Page 47 of The Splendor of Fire
A smug look contorted Gordon’s face, but he quickly bridled it. “Iwill return from Dun Ringill in a few days with word of your fate. Let us hope you’re as skilled a prophet as Mowbray says.”
Léo cringed, but said a silent prayer and tried to sound confident. “Of course I am.”
Gordon turned to Eoghan. “Still waiting for the O’Donnells to ransom you?”
Eoghan’s mouth flattened into a hard line, his face flamed with red. “Aye.”
“Aren’t you fortunate that you knew Léo from his time as a cateran? Otherwise you’d be food for the crows by now.”
It took all Léo’s self-control not to look at Mowbray. The man had saved both their necks with quick thinking, sending Gordon sniffing in another direction.
A flicker of amusement passed over Eoghan’s face. “Aye.”
Mowbray shifted in his seat. “You two are free tae go. Thank you for checking in at the end of the night as I’ve asked you. I’ll lock your room before I leave.”
God was up to something.As they made their way to their tower, Eoghan bristled. “What on earth was Mowbray thinking coming up with that nonsense story about you being a prophet?”
“He was thinking of how to save our lives,imbécile. He said whatever he needed to to keep the uprising against Niall moving.”
They climbed the stairs to their tower and found triple portions of salmon and eggs hidden beneath their beds. Eoghan poured water into Father Allen’s cauldron and set it into the fire for it to boil—stew and chicken it wasn’t, but it was nourishment.
“Can you then?”
Léo sat down at his desk to record the prisoner requests, his eyes traveling over Moira’s picture of Gabriel, then pushed it aside with his quill, revealing the little scrap of paper he’d saved from their last meeting.You have my heart. ’Tis always been more yours than mine.
“Can I what?”
Eoghan blew into the embers of the fire until the peat caught. “Predict the future?”
Léo closed his eyes and Moira’s face came to mind.“I’ve dreamed vivid dreams since I was a lad. I will dream something over and overagain until whatever lesson that is in my dream comes to pass. God seems to show me things that way. But I don’t predict the future.”
Eoghan scoffed and dropped eggs into the water. “Pity. I was hoping you could tell me when I’d make it back to God’s own country.”
“France?”
“Ireland, eejit. There’s a lassie who broke me heart I’d like to see.”
Léo yawned and stowed the records in the desk and hid Moira’s writing, then stretched out upon his bed. “Believe me, I sympathize. I wish I could tell you. God’s…”
“Timing. Yea, yea.”
After they said a blessing and had eaten, it was time to sleep. Eoghan was asleep in minutes, but Léo forced his eyelids to stay open. He watched with gratitude as the soft blue light of morning peeked through the lancet windows. After so many days in the darkness, he was unwilling to miss it. His eyes drooped.
There was one lass he too longed to see, who came to him in dreams each night. Her swirls of blond hair, the clear of her eyes, the peach of her lips.Please God, look after my love. Send your angels to guard her with their swords of justice. Keep her safe within the palm of Your hand.
He would take her away with Gabriel. She would be his own treasure.
Reassurance buoyed his heart. It would come to pass.
Chapter 14
DUN RINGILL CASTLE - MARCH 1, 1385
Moira lingered outside the forgotten door and listened for footsteps. From the floor below, the sounds of a visitor arriving in the chief’s solar promised a few minutes of respite away from being the center of Niall’s attention. The man’s pinched nasal voice conversed with Niall’s deep, excoriating grunts, then muffled and faded away. When all grew quiet she lifted the latch and slipped into her only refuge at Dun Ringill.
A bright stream of sunlight cut through the darkness, illuminating the swirls of dust as she cracked the warped window shutters. With plain, unadorned walls and a noticeable lack of furnishings, the inside of the small chamber in Dun Ringill’s garret looked nothing like the solar of a laird’s favored son. The only indication that a boy of princely French and Isles nobility had once lived here was the ivory blanket that adorned the bed, a warrior hand-stitched at its center and fleurs-de-lis?1 around the edge.
Moira settled beside a shelf of books positioned near the bed, resting her cheek against the soft ivory blanket. Pulling out her favorite volume,Cantilène de sainte Eulalie,?2 she opened the cracked leather cover and ran her fingers over a neat, looping signature,Blanched’Audrehem.Written beneath in the blotchy, unsteady hand of a young boy—Léonid Cormac MacKinnon.
