Chapter XXII: The Armory
Black Billy was still at the house when I returned from the hills of Skye. I waited in the shadows of the street, watching as he departed. He paused in the door, pressing his lips to Jane’s cheek. I heard her murmured "Good night", and watched as he strolled off into the darkness, a smile glittering upon his swarthy face.
I waited a moment or two and crossed the street, mounting the steps two at a time. The latch-string was still out and I put my hand to the door, entering abruptly. Jane still stood within the antechamber with her mother.
Both of them looked up in surprise at my entrance, their conversation ceasing suddenly. Mrs. MacLewis seemed on the verge of speaking, but I brushed past both of them without so much as a salutation, retiring to my bedchamber at once.
I laid back upon my pallet, my mind swirling with the events of the evening. What thou doest, do thou quickly. . .
The image of Jane in the arms of William MacCreild flickered across mind’s eye, and I gritted my teeth, endeavoring to block the picture from my mind. What I had witnessed. . .
The night wore on and the house fell silent as Sarah MacLewis and her daughter went to bed. I lay there sleeplessly, tossing and turning upon my pallet.
If you are with me, brother, be ready on that night.
I rose, moved by a sudden impulse, and took the tallow candle from the top of the crate at my bedside. Another moment of groping in the darkness, and my hand found the flint and steel nearby.
My door opened noiselessly and I slipped into the hall. I could have found my way around the house blindfolded and a few moments took me to the stone stairs leading down to the cellar of the MacLewis house, or the armory, as I had described it to Father David.
Pausing at the foot of the steps, I struck the flint, sparking the candle into full flame. I replaced the implements into the pocket of my jerkin, holding the candle above my head as I proceeded down the narrow passageway. A stout oaken door barred my progress and I halted, examining the latch carefully. The lock was simple and easily defeated—I was inside within moments, closing the door behind me. The candlelight reflected off steel and armor hanging from the walls. I gasped.
Jane had described the family armory to me, but I had never been inside. Swords, maces, suits of mail—every imaginable accoutrement of war hung within. Enough weapons for a small army. Perhaps that was what Father David had in mind. . .
I pondered the thought for a moment, still unable to decipher the motives of the enigmatic priest. A man of God—yet a man of the sword, a well-nigh unimaginable combination in my mind. There was no good answer.
Dismissing the thought out of hand, I turned to more pressing business. Choosing a sword from the selection on the wall before me, I hefted it in my hand. It was lighter and more graceful than most swords I had seen in the highlands, possibly manufactured on the continent.
It would do. My sword-arm was not completely healed—at least not able to handle the heavy claymore like I had wielded in battle with Duncan. This sword was just what I needed.
I returned it to its scabbard and took both from the wall, casting a long look around at the armory before departing. The wall to my left, there was something strange—a way it caught the light of my guttering candle. Sword and candle both held in my right hand, I moved over to the wall, moving my hand along the roughly hewn stones. Something, almost a seam along the stones. As though there was an opening. . .
Air seemed to flow through my fingers, a cold draft snuffing out the candle and plunging the room into darkness. Loose mortar crumbled ‘neath my hand as I groped for the wall, suddenly panicked. I hurried across the pitch-black chamber to the stairs, nearly falling in my haste.
Above, in the house, all was still quiet, or so it seemed. I slipped quickly into my bedchamber, turning to close the door.
"Ewan!" A soft cry from behind me. I whirled, nearly dropping the sword in my surprise. Jane stood there, her form silhouetted against the moonlight streaming in off the balcony.
"Jane!" I exclaimed, laying the sheathed sword on the table at the foot of my bed. "What are you doing here?"
"I—I thought you had left us," she whispered, "You were angry when you returned tonight, I knew not what you might do."
I relit the wick, candlelight flickering off her pale features. Unable to speak, I stood there, drinking in her beauty like a thirsty man in the desert. Her eyes lit suddenly upon the ill-hidden sword, her gaze flickering upward to my face. I turned away like a guilty schoolboy, unable to meet her glance.
"You plan to fight him, don’t you?" she asked, her voice quivering. I knew not how to answer her—indeed, I knew not my own plans, my own intentions. I stood there, in silence, swallowing hard upon her words.
A small cry burst from her lips and she threw herself into my arms, crying bitterly. "Please, Ewan, please don’t draw your sword against him. Please, if you love me, don’t fight with Black Billy. . ."
"You care for him that much?" I asked coldly, my heart a leaden weight within me. Defeat, imprisonment, nothing had torn me apart such as the love I had felt for this maiden.
She lifted her head from my chest, her dark eyes shining with tears. "I care nothing for Black Billy, but you cannot stand against him! He will kill you without thought, without remorse, as he has killed many before you."
It took a moment for her words to sink in. It was for my safety that she feared! I wrapped my arms around waist, drawing her close. "As you wish," I breathed, feeling as though a burden had been lifted from my shoulders.
"Promise me," she whispered.
I would have promised her anything at that moment, wings on my feet at the magic of her words. I felt as though I could walk without ever touching the ground. "I promise," I replied, leaning down to seal the bargain with a kiss.
I was young then. I knew not how easily promises could be made—how they could be broken with equal ease. Would to God I had kept my word. . .
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