He turned and looked to the south and found Brother Mirek standing, hands casually clasped, his expression at ease, his amber eyes filled with calm as they patiently rested on him. He wanted to apologise for keeping the friar waiting but he was tired of feeling inadequate in front of this man.
He gave a single nod and started walking toward the New Town. If he understood Brother Mirek’s reasons for becoming a friar, the knowledge might rid him of the doubts plaguing him about following the same path. ‘Why did you leave your homeland?’
They’d walked half the length of the stone wall surrounding the leper house before Brother Mirek replied. ‘I didn’t leave, I fled.’
Everything within Cal, his breath, his heartbeat, stopped for a moment. Fled wasn’t a term he expected Brother Mirek to use when speaking of himself. He looked at the man beside him, hoping his attention encouraged him to say more.
‘There was nothing left there for me, no reason to stay.’
‘You had nae family?’
‘Once.’ A small smile curved Brother Mirek’s mouth and he continually nodded as if he were seeing and remembering them now. ‘Prague changed with King Charles’s death.’ The smile disappeared and the nodding altered to a slow shaking of his head. ‘The son … so much unrest … the Jews—’ The friar drew a long breath.
Cal witnessed the tight-lipped and pained expression Brother Mirek now wore. He straightened to his full height.
Brother Mirek waved his hand before him, as if tossing grain to the chickens. ‘I walked and walked and gained passage aboard a ship from Danzig to Aberdeen. Prague too ’as an Old Town and a New.’
‘Why did you become a friar?’
Again, there was a long pause with only the sound of the dirt road they travelled crunching beneath their feet and Mungo’s hooves.
‘I was chosen.’
Cal frowned and his mind raced. By God? Had losing his family led him to believe he was chosen? Had a wife been part of that family?
‘You never wed?’
‘Marriage is not for everyone. Marriage was not for me. I ’ad my studies and continued to learn when I reached your Scotland, though no longer at university.’
Cal had believed Brother Mirek to be a learned man, but university? The weighted feeling of inferiority returned tenfold. He’d foolishly believed there was a plan for him, a reason why he’d been orphaned as a lad. He’d been blessed the day he’d been found wandering Clan Elliot’s lands. They’d taken him in and he’d been educated along with the laird’s son, Lachlan, and two other orphans, Duff and Adair. All three were now his greatest friends and he’d do anything for them, but despite his good fortune, the unpleasant memories of his mother enticing men into her bed never left him. He’d never married, never once lain with a woman in his twenty-four years, believing his abstinence would right his mother’s wicked ways. Had his sacrifice been for naught?
His hand closed about the hilt of his sword. He’d had enough. Of searching, of wandering, of attempting to right another’s wrongs, of feeling lost while waiting to be shown where his path should lead and what his life’s plan was to be. He’d given enough. He’d make his own plan and follow the path of his own making.
He’d escort Thane’s daughter to the priory, then on his return journey to meet up with Duff and Adair in Braemar, he’d explore the stone crosses between Brechin and Forfar that priests and friars had mentioned during the last year. He’d seen hundreds of crosses in his travels and hoped they offered more than further disappointment. Not in the crosses themselves, for some were works of art, but he’d known enough disappointment at not finding the one he carried in his memory to last him the rest of his days.
He’d searched, he’d asked, he’d looked. He was ready to return to the Elliot clan in the Borders and get on with his life. If he didn’t find the cross he was searching for, then he’d force himself to find a measure of peace he’d hoped, but hadn’t yet found, in the Highlands.
He peered ahead at the sentries manning the timber gate leading into the New Town.
‘I learn from God and I learn from men.’ Brother Mirek’s voice broke into his thoughts and his palm settled on Cal’s forearm, drawing them to a halt. ‘From life and death. I listen, I watch, I pray, I learn.’ He removed his hand and smiled at Cal. ‘I suggest you conceal your weapon before we draw nearer to the gate.’
Cal secured his sword to Mungo’s saddle before lifting the hide beneath and covering his weapon. They resumed walking and Brother Mirek continued speaking.
