Galan and Duncan had been Circenn’s trusted council for years. They’d warred together, implemented attacks and counterattacks under Robert the Bruce’s standard, and trained vigorously for the final battle they prayed would soon liberate Scotland from the English.
“I am not certain I see what harm this woman might do to our cause,” Circenn hedged, cautiously gauging their reaction to his words. Silently, he was gauging his own reaction as well. Usually his rules comforted him, gave him a sense of purpose and direction, but every ounce of his conscience rebelled at the thought of killing the woman abovestairs. He began to tally the possible repercussions of allowing her to live, besides destroying his honor.
Galan laced his fingers together and studied his calluses while speaking. “I scarce think that matters. You swore an oath to Adam Black that you would eliminate the bearer of the flask. While I can see that a woman might evoke sympathy, you have no knowledge of who she really is. She was dressed strangely. Could she be of Druid descent?”
“I think not. I sensed no magic in her.”
“Is she English? I was surprised to hear her speak that tongue. We have been speaking English since the Templars arrived, but why does she?”
“Speaking English is not a crime,” Circenn said dryly. It was true that since the Templars had arrived they’d been conversing more often in English than in any other tongue. The majority of Circenn’s men did not speak French, and most of the Templars did not speak Gaelic, but nearly all of them had learned some English, due to England’s far-reaching borders. Circenn found it frustrating that he was unable to use Gaelic—a language he felt was beautiful beyond compare—but he accepted that times were changing and that when men from many different countries came together, English was the most commonly known tongue. It galled him to speak the language of his enemy. “Most of our Templars do not speak Gaelic. That doesn’t make them spies.”
“She does not speak Gaelic at all?” Galan pressed.
Circenn sighed. “Nay,” he said, “she did not understand our tongue, but that alone is insufficient to condemn her. Perhaps she was raised in England. You know many of our clans tread both sides of the border. Besides, it was unlike any English I have ever heard.”
“More reason to be suspicious, more reason to dispose of her promptly,” Galan said.
“As with any other potential threat, one must first study and assess the extent of the threat,” Circenn equivocated.
“Your oath, Circenn, supersedes all else. Your mind must be on holding Dunnottar and opening the Bruce’s path to a secure throne and a liberated Scotland, not on some woman who should be dead even as we speak,” Galan reminded him.
“Have I ever failed to live up to my duties in any way?” Circenn held Galan’s gaze.
“Nay,” Galan admitted. “Not yet,” he added.
“Nay,” Duncan said easily.
“Then why do you question me now? Have I not far more experience with people, wars, and choices than any of you?”
Galan nodded wryly. “But if you break your vow, how will you explain it to Adam?”
Circenn stiffened. The words break your vow lingered uncomfortably in his mind and wove a promise of failure, defeat, and potential for corruption. It was critical that he adhere to his rules. “Let me handle Adam, as I always have,” he said coolly.
Galan shook his head. “The men will not like this, should they catch wind of it. You know the Templars are a fierce lot and are particularly wary of women—”
“Because they can’t have any,” Duncan interrupted. “They seek any reason to mistrust women in their effort to keep lustful thoughts at bay. A vow of celibacy is not natural for men; it makes them cold, irritable bastards. I, on the other hand, am always relaxed, even-tempered, and amiable.” He flashed a pleasant smile at them both, as if to prove the validity of his theory.
Despite his problems, Circenn’s mouth quirked. Duncan had a tendency to behave outrageously, and the more irreverent he was, the more irritated Galan became. Galan never seemed to realize that his younger brother did it on purpose, and the entire time Duncan was acting like an irresponsible youth, his astute Douglas mind wasn’t missing a thing going on around him.
“Lack of discipline does not a warrior make, little brother,” Galan said stiffly. “You are one extreme and the Templars are the other.”
“Wenching does not diminish my battle prowess one whit and you know it,” Duncan said, sitting up straighter in his chair, his eyes sparkling in anticipation of the argument to come.
“Enough,” Circenn interrupted. “We were discussing my oath and the fact that I am forsworn to kill an innocent woman.”
“You doona know she is innocent,” Galan protested.
“I doona know she is not,” Circenn said. “Until I have some indication of guilt or innocence, I—” He broke off and sighed heavily. He found it nearly impossible to say the next words.
“You what?” Duncan asked, watching him with fascination. When Circenn didn’t reply, he pushed, “Will you refuse to kill her? Will you break a forsworn oath?” Duncan’s incredulity was etched all over his handsome face.
“I didn’t say that,” Circenn snapped.
“You didn’t not say it,” Galan said warily. “I would appreciate it if you would clarify your intentions. Do you plan to kill her or not?”
Circenn rubbed his jaw again. He cleared his throat, trying to form the words his conscience demanded he say, but the warrior in him resisted.
