True Highland Spirit (23 page)

She stared at the beautiful instrument in her hand, a single tear streaming down her face. She wiped it away impatiently. She was heartless, cold, and brutal. People could not hurt her. Objects meant nothing to her. She was the destroyer of beauty and love. She felt nothing.

Morrigan held the instrument over the flames. It was time to say good-bye.

“Morrigan, nay!” Alys snatched the lyre from her hand. “What are ye doing?”

“Dragonet left. He is betrothed to another, and he left. He gave that to me, and I will see it burnt to ashes.”

Alys’s shoulders slumped. “I see.”

Morrigan said nothing but held out her hand for the return of the instrument. Time for a funeral pyre.

“Nay. We may need the coin this instrument can bring.” Alys’s usually rosy cheeks were pale. “’Tis Andrew; his fever has returned.”

Morrigan urged her mount forward, squinting into the driving snow. Instead of soft flakes, the snow fell in small ice pellets that stung her eyes in the bitter cold; still, she pressed on. Andrew’s life hung in the balance, and she would never give up.

Alys’s warning echoed in her head. Andrew needed a special medicine if he had any chance for survival. The only one who made such a potion was Mother Enid at St. Margaret’s Convent, a good day’s ride from McNab Hall. In bad weather, which Morrigan was forced to concede it was, it could take longer. Morrigan had not waited to take volunteers for the trip. This journey meant the difference between life and death for Andrew, and she would see it done.

She had passed through the village of Kimlet many hours before, stopping only for a change of horses and a warm meal to keep her going. It was getting darker by the minute, and she held up a lantern to see her way in the driving sleet. The snow on the road was deep and the going was slow. Too slow for Andrew. Too slow for her too, for she knew being caught long in the elements would be fatal to both herself and to her horse. She pushed on.

Near the road was a stream, which led to the convent. Taking a chance, Morrigan led her mount down to the stream bed. The stream was shallow and had frozen. Would it hold her? She slowly guided her horse onto the frozen stream bed. Despite an occasional crack, the ice held. The snow was less deep than on the road and the path was better marked by the sides of the stream so it would be more difficult to get lost. She kicked her mount into a faster pace. They needed to find St. Margaret’s fast. Neither she nor Andrew had much time left.

Hours passed and Morrigan pushed on through the night. She was worried for Andrew, but her growing concern was surviving the night. Her horse was showing grave signs of fatigue. If he went down, she would not survive. Desperation welled up inside her like a breached dam. She must not fail.

Please
, she prayed.
Please
let
me
reach
St. Margaret’s. Please let me get the medicine back to Andrew in time.
Morrigan shook her head. She must be desperate indeed if she was turning to prayer. She knew full well God could not hear a sinner’s prayers.

She closed her eyes, too frozen for tears. When she opened her eyes again, a single light shone in the distance. Her heart leapt at the sight, and she guided her weary mount toward the light. It grew brighter until there was no more doubt. She had reached St. Margaret’s.

No one was fool enough to be outside on a night like that, but she was able to rouse a stable lad sleeping in the stables to care for her horse and stumbled to the nuns’ sleeping quarters in the driving snow. She knocked on the door and was relieved when at length it was opened. She stated her business and struggled to retain consciousness until she found Mother Enid’s sleeping quarters. Ignoring the protests of the nuns around her, Morrigan entered the room without knocking.

“Forgive me, Mother Superior, for waking ye like this. I am Morrigan McNab, and I need medicine for my brother Andrew. His fever has returned.”

Mother Enid moved slowly from her cot, but her eyes blazed a bright blue. “Andrew’s fever has returned? That is not a good sign, but I will do what I can.” Mother Enid wrapped a blanket around her shoulders against the chill and spoke to several other nuns who had been awakened by Morrigan in her haste to find Mother Enid. “Bring this lass some mead and bread, she is half-froze.”

“I need the medicine and a fresh mount, then I’ll be on my way.” Morrigan’s words may have been more convincing had she not swayed as she spoke.

