Free Grandmother and the Priests by Taylor Caldwell Page B

rubble rattled about them and shifted under their feet. I am not worthy. I have been rejected — if Michael dies. He shut his mind from the unspeakable Evil he had seen in the forest, for at the very thought his mind leapt madly in terror. He knew, as Satan had implied, that the invisible wall had been his own intellectual doubts concerning the absolute, personal quality of Evil. With his acceptance of the frightful truth the wall had disappeared.
     
    He had been in the castle a few times before, but after observing that the brothers were hardly less poor than himself, and that they had been straining their resources to feed him adequately at dinner, he had delicately found a way to avoid invitations. Moreover, the castle was not much more attractive than his small and battered rectory. The always-icy hall, with its mossy flags, its tattered banners, its rattling armor, its faint lantern and dripping stone walls, its echoing roof, its smell of ancient dankness and decay, had always depressed his spirits for days afterwards. Once this hall had blazed with torchlight and the jewels of fair women, and a fire had jumped on the enormous hearth, and there had been the sound of music and the laughter of Irish kings and noblemen and knights, and songs, and the skirling of bagpipes and the wind of dancing. Once minstrels had sat here and told the sagas of ancient and mighty men, and wine had been drunk from gemmed goblets. All this was gone, through the poverty induced by taxes, through loss of fortune, through oppression. The hall was inhabited by mournful ghosts, who cried soundlessly of harps and freedom and the glory of old Ireland.
     
    It was more dismal and gloomy tonight than ever before. The stone stairway led up into darkness. From a high distance came the faint cries of a woman, the pleas of a youth. “I’ll tell the Lady Dolores that your Reverence is here,” said the shepherd, but the priest shook his head. He had no strength for speech any longer. He could only indicate the stairs with a slight movement of his hand and lean towards them. Blood dripped on the wet flags from his wounded leg. The shepherd led him, protesting, to the stairs, and on his hands and knees, like a desperate penitent, the priest climbed the stones, one by one, his mind swimming in red and black waves. The edges of the steps tortured him afresh; he hardly felt it now. He had only one destination. Ages passed as he climbed, his lips moving in unheard prayer. Then two pairs of hands were helping him up the last steps, and two strong, manly shoulders were supporting him. He looked beyond them to a closed oaken door where Dolores crouched in a pale and sobbing heap in the light of a lantern which swung from the stone wall.
     
    When the girl saw the priest she uttered a broken cry and groveled at his feet, wordlessly praying for help. He pulled in a harsh breath. He struck the door with his fist. “Michael! In God’s Most Holy Name!” he cried.
     
    There was a sharp silence. Then a muffled and bitter voice sounded from behind the door. “You could not help him! You would not save him! My brother! I’ve sinned against him, and my life is forfeit.”
     
    The priest gasped, over and over, supported by the shepherds. His eye dropped to the weeping Dolores. He whispered to her, “Let your woman’s loving heart guide you! The tower — it faces the window of his room. Go up the tower — ”
     
    “Father,” she sobbed. “The tower is old, falling. There are only a few steps.” She put her hands over her body, as if to protect her child. “Dark, dark and crumbling — how can I climb?” Her wet face, streaked with dust, was wild with terror.
     
    “God will be with you,” said the priest. “As He was with me.” His strength had returned a little in his extremity. “Go. I am here.”
     
    The girl pushed herself to her feet. The lantern showed her disheveled black hair lying on her shoulders, the anguished blue of her eyes, her white