Fallen: A Medieval Scottish Romance (The Sisters of Kilbride Book 3) Read online

  Instead, she took the road that headed into the depths of the wooded vale behind Dunan. Tall, dark pines spread up the hillsides, their pungent scent lacing the chill air. This road would take her to the wild western shore of Skye, and the only place upon this isle that could give her sanctuary.

  Kilbride Abbey.

  Warmth spread through Coira’s belly at the thought of her destination and the safety that awaited her there.

  It was an irony really, after she’d worn a habit for MacKinnon’s pleasure just a short while earlier. She was not pious and hadn’t been brought up in a god-fearing family. Her parents had died when she was barely ten winters old, both from a deadly fever that had raged through the isle one winter. They’d left her an orphan, and for a while, every day had been a struggle against starvation. Finally, desperation had brought her to Maude’s door. She’d been taken in, first as a servant, and then, when she grew into womanhood, as a whore.

  After what she’d endured during her twenty winters, she found it hard to believe in God. If such a force existed, it was cruel indeed and cared nothing for her happiness.

  But the abbey wasn’t just a place where pious women could live in contemplation. It was a sanctuary from a world that was both harsh and cruel. Coira had heard that the abbess of Kilbride was compassionate, and that she’d given many women shelter and a new start.

  Drawing her cloak close against the howling wind, which now had spots of rain in it, Coira lowered her head and walked toward the mountains. And as she did so, she touched the small silver ring upon her right hand, tracing its intricate decorations with a fingertip.

  The ring gave her strength; it made her feel as if her mother was watching over her.

  For the first time in years, Coira looked toward the future with hope.

  Ten and a half years later …

  1

  Uncanny

  The village of Torrin

  MacKinnon territory,

  Isle of Skye, Scotland

  Summer, 1349 AD

  “DO YE THINK I have the plague?”

  The old man’s raspy voice filled the smoky cottage, and Coira heard the note of fear in it.

  Straightening up from where she’d been mashing herbs together with a small wooden pestle and mortar—creating a comfrey poultice that she would rub upon his chest—Coira met his eye. “Ye have the grippe, Colin … and it’s settled upon yer lungs. But it’s not anything more serious.”

  “But how do ye know?” The farmer’s voice rose as he pushed himself up against the mound of wool-stuffed pillows.

  “The pestilence has not yet reached this corner of Skye,” Coira replied evenly. “And the symptoms are different to what ails ye.”

  Over the past year, Coira had heard tales from travelers and visitors to the abbey about the dreaded sickness, some of them conflicting. However, she didn’t want to frighten her patient with the details.

  “But what are the symptoms?” Colin pressed.

  Coira heaved a sigh. “Chills and weakness of the limbs … and terrible cramps to the belly,” she murmured, “and then, as the illness takes hold, dark pustules appear on the body.”

  As expected, Colin visibly blanched at this description. Coira had to admit that the symptoms did sound ghastly; she’d been on the lookout for them ever since the plague—which had wreaked havoc over Europe, England, and Scotland—had crossed the water to the Isle of Skye.

  She was as sure as she could be that no one in Torrin had yet shown signs of it.

  “Even so,” Coira continued when Colin didn’t respond, clearly cowed, “we must take care that yer lungs do not worsen. I will spread this salve upon yer chest, and ye must drink a special tea that will help clear the mucus and lessen the aching in yer limbs.”

  Colin nodded, meek now that he’d been assured he was not infected with plague.

  Coira worked deftly, administering the salve and then wrapping the old man’s chest. Behind them, his wife fussed over a pot of what smelled like mutton stew over the hearth.

  “It’s nearly time for the noon meal, Sister,” the old woman said as Coira started packing her things away in her basket. “Will ye not join us?”

  Coira flashed her a grateful smile and picked up her staff, which she’d leaned against the wall. “Thank ye for the offer, Alma, but I can’t stay … a few chores await me at the abbey, before I can sit down to eat.”

