CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE #2
Straightening her shoulders, Laoghaire made her way toward the Norman-style gatehouse that was set in the middle of the intimidating wall.
Unlike a fortified gatehouse, there were no arrow loops or armed sentries.
But there was a solid-looking gate that was closed shut.
Above the gate was a double-arched window, through which the golden glow of candlelight could be seen.
Laoghaire glimpsed a face in the window peering down at them, a face that vanished an instant later.
Having already dismounted, Sir William strode over to a wooden door located next to the gate.
He banged on it several times with a gloved fist. Long moments passed before it slowly creaked open.
Standing on the other side of the threshold was a burly, bearded man who looked none too pleased at the disturbance.
“I am Sir William de Graham, a vassal of the Earl of Angus,” the young knight announced. “My liege lord has been stricken with a debilitating illness. We have brought him here to receive treatment.”
“The abbot has ordered the gate locked and none to pass through until after matins.”
“But that is hours away on the morrow,” Sir William protested.
The gatekeeper, who did not appear the least bit sympathetic to their plight, scoffed and said, “Aye, so it is.”
Enraged that they would be treated so dismissively—the man oblivious to the dire nature of their visit—Laoghaire stepped to the fore.
“I am Lady Angus and I demand that ye immediately open this gate. If ye do not, I will order my men-at-arms to show ye no mercy,” she threatened, infusing her voice with as much authority as she could muster.
The gatekeeper glared at her sharply, but in the end he acquiesced with a grudging nod. He then called out to an unseen comrade, “Open the gate!”
Upon hearing that, Laoghaire breathed a sigh of relief. At a young age she’d learned from her brother Iain, laird of Clan MacKinnon, that there were times when a strongly worded threat was more effective than reasonable discourse.
Without uttering a word of welcome, a porter opened the heavy wooden gate.
Sir William and Piers Burnett were the first to enter, followed by Dame Winifred and Lady Melisande.
Laoghaire proceeded on foot, walking beside the coach.
Their party was small, nine in total. Worried the abbey would be unable to accommodate a large group, she’d ordered the rest of the entourage to set up camp in a clearing several miles away in the outlying countryside.
After passing through an arched portal, they emerged in a courtyard, which was dominated by St. Dunstan’s church. An impressively large structure, it boasted a bell tower that soared at least a hundred feet into the air.
The reticent porter, who followed them into the forecourt, bid them to remain there with the coach and horses while he went to inform the abbot of their arrival.
As she peered around the courtyard, Laoghaire took note of the many outbuildings—stables, brew house, buttery, forge—situated in the shadow of the towering wall that separated the abbey from the outside world.
In the far distance she could make out what appeared to be an herb garden; a welcoming sight, indeed, for it meant the resident infirmarian would have access to a variety of medicinal herbs.
When she caught sight of a cluster of monks making their way across the courtyard, Laoghaire ordered the two foot soldiers who’d accompanied them to remove Galen’s stretcher from the coach. Once the introductions were made, it was imperative that he be taken immediately to the infirmary.
The solemn-looking group—all of whom were attired in the plain black habit of the Benedictine order—was led by a monk who illuminated the way with a torch.
More than a few of the brothers had cowls pulled over their heads, the dark fabric obscuring their facial features.
Even though she knew it was a ridiculous notion, Laoghaire thought there was something sinister about those hidden faces.
A tall man broke away from the group and approached her.
Attired like the others in a black cowl and habit, the simplicity of his garb was at odds with the jewel-encrusted cross that hung from his neck, dangling from a thick gold chain.
“I am Abbot Theodore. Pax vobiscum,” he said, as he raised a beringed hand and made the sign of the cross in her general direction.
Laoghaire acknowledged the greeting with a nod of the head.
Standing a goodly distance from the stretcher—as though he feared contracting some deadly contagion—the abbot’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly when he noticed the red-and-black plaid that had been wrapped around Galen to ward off the evening chill.
“I have been informed that the Earl of Angus has taken ill.”
“Several hours ago my lord husband was struck with a mysterious ailment which has rendered him insensible,” Laoghaire informed him.
“He must be attended to at once.” With a jut of the chin, the abbot singled out one of the monks. “Our chamberlain, Brother Finian, will lead the way to the infirmary.”