Duncan’s eyes narrowed as he regarded Circenn thoughtfully. After a moment, he glanced at his brother. “We know what Adam is like, Galan. His way has oft been swift, unnecessary destruction, and enough blameless lives have been taken in the quest to secure the throne. I propose Circenn take the time to discover who the woman is and whence she comes prior to passing sentence. I cannot speak for you, Galan, but I doona wish the blood of another innocent on my hands, and if we urge him to kill her, the deed becomes ours as well. Besides, recall that although Circenn swore to kill the bearer of the flask, nothing in his oath addressed timeliness. He might wait twenty years to kill her without breaking his oath.”
Circenn glanced up at Duncan’s last words, surprised. He hadn’t considered that possibility. In truth, his oath had not contained one word specifying how swiftly he must kill the bearer of the flask—hence it was neither amoral nor a violation of his oath to refrain for a short time in order to study the person. One might even argue that it was wise, he decided. You split hairs with a battle-ax. Adam’s words, from six years ago, surfaced in Circenn’s mind to mock him.
“But you had best be aware,” Galan warned, “that if you doona kill her, and should any of the Templars discover who she is and the nature of the oath you swore, the knights will lose faith in your ability to lead. They will see a vow broken as an unforgivable weakness. The only reason they agreed to fight for our country is because of you. Sometimes I think they would follow you into hell. You know they are fanatic in their beliefs. To them, there is no justification for breaking an oath. Ever.”
“Then we will not tell them who she is or what I swore, will we?” Circenn said softly, knowing the brothers would support his decision whether they agreed with it or not. The Douglases always stood behind the laird and thane of Brodie—an ancient blood oath had united the two clans long ago.
The brothers studied him, then nodded. “It will remain between us until you reach your decision.”
* * *
Breathing deeply of the crisp, cool air, Circenn paced the courtyard while the woman waited in his chambers for mercy that was not his to grant. He struggled to harden himself against her. He had lived so long by the rules that he almost hadn’t heard his conscience clamor when he’d raised his sword to her neck. While his warrior’s training had insisted he honor the vow, a thing he had thought dead in him had undermined his resolution.
Compassion. Sympathy. And an insidious little voice that had softly, but relentlessly, questioned the sagacity o
f his rules. He had recognized that voice; it was doubt—a thing he hadn’t suffered for an eternity.
I swear to kill the bearer of the flask, he had pledged years ago.
A warrior’s oaths were his lifeblood, an unbreakable code by which he lived and died. Circenn Brodie’s rules were the only thing standing between him and a swift descent into chaos and corruption. What was the solution?
She must die.
She.
By Dagda, how could it be a woman? Circenn liked women; he had adored his mother and treated all women with the same deference and courtesy. He felt women exhibited some of the best characteristics of humanity. Circenn was Brude, whose line of royal succession was matrilineal. Years ago, when Circenn had sworn his oath to Adam Black, he had not once considered that the flask might be found by a woman, and such a delightful one at that. When he’d torn the strange bonnet from her head, her thick hair had cascaded nearly to her waist in a fall of copper and gold highlights. Green eyes, uptilted at the outer corners, had widened with fear, then quickly narrowed with anger as she’d pronounced the bonnet a gift from her da. It was only fitting that he return the family heirloom, no matter how ugly it was.
Unusually tall for a woman, and lithe, her breasts were full and firm, and he had glimpsed the press of her nipples against the thin fabric of her strange garment. Her legs were generously long—long enough to wrap around his waist and permit her to comfortably cross her ankles while he buried himself between them. When she had bent to retrieve her bonnet he’d nearly snaked an arm around her waist, pulled her against him, and let his demanding nature take free reign. And then slit her throat when your desire was sated?
She. Had Adam suspected that the bearer of the flask might be a female? Might he have seen into the future with his fairy vision and even now be laughing at his dilemma? Yet, if he hadn’t used a binding curse in the first place, the woman’s life wouldn’t be in danger now. It was his inept curse that had brought her here, and now he was supposed to kill the unsuspecting soul. Unless he found some proof of duplicity on her part, her death would be innocent blood on his hands that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Circenn girded his will, conceding that the best solution was to kill her. He would fulfill his oath; then, come tomorrow, life would be normal again. He would secure the flask in the secret place with the other hallows and continue their war. He would return to his tidy regimen and find solace in knowing that he would never become the abomination he so feared he had the potential to be. Circenn Brodie’s primary goal was to see the Bruce securely on the throne of Scotland.
Upon the English king Longshanks’ death, his son Edward II had continued his father’s war, relentlessly chipping away at Scotland’s heritage. Soon nothing of their unique culture would remain. They would be Britons: weak and obedient, taxed into starvation and submission. Their greatest hope against the ruthless king of England was the renegade Templars who had sought sanctuary at Castle Brodie.
