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they crave. Sir John MacInnes, the last laird,
promised me that he’d rebuild the chapel, but he did no such
thing.”
    “Show me the inside, Father William,” Gavin
ordered, striding toward the building.
    “Aye, of course,” the scrawny cleric replied,
running to keep up. “Though I’ll be hanged if you find anything to
interest you there.”
    Gavin let that comment pass, though the
priest’s attitude was curious, to say the least. Father William
pulled open the thick oak door.
    “Not the way it once was. No faith. No sense
of duty. Since the death of Sir John, I have watched as nearly all
of his peasants...your peasants...packed up their wee ones and
moved onto the Earl of Athol’s land to the north.”
    But not all of them had left, Gavin thought.
Not all. One of them, he was quite certain, was the ‘ghost’ who was
haunting the south wing.
    Earlier, when Gavin had stepped into the
narrow passageway in the study wall, he had easily found the ladder
leading up to the top floor. The chambers above had obviously been
comfortably designed and furnished, but now they were in shambles.
Working his way through the rooms, the warrior had been quite
careful to avoid any repeat of his near disaster in the study.
Finally, he’d made his way up to the tower room where he had seen
the shutter close.
    There, the bed of straw, a scrap of burnt
blanket, some rags, a wooden bowl told him that he had been
correct. Someone had been taking shelter in the tower, and he had
probably found his way into the castle and its passageways from the
caverns below.
    If what the priest had just said was true,
then Gavin knew this stranger had to be a peasant. The Lowlander
had investigated what passages he could in the burnt out wing, but
he had reluctantly put off exploring the tunnels leading below. He
would need a torch, and preferably a guide, for that little
expedition.
    In fact, he thought, he could use a torch
now. The chapel, dark and musty, offered little to refute the
cleric’s words. The few long, thin windows provided hardly any
light or air in the sanctuary. No ornaments of value adorned the
altar. Only a cross of wood, studded with iron nails, hung on the
wall above it. That was all.
    Surveying the rest of the interior, Gavin
nodded toward the steps leading down into a dark alcove. “The
crypt?”
    “Aye, m’lord.” The note of contempt in the
man’s response was obvious, and, though Gavin was unsure what it
was directed toward, he was tiring quickly of the little man.
    “Get a candle.”
    As the priest returned with a light, Gavin
started down the steps into the crypt. It was a low, square
chamber, with stone tombs lining the walls. Some were adorned with
the effigies of knights, their carved stone swords beside them. As
William kept up a running commentary on the relative superiority of
past generations, Gavin discovered the low doorway into another
area, and, taking the candle, led the way into the newer part of
the musty chamber.
    “Sir Duncan had this part built before my
time here. That is his tomb, with the stone carving. His sons never
had much opportunity to plan for their own burials.”
    “Where are Sir John and his wife and
daughter?”
    William’s face looked yellow and quite
unhealthy in the flickering light of the candle, and he seemed to
hesitate before answering. He gestured with a toss of his head.
    “In the kirkyard, m’lord.”
    Gavin stared at the man a moment. “I want to
see where you’ve put them.”
    “Aye. This way.”
    As he and the priest retraced their steps,
Gavin considered what would be involved in reentering the previous
lairds and their families in the crypt.
    The sun that had broken through briefly in
the early afternoon had once again been swallowed up by the clouds.
As Gavin gazed out over the low wall that separated the kirkyard
from the sheer cliffs above the loch, he could see the storm to the
west sweeping in over Cairn Liath and Cairn Ellick, hiding their
summits in a