CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE #3
Knowing that she needed to act swiftly, Laoghaire turned to the abbot and said, “Did Father Giroldus tell ye why he was made to leave Castle Airlie?”
If Abbot Theodore was surprised by the question, he gave no indication of it. “Nay, he did not.”
“It was because—”
“Lady Angus did not want a priest on the premises, as it would interfere with her nefarious plot,” Father Giroldus said over the top of her.
“That is the reason why I was banished. Do you see the plaid fabric that is wrapped around the earl? I’ll warrant that she—” raising his hand, he pointed an accusing finger at Laoghaire—“enchanted the fabric to ensure the earl remains in a somnolent state.”
“I’d like to wrap ye in an enchanted plaid,” Laoghaire retorted, the utterance inciting a bevy of shocked gasps.
He knows full well that I am not a witch. This is nothing more than an act of revenge for what happened at Castle Airlie.
“Remove the filthy rag from the earl before it brings about his death,” Father Giroldus ordered one of the monks, now in full sail with his denunciation of her. “That is if the witch’s enchantment has not already taken hold.”
Noticeably wary of the command, a young monk approached the stretcher and gingerly pulled the plaid off of Galen.
“Burn it,” the abbot ordered. He then turned to Father Giroldus and said, “To ensure that we may all sleep safely tonight, you are to lock the witch in the undercroft. Immediately after matins, send for the sheriff so that he can make the formal arrest before the trial.”
“Trial!” Laoghaire shrieked, panic-stricken at the thought.
His expression one of unmitigated triumph, Father Giroldus turned to a pair of sturdy-looking monks and said, “Take her away.”
“The fat priest means to burn you for a witch.”
“H-how do ye know this?” Laoghaire asked, fear causing her voice to quaver unsteadily.
Piers Burnett stared at her from the other side of the iron wicket that secured the clerestory window through which they spoke.
To her shocked horror, she’d been led from the monastery forecourt to the undercroft, a chamber located beneath the church that housed the dead.
Because the window was set high up in the barrel-vaulted crypt, she had to stand on the top of a stone sarcophagus in order to speak to the squire.
“The abbot has ordered Father Giroldus to prosecute the case against you,” Piers finally answered.
While he and Sir William both refused to believe the accusations leveled against her, the young squire was clearly nervous.
No doubt, he was worried that he might also be falsely accused if he were caught communicating with her.
“Sweet Jesu,” she murmured. Events had unraveled at such a frantic pace that she could barely comprehend the significance of it all.
Am I already burnt flesh? she wondered, still able to recall the victorious gleam in Father Giroldus’s eyes when he accused her of trafficking with the devil.
“What of Galen? Has his condition improved?” she asked, desperate for news of her husband.
“After you were led away, the earl was taken to a room in the abbey’s guesthouse, where he is being closely tended to by Dame Winifred.”
“Dame Winifred!” she hissed, appalled to think that crone would be allowed anywhere near Galen. “What of the abbey’s infirmarian? Has he given Galen a curative?”
The young squire shrugged his shoulders. “I cannot say, milady. When I tried to gain entry to the earl’s chamber, I was refused admittance.”
“But ye are his loyal squire,” she protested.
“Abbot Theodore rules the abbey with an iron hand, and he has decreed that none save for Dame Winifred and the infirmarian shall enter the earl’s bedchamber.”
Heavy-hearted, Laoghaire worried about Galen’s care and well-being.
Is he in pain? What medicines have been administered? Does he wonder why I am not at his side?
“Ye must undertake a vitally important mission,” she said abruptly. “If ye are successful, we will be able to remove Galen from Dame Winifred’s clutches.”
“I will do whatever I can, milady.”
Relieved to have garnered his cooperation, she said with great urgency, “Ye must ride to Castle Balloch posthaste and inform my brother, the laird, of the dire events that have transpired this night. He will know what to do.”
Laoghaire had every confidence there would be no need for the squire to beseech Iain to come to her aid; nothing under the heavens would prevent her brother and kinsmen from riding to her rescue.
“If ye leave immediately, ye should reach the castle late tomorrow evening.”
“I’ll have to ride like the wind if I’m to get there before the sun sets on the morrow.”
“Ye’ll have to ride faster than that,” Laoghaire told him, well aware that each minute they spent in converse was a minute lost.
