The Firebrand (2 page)

Adrianne sniffed at the horrified gasps from the men below the cage. Glancing down, she looked at the newly arrived man—the one the abbess had called by the name of Wyntoun. He was standing apart from the rest with his arms crossed over his chest, and frowning up at her.

A surge of anger made her want to spit down on him—and on the rest of them. But her present battle lay with the abbess. Fighting her unsettled stomach, queasy from the wind-blown motion of the cage, Adrianne shifted from one side to the other to watch the nun’s departure.

“You will not be escaping me! This pitiful pile of rock you call a castle is too small. You cannot escape hearing me...hearing my curses, you--”

“By the saints, wench!” the burly steward standing near the newcomer called up to her. “If ye do not hold yer rattling tongue, ye’ll be hanging up there until ye rot.”

“Nobody called for you to speak, you muddle-headed scullion.” She had the satisfaction of seeing a wave wash seawater up between the rocks and soak the man. “In fact, if it weren’t for your wagging tongue delivering lies about what I had done, I wouldn’t be here.” A gust of wind had the cage again shake and swing precariously from the beam. Adrianne sank down on her knees as her stomach heaved from the jerky motion.

An icy rain had begun to fall in earnest. The wind, picking up as the tide came in, added a bitter chill to the wintry dusk settling over them.

She could handle the cold, even the soaking of her blanket and clothes with the icy rain. But she couldn’t deal with the illness caused by the rough movements of the cage. She despised this weakness. Taking a chestful of cold salty air, she grabbed the large shell and the food that was left in it and pushed herself back to her feet.

“And I’ll not be so easily poisoned, either, you fish-faced pox mongers.” She cast the dish and its contents fiercely downward. The food carried outward in the wind, falling on some of the onlookers as the shell itself shattered on the rocks not far from the newcomer’s feet.

“Come. All of you!” The abbess stood in the entryway to the castle. “Leave her.”

At the nun’s sharp order the heads of the half-dozen men snapped around, and all but the newcomer climbed over the rocks, filing into the keep behind the diminutive woman.

Still clutching the slats fiercely in her numb fingers, Adrianne wondered the reason for the man’s arrival. She had seen the ship sail into the bay just as they’d been hanging the cage from the tower that morning. She had also seen the boat that had been rowed ashore with this man in it. She was certain that this was the same man, for he was easily a head taller than the others who had been standing on the rocks below. And then, there was his short black hair—the same color as his black attire. Very different than the others who lived on Barra. But as far as the rest of his looks, it was too long a drop to the wet rocks to notice anything else but his fierce glower.

Watching him silently, Adrianne wondered why he had stayed behind.

“Do you realize that your perch is higher than the uppermost rigging of most ships? You must not be afraid of the heights,” he called out. “Though I know many a man who would swallow his tongue at the threat of being hung in a cage from Kisimul Castle.”

“Well, that says a great deal for the men of Barra!”

A wave splashed up onto his boots. Lithe as a cat, the tall newcomer moved easily from rock to rock, passing under the cage and stopping on the far side.

Adrianne shifted her hands on the slats and moved to the other side of the cage, so she could peer down at him.

“So, what terrible crime did you commit to deserve this grim punishment?”

She’d committed
no
crime, but she chose silence as an answer. Since her arrival on Barra, no one had yet believed anything she said, anyhow.

“You can talk to me. I’ve already tried to speak on your behalf. I
could
be a friend.”

She snorted loud enough to make sure he heard.

“I may not yet be convinced of your wickedness. I only just arrived on the island and--”

“I saw you sail in,” she exploded. “You’re a Highlander, and therefore vexatious baggage...like the rest of them.”

“You have too much mouth for a helpless English damsel.”

So he knew something of her background. “I am anything but helpless, you buffle-headed clackdish.”

“Buffle-headed? You must be confusing me with someone else. But you do appear helpless from where I’m standing. And from all I’ve heard since stepping foot on Barra, you seem to have committed some unforgivable sin. And an unmentionable one, I might add, since no one appears to want to speak of what exactly you did to rile the most gentle and mild-tempered abbess in the entire Western Isles.”

She looked frantically about the cage to find something else to throw at him. But there was nothing that she would dare give up.

