Angel of Skye by May McGoldrick

himself could match Torquil MacLeod, lass,” the priest said, looking up at Fiona.
    “This one cares about us. About the people of Skye.” She remembered his fearless concern for her. “He is a good man, Father Jack. You know he was the one who stopped the hunting of innocents.”
    “I know, lass. But public power and private weakness often abide in the same man,” the hermit said with a deep sigh. “Then who did this terrible thing?”
    “We will find out, Father,” Fiona responded, turning to her injured friend, who was groaning with pain. She put her hand on his forehead. It was burning with fever. “Right now we need to tend to Walter.”

Chapter 5
     
     
    Alone as I walked up and down,
    In an abbey fair to see,
    Thinking what consolation
    Was best in this adversity.
     
    —Robert Henryson “ The Abbey Walk ”
     
    Oh, God. He’s gone.
    Fiona wrung her hands and whipped the veil from her head as she paced her small workroom adjoining the prioress’.
    She had heard stories of the dungeon at Dunvegan Castle. Of how enemies of the MacLeods could languish there for years. Of how death would come violently and painfully to those who even thought to oppose the power of the laird.
    And now Malcolm. How could the prioress let him go?
    Fiona had returned to the Priory when, after four restless days and nights, Walter had at last regained consciousness. Though he was far from being out of danger, he now showed signs of improvement, and Father Jack had ordered her to go and get some rest.
    Then, on returning, she had learned from David that Lord Alec had taken Malcolm to Dunvegan for the day.
    Standing beside the small window, Fiona shook with anger and fear, recalling the nightmares that had haunted the child’s sleep for so long after his last visit to the MacLeod stronghold. She remembered the little boy’s sobs. She remembered the promise that she had given never to allow anyone to take him back there.
    She angrily pounded her fist into her open palm. How could they let him go? Why could they not at least have asked him? Malcolm was not a five-year-old child anymore. He was a young lad with brains, with intelligence. He would have told them no. Why did the prioress not wait for her return? Fiona slumped into the chair at her work table and buried her face in her hands.
    Malcolm’s mother had died delivering him. She had been no more than a child herself, and when she made her way to the Priory, a victim of Torquil’s lust, the prioress had taken her in.
    Fiona had only been twelve the night Malcolm was born. In the months before, she had befriended the shy, frightened girl who was not much older than Fiona was herself. And during those months she had shared with Fiona all the sorrows of her young life.
    The prioress had allowed Fiona to stay beside the pale girl during labor, sponging her face as the contractions increased both in duration and intensity. Once, after her friend’s wrenching cries had proved too much for Fiona, she’d burst into tears. It was then that she had looked at the prioress, her eyes pleading to go, but the prioress had said gently that this was how she would learn to tend those who needed help.
    Sitting alone in the darkening workroom, Fiona felt the tears begin to slide down her face. She closed her eyes and remembered the helplessness that she’d felt. Remembered the overwhelming sense of loneliness in her friend’s large, anguished eyes—in the death grip with which she held Fiona’s hand.
    Looking into the sad brown eyes, Fiona’s resolve had strengthened. She could not turn her back on the girl.
    She no longer wanted to go. She was needed.
    The hours of labor had dragged on interminably. Through the night-long ordeal the young woman had become weaker and weaker. Her panting breaths seemed unable to take in enough air to sustain her. Fiona had held her hand, trying to support her with her own strength, willing her to go on.
    Finally, the young mother had cried out once more