Page 1 of Bride of the Mad Laird (Sparks and Tartans #12)
CHAPTER ONE
S cotland 1310, the Isle of Iona
Lyra MacInnes eyed the evening repast laid before her on the sturdy oak table in the refectory at the Iona Priory. She sighed rather too loudly. “Fish again.”
Sister Morag, the elderly nun seated opposite tilted her head disapprovingly.
“We must be thankful fer what the Good Lord provides, Lyra.”
Both Lyra and Sister Morag dipped their heads, signing the Cross, before picking up their spoons.
Lyra hesitated, her appetite having fled at the sight of the watery stew, but the Sister spooned in a large mouthful.
Giving her meal a desultory glance Lyra downed her spoon. “I’m nae hungry this evening,” she said, although adding hastily, “but I am indeed grateful.”
Glancing up, her heart skipped a beat as she took in the sight of the old nun’s face. It was crumpled into an expression of pain, her mouth hung open, her eyes rolling in her head. She clutched her belly and doubled over, making a truly awful, gurgling sound.
Lyra leapt to her feet. By now the nun’s mouth was ringed with froth. It was clear that something very bad was happening.
“What is wrong, Morag? Are ye in pain?” Looking around helplessly for someone to come to Morag’s aid, Lyra screamed and the other nuns looked up in horror at the unfolding scene.
Suddenly, Morag let out a terrible groan, closed her eyes and sank slowly forward so that her head was on the table next to her platter, while her arms sagged by her side. Lyra grabbed one of the Sister’s icy-cold hands to prevent her from slipping to the floor.
Fortunately, at that moment Mother Una darted across the refectory, followed by the two nuns in charge of the infirmary.
“Quickly,” Lyra cried, holding Morag’s slumped figure to prevent her toppling onto the stone floor. “She’s taken ill.”
The Prioress rushed to Lyra’s side and snatched her dish away while the other two nuns took charge of Sister Morag.
After only a brief moment one of the nuns, Sister Fiona, looked up, her jaw tight, her shoulders hunched. “Dinnae eat anything. We must make haste. She appears tae have been poisoned.”
Mother Una turned an anguished face to Lyra. “Lyra, I fear yer enemy has found ye. Ye must away from here with all speed.” She grabbed Lyra’s hand. “Come. Leave the sisters tae care fer Morag. Purging is the only cure and it is nay something fit fer a fine-born lady such as yerself tae witness. Follow me now tae gather yer things and prepare wi’ all haste tae travel from this place.”
Without another word Lyra picked up the ends of her robe and dashed through the arched doorway following Mother Una along the stone walkway and up the stairs to her small sleeping space.
Her mind raced, blaming herself for what had befallen Sister Morag. The possibility that, even here, her enemy would find her, was never far from her mind and it seemed that, tonight, he had discovered her at last. Gentle Sister Morag had paid the price for protecting her.
That knowledge pierced her heart. The necessity for secrecy had been so great she had even lied to her dearest friend, Davina, who thankfully no longer lived in the priory. She had pretended to be a novice, unhappy under the stern guidance of the Prioress just as Davina had been. She had hidden the truth that she was an oblate of Saint Augustine secreted in the Priory since childhood in an effort to protect her.
As continuing to lie to her friend would have been too difficult, after Davina had escaped, she had sent her a letter to convince her she had left the Priory and was returning to her family. As long as Davina believed Lyra was safe, she would not put herself at risk by attempting to aid her escape.
As she was lost in thought Mother Una went to speak briefly to a man that worked in the gardens of the convent and then she was back by her side. “I must assume the poison was meant fer ye. We can be thankful it was nae intended tae claim yer life, or Sister Morag would have left this mortal realm by now.” She crossed herself with shaky hands.
She met Lyra’s gaze with troubled eyes. “Ye cannae waste another minute. ‘Tis time ye left us, now it is nay longer safe here.”