“To start, my recommendation would be for you to change your manner of speaking with her.”

Temper had already formed hot replies in her throat, but she had to forego her answer as a blast of wind lashed the swaying cage with more icy rain. Her white fingers clutched the slats of wood, as she fought down another lurch in her belly.

“I’ve been acquainted with that gentle nun for a good portion of my life, and I’d say there is no man or woman or child living who would lend a hand to anyone bold enough to defy the wishes of that...well, that saint of a woman.”

“I don’t need or wish for help from any of you. I didn’t ask for it, and I never will. You are all nothing but spineless, cowering toads, and you deserve what you get at her hands.” Frustration forced her to shake the cage. Her voice rising to match the wind. “And despite what you fools want to believe, that woman
is
a tyrant.”

“Nay! She is a respected and loving leader who is highly regarded by the people of Barra...and by their master, as well.”

“Humph! I have heard about that one, too. And how convenient! Rather than minding her own corner of Barra by running her paltry abbey, the 'good' woman controls the entire island while the
master
—that perpetually absent minnow of a nephew—stays away. I think the milksop is afraid to deal with this tyrant’s wrath.”

“Minnow? Milksop? Is that the best you can do?”

“Nay, I can do better!” she retorted sharply. “The ‘great’ MacNeil is a roistering, shard-borne scut! From all I can tell, he’s merely a venomous, bunch-backed puttock, a--”

“Actually, mistress, he’s a MacLean. His mother was a MacNeil.”

Adrianne glanced to the side to see the steward standing against the castle wall, watching the exchange.

“M’lord!” The portly servant cleared his throat, sounding serious. “The abbess...she wishes to speak with you.”

After giving a departing look at the cage, the Highlander headed across the rocks to the entryway into the castle. Holding the slats of the cage in each fist, she watched him disappear. The chill wind buffeted the cage within inches of the ancient tower wall, and the endless rain finally managed to bring about a wave of desperation. She frowned and gazed down at the arrogant steward who was lingering below—gloating up at her from the safety of the rocks by the castle wall.

“Who is he?” She had to ask. “That Highlander! That faint-hearted puppy who ran as soon as the abbess whistled for him.”

“That ‘puppy,’ ye sharp-tongued vixen, is Sir Wyntoun MacLean, the abbess’s nephew and the master of Kisimul Castle.” She could see the man’s grin even in the dusk. “He’s the fiercest warrior ever to command either ship or raiding party. And after what ye said about him, I’d say ‘twill be a fortnight before he’ll be letting us feed ye, never mind let ye out of that cage of yers. Aye...a full fortnight, I’d be wagering, ye quarrelsome chit.”

She glared at him until he disappeared into the castle again. The words should have frightened her, but Adrianne felt no remorse over what she had said and done. Six months. For six months she had been practically a prisoner on this island. For six months she had been corrected, condemned, made a fool of, and punished repeatedly for no reason. And it all had come to this moment.

She looked down at the sharp drop. The sea was boiling up a little farther with each swell of the tide. The salty spray stung her face as the waves now washed over the rocks and battered the wall of the castle.

Uncoiling one hand from the slats of the cage, Adrianne reached inside the waistband of her skirt beneath the cloak and drew out the small dagger she had hidden there. Reaching above her head, her fingers slid through the wide slats of the cage and took hold of the single thick rope that connected the cage to the beam.

Aye, it had all come down to this, she thought, cutting away at the rope.

The black shadow of the diminutive nun loomed huge on the eastern wall of the Great Hall.

“The young women in my care are sent to this blessed island to focus on Almighty God. Their desire is to be free of the disturbing distractions of life. I tell you their wish is to embrace the stillness, to achieve the inner peace and tranquillity that they cannot find in the world abroad.”

The abbess stopped her pacing before the master’s table and waited until the Highlander lifted his gaze from the ledger book open before him. She nodded curtly. “For the past six months, Wyn, these poor creatures have not gotten any semblance of the prayerful solitude promised them...or promised their families. And our failure...every single disruption...can be laid at the feet of one person. That bull-headed, barbed-tongued banshee...Adrianne Percy.”

“For certain, Aunt, in your vast years of experience, you must have had other spirited young women who have shown similar restlessness in their disposition.”