‘I believe all men are part of God’s flock, but ’ave different roles within the ’erd. Some lead, some follow, some are ’ere for a long stay, while others,’ Brother Mirek paused a moment, ‘only make a brief appearance. But all ’ave a purpose.’ The strength in his voice returned. ‘The difficulty for many is finding what their purpose is. Many travel the wrong path while they search.’
Cal glanced at his companion, knowing his words were for him. His grip about the reins tightened as Brother Mirek lifted one hand and silently acknowledged the guards who stood either side of the open gate, offering a nod as they passed through. Once inside, Cal turned his gaze forward as they followed the single road further into the New Town.
People rushed about, likely finishing chores before the coming night fell, most giving Cal’s cloaked companion a nod or smile, and casting him a cursory glance. A loch sat far to their right and the New Town soon closed in about them. They wandered for a time in silence by the houses on the tofts of land given to the burgesses, each separated by simple wattle fences or gullys or small alleyways that lead to the backlands where the less privileged or less fortunate lived.
Heads continued to turn and conversations ceased momentarily as they passed by, but after a quick inspection of Cal’s unfamiliar face and form and a wave from Brother Mirek, the locals returned to what they’d been about. A pig squealed and scampered out from one of the small vennels separating two of the sturdily built homes further ahead. No one gave chase and the pig soon stopped to rummage beneath a bush before disappearing again. Deeper into the town the scent of roasting meat overtook the ever-present smell of the offerings from the sea.
They veered right for a time before Brother Mirek spoke again. ‘The friary is this way. I will leave you ’ere.’ They turned and faced one another and clasped wrists. ‘It ’as been a pleasure to know you.’
Cal stared at the man of God who had given him guidance and friendship and much to think about in the short time he’d known him. ‘My thanks, Brother Mirek. The pleasure has been mine.’
Before he could withdraw his hand, Brother Mirek placed his other hand on top of Cal’s. ‘The gates and ports in and out of the town are closed at dusk.’ He glanced heavenward as if to remind Cal dusk wasn’t far away. ‘The sea lies to the east and bogs and marshes to the west of the backlands. Godspeed, Callum from the Borders. I ’ope you find your purpose.’ The friar released Cal, turned and after taking two steps, stopped, turned back and said, ‘Follow the road south to the mill. The last cottage on the right will be a good place to start.’ He turned and hurried away.
Thane hadn’t given him any directions to his home and as Cal stood watching the friar hurry away, he could only guess that Thane had spoken of his dying wish to Brother Mirek when he’d made his final confession. But the information regarding the layout of the town and the times the gates were locked caused the fine hairs on the back of his neck to prickle and his senses to sharpen.
Chapter 2
Isla huddled beneath the table in darkness, quiet like a mouse, as her father had taught her. She squeezed her clamped hands together tighter as the clomping footsteps resumed. One belonged to a man, the other a horse. All were dulled by the thick clumps of summer grasses sprouting from the otherwise barren ground. She tilted her head, imagining their whereabouts in the cottage grounds. They’d likely followed the sturdy wattle fence along the vennel separating this plot from the marshlands on the southern side and had stopped when they
reached the rear corner of the cottage.
In her mind, Isla could see the layout of her family home as clearly as if she stood in the man’s boots. He’d see that the boundary fence continued twice the length he’d already walked before ending down a small slope into a ditch running the width of the toft. He’d have viewed the crude and narrow shelter consisting of four wooden poles and a low thatched roof filling the right-hand bottom corner. No horses sheltered there now and hadn’t for several years. Not that he’d know.
He’d be impressed with the neat garden boasting well-tended vegetables that claimed the area close to the rear of the cottage. She clutched her soil-stained hands tighter still. Had he seen the worn wooden cart and the narrow workbench that boasted dark stains soaked deep into the timber? Her father’s work cart and bench filled the left corner of the land and would be hard to miss.
Father.
She bowed her head and pressed her hands over her ears, but the question she feared most shouted loud and clear inside her head. Was her father dead? Had this man come to tell her?
