Page 1 of The Splendor of Fire
Chapter 1
LOCHINDORB CASTLE - DECEMBER 21, 1384
In only a few short hours he would join Théa in death. Cold shivered through Léo’s body as he wedged his knees against the damp, stinking stone, trying to relieve the pressure from his legs as he balanced above the water of the cylindrical pit prison. In only a matter of minutes, his strength would give out and he would fall into the stinging, icy waters of the oubliette?1. Yet after almost two years of wishing he could be with his wife, here he was on the brink of extinction finding himself reluctant to die.
A wave of dizziness threatened to suck him into black oblivion, and he rested his trembling head against the freezing rock, fighting to stay awake. “Toujours oublié.”
Forgotten. Always forgotten.Léo’s bitter laugh echoed off the water below and the round cylinder of stone above. It was almost funny. A lonely and fitting final end to a half-lived and disappointing life. Forgotten by God since the moment of his birth, forgotten by God in death.
It had been three days since he’d helped Hector infiltrate Lochindorb, the Wolf of Badenoch’s deadly fortress. Three days since he’d watched his only sister attempt to kill Cara and plunge instead to her own death. Three days since he’d shovedHector and Cara’s small rowboat away from the water-gate and ran back into the swarming crowd of guards to give them a hope of escape. Three days since he was run through with a sword and lived. Pain sliced through his shoulder and he shifted his back, pressing the wound against the numbing cold of the stone.
Thirteen years ago he’d wished for a noble death as he’d stepped into his first battle after his brothers had abandoned him for being… Léo shoved the memory, his most painful secret, away. The recollection seemed alive and feral, tearing at the tenderest places of his soul. The more he remembered it, the more vicious it became, growing in strength. The savage secret had cost him his father, his brothers, his birthright. It sank claws into his mother and shredded her apart, devouring her with efficient ferocity—the only one who had watched over him, remembered him, and protected him.
Tears burned in his eyes, and he squeezed them shut, trying to block the vivid dream that had occurred to him over and over then, and had started to revisit him now. For fourteen years he’d almost managed to become a different man. No one could ever know about the secret. No one could ever know about the dream. No one could know about the fatal final week at Dun Ringill all those years ago. No one could know what his father had done. No one could ever know.
Tortured by the memory, he moved what little he could, trying to forget. Lifting a trembling hand, he touched his swollen eye and jaw, both thick with dried blood. Tongue probing against teeth, he tested each one to see if any were loose or dying. So far, so good. He remembered the freezing water below him and the numbness in his legs. Not that teeth would matter in a few hours.
Haunted by one memory, the twisted and haunted sound of Cara’s scream as he’d been run through taunted him next. He buried his face in his hands, trying to remember any thought that was life-giving. At least Cara was safe. At least she and her baby would live. He’d seen the same devotion to God in Cara’s pure heart that he saw in his beloved wife, and he’d hoped she would be the one to fill the barren places of his own.
The MacKinnon nature he tried to overcome daily wound bitter vines around his mind, choking out the life Cara’s memory brought him. What difference did it make now? The result of theirbrief courtship fit the pattern of his life so far. Cara was married to Hector and carried his child, and he was stuck in a stinking hole.
As he thought of Hector, a glimmer of warmth and loyalty flooded his heart and he swallowed his resentful thoughts.
When his blood brothers had abandoned him, Hector had saved his life. Léo was seventeen to Hector’s twenty-one when they’d met, and for the six years that followed they fought side-by-side and shared the same broken-down tent. Hector taught him how to fight, and he taught Hector how to speak French. They’d grown up together, talked into the long hours of the night, and gotten themselves into their fair share of trouble. Until the seventh year. The year he met Théa.
A shriek penetrated through the darkness as a rat fell through the grate at the top of the oubliette and landed on him. Not flinching as he had the first time, his hand felt for the wormy tail and held on. The rat squirmed and shrieked as he held it aloft. Hunger cramped his stomach. A wise man would smash the rodent upon the rocks and eat it to nourish himself and better his chances of survival. Preferring to starve, he slid his arm between his body and the walls and dropped the poor creature into the water.
Squeals and splashes from the rat echoed up the narrow cylinder of stone and he plugged his ears against the sound of drowning.God help me. Let me die or save me from this hell.
Sanity dangling by a thread, he shuddered against the splashes at his backside. He shut his eyes and called his wife to mind, obsessively remembering each detail of her face. Théa illuminated by moonlight on their wedding night. The reverent sound of her voice as she recited the Lord’s Prayer. The soft bluebell color of her eyes as she looked upon their son for the first and last time and spoke his name.
“Gabriel.” His voice croaked up the oubliette as the splashes of the dying rat began to subside.
Peace invaded his soul as quiet overcame his mind. The feeling of insanity was replaced by deep love. A smile pulled high on his face and caused his jaw to protest, but pain could not chase it away. Nothing could extinguish the joy in his heart as he remembered his son’s belly laughter and imagined tickling him and putting him on his shoulders. He savored the memory of Gabriel’s first steps into his armsnext. Gabriel had waited for him to return after a month-long stay at le Louvre to decide to walk, toddling right into his arms as soon as he’d seen his papa in the doorway.
Hope sparked in his heart, and in prayer he blew it into flame.God, please let me see my son again. For once, don’t forget me, Lord…please…
Movement sounded above him, and he braced for an incoming rat. Corroded metal screeched against the blackness and something hit him hard in the gut.
“MacKinnon!”
For a few moments Léo battled confusion then found his dying voice. “Oui?”
“Grab it.”
Dazed, his hand went forward, groping against the blackness and found the rough, twisting fiber of rope. Using his good arm he pulled upward, loosening his stiff legs and bracing them against the rock. He looped the rope around his leg, his middle, and then his good arm.
“All right.”
The rope jerked upward, his body dangling, his wounded face bashing against the slimy stone. Spears of pain shot through his forehead and scalp, but he held on with all he had left. Gallows, fires and flame, the front line of battle—anywhere was better than dying forgotten in a hole.
Upward he soared, the dim light of day growing brighter and brighter. He crashed over the circular opening of the oubliette and collided with the stone floor of the dungeon. Pain erupted through his wounded shoulder—a reminder that he was still alive. A guard jerked him to his feet. “Move.”
Stumbling forward, he followed behind the guards as they rounded a corner. Weakened and unsteady he tried to keep in step with their quick pace, but fell against stone stairs and was met with a swift kick in the back. “Up, swine!”
Crawling up the stairs, he moved as fast as his exhausted body would allow. As he reached the top, a bucket of frigid water hit him in the face.
Léo spluttered, shocked by the soaking, clinging cold, and the peaty water that invaded his dry mouth. Blinking the water away, he looked around and spotted a second bucket at the feet of the guard.Before it could be hefted, he staggered forward like an animal and plunged his head into the bucket, gulping down water in desperate mouthfuls.