Relieved, Laoghaire glanced heavenward and gave silent thanks. She then nodded to the two men who bore the stretcher aloft, motioning for them to follow the monk who’d been designated as their escort.
“Wait!” Dame Winifred suddenly called out, as she stepped in front of the stretcher bearers, effectively blocking their path. “I speak verily when I say that for some time now Lady Angus has been possessed of an evil desire to kill her husband.”
“Sweet Jesu!” Laoghaire blurted, wondering if the older woman had taken leave of her senses.
“Although it gives me no great pleasure to do so, I am duty-bound to make these charges,” Dame Winifred continued, directing her remarks to the abbot. “Forsooth, ’twas only yesterday that I overheard the earl accuse Lady Angus of being one of the Morrigu.”
“The pagan goddesses of death and destruction,” Abbot Theodore uttered in a shocked tone of voice. In the torchlight, Laoghaire could see that the cleric had gone puce.
“Moreover, the Morrigu are the known companions of witches, and those who would use magic to violent ends.”
The older woman’s allegations were so breathtaking that Laoghaire swayed unsteadily, forced to grab hold of the coach in order to keep from collapsing.
I have foolishly wandered into the spider’s web, she realized, only now able to see that Dame Winifred, seizing the advantage when Galen took ill, had plotted against her.
Felled by the other woman’s treachery, Laoghaire was rendered speechless.
Surely, no one here believes her outrageous assertions, she told herself.
But when she spared a quick glance at Sir William, the knight gaped at her with a round-eyed expression.
Piers Burnett also appeared shocked, the young squire’s mouth hanging wide open.
As for the gathered monks, several of them could be seen crossing themselves as they began to murmur in Latin, presumably some prayer to ward off the evil that they now feared was in their midst. Only Melisande, who was clearly bewildered by the unexpected turn of events, stared—not at Laoghaire—but at her mother.
“This is a serious allegation,” Abbot Theodore declared.
“This is sheer nonsense, that’s what it is!” Laoghaire exclaimed, finally finding her voice.
“Lady Angus, you will silence your tongue,” the abbot ordered. “A charge of witchcraft is a grave matter, and you would be well advised to act in a manner befitting your noble station.”
“W-witchcraft,” Laoghaire sputtered, the very word causing her heart to fearfully pound against her breastbone. “Surely, ye can’t believe that . . . that I am a witch.”
Ignoring her, the abbot turned to Dame Winifred. “Are you absolutely certain that the countess induced her husband’s malady through malevolent means?”
“My lord abbot, ’tis plain to see that she bewitched her husband,” Dame Winifred asserted as she gestured toward the stretcher. “Only hours ago the earl was robust and full of life. Now look at him. How could anyone not believe that Lady Angus cast a dark spell upon her husband?”
God’s heart! Why would she say such a thing?
“Dame Winifred is knowingly spinning a lie,” Laoghaire stated in a voice loud enough for all to hear. “Although to what end, I cannot say.”
While the older woman’s face reddened, she remained steadfast, refusing to retract the allegation.
“My lord abbot, it beggars belief that Lady Angus would intentionally harm the earl,” Sir William declared, the young knight stepping forward as he came to Laoghaire’s defense. “I can assure you that the countess—”
“Silence!” the abbot commanded, making his displeasure known. “You have no authority within these walls. This is my domain, and it is for me to decide what is or is not believable.”
Properly chastened, the well-meaning knight shot Laoghaire a contrite glance.
“I would like to seek the counsel of our prior,” Abbot Theodore continued once order had been restored. “He is responsible for the ecclesiastical welfare of all who reside within these walls, and is knowledgeable in these matters.”
One of the brethren—presumably the prior—stepped away from the clustered monks and approached the abbot. Although his face was shadowed by the folds of his cowl, Laoghaire could detect a pair of venom-filled eyes glaring at her. Like two bits of iron seared by a red-hot furnace.
Continuing to stare at her, the prior slowly pushed the cowl off his head. In the next instant, Laoghaire gasped, stunned to see a familiar face, that of Father Giroldus.
“What are ye doing here?” she demanded to know, the disgraced priest having been banished from Castle Airlie for molesting young Aveline.
Hands clasped over his midsection, Father Giroldus drew himself up in a self-important manner. “As with all who dwell within this monastery, I am here to do the Lord’s bidding and to root out evil in all its guises.”