Chapter Three
Ruaidri crossed himself, stepped away from the still-open grave, and let his gaze wander around the glen. For the past two days, Lorg Coise Dhè had played host to northeast winds and hard rain. This morning, however, the small loch that lay at the heart of the glen mirrored a calm reflection of cloudless blue skies. Despite a dusting of snow atop some of the higher crags, the spring season was on full display. It showed itself in the glory of bluebells carpeting the woodland, and the splendor of new growth on silver birch and beech. Even the air smelled fresh and new. He glanced at the grave again, wondering.
Was there such a thing as the perfect day for a funeral?
Considering who had just been laid to rest in these magnificent surroundings, the answer had to be aye, this was the perfect day. A symbolic day, too, since the glen was in the process of resurrecting and recreating itself. Life after death, light after darkness. Ruaidri found solace in it and offered up a silent prayer of thanks.
“I’m no’ sure we should mourn the passing of a man who has gone to God in his eighty-sixth year,” Ewan said, coming to stand beside him. “His was a life to be celebrated. What say we hold a special observance for him at the castle? A sharing of stories and memories, open to all who wish to partake.”
“Aye, I like that idea,” Ruaidri replied, after a moment. “Father Iain spent almost sixty years of his life here. He loved this glen. He loved this church. He helped Grandfather build it. And, of course, he also witnessed the miracle of the white heather.”
“Which wouldnae have happened had he not carried the sprig back from the Holy Land,” Ewan added. “’Tis quite the legacy he leaves.”
“It is indeed.” Father Pierre Sabatier fingered the wooden cross at his chest. “I am both blessed and humbled to be following in his footsteps. I only pray I can live up to his example.”
“I have no doubt you will, Father,” Jacques replied. “I happen to believe you were born for this.”
Gabriel nodded. “I’m inclined to agree.
“And I am now inclined to delay our departure to Roscraig,” Ruaidri said, patting his horse’s neck. “For a few days, at least. It doesnae sit well with me to be departing so soon after Father Iain’s death. An observance of his life would be a fine tribute to him. We can leave after that.”
“I’m no’ sure that’s necessary,” Ewan replied. “Can it no’ wait till we return from Roscraig? That way, we’ll have more time to prepare.”
Ruaidri shook his head. “I’d rather it be done as soon as possible. Given the circumstances, I’m sure Ranald will make allowances if we’re a day or two late.”
Ewan frowned. “What about the MacAulays?”
“What about them?” Ruaidri stuck his foot in the stirrup and hoisted himself into the saddle.
“They’re arriving today.”
Ruaidri frowned and gathered up the reins. “Aye, so?”
“Well, what if Brochan MacAulay doesnae want to delay his departure to Roscraig?”
Ruaidri huffed. “I’ll no’ keep the man against his will, Ewan, nor am I obliged to ride with him. He’s free to go on his way without me, if that’s his preference. And I’d rather you hadnae mentioned the man’s name here today. Father Iain almost died protecting this church from a MacAulay.”
Ewan groaned. “Which had naught to do with Broch—
“Right, I’m away home,” Ruaidri said. “Are you staying here a while longer?”
“Aye.” Scowling, Ewan folded his arms. “I think I will.”
“I’m staying too,” Jacques said, and regarded Father Sabatier. “I’ll help you fill in the grave, Father.”
Gabriel clambered into the saddle. “I’ll ride with you, Laird MacKellar.”
Ruaidri shrugged. “I’ve nae need of an escort, Gabriel.”
“Not an incentive,” he replied. “What was appropriate in the eyes of God has been done here, so I see no reason to remain.”
“As you wish, then.” Ruaidri turned and urged his horse into a canter, not slowing till he reached the pine woods. Gabriel drew up beside him a short while later, but remained silent.
“Dinnae start,” Ruaidri said, without looking at him. “I’m no’ in the mood for it.”
“Aye, I can tell,” came the quiet reply, “which is why I’m holding my tongue.”
Ruaidri barely managed to suppress a laugh. “I swear, Gabriel, you are one of the most forthright men I’ve ever met. ’Tis refreshing, but only some of the time.”
“You would prefer a lie?”
“I doubt you’re capable of telling one.”
“I’m no saint,” Gabriel replied, “but if a man asks a question of me, I have to believe he expects an honest answer. To lie, or to fabricate a less-than-truthful response, is not only disrespectful to him, but also to myself.”
“And if the truth is harmful?”