Circenn blew out a breath of frustration. The persecution of the Templars grieved and infuriated him. He had once considered joining the renowned Order of warrior-monks, but some of their rules hadn’t been quite to his taste. He’d settled instead for working closely with the religious knights, since both he and the Order protected hallowed artifacts of immense value and power. Circenn respected the Order’s many causes, and knew its history as well as any Templar.
The Order had been founded in 1118 when a group of nine predominantly French knights had gone to Jerusalem and petitioned King Baudouin to allow them to live in the ancient ruin of the Temple of Solomon. In exchange, the nine knights had offered their services to protect pilgrims traveling to the Holy Land from robbers and murderers along the public highways leading into Jerusalem. In 1128, the Pope had given his official approval to the Order.
The knights had been handsomely paid for their services, and the Order had increased dramatically in numbers, wealth, and power through the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. By the fourteenth century, the Order owned over nine thousand manors and castles across Europe. Independent of royal or episcopal control, the Order’s profits were free of taxation. The Order’s many estates were farmed, producing revenues that served as the basis for the largest financing system in Europe. In the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, the Parisian Order of the Templars virtually functioned as the French Royal Treasury, lending large sums to European royalty and individual nobles. However, as the Templars’ wealth and power increased, so did the suspicion and jealousy among some members of the nobility.
Circenn hadn’t been surprised when the Order’s success became the very reason for its downfall. He’d anticipated it, yet been helpless to prevent it; the politics of Pope and king were too mighty for one man to influence.
Circenn recalled well how, nearly a dozen years past, the Templars’ wealth had drawn the deadly attention of the French king, Philippe the Fair, who was desperate to line his coffers. In 1305, Philippe maligned the Order, convincing Pope Clement V that the Templars were not holy defenders of the Catholic faith, but rather seeking to destroy it.
Philippe campaigned exhaustively against the knights, and accused the Templars of heinous acts of heresy and sacrilege. In 1307, the Pope gave the king the order he’d been waiting for: the right to arrest all the Templars in France, to confiscate their properties, and to direct an inquisition. So the infamous, bloody, and biased trial of the Templars had begun.
Circenn ran a hand through his hair and scowled. Knights had been arrested, imprisoned, and forced through torture to confess to sins of Philippe’s choosing. Even more had been burned at the stake. In trial, the knights had been permitted no defense advocates; they had not even been allowed to know the names of their accusers and witnesses against them. The so-called “trial” had been a witch-hunt, deviously orchestrated to strip the Templars of their fabulous riches. Adding insult to injury, the Pope had issued a papal bull that suppressed the Order and denied it recognition. The few knights who managed to escape imprisonment or death had become outcasts, without country or home.
When Circenn had realized the knights’ downfall was inevitable, he had hastened to meet with Robert the Bruce and, with Robert’s approval, had sent word to the Order that they would be welcomed in Scotland. Robert had offered them sanctuary, and in return, the powerful warrior-monks had turned their fighting skills to the battle against England.
The Templars were formidable warriors, trained in weaponry and strategy, and they were essential to Scotland’s cause. Over the past few years, Circenn had been stealthily slipping them into the Bruce’s troops as commanders, with the Bruce’s assent. Already the Scots were warring better, implementing cunning strategies, and winning minor battles.
Circenn knew that if he faltered now, if he began to break oaths or did anything that jeopardized the Templar’s loyalty, he might as well throw away the past ten years of his life, along with his love for his motherland.
* * *
Lisa had no idea how much time had passed since she’d sat on the floor. But it was long enough for her to realize that time didn’t pass in such a fashion for dreamers. If one sat still in a dream and did nothing, the dream either ended or moved on to some new and incredible adventure colored by shades of the absurd. Absurd like the proportions of that man’s body, she thought irritably.
Pushing herself up from the floor with her hands, she paused in a crouch, observing the wide, flat stones beneath her palms. Cool. Hard. Dry, with a skimming of stone dust. Entirely too tangible. Rising to her feet, she began to examine her surroundings.
The chamber was large, lit by fat, soapy candles. The walls, fashioned of massive stone blocks, were hung with random tapestries. A huge bed occupied the center of the room, and several chests were scattered about with neatly folded fabrics piled atop them. The room was spartan, tidy. The fireplace was the only concession to atmosphere; there was not a single woman’s touch in the room. Pausing near the bathtub, she dipped her hand in
the water; tepid—another sensation too tangible to deny.
She moved to the fireplace and flinched at the confoundingly real sensation of warmth. She studied the flames a moment, marveling that the rest of the room was so chilly when the hearth was throwing off such a blaze. It was as if the fire were the sole source of heat, she thought. Struck by that notion, she briskly walked the perimeter of the room. Her suspicion was quickly confirmed: There was not one heating vent in the entire chamber. No radiators in the corners collecting dust. No little metal vents in the floors. No pipes or, for that matter, a single electrical outlet. No phone jack. No closets. The door was made of what looked