She shook her head, denying the only possible outcome. It couldn’t be yet. She wasn’t ready. Never would be. She wanted to climb out from under the table and burst outside into the open. She was tired of hiding. Tired of being frightened. Tired of the darkness that had become her life. At least she still lived. Why, she didn’t know.
She breathed in a long, slow breath, silently berating herself for her moment of weakness. Father would be disappointed. She’d promised she’d be strong. With another slow breath, she removed her hands from her ears, lay them in her lap and listened.
There, a small scuffing of a foot. Someone now stood at the threshold of the small outbuilding between the crude stable and her flourishing garden. She wished it was Sorcha. Knew it wasn’t. Dear Lord, dinnae let it be—
‘Isla?’
Just her name. Spoken softly, as if it was a secret. She cocked her head and waited for the stranger to call her again.
‘Isla?’
She liked the way he said her name. Deep and low, but not a whisper. Not afraid.
‘My name is Callum.’
Isla liked his name too. But she would not answer him. Must not. She wanted to. The long notches she’d scoured in the hardened floor each time she heard the rooster crow from three tofts up told her it had been two weeks since she’d spoken more than whispered hurried words to someone through wooden walls in the dark. Sweet Sorcha, her dear friend, her only friend, had visited her twice, each time at night, and had kept Isla’s hopes alive. On each occasion Sorcha had left a fresh loaf, a skin of water and a cloth-wrapped portion of smoked fish she’d devoured in one sitting, at the corner of the outbuilding where one of the timber panels was shorter than the rest. It had been longer still since she’d been near enough to anyone to touch. Two weeks since her father had left. So much longer since he’d held her. She’d begged him to stay even though she knew he couldn’t. They’d had longer together than most, but he was all she had. And now...
‘Isla, your father sent me.’
Her heart hitched in her chest. Her father had said he would send someone. Was he healing and had sent this man, Callum, to take her to him? Isla dug her fingernails into her palms to squash the foolish thought. Her father would never get better. There was no cure.
‘Isla, your father …’ His next breath was jagged on the way in and on the way out. ‘Isla, please, open the door.’
A chill the likes of someone dipping her heart into a frozen loch and returning it blue and icy to the touch filled her chest. She folded her arms to restore a little of her body’s heat. She needed to hear more than a man with a pleasing voice who knew her name and had manners before she removed the wooden beam that secured the door from the inside. Did he have more to say?
‘I promised your father I’d escort you south.’
Her stomach tightened. Could he be speaking the truth? Resignation had dulled his tone. He’d made the promise unwillingly. If he in fact had made a promise to her father about anything at all. She needed more.
‘He asked me to speak to of this promise to no one but you.’
Isla ducked her head and shifted from her sitting position to her hands and knees. The hard earthen floor bit into her knees as she crawled out from under the table, but she made not a sound. Once clear of the timber board overhead, she slowly uncurled, appreciating the tiny clicks and cracks her spine made as she stretched to her full height and folded her arms in front of her like a targe.
‘Your father wants me to take you to Restenneth Priory.’
Pain shattered her shield and pierced her heart like a lance. She lifted one hand and covered her mouth to stop the awful cry battering against her lips. Her second hand joined the first as her mind registered that this man had been sent here by her father. He’d voiced the two words she dreaded hearing but needed to hear to know he spoke true.
Father is dead.
She screwed her eyes shut tight, but tears she’d held deep inside for so long trickled from every corner. Spilled over the edges, drenching her lashes. Sobs threatened, but she held them silent inside, her shoulders shaking and shuddering. Stop. Enough. Her father suffered no more.
Isla removed one hand from her mouth and wiped the trail of tears from her face with the corner of her apron. She gulped and drew one last uneven breath before lifting her other hand from her mouth and again straightened her hunched shoulders. Her father was finally at peace. Free.