“To be misled might be more harmful.”
Ruaidri stifled a sigh and fell silent. He had no need of honest answers. For him, the truth had long since been acknowledged. Despite the passing of time, his hate for Alastair MacAulay continued to fester within. Any courtesies to the MacAulays, on his part at least, were granted simply to keep the peace. Given a choice, he’d have naught to do with any of them.
He voiced his thoughts. “I only allow them to pass through Cathan’s gates because of Cristie’s presence.”
Gabriel took a moment to reply. “I know.”
Ruaidri ignored a tug on his conscience and changed the subject. “What are your thoughts about this observance for Father Iain?”
Gabriel again paused before he answered. “I believe the idea will be well received. Personally, I prefer to reflect quietly on such things, so I’ll probably excuse myself from the gathering.”
“I understand,” Ruaidri replied. “There’ll be no obligation to attend, of course.”
“When it comes to Brochan MacAulay, however, I’m not convinced your strategy will work,” Gabriel continued, “nor can I approve of using Father Iain’s observance as the incentive for such a scheme. But it is, of course, your choice.”
Ruaidri frowned. “Strategy? What—?”
“Has it occurred to you that Brochan MacAulay may decide to wait with you rather than going on to Roscraig alone? The latter, of course, being exactly what you’re hoping he’ll do.”
The denial came easily to Ruaidri’s lips. “I dinnae ken what you’re talking about, Gabriel. That didnae occur to me at—”
“And should Brochan decide to wait,” Gabriel went on, “it will mean that Alastair MacAulay’s brother will be in attendance at Father Iain’s observance. Then again, as Ewan attempted to point out back there, Brochan MacAulay had naught to do with what happened at Lorg Coise Dhè, so perhaps you’re willing to make allowances. In which case, I sincerely apologize for my presumption.”
Ruaidri uttered a curse. “Nay, Gabriel, your apology isnae necessary. As it is, we’ll wait till we return from Roscraig before holding the observance.”
Gabriel gave a sober smile. “Hate is an ugly bedfellow,” he said. “It poisons the soul. Believe me, I know. ’Twas a part of my life for many years.”
“Because of your father, aye, I ken.” Ruaidri heaved a sigh. “I dinnae wish Brochan MacAulay ill, and I ken he’s trying to make amends for the damage Alastair has done, but it makes nae difference. I’ll offer courtesy and hospitality when it’s due, but given a choice, I’d rather be nowhere near the man.”
“Or the man’s sister?”
Ruaidri swallowed against a sudden tightness in his throat. “I’ve naught against the lass, either, other than she’s Alastair’s kin.”
“So is Cristie, Laird McKellar.”
The response came swiftly. “I dinnae see Cristie as a MacAulay.”
“Fortunately for her,” Gabriel replied, tonelessly, “and for your brother.”
Ruaidri gave him a sideways glance. “There are times, Templar, when the verbal sword you wield is as sharp as the one at your side. ’Tis as simple as this; I cannae look upon a MacAulay without being reminded of what Alastair did to Morag, no’ to mention myself, and I cannae see that ever changing. And, before you make mention of it, aye, I’ve tried prayer. It didnae help.”
“The answer to a prayer might not, at first, be evident,” Gabriel said. “It could be that the resolution is already before you.”
“Nay, it isn’t. No amount of prayer will ever be enough to change the way I feel. It’ll take nothing less than a miracle.”
Gabriel regarded him. “Such things are not unknown in this part of the world.”
Ruaidri scoffed. “One only, and that almost sixty years ago. In fact, ’twas the day Father Iain first arrived at Castle Cathan.”
“One only? Nay, I cannot agree,” Gabriel replied. “To what do you attribute your rescue and that of Morag? In both cases, a mere fragment of time was all that remained between life and death. Can you explain how Jacques found his way to Morag? I refuse to believe it was mere happenstance. I was with him that day, and something—some power—led him to that evil place. Going back even further, I suspect life at Cathan would be much different these days had Ewan not arrived at the castle gates when he did. I doubt we would even be having this conv—”
“I have considered all of these things, Gabriel, many times over.” Ruaidri bit down against a rise of frustration. “And I’ve come to the conclusion that fate is as unpredictable as a throw of the dice. Fortunately, the numbers in each of these cases worked in our favour. Unfortunately, we have guests arriving today.” He spat on the ground and touched his heels to his horse’s sides. “And may God give me strength.”