“Sit down,” Mother Enid suggested, and Morrigan complied, or possibly fell into the chair. “Did you come all this way through this storm?”

“Aye, he needs the medicine now.”

“You are lucky to be alive, my dear. God must be watching over you.”

Morrigan sat back, too tired to argue. She had never known God to take much interest in her life. But then again, perhaps the Almighty liked Andrew better than her.

“Please, the medicine. I can pay if ye wish.”

“What I have I give to those who are in need. Sister Joanna, please fetch one of the green bottles from behind the flour bins in the pantry.”

Morrigan closed her eyes. She was so tired even her bones ached with weariness. She would rest just a moment until they could bring the medicine.

“Can you feel your fingers, Morrigan? They are completely white.”

Morrigan shook her head without opening her eyes. She had long since lost the ability to feel her fingers and toes. She hoped they would not freeze such that she would lose them, but Andrew was more important right now.

“Mother Enid, I canna find any bottles where ye say.”

Morrigan’s eyes flew open to Mother Enid’s frowning face.

“I had two dozen bottles stashed there,” said Mother Enid.

“Mother Enid?” said a young blond nun, who had not taken the time to put on her veil. “Abbot Barrick came yesterday and asked for the fever medicine that ye keep in the apothecary so I gave it to him. He asked if ye had any more and I said yes and he said to give him all of it, so I did.”

Mother Enid put a bony hand over her eyes. “Oh, child.”

“Did I do wrong?” asked the blond nun, her blue eyes watery. “I am sorry if I did.”

“Do not fret, my child. You meant well; now go back to bed.” Mother Enid ushered all of the nuns out of her small quarters and shut the door.

“Please say ye have more medicine somewhere,” begged Morrigan.

“I fear I do not. Barrick had been taking more and more, so I hid a stash in the pantry. If that is gone, I have none other.”

Morrigan inhaled sharply, fighting a growing sense of panic. “But ye can make more, right?”

“I can, but the brew takes a special herb and I have none left. Lady MacLaren may have some, but the roads to where she lives in the mountains may be difficult to traverse until the thaw.”

“Nay! Andrew needs the medicine now. What does Barrick want with all that medicine?”

“He says he needs it to provide care for the wounded returned back from the battle with England.”

Morrigan stared at the nun, a cold reality infusing her veins. “He is selling it for profit.”

Mother Enid nodded. “I fear so.”

“Damn that bastard! Och, forgive me, Mother Superior, I forget myself.” Morrigan tried to stand on shaky legs. “I will go ask him the price.”

“Sleep first,” said Mother Enid firmly. “Barrick is asleep at the abbey now, there is naught you can do until dawn.”

“I care no’ for his sleep; I’ll rouse him.”

“You may not care, but he would. Do not give him an excuse to deny you the medicine.”

“I must go,” said Morrigan, even as Mother Enid was gently leading her to the bed. “I canna stay,” argued Morrigan, though the slightest nudge from Mother Enid made Morrigan collapse on the pallet.

“Sleep now,” said Mother Enid.

Morrigan closed her eyes and knew nothing.

***

Morrigan woke to a bright sunlit room. She sat bolt upright. Had she slept through the day?

“’Tis the dawn; do not fear, my child.”

“I must go—ow!” Morrigan clenched her fist and wished she had not. Pain shot through her fingers and up her arm.

“We have been slowly warming your hands and feet as you slept,” said Mother Enid, pointing to rags and bins of water. “I believe you will keep all your fingers and toes for now, though the rewarming process can be painful.”

“Thank ye, Mother Enid. There are few who would have taken the time to care for me. I fear I am unworthy of yer attentions.” Morrigan figured that if Mother Enid knew more about her, the good nun would not have bothered trying to help her.

“I care for all God’s children, as the Good Lord instructed me.”

