Lonan eased himself into a chair by the hearth and began. “’Twas the Battle of Glenlivet, many, many years ago. I was just a lad yet. I’m a Gordon by birth, you see. Perhaps that is why, to this day, despite being a forgiving man of God, I have no affection for Clan Campbell. But that is a tale for another day,” he added ominously.
“It was my first battle, and I bore a virgin sword, as it were. Yet, unlike the other lads, more fascinating to me than any war play was how faith was enough to gird two thousand men and lead them to triumph over an army ten-thousand strong.
“Though many men were heroes that day, to me the greatest champion was my uncle. I’m no crusader,” he confessed in a lighthearted tone, “and the lion’s heart of my youth has faded into something closer to the lamb’s, but those questions of battle, why men fight and what gives them courage, those are questions of which I’ll never tire.
"I was injured that day—gravely, as you can see—and though I know now it was the frenzy of battle that numbed me to my wounds, at the time I felt certain it was God’s hand at work. That the cross hanging at my neck and the holy water dampening my shirt was the only armor I needed.
“You could say I found God at the edge of a sword.”
Lonan lifted his hands to the fire, and Magda could see the pain in his joints writ on his face.
“I’ve since that day devoted myself to scholarly inquiry that I may better understand we human animals. I’m a bit of a mendicant, I confess, but other holy men are always happy to take me in, sharing books and food in God’s name, in places just like this.” His hand shook with age as he gestured to the room around them.
“Sowhereis this?” she asked.
“Do you ask of this island, or of this time?”
Magda froze at his implication, and Brother Lonan continued without pause.
“First things first, the island. But”—he handed her a tin cup filled with golden liquid—“I insist you drink this, child. It will help.”
Skeptical, she brought the cup to her nose and inhaled a smell like peat fire and the sea, biting through her senses. She took a tentative sip, and it was like liquid smoke slipping down her throat. It curled through her body and warmed her, uncoiling muscles in its wake.
“What is this?” She sipped again, deciding that the flavor was toasty, and faintly salty.
“I once made my tonics by mixing pink centaury with whisky but, in my age and wisdom, I have simplified it. Magdalen,” he said, pouring a measure of liquid into his own cup, “you have before you a dram of whisky. And, may I say, it calms the nerves as efficiently as any herbal tincture.
“Slàinte mhath, child,” he added, raising his cup to hers. “I bid you welcome to Inchmahome Priory.”
He sipped for a time in silence, and Magda let herself enjoy the pleasant buzz that hummed through her. Leaning her head back, she unclenched her jaw and slowly allowed herself to consider the pain between her legs, the ache in her bottom, and the stiffness between her shoulders.
“That was the Loch of Menteith you just swam. Most simply choose to arrive by boat.” An amused appreciation played on the right side of his face.
“Robert the Bruce himself favored Inchmahome. He came often. ” Lonan gestured to the walls around them. “It’s in disrepair now, as you can see.”
She glanced up at the ceiling arching low overhead. The claustrophobic feel was only intensified by the thousands of stones used for bricks, their thin, irregular rectangles pressing down from above, seeming ready to crumble at any moment.
“Once the province of Augustinian monks,” Lonan spoke, pulling her attention back to him, “Inchmahome welcomes all scholars, including the occasional wayward Dominican,” he said, gesturing to himself with a smile.
“Some say that a spit of land on Menteith’s southern shore was built by fairy folk.” He shrugged with a hint of condescension.
“I see,” she said, the whisky giving ease to her voice. “You only believe in time travel. Nothing so preposterous as fairies for you.”
Her attempt at humor was met with sternness.
“Time travel is a law of physics, not an abomination to Christianity, ” he said, alluding to the old Celtic beliefs. “The nature of time is as intertwined with the universe as the beat of the tides. It is in the service of God and His people that I apply my scholarship to it, as I would to any other course of study.”
Lonan considered her as he would a child, and he softened. “But I demand too much of you. Come.” He pulled himself to the edge of his chair and slowly stood. “I will show you your room. You and I have much time together yet.”
And, with that ominous statement resonating in her, Lonan walked Magda to the small cell she would call her own.
The men had long returned to Castle Gloom and their furious chief, short a wench and one stud horse.
The lace was the first to rise, tickling the surface of the lake with its tattered, stained fingers. Gradually the green plaid rose to meet it, the wool thick with water and moving sluggishly, like some angry spectral body exhumed from the deep. It bobbed there for a time, on the choppy waves, until it disappeared again, pulled slowly back to the bottom.
Chapter 21
After he’d been recognized outside Dumfries, James and his men had traveled by night, resting as best they could by day. They had purposefully steered clear of Edinburgh, not far from Falkirk to the east. It was near dawn when they approached what appeared to be a simple crofter’s cottage near Falkirk Moor.