“Ha! Restlessness? Ha! ‘Restless’ does not even come close to describing this wild-eyed Fury.” The pacing started again. “I’ve had others. ‘Tis true enough. But none...I can assure you...none of the others in my charge have ever dreamed of spreading open revolt beyond the walls of little abbey. Why, the Chapel of St. Mary may never be as ‘twas. Aye, Wyn, ‘Fury’ is the right name for Adrianne Percy. For certain, she’s the lassie that cuts the Thread of Life--mine! And I do not know what I did to deserve her.”

The Highlander closed the ledger book and nodded to the steward standing patiently at the end of the table to come and take away the record of the island’s business. Gesturing to a lean man who’d just entered the Great Hall, Wyntoun half-listened as the abbess churned on.

“First, she started in at the abbey. Breaking every rule—ignoring our routines—preaching anarchy among the youngest women. But that was only the start.”

Wyntoun watched his trusted shipmaster cross the torch-lit floor of the Hall. Although his graying thatch of hair belied his young age, Alan MacNeil was—in Wyntoun’s mind—the most knowledgeable and the most level-headed man sailing the seas. From the man’s shoulder, an oiled leather satchel hung.

“Alan!” The abbess erupted, turning as he passed in front of the blazing hearth and moved to the seat next to his master. “‘Tis about time you left that precious ship of yours and granted us the pleasure of your exalted presence.”

“Good day, Aunt.” Alan bowed quickly to the abbess and sat down, drawing a roll of vellum from his satchel. A serving lad quickly ran in with a bowl of steaming liquid for the unsmiling newcomer, who sipped it as Wyntoun unrolled the map before them.

“Where was I? Oh…that wee vixen!” The abbess began to pace again. “No convent walls could hold that wild thing. Why the creature was not here a week before she took to walking the entire length and breadth of the island! Alone! ‘Taking its measure,’ she tells me. Stopping in at every hut, I come to find out. Breaking bread with the good and the ungodly! And her foul mouth…where do you think
that
came from? I’ll tell you…’twas from mixing with the fishermen and some of the roughs and rascals that idle their time away on Barra.”

The nun waved a finger at the two men. “I know what you’re thinking. Our own kin, she’s talking about. Aye, I know. And I’m ashamed of all of them. But I’ll tell you something. There has not been a single person on this blessed island that Adrianne Percy has not sought out. Why, that lass has deliberately tried to make everyone’s business her own. And if you think anyone can suffer a fever or a hangnail on Barra without the meddling mistress poking her nose into it, you’re greatly mistaken!” The abbess snorted derisively. “And do you think she has even once told me where she’s going or when she’ll be back? Or—when she does get back—how she could possibly have gotten so muddy? Nay. In she comes with her skirt torn and her hands looking like a stable worker’s…and acting as if nothing in the world was amiss!”

“Aye, Aunt,” Wyntoun said vaguely, still looking at the charts.

“And don’t think that was the end of her transgressions!” Planting her small fists on her hips, the abbess came to a stop before the two men. “The Rule of Ailbe! You know it, Wyntoun. What is the Rule of Ailbe?”

The knight lifted his head and met the old woman’s piercing green eyes.

“St. Ailbe calls for meditative quiet in the lives of the religious.”

“I’m glad you recall, nephew. ‘Let his work be silently done when possible. Let him not be talkative, but rather be a man of few words. Be silent...seek peacefulness, that your devotion might be fruitful.’”

“Aye.” Wyntoun’s gaze dropped to the map.

The nun was not finished. “And now, ‘tis for you to ask me what the Rule of Ailbe has to do with Adrianne Percy.”

The knight frowned and looked up from the table. “Well, Aunt, and what does all of this have to do with Adrianne Percy?”

“Everything!” she exploded. “And before you lose interest and go back to your maps and other worldly pursuits, let me answer the question you asked me about what she’s done to deserve being hung in that cage!”

Wyntoun remained still, making a show of attentiveness to the abbess.

“I’ve already told you that young woman’s sole purpose since arriving here has been to break every rule that pertains not only to her, but to everyone else on this island.” Wyntoun slapped his palm on the table impatiently. “Aye, Aunt. You have!”