“But Abbot Theodore has ordered a curfew. No one is allowed to leave the monastery until after matins.”
Through the grille, Laoghaire could see that the abbey was obscured in a thick shroud of gray mist. While the leaden fog lent the landscape an ominous aspect, it would also enable the young squire to abscond from the compound undetected.
“Ye must take yer leave now while ye have the cover of night to mask yer departure.” Laoghaire twisted her wedding ring off of her finger. She then pushed the amethyst ring through the iron grille. “If need be, ye can use this to bribe yer way past the gatekeeper. It has great value.”
As he took the proffered ring from her, there was no mistaking the young man’s apprehension. Snaking her hand through the iron bars, Laoghaire gently patted his cheek. “Ye’re one of the few people I can trust, and I now have need of a heroic chevalier.”
At hearing that, the young squire instantly straightened his shoulders and, with a resolute look upon his face, he said, “I am honored to be of service to you, milady.”
“Godspeed,” Laoghaire told him before she moved away from the window.
Alas, no truer word has ever been uttered, she acknowledged as she clambered off of the sarcophagus. The squire would need to sprout the wings of an angel if he was to reach Castle Balloch in time; no doubt, Father Giroldus would bring her to trial as soon as possible.
In the flickering light of the single torch that burned from a nearby wall bracket, she peered around the makeshift dungeon.
Although a large chamber—with massive stone piers bracing the barrel vault above—the crypt was low-ceilinged.
Adding to the oppressiveness, the scent of incense and candle wax hung heavily in the air.
Shortly after she’d been incarcerated, a nervous-looking novice had brought her a woolen blanket and a chamber pot. Though she tried to engage him in conversation, the youth had refused to speak to her, more than likely terrified she would bewitch him with an evil incantation.
Determined to find a means of escape, she had explored the undercroft’s main corridor, hoping it would lead to an exit. But her explorations ended abruptly when she happened upon numerous skeletal remains which had been stacked in the niches that lined either side of the passageway.
Slumping against one of the whitewashed stone columns, Laoghaire slowly sank to the floor.
Overwhelmed by a sense of helplessness, she thought of Galen lying alone, vulnerable, perhaps even dead.
All too easily, she could envision his lifeless corpse placed atop a slab, arms crossed over his chest, his hands curled around his sword hilt.
Dear God, no! Not that! Anything but that, she prayed fervently, her heart beating wildly against her breastbone.
Suddenly it occurred to her that she might never again see Galen.
“Would they do that to me?” she murmured, fighting to keep her tears at bay. “Would they be so cruel?”
If I do not see him, how can I tell him that I love him?
Placing her head upon her knees, Laoghaire felt despair, so deep, so vast, it was unlike anything she’d ever before experienced. It was then she realized that Galen was the love she’d always imagined. Always hoped for.
If he dies, my heart will turn to ash.
“And there is nothing I can do to help him,” she muttered, still reeling from the shock of having been accused of such a grave crime.
But she was even more shocked by the treachery that gave birth to the false charge. And the only person who could defend her—her husband—was lying in a dark stupor.
Surely, I am dreaming.
And if she wasn’t dreaming, she was at a complete loss to comprehend why Dame Winifred would have made such a patently untrue charge against her.
She could understand why Father Giroldus would accuse her of witchcraft—had it not been for her, the cleric would still be living the good life at Castle Airlie—but Laoghaire was mystified by Dame Winifred’s enmity toward her.
Does she hate me because the king ordered me to marry Galen? Granted, if it’d not been for the royal decree, Dame Winifred’s daughter would have become the countess of Angus.
“But why hold me responsible for that?” Laoghaire murmured as she tried to make sense of it all.
Perhaps her hatred is due to the fact that Galen and I finally forged a bond with one another.
The irony, of course, was that any injudicious exclamations she made in those early contentious days of their marriage would undoubtedly be used as evidence against her.
Even if she publicly proclaimed her love for Galen, the vindictive matron would simply claim that she was feigning affection in order to save herself from being found guilty of witchcraft.
And what of the priest? Are he and Dame Winifred conspirators? Or is it mere happenstance that Father Giroldus is now the prior of St. Dunstan’s?
While the answers eluded her, Laoghaire knew the cleric would prosecute her without mercy. Moreover, she feared that whatever she said before the court would matter naught.
For they have already damned me.