Morrigan struggled to put her boots back on, ignoring the dull ache in her joints. “Thank ye,” she mumbled, unaccustomed to kindness. “I will see Barrick for the medicine. He must give it to me.”

“I wish there was more I could offer you.” Mother Enid shook her head. “I do not like sending you to that man. Take care, for the abbot is not as his title would suggest.”

Morrigan nodded. “I ken he is no’ to be trusted.” She knew it well. He was the one who demanded her brother kill the bishop. He also was the one who had ordered her fields burned.

“Stay safe, my child.”

Morrigan was given a fresh mount and a bundle of food for her journey. Unlike the day before, the sun shone bright in a blue sky, reflecting off the sparkling white snow. Morrigan held her reins in one hand and used the other to shield her eyes against the glare. The abbey was not far from the convent, and despite the snow she made it there within an hour.

The abbey consisted of several outbuildings and one tall tower. No one was outside or in the stable, so she tended to her mount herself and then went to the tall tower to look for Barrick. Inside the tower was a great room in which several monks dressed in black robes were sitting at a meal. At her entrance they turned to look at her. No one said a word. No one rose to ask her business or help her. The large room was eerily silent and smelled of fear.

A chill crawled up Morrigan’s spine. “I am looking for Abbot Barrick,” she announced, her voice echoing off the bare walls.

Still no one said a word.

“’Tis a matter most urgent; can you say where he is?” asked Morrigan. These men were like the walking dead. Finally, one rose like a specter and pointed to a staircase.

Morrigan bounded up the spiral staircase, trying to ignore a growing sense of foreboding that she was walking deeper into the demon’s lair. On the top floor, she found a closed door being guarded by two hooded monks. The hair on the back of her neck stood up in warning. This was not a place she wanted to be, but for Andrew… “I need to see Abbot Barrick on an urgent matter.”

The guards looked at her and said nothing. Had everyone taken a vow of silence?

Morrigan sighed and ran between them for the door. It pushed open to her touch and she stumbled into the room.

“Hey, ye canna go there!” shouted one of the guards.

Morrigan smiled. He was not so mute after all. She ran into the comfortable room, richly furnished. Beautiful tapestries hung on the walls, and an ornate wooden screen stood in one corner. The abbot was sitting before a roaring fire, a glass of wine in his hand. On the table beside him was a veritable feast of appetizing dishes. The savory pastries alone beckoned her. She blinked at the stark contrast.

Abbot Barrick eyed her suspiciously. “Remove her!” he commanded.

“Nay! I have come for medicine for my brother, Andrew McNab. I will pay you.”

A slow smile spread across Barrick’s face. With a wave of his hand he dismissed his monk guards. “You are Archie’s sister. The one who took command when both your brothers left you. How are you today, Morrigan?”

Morrigan was taken aback. How did he know so much about her? She doubted she wanted to know. “I need medicine for Andrew,” she repeated. “Mother Enid said you had the medicine I need.”

“I am sure that is true. Mother Enid likes to be right in all things.”

Morrigan waited for him to say more, but Barrick turned his attention back to his meal. His fare was quite a bit better than the porridge being consumed downstairs by his fellow monks.

“May I have some of the medicine?” asked Morrigan, trying to be patient. She did not wish to antagonize him.

“No,” was the curt reply.

Morrigan waited for more, but the abbot continued to eat his food. He was a solid man, square-shouldered and barrel-chested. His face was weathered and wrinkled, but he was still quite in command of himself and those around him. Morrigan did not like the way he held his knife as if he was going to plunge it in her at any time.

“I can pay ye for it,” repeated Morrigan.

“You could not pay my price.”

“Name it.”

Barrick glared at her, his eyes as sharp as the dagger he held. “You know what I want you to do. You ignored my command.”

“What command?”

“Come, let us not play coy, Lady Morrigan. If you think you will find allowances from me for your sex, you are mistaken. I commanded you to kill the bishop. Archie failed me, then you. Why should I reward those who disobey me?”