Page 24 of The Splendor of Fire
Léo’s shoulders drooped, strength fleeing from him as quickly as it had come. His refusal would cost him his freedom. Taking one lasting look at the storm-tossed sea and one final breath of fresh air, he followed Mowbray inside.
At the point he should have exited the stairs at the fourth floor Mowbray kept climbing. “Aren’t I going back to my chamber?”
“You don’t live there anymore.”
At the sixth floor, they exited onto the parapet. They stopped at the western tower and Mowbray unlocked the door, then climbed the short flight of stairs.
The tower room was twice as large as his cell, and a lancet window was notched into each of the four walls. A crude hearth, smaller than his last, was built into the corner. Tucked against the wall was a narrow, but very real, bed, covered with blankets and a pillow. He staggered toward it and touched its clean blankets. A small desk sat beside it, the Psalter resting on it, and Moira’s pictures propped up against the wall.
“You can walk the parapet at night. The parapet guards are loyal to the King of the Isles and will not bother you. They’re trapped here day and night like you are. Your door is unlocked during the day, but stay in here. Open the door if ye wish, but don’t travel the walls until night falls.”
Léo nodded, dumbfounded by Mowbray’s mercy. “I understand.”
Mowbray pointed to the charcoal drawing propped against the wall. “Is that your son?”
“Aye. Gabriel.”
His eyes softened. “There’s one thing I know. Chiefs can see their bairns whenever they want.”
Chapter 8
MOY CASTLE - JUNE 23, 1384
As Moira expected, the guards outside the gates of Moy Castle were not buying the story Father McElduff was selling. Not that he was aware it was a story, nor that the guards were now eyeing auld Father Mac as if he were about to incite an insurrection.
The darker of the two guards examined her with suspicion. “How does she know Lady MacLean?”
“Part of her mother’s family. Cousins.” Father McElduff was oblivious to the role his thick Irish accent played in helping her story along. Lady MacLean was from the north of Ireland, and Father Mac lent Moira the credibility she needed as she was unable to speak for herself. The key to her lie seemed to work.
The fair-haired guard eyed her. “Mm. And what is her mother’s name?”
Name?
Father McElduff looked at her. “Just use your fingers, dearie.”
Name.She needed an Irish name. A common Irish name. At least then she stood a decent chance of making it inside. Using her signs, she slowly formed the letters for Father Mac. C-L-O-D-A-G-H.
Father McElduff winked at her. “Ah.Clodagh.”
The blond man squinted his gray eyes at her.Saints.Perhaps she should have gone with Mary.
“Is something wrong wi’ you that you cannae speak for yourself?”
Moira stifled an urge to roll her eyes. Aye. Something was wrong. Stubborn men who willfully refused to comprehend what she was saying. She tapped her throat.
Father Mac filled in the story, and Moira tried to affect her most pathetic look. “Lass lost her voice due to illness when she was but a child.”
The two guards looked at each other before the blond man raised his hands in defeat.
Thank God.She was in.
“I’ll go inside and ask her.” He turned and strode toward the keep.
Oh no.Please be Clodagh, please be Clodagh.
Moira shuffled her feet in the dirt and tried to admire the sea loch surrounding her, acting natural. The dark man’s eyes never left her, and when she mustered the courage to look at him after several minutes, a look of barely disguised contempt saturated his face. “Where did you say you hail from?”
Oh no.