“Where am I tae go? What am I tae dae?” Lyra’s voice was husky with unshed tears.
“Gather yer belongings without delay, including the things that were brought here with ye fer safekeeping. The box wi’ yer maither’s brooch and necklace. Now that they ken where ye bide, neither yerself nor the others here under the Priory roof are safe from harm.” She busied herself, rolling a change of clothing into a small bundle “Ye ken the plan, they will expect ye on Mull.”
Lyra grabbed the small box containing her few treasures. Her heart was thumping and her mouth was dry. She licked her lips. She’d been with the nuns since she was little more than a bairn and all she knew was the nunnery. The thought of braving the unknown, outside world was almost as terrifying as being taken by her enemies.
“How am I tae find me way? I dinnae remember the Isle of Mull or the mainland. What if the lad I’m tae meet wi’ isnae there?”
Mother Una grew impatient. “’Tis nae time tae argue. If ye’re dead ye’ll nae be of use tae anyone.”
Lyra’s eyes misted and she bit back the threatening tears.
The Prioress’s voice softened and she reached a kindly hand to squeeze Lyra’s arm.
“I dinnae wish tae speak harshly tae ye lass, but if ye dinnae make haste to be out of here as soon as ye can, we’ll have little choice.” She raised her eyes to the sky. “It grows dark and ye’ll be able tae make yer way across tae the Isle of Mull under cover of night. I’ve sent one of our garden workers tae the shore tae find a fisherman tae row ye across.”
She turned to go. “I must check on Sister Morag. Dinnae waste time. I will see ye at the gate before ye leave. Dinnae fash. Ye will be just fine and everything will go according tae plan.” With that she darted off.
The clothes Mother Una had bundled for her to take were strange and unfamiliar. She was used to wearing only nun’s clothing consisting of a loose, woolen, black robe, which covered her from head to toe, with the veils and coverings of a nun. She swayed and clutched the bedpost to keep herself upright. This was the only home she was familiar with.
Florie, one of the younger novices, braided her fair hair before concealing it under the plain white veil. Lyra was reaching for her cloak when she heard raised voices and a terrible sound of splintering timber. This was followed by a series of piercing screams.
Heart hammering, she raced down the stairs and along the passageway, her cloak in her hands, with Florie close behind carrying her bundle and the carved wooden box containing her few treasures.
Sister Fiona came hurtling toward her, her robes and veil flying, a stream of blood coursing down her face from a cut on her cheek.
“Dinnae venture out there,” she said breathlessly. “There’s men… four of them. They are brutes. They’ve smashed their way through our heavy gate and are, even now, confronting Maither Una.”
Lyra’s hand flew to her mouth, while Florie tucked herself close behind her. “What dae they want?”
“They’ve named ye, Lyra, and they say they are tae take ye away.”
There was another stifled shriek and a second nun came tearing along the corridor towards them. “Quick, make haste, ye must come tae the other gate and make yer escape afore the men find ye here.”
“What of Maither Una?”
The nun groaned. “I am afeared fer her, Lyra. They have her arms pinned behind her back and are threatening her if she daesnae take them tae ye.” Her eyes widened in horror. “Already one of the brutes has slapped her and threatens worse.”
“Who are these men who are prepared tae violate this sacred place? Nay good, self-respecting Scottish warrior would dae such a thing.”
“I dinnae ken.” Sister Fiona shook her head. “They are dressed all in dun with darker britches and cloaks. They’ve nay plaid tae identify them.” She glanced at Lyra. “I dinnae wish tae afear ye, but they have the look of rough Gallowglass fighters. Soldiers for hire. Dangerous men with nay allegiance.”
Lyra hauled in a deep breath and let it flow out slowly, attempting to steady herself. She squared her shoulders. Although she was trembling all over, she held her head up and raced forward with Florie at her heels.
