasped her sister’s chin, “our mother does not wish to lose any more of her loved ones. She wants us safe. She wishes for us to leave England.”

“Leave England? Does she want us in the Borders with her?”

Catherine shook her head. “She doesn’t consider the Borders safe for her daughters. Nay, she has planned for the three of us to be sent to remote corners of Scotland.”

Adrianne shook her head in confusion. “Separating us? Hasn’t it been enough to live with losing our father…with losing her? The three of us staying together has been the only sane thing in this entire year of madness. We each need the other two to survive!”

“Adrianne, we are sisters. Nothing can change that. No distance between us can crumble the foundation of strength and love that has been built.” Catherine’s hand swept the dark strands of hair out of Adrianne’s face. “But I believe we should do as she bids us. The ploy of hiding the Treasure of Tiberius will buy us some time. Surely, Sir Arthur Courtenay’s interest will lie in unearthing the treasure first. We have been given a task of carrying out our father’s wishes. This is his legacy to us. We must follow Mother's plans.”

Tears once again rushed into Adrianne’s eyes. “And lose the last of what we have by being separated? By going blindly to the ends of the world? By going where one and all will surely hate us for our English blood?”

“We are all half Scottish. Nichola Erskine is our mother, so there will certainly be some tolerance in the way we are received.” She turned toward the door. “Come out of here, Adrianne, Laura is still looking for you.”

The two sisters both pushed themselves to their feet. Catherine picked up the wick lamp and continued. “The way I see things, Mother has planned for me to be sent to Balvenie Castle where, through the generosity of the earl of Athol, I will be able to open the school I have so long dreamed of. Once I am settled, I see no reason why you and Laura cannot join me there. We are all well educated and know how to tutor others. We must think of this as only a brief separation.”

“And Laura? Where is she being sent?”

“Farther to the north. To a place on the eastern sea called the Chapel of St. Duthac.”

“And I?”

“To the western isles. You are being sent to an island called Barra.”

“An
island
?” Adrianne exclaimed. “But one needs a boat or a ship to get to an island.”

“Aye! I believe ‘tis too far to swim, little sister.”

Her bandaged hand unconsciously pressed to her stomach. “But why did our mother have to sent me to an island?”

Catherine started ushering her sister out of the stall. “You’ll survive the journey. And once you are there, you will be cared for perfectly…until such time as you can join me at Balvenie Castle.”

“An island,” Adrianne murmured with dismay. “So few people. So little to do.”

“Just think of all the hardships we have faced, Adrianne. Compared to all we have been through this past year, I am certain that life on Barra will be heaven!”

Kisimul Castle, The Isle of Barra

Western Scotland

Five Months Later

The cry of anguish from the wooden cage hanging high above the rocks brought nods of approval from the throng huddled together at the base of the castle wall.

“And I’m telling you, Wyntoun, she is too obstinate a vixen to die of a wee bit of weather!”

The gust of the bitter Hebrides wind carried the nun’s declaration up the stone walls of the castle to the inhabitant of the swinging cage. The boxlike prison of wood and rope hung suspended from what looked like a ship’s bowsprit projecting out from a corner of the main tower of the castle.

From the confines of the cage, Adrianne Percy peered down at the cold stare of the Abbess of the Chapel of St. Mary. Fighting the bile in her throat and the numbness of her bare fingers clutching the wooden slats, she strained to hear every word.

“Surely, considering the ice and the rain and all, the woman must have endured enough punishment already...”

“The lass has been up there just a few short hours!” the nun snapped accusingly. “Three days! She will remain up there three days--”

Adrianne shook the cage, drawing up all eyes. “Make it three hundred days, if you like, for this punishment is preferable, by far, to everything else you have meted out to me since arriving on this accursed island.”

The abbess howled upward into the wind. “Any less than three days and I will not even consider giving her leave to beg for forgiveness.”

The young woman shook the cage again. “Beg for forgiveness? Never!”

“Five days,” the abbess shouted.

“I have done no wrong, and if there is any forgiveness needed, ‘twill be granted by me only.” Adrianne’s voice rose over a gust of wind. “Do you hear? By me!”

Adrianne felt the satisfaction and despair blend and curl in her chest at the sight of the ancient nun mumbling and making her way carefully over the rocks toward the main entrance of the keep. The abbess only stopped long enough to call out her answer before continuing.

“Seven days, vixen!”

“Hell’s gate! Just
try
to keep me here for seven days! For even one day. Virgil, be my guide,” she intoned. “I’d raise hell’s demons, except that they’re probably already wearing an abbess’s wimple!”