is a very busy man.” The man’s ring of brown locks shook with his head. “I’m not certain he’ll be able to see you today.”
Wearing a hauberk, helm, dirk and broadsword, Eoin was a tad over-armed for hallowed halls. “Just tell him who I am. We were good friends before Sir John joined the priesthood.”
“You may refer to him as His Worship, or Bishop Campbell,” the monk corrected, sniffing through his upturned nose. When they entered a square cloister surrounding a well-manicured courtyard, the man pointed to a bench. “Wait here whilst I inform the bishop of your presence.”
“Very well.” Sitting, Eoin glanced at the masonry of the uniform archways. He’d been in the vast nave of the church, but never in this courtyard. A mourning dove soared down and sat atop a bronze statue in the center of the courtyard. Its wings whooshed. Eoin heard the bird’s movement so clearly, he sensed that he’d stepped away from the world for a moment. Through the quiet, he could hear his own heartbeat—yet his senses weren’t heightened as they were before he stepped into danger.
He chuckled. Mayhap I should be a bit uneasy, given the message I bring.
Footsteps clattered through the adjoining passage, interrupting the ethereal tranquility. The monk stepped into view. “The bishop will see you now. You must be an important man, indeed.”
Eoin stood. “’Tis good to know Sir John isn’t too busy to visit with an old friend.”
“Please try to remember to address him as Bishop Campbell, m’laird.” The monk led Eoin to a large oak door and pulled on the blackened iron latch. The stone passageway had been rather stark, but the chamber beyond the door gleamed, alive with rich red tapestries trimmed with gold.
John has done quite well for himself. Clearly, the Bishop of the Isles is a man of abundant wealth.
Seated in a great upholstered chair, His Worship looked as if he could have been the Pope. He wore a brilliant red velvet chasuble trimmed with gold over a long purple dalmatic, and atop his head he wore a matching mitre. More affluent clothing had not the king.
Seeing him, the bishop stood and held out his arms. “Sir Eoin. My word, what a surprise.”
Eoin took John’s hand and kissed it. Every finger was bejeweled with rings bearing enormous stones. “’Tis good to see you, Bishop Campbell.”
“Please, old friend. Call me John.”
Eoin gave him a pointed look. “Not ‘Your Worship’?”
As expected, John turned red. Aside from his garb, he remained the same humble man Eoin knew well. “’Tis a moniker I abhor and a dear friend from my past will not refer to me thus.” He gestured to a smaller chair. “You are fortunate to find me at home. I’m leaving for Rome on the morrow.”
Eoin grinned and removed Helen’s missive from beneath his cloak. He did have impeccable timing. “How very fortuitous, indeed.”
“And what brings you to Iona?”
Since leaving Mingary, Eoin had thought about how he’d broach the subject of Helen’s plight with John. This was a matter not to be blurted in an outpouring, but needed careful depiction. He began by explaining the MacDonald uprising, which came as no surprise to the bishop—Duncan had ensured the Abbey was on alert as well—thus the heightened interrogation by the guard upon Eoin’s arrival. Then he went on about how, much to his chagrin, he was assigned to Mingary and Aleck MacIain.
“How is my sister enjoying being lady of the keep in Ardnamurchan?” John rubbed his hands with a broad smile.
Eoin met John’s expression by frowning and placed the missive on the small table between them. “Lady Helen is the reason for my visit.”
John picked up the letter and examined the seal. “You haven’t read this, I see.”
“No, the lady entrusted it to me in utmost confidence.” Eoin leaned forward. “Her situation is unbearable. I’ve seen swine treated better than your sister.”
“Helen? Mistreated?” A deep crease formed between John’s brows. “How preposterous.”
Eoin’s lips thinned. “I would have had the same reaction if I’d not witnessed her husband strike her.” Then he jammed his finger into the table for added effect. “And I’ve seen telltale signs of further abuse as well.”
John ran his thumb under the seal. “Who in their right mind would raise a hand against Helen? Of all my sisters she is the most genteel.”
“True, and Lady Helen is frail as a lark. Though she has the heart of a lion.” Eoin launched into a detailed description about how Helen held Mingary with a handful of