She was met with a horrifying scene when she arrived, breathless, at the entrance to the Priory. The large, studded, oaken gate had almost been torn from its iron and much of it lay in splinters beside the wall. Beside it, in a bloody heap, lay the bodies of the two men whose job it was to keep guard over the entrance to the Priory.
Mother Una stood stoically in the center of the stone-paved vestibule, a purple bruise already forming on her face where she’d been struck. Even so, she held herself straight, eyeing the four men down the length of her nose, a look of pure disdain etched on here proud features.
Florie squealed and dropped the bundle and the carved box she’d been carrying, turned on her heel and dashed back the way they’d come, leaving Lyra and Mother Una to face the men.
The Prioress swiveled as Lyra entered, her eyes widened and her teeth clamped her lower lip as if to hold in the words she wished to speak. She gave an all but imperceptible nod, darting her eyes toward the men.
Terrified, Lyra pressed forward despite the clear warning, praying she could divert the men’s attention from Mother Una.
Mother Una screamed. “Run, Lyra, dinnae let these brutes take ye.”
The men exchanged glances and one of the ruffians stepped forward, a grin on his coarse features half obscured by a shaggy, red, beard. He licked his lips. “If ye’re Lyra, ye’re tae come wi’ us.”
Lyra swiveled and made a frantic dash for the passageway, Red-Beard striding after her. She shrieked helplessly as he seized her arm in his rough grip.
He grunted a laugh and turned to the other three men who were standing by, grinning. “We’ll have some fun wi’ this one. She’s a right beauty.”
He turned back to Lyra, his eyes raking her with a hungry expression.
She shook her head summoning every scrap of courage she could. “I’ll nae travel wi’ ye. This is me home and I’ll nae leave it.”
The man merely laughed. He stepped forward and with what seemed like one movement of his giant hand, slapped Mother Una hard across her face, tightening his iron grip on Lyra’s arm.
Lyra struggled, raking Red-Beard’s arm with the sharp nails of her free hand. This seemed to amuse him even more and he grabbed her with his two hands and cruelly yanked her arms behind her back.
She bit down hard on her lower lip to prevent herself from crying out. There was no way she would give these savages the satisfaction of seeing her fear and pain.
“Ye’ll come wi’ us. Make it easy. Dinnae resist.”
Lyra pshawed loudly. “I willnae go wi’ the likes of ye.”
He rasped a laugh. “Good. Ye’re a feisty one. I enjoy holding a struggling lass. There’s more pleasure in it fer me.”
At that moment Lyra’s furious rage overcame the fear and trepidation that was almost too much to bear, and with blood running hot in her veins she spat a response at the barbarian.
“Dinnae touch me, ye son-of-a-low-worm. Ye smell rank as a fox’s den and ye look like… like…” She was almost lost for words. With his shaggy hair and his dirty red beard, she could only conjure the image of a Highland cow. But they were animals she was fond of.
“Ye’ve the appearance of a moldy bale of hay.” She gave a satisfied snort having found the image she sought.
“Enough.” The man gave her arms an extra twist upward. This time she couldn’t suppress her cry of pain as he dragged her toward the ruined gate. While she struggled, he simply slapped at her as if she was nothing more than a troublesome midge.
As he pushed her through the entrance, she writhed violently against the man whose grip never loosened.
“Let me go, ye piece of filth,” she yelled, to no avail. She resolved to say nothing more, as it was clear her struggles amused him.
The other three men gathered around, each of them leering at her and licking their lips in a manner that disgusted her. One of them reached a hand and pawed at her breasts through the fabric of her tunic and kirtle, causing her to shriek loudly.
With that, Red-Beard hoisted her in his arms as if she was nothing more than a sack of barley, and flung her over his shoulder.
She beat helplessly with her boots to his chest and her fists to his back, despairing that these men were taking her to an uncertain fate.
And then a sudden shout caught her by surprise. “Put down the lass,” came a deep, commanding voice. “Have ye ruffians nay ears tae hear what she says. She daesnae want tae go wi’ ye.”