Chapter One
Scotland, 1435
Sophie Hay stumbled slightly as another fierce sneeze shook her small frame. A linen rag was shoved into her hand, and she blew her nose, then wiped her streaming eyes with her sleeves. She smiled at her maid, Nella, who watched her with concern. Considering how long she had been scrambling through this ancient part of her Aunt Claire’s house, Sophie suspected she looked worthy of Nella’s concern.
“I dinnae ken what ye think ye will find here,” Nella said. “Old Steven said her ladyship ne’er came in here; thought it haunted, and he thinks it may not be safe now.”
“’Tis sturdy, Nella.” Sophie patted the stones framing the fireplace. “Verra sturdy. The rest of the house will fall ere this part does. The fact that that stone was loose,” she pointed to the one she had pried away from the wall, releasing the cloud of dust that had started her sneezing, “was what told me that something might be hidden here.”
“And ye dinnae think this place be haunted?”
Sophie inwardly grimaced, knowing she would have to answer with some very carefully chosen words or Nella would start running and probably not stop until she reached Berwick. “Nay. I sense no spirits in this room.” She would not tell Nella about all the others wandering in the house. “All I sense is unhappiness. Grief and a little fear. It was strong here by the fireplace, which is why I was searching here.”
“Fear?” Nella’s dark eyes grew wide as she watched Sophie reach toward the hole in the wall. “I dinnae think ye ought to do that. Fear and grief arenae good. God kens what ye might find in there.”
“I am certainly nay sticking my hand in there with any eagerness, Nella, but,” she sighed, “I also feel I must.” She ignored Nella’s muttered prayers, took a deep breath to steady herself, and reached in. “Ah, there is something hidden here.”
Sophie grasped a cold metal handle on the end of what felt like a small chest. She tugged and felt it inch toward her a little. Whoever had put it into this hole had had to work very hard, for it was a tight fit. Inch by inch it came, until Sophie braced herself against the wall and yanked with all her might. The little chest came out so quickly, she stumbled backward and was only saved from falling by Nella’s quick, bracing catch.
As she set the chest on a small table, Sophie noticed her maid edge closer, her curiosity obviously stronger than her fear. Sophie unfolded the thick oiled leather wrapped around the bulk of the chest, then used a corner of her apron to brush aside the dust and stone grit. It was a beautiful chest of heavy wood, ornately carved with runes and a few Latin words. The hinges, handles, and clasp were of hammered gold, but there was no lock. She rubbed her hands together as she prepared herself to open it.
“What are all those marks upon it?” asked Nella.
“Runes. Let me think. Ah, they are signs for protection, for hope, for forgiveness, for love. All good things. The words say: Within lies the truth, and, if it pleases God, the salvation of two peoples. How odd.” She stroked the top of the chest. “This is verra old. It must have just missed being discovered when the fireplace was added to the house. I wouldnae be surprised if this belonged to the matriarch of our line or one of her kinswomen.”
“The witch?” Nella took a small step back. “A curse?”
“I doubt it when such markings cover the chest.” She slowly opened the lid and frowned slightly. “More oiled leather for wrapping. Whoever hid this wanted it to last a verra long time.” She took out the longest of the items and carefully unwrapped it. “A scroll.” She gently unrolled the parchment and found another small one tucked inside. When she touched the erratic writing upon the smaller parchment, she shivered. “Blood. ’Tis written in blood.”
“Oh, my lady, put it back. Quickly!” When Sophie simply pressed her hand upon the smaller parchment and closed her eyes, Nella edged nearer again. “What do ye see?”
“Morvyn. That is the name of the one who wrote this. Morvyn, sister to Rona.”
“The witch.”
“Aye. No ink,” she muttered. “That is why this is written in blood. Morvyn had naught else to write with and she was desperate to record this exactly as it was said.” Sophie opened herself up to the wealth of feeling and knowledge trapped within the parchment. “She tried to stop it. So desperate, so afraid for us all. She prays,” Sophie whispered. “She prays and prays and prays, every night until she dies, sad and so verra alone.” She quickly removed her hand and took several deep breaths to steady herself.
“Oh, m’lady, this is no treasure, is it?”
“It may be. Beneath that despair was hope. That would explain the words carved upon the chest.”
“Can ye read the writings?”
“Aye, though I dinnae want to.”
“Then dinnae.”
“I must. That chest carries the words ‘truth’ and ‘salvation,’ Nella. Mayhap the truth as to why all the women of my line die as poor Morvyn died—sad and so verra alone. I willnae read it aloud.” Sophie’s eyes widened and she felt chilled as she read the words. “I cannae believe Morvyn wrote this. She feared these words.” Sophie turned her attention to the larger scroll. “Oh, dear.”
“What is it?”
“I fear Rona deserves her ill fame. She loved Ciar MacCordy, The MacCordy of Nochdaidh. They were lovers, but he left her to marry another, a woman with land and wealth. He also left her with child.”
“As too oft happens, the rutting bastards,” muttered Nella.
“True. Rona was hurt and her pain twisted into a vindictive fury. One night she cursed The MacCordy and all the future MacCordy lairds. Morvyn tried to stop it, but failed. Her fear was that the Galts would pay dearly alongside The MacCordy, if in a different way. She writes out the curse again and, trust me, Nella, ’tis a bad one. She expresses the hope that some descendant will find this and have the courage and skill to undo what Rona did. Ah, me, poor Morvyn tried her whole life to do just that, with prayer and with healing spells. She wrote once right after the curse was made, and again when she was verra old. She leaves her book of cures and spells as well as her stones. The use of the stones is explained in the book.
“Morvyn says she thinks she has discovered the sting in the tail of Rona’s curse. A Galt woman of their line will know love only to lose it, to watch it die or slip through her grasp. She will gain land and wealth, but such things will ne’er heal her heart or warm her in the night and she will face her death still unloved, still alone.” Sophie wiped tears from her cheeks with the corner of her apron. “And she was right, Nella. She was so verra right.”
“Nay, nay. Your ancestors just chose wrong, ’tis all.”
“For over four hundred years? This is dated. It was written in the year 1000. The verra first day.” Sophie muttered a curse. “That fool Rona sent out a curse on the eve of a new year, a new century. It was probably a night made to strengthen any magic brewed and she stirred up an evil, vindictive sort.”
Nella wrung her hands together. “There isnae any of that evil in this house, is there?”
Sophie smiled at her maid. “Nay. I sense that magic has been stirred in here, but nay the black sort.”
“Then from where comes the fear and sadness?”
“Heartache, Nella. Lost love. Loneliness.” Sophie cautiously picked up the two small bags inside the chest and gasped. “Oh my, oh my.”
“M’lady, what is it?”
“Morvyn’s stones.” She gently placed one bag back inside the chest on top of what she now knew was Morvyn’s book of cures and spells. “Those