The Priest
In that moment, as Hugh Cunningham brandished his sword, throwing off his false priestly garments, Sorcha understood it all.
The clues had been there from the beginning, a jumbled mixture of chaotic revelations: her dreams, the conversation she’d overheard in Mugdock, and now the men shouting in the barn.
Lady Margaret wasn’t leaving the Montgomery earl—she and Hugh had plotted not only his murder, but the murder of his brothers as well.
Panic, horror, and fear seized her, rooting her to the barn floor with such strength that she couldn’t even lift a finger nor scream a single word in terror. Numb, she could only sit there, listening to the thudding beat of her own heart.
Gradually, she became aware of the men moving about, and the fear of discovery jolted her back to the present.
There was no escaping, not with so many Cunninghams assembled before the door.
“The fool of a Montgomery earl believes he’s given shelter to errant Catholic priests this day,” Hugh said with a grin.
“He’ll learn too late that the folly of his Catholic roots invited his own death through the door,” a man with a bushy red beard cackled.
“Aye, Corsehill.” Hugh laughed with him before raising a hand to address the rest. “We’ll lay low here this night.
Dinna speak with the Cunninghams at the castle.
They canna be trusted. They’ve lived here too long.
And above all, we canna chance Alec seeing a one of us.
He saw us at Glasgow Bridge. He’ll know troubles afoot should he see the mule or any of us again. He’s too keen-witted to not.”
The men answered with a chorus of “aye’s”.
“Clonbeith and Robertland are waiting in the woods with nearly a score of men,” Hugh continued. “The Montgomerys are blind. They’ll never see us coming. Now, take your rest while ye may.”
Chuckles and laughter circled through the men as they began to settle down.
Booted feet approached.
Gulping, Sorcha pulled herself in a tighter knot behind the urine barrel, tucking in every inch of her skirt and holding her breath.
“Ach, ‘tis urine,” a man’s voice spat in disgust. “I’ll sleep elsewhere.”
“Aye,” another man agreed.
They moved away.
Sorcha released her breath in a small series of jagged gasps, grateful for the biting vapors wafting from the barrel, even though it made her nauseous—or perhaps it was the Cunningham plot that made her want to retch.
She had to warn Alec.
But how?
Gathering her resolve, she peeked through the slats at the men milling about. Some had already rolled themselves in their plaids for a night’s sleep. She closed her eyes. There was nothing she could do, save ensure she wasn’t discovered.
Her only hope was to leave the moment after they did and pray it wasn’t too late.
It took an eternity for each petrifying minute to tick away. Every breath was an agonizing one, not for the caustic vapors burning her lashes and making her sweat, but from the fear a Cunningham would wander to the back and find her there, cowering behind the barrel.
The men—ten or more—were restless. A couple sharpened their swords. A few others polished their bows. Even the ones rolled in their plaids rose at periodic intervals to stand watch.
It was probably near midnight when she recognized Hugh’s voice once more. This time, he was angry.
“’Twas Alec that foiled the poisoning,” the man sneered. “The man dinna join the others at the midday feast, nor did his highlander cousin of a Mackenzie. Margaret couldna chance it with those two loose. They’re dangerous. The both of them.”
“Then let us murder them all as they sleep right now,” someone suggested.
Sorcha bit her lip, willing herself not to faint.
Hugh laughed. “Nay, there’s no need. ’Twill be well at dawn,” he replied.
“They ride to Eglinton, playing straight into our hands. Margaret will signal when they leave, and we’ll ambush them at the river.
But what concerns me more is why they’re riding, lads.
‘Tis at Alec’s behest. The man’s caught a whiff of the plan,” his voice seethed, but the gaze he raked over his men was ice cold.
“Would any of ye care to tell me why he suspects?”
As defensive voices erupted in the barn, Sorcha leaned her head back against the chill, damp stone wall.
Outside, she could hear the wind picking up, almost assuredly bringing the dark clouds of her dream.
It was happening.
Aye, the Montgomerys would be leaving, and the Cunninghams would be waiting in the woods. The arrows would fly, and the Montgomery blood would stain the river red.
Again, Christine had been right. There was no way to stop it.
Waves of nausea washed over her again as she sat there helpless, waiting for any opportunity to escape, but found none. Hugh wasn’t taking any chances. At least four Cunninghams were awake and on guard at all times.
There was simply no way to evade the disaster that marched inexorably along with each passing hour.
She dreaded the dawn. It meant death for Montgomerys. She could only pray that Alec would not be among them. But at last, dawn did arrive, and the first rays kissing the sky felt like a dagger piercing her heart.
The Cunninghams stirred. They made ready quickly, donning the priestly robes over their red plaids.
Anxiously, she watched as they hid bows under the robes, sheathed swords, and Hugh unwrapped a black matchlock pistol.
Several cackled, sounding like crones, and they eagerly chafed their hands in excitement.
Then, with surpassing swiftness, they were gone.
Sorcha didn’t hesitate.
She ran. Faster than she’d ever ran in her entire life.
She tore through the barn, losing a shoe in the muck outside, but she scarcely noticed.
She ran for the castle. Aye, the sky was dark, filled with clouds as in her dream, but still, she didn’t stop.
She ran like a madwoman, past the tower guards watching her with open curiosity and up the first flight of steps leading to the wind-ravaged castle ramparts.
Frantic, she searched the green castle grounds, ignoring the watchmen on the walls. She knew what she sought, the party of Montgomerys riding forth.
She would scream a warning—aye, why wait? She would scream it now.
“Ambush!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.
A gust of wind tore through the battlements, snatching the words from her trembling lips as a flutter of white material caught the corner of her eye.
To her left, Lady Margaret stood on the wall, peering out at the line of trees in the direction the disguised Cunninghams had ridden.
Lifting her hands, she began waving a white flag, her scarlet gown whipping around her knees as below, a party of Montgomerys galloped through the courtyard and through the castle gates, their plaids unfurling in the wind.
Sorcha screamed.
It was her dream.
And it was too late.