* * *
Constructed from the same materials as the main house, Callum studied the smaller post and wattle building that would fit into one corner of the much larger cottage. Both appeared deserted. But unlike the cottage, there were no windows and the single wooden door, despite being closed, had no latch or handle. Was it secured from the inside? Was Isla inside? Or had Thane’s desperate plea been borne of lost memories and confusion?
Cal glanced over his shoulder at Mungo, who looked back at him through the last of the day’s fading light. With a final look at the door, he turned and walked toward his horse. Failure weighed heavily upon him. He didn’t make promises every day and the thought of not fulfilling one he hadn’t wanted to make to a dying stranger sat like a boulder in his gut. He’d done what was asked of him. Isla wasn’t here. He’d tried. He could do nothing more. Deep in his belly he hoped nothing ill had befallen the lass.
The scrape of wood scraping wood had him staring at the door he’d stood in front of a moment before. The wooden panel slowly opened inward.
‘Callum?’
The sound of his name, something he’d heard many times before but never like this, captured his attention, all of him.
‘Isla.’ Her named rushed out as he started toward her.
‘My father sent ye.’
She stood still in the doorway, more shadow than real. ‘Aye. He … He’s … Aye, your father sent me.’ God above. His tongue tripped over the words that needed saying. Her slumped shoulders let him know he didn’t need to say her father was dead.
‘Thank ye for coming.’ Grief thickened her voice.
He’d given his word. Instinct and the lowering sun told him they must go now. ‘We need to leave.’
She nodded. ‘I’ll fetch my things.’
She turned away as he reached the opening, the smell of tallow rushing out to meet him. No argument. No hesitation. Cal watched her slender form move further into the shadows, her long, dark hair hanging to her waist. Perhaps fulfilling this promise would prove easier than he’d believed.
Dust motes danced in the thin stream of dim light showing through a long, narrow gap between the thatched roof and the top of the outbuilding’s west wall. But as he watched her skirt the table and the fire pit taking up the centre space on the room’s left side, collecting things and placing them inside the sack she carried, as hard as he tried, he still couldn’t see her features.
The top of her head would reach the underside of his chin and the way she moved about, with a
precision many a swordsman would envy, made him believe she was older than he’d imagined, more woman than lass.
She stopped, turned and headed for the open door.
Cal stepped back to give her room to step outside. The need to see her face growing stronger with every step she took toward him.
Mungo whinnied, warning him they were no longer alone. The clink of steel and the aggressive tread alerted Cal whoever had come weren’t friendly.
Callum’s sword was unsheathed and in his hand before he’d turned to see who had come to call. Two men wielding swords rushed toward him from the side vennel he and Mungo had followed to the rear of the cottage. ‘Isla, close the door.’ Taking another two steps away from the outbuilding into open space, Cal stopped and stood his ground.
Neither man looked familiar. Not that it mattered when they greeted him with swords drawn. The taller of the two reached him first and cut the air with his blade in alignment with Cal’s neck. Cal centred his weight evenly, and leaning his upper body back to avoid the head-severing blow, he lifted his own sword at an angle in line with his left shoulder. When the offending blade passed the point where Cal’s heart raced inside his chest, he sent his own blade to follow and connect with the other, adding enough force to send the man spinning about, giving Cal the time he needed to bring his sword back and down to slice open the attacker’s upper thigh. The wounded man’s cry of pain rent the coming night.
Cal didn’t know these men, but he wasn’t one to kill if a well-placed injury removed the offender from the fight. He didn’t fool himself into thinking he’d never taken another man’s life, but every time he took his sword in hand, his intention was to protect someone as well as himself. This time he was protecting Isla.
He focused on the second attacker, his senses telling him once he’d dealt with this man, others would follow. The shorter man roared as he filled the space his wounded companion had staggered from, and lifting his sword high in a two-handed hold, he swung his weapon in a downward arc meant to split Cal in half. Bracing his feet and legs, his own sword still to his left side after delivering the last cutting blow, Cal glimpsed movement at the cottage’s rear door and from the neighbouring toft. He clenched his jaw, tightened his grip with both of his hands and swung his blade back and up in the opposite direction.
The Saint Page 2