  It was true. She’d noticed her supply of herbs was getting low. She’d need to gather some more in the abbey’s sprawling gardens before joining the other nuns in the refectory for the noon meal.

  Leaving the stone cottage, Coira stepped out into a narrow dirt street. The air was soft, cool, and damp—a balm after the reek of peat smoke indoors. The smoke wasn’t good for old Colin’s lungs either, but like most folk in the village, he lived in a one-room dwelling that gave him no respite from it.

  Coira hitched her basket against her hip and made her way through the cluster of dwellings, heading south. Torrin perched near the edge of a cliff-face, with a small kirk presiding over it and arable fields to the back. In the decade she’d lived here, Coira had gotten to know the locals well. They were hard-working and generous with what they had, if a little small-minded and superstitious at times. She’d done her best to tend their ailments, and had grown fond of many of them.

  A gentle smile curved Coira’s mouth as she left the village and took the narrow road down the hillside. A shallow wooded vale lay before her, and in its midst sat the high stone walls of Kilbride. From this vantage point, she had a wide view of the surrounding landscape. A rugged coast stretched south, to where a green headland jutted out into the sea; and although she didn’t bother to look over her shoulder, she knew that the charcoal shadow of the Black Cuillins, Skye’s most dominant mountain range, rose to the north. To the east, the bulk of other great mountains thrust up into a veil of low cloud. This was a mountainous isle, and Coira had grown very fond of this corner of it.

  Kilbride felt like a world away from the hardship she’d known as a child and young woman. She felt safe here, protected.

  A soft summer rain started to fall as she walked, a cool mist that kissed Coira’s skin. She inclined her face up to it, closing her eyes a moment. Over the years, she’d gotten used to having her head covered by a wimple and veil, but her face was still exposed to the elements.

  The road led her down the hillside, in amongst copses of birch and hazel, before the high walls of Kilbride loomed in front of her. The peaked roof of the kirk rose above it all.

  Despite that Kilbride Abbey was a place of sanctuary, of peace and worship, its austere appearance made it off-putting. The abbess had increased this unwelcoming air by employing men from Torrin to dig deep ditches around the base of the walls, making them even harder to scale should anyone dare. Huge gates, made of iron and oak, barred Coira’s way—although as she approached, she noted that they were ajar and a black robed figure awaited her.

  Drawing nearer, Coira recognized the nun as Sister Mina: a novice who was due to take her vows of perpetuity that autumn. She had a sensitive face and wide grey eyes that were huge this morning.

  As Coira drew near, Sister Mina rushed forward to meet her. “Sister Coira! Ye must come immediately!” the young woman gasped.

  Coira abruptly halted, tension rippling through her. “What is it … what’s happened?”

  “There’s a man here … he’s badly injured … and is delirious with fever.”

  Coira frowned, snapping into her role as healer. “Where is he?”

  “We’ve taken him to the infirmary,” Sister Mina replied, her slender hands clasping before her. “He’s in a bad way.”

  Coira gave a sharp nod and moved past the novice. “I shall go to him now.”

  Not looking to see if Sister Mina followed her, Coira strode across the wide yard that stretched out inside the gates. Before her rose the steepled kirk, while the various outbuildings—dormitories, the abbess’s hall, the chapter-house, guest l
odgings, the refectory, the kitchen, and store houses—flanked it either side. Her long legs ate up the ground, and moments later she heard the patter of Sister Mina’s sandaled feet as she attempted to keep up with her.

  The infirmary was a narrow, low-slung building made of stone that sat behind the kirk. There was room inside for six sleeping pallets. One of the older nuns had recently been laid up there for a while after suffering a fall, but she’d just returned to her usual lodgings, leaving the infirmary empty once more.

  Only now, Coira had a new patient.

  Two tiny windows let in pale light, illuminating the tall figure sprawled upon the pallet in the far corner. Even as she approached him, Coira could see from the sharp rise and fall of the man’s chest that he was suffering.

  However, when she drew up before the bed, and her gaze alighted upon his face, Coira forgot all about the reason she was here.

  She froze, a cold sensation creeping out from her belly and numbing her limbs.

  That face. It was as if a ghost had just risen up before her.

  “Sister Coira?” Sister Mina had stopped next to her. “Is something wrong?”

  Coira didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her attention didn’t waver from the man who lay before her, eyes closed, his handsome face gleaming with sweat.

  “He was conscious when we brought him in,” the novice said after a few moments, perhaps thinking that Coira was merely shocked by his state. “But he’s worsened since then.”

  Coira was grateful he wasn’t awake. The last thing she wanted was those iron-grey eyes to open and stare up at her.

  And yet, as the initial shock faded, Coira realized that maybe she was mistaken.

  This wasn’t the man who’d caused her to wake up in a cold sweat at night for the first couple of years after she left Dunan. This wasn’t the beast who’d hurt her, humiliated her.

  Aye, the lines of this man’s face were similar to those of Duncan MacKinnon’s. Yet his hair was shaggier, wilder than the clan-chief’s, and his physique more heavily muscled.

  She’d also last seen MacKinnon only a moon earlier, when he’d arrived at the abbey looking for Lady Leanna—the novice he’d abducted and then lost. She didn’t remember the clan-chief sporting a long, thin scar that slashed vertically from his temple to cheek, just missing his left eye. It was an old scar, silvered with age.

  Coira exhaled slowly. This wasn’t Duncan MacKinnon—although the resemblance was uncanny.

  “Did he give his name?” she asked finally, surprised at the slight tremor in her voice. Even after all these years, MacKinnon could still rattle her.

  “None that I heard,” Sister Mina replied. “We found him alone … sprawled on the ground before the gates. He was muttering, but most of it was incoherent. I think Mother Shona managed to get some sense out of the man, before we carried him in here, but I didn’t hear what passed between them.”

  Coira nodded, only then daring to move closer to her patient. Setting down her basket, she lowered herself onto a stool beside the pallet.

  That’s how they’d found her too—over a decade ago. Her flight from Dunan hadn’t gone well. A few hours after fleeing the stronghold, a winter storm had blown in, bringing with it sleet and a freezing wind that had chilled her to the marrow. She’d plowed on though, leaving the road and scrambling cross-country to avoid anyone who might be searching for her. Night had fallen swiftly, and she’d been forced to find shelter, crouching shivering under the lee of a boulder while the wind screamed across the exposed landscape. The next morning she’d awoken with an aching body and a fever—and by the time she reached the abbey, she’d been staggering. It was the abbess herself who’d found her crumpled before the gates.

  “Ye said he was injured?” she murmured, running her practiced gaze down the length of his strong body. He was clad in a leather vest and plaid braies wet with sweat.

  “Aye … there’s a festering wound to his left flank. I checked under his vest, but it’s all bandaged up.”

  Coira nodded before reaching down and deftly unlacing the vest. As the novice had said, a bandage had been wrapped around his chest. It was filthy, and Coira could see a dark stain on the left-hand side. Drawing a knife from her belt, she carefully cut away the bandage.

  A putrid stench immediately filled the infirmary.

  Mother Mary preserve him … this doesn’t look good.

  Behind her, Sister Mina made a gagging sound, before she muttered something incoherent under her breath.

  Stifling the urge to clap a hand over her mouth, Coira straightened up. “Open the windows,” she ordered, “and fetch me some vinegar, a clean cloth, and a bowl of hot water … quick as ye can.”

  Grateful to have an excuse to flee the stench of rotting flesh, Sister Mina did as bid, leaving Coira alone with her patient.

  Staring down at the wound upon the man’s left flank, Coira’s mouth pursed. It looked to her as if the man had sustained a battle wound—an arrow most likely. The offending item had been removed, but looking at the red, swollen sore, and the pus leaking out of it, she knew the wound had soured. Angry red lines now stretched out from the injury, a bad sign indeed, as was the fever that had brought the man to his unconscious state.

  She’d have to work hard, if he was to be saved.

  2

  Taking Risks

  COIRA ROSE TO her feet and stretched her aching back. She’d lost track of time, of how long she’d been bent over the injured man, cleaning and then dressing his wound. She’d missed the noon meal, and Sister Mina had come and gone with steaming bowls of water, clean cloths, and bandages as the afternoon slipped by. But now she was done.

  Heaving a sigh, Coira glanced down at the man’s sleeping face. He was still fevered, and had started to twitch and thrash about. However, his wound was now clean. She’d do her best to dress it regularly, but the rest was up to him.

  She wondered if her care had come too late.

  Covering her patient up with a light blanket, Coira left the infirmary. Outside, a misty rain continued to fall and a low mantle of cloud had settled over the abbey, closing them in. Sister Mina approached, a slight figure through the gloom, carrying a pile of clean linen.

  “Is it done?” the novice asked, her gaze flicking over Coira’s shoulder to the closed door of the infirmary. “Will he live?”

  “It’s too early to tell,” Coira replied, her voice heavy with fatigue. “The next day will be crucial. If his fever rages, then he may lose the fight.” She massaged a tense muscle in her shoulder then. “I’m starving … is it time for supper yet?”

  “Not for a while, although I’m sure ye can get some bread and cheese in the kitchens,” Sister Mina replied. “But before ye do, ye had better go and see Mother Shona. She’s asked that ye pay her a visit once the patient is tended to.”

  Coira nodded. However, she wished she could have gotten herself something to eat first. She felt light-headed from hunger. “Very well, I’ll go to her now,” she replied. “Please stay with him for a while … fetch me if his state worsens.”

  Coira found the abbess in her hall. At this time of day, Mother Shona often shut herself away for a period of study and quiet contemplation, while the nuns took an opportunity to rest before the last of the afternoon chores and Vespers.

  Mother Shona was seated in a high-backed chair by the hearth, where a lump of peat glowed. She motioned for Coira to enter.

  Crossing the floor, Coira lowered herself onto one knee before the abbess. Mother Shona then made the sign of the cross above Coira’s bent head. Once she’d blessed her, the abbess gestured to the seat opposite. “How is he?” she asked without preamble.

  “Very ill,” Coira replied. “I removed a splinter of wood from an arrow wound to his left flank, which had caused the problem … it should have been attended to long before today.”

  Mother Shona nodded, her brown eyes shadowing. She was a small woman with a deceptively gentle demeanor that belied the steel underneath. Around twenty
years Coira’s senior, the abbess was the strongest person Coira had ever known. Thanks to her, Coira had grown hardy, both in body and spirit. She had learned to defend herself, and had found solace in her life as a Bride of Christ.

  “Did he speak to ye?” the abbess finally asked.

  Coira shook her head. “He was in a fever sleep when I attended him … and remains in one.”

  “He was delirious when we found him earlier,” Mother Shona replied, her expression still veiled, “but I managed to glean his name.”

  Coira frowned. “Sister Mina told me ye all didn’t know his identity?”

  “I decided some news is best not shared,” the abbess replied with a wry glint in her eye. “The name ‘Craeg the Bastard’ is not one to be bandied about in these parts.”

  Coira went still, the cold, fluttery feeling she’d experienced upon entering the infirmary at noon returning.

  “No wonder I recognized him,” she whispered.

  The abbess’s face turned stern. “I’m surprised the others didn’t. The similarity is striking.”

  For a moment the two women merely watched each other. The intense look upon the abbess’s face made Coira tense. Sometimes she swore the woman could read minds. Mother Shona was the only soul in the abbey who knew her history, knew that she’d fled the life of a whore. However, she didn’t know the whole story—that Coira had run from Duncan MacKinnon’s brutality.

  She didn’t know that Coira’s heart had nearly stopped when she’d set eyes upon her patient.

  “I heard there was a skirmish … to the south … around a month ago … between MacKinnon and outlaws,” Coira said, breaking the brittle silence between them. “The outlaw leader has likely been carrying the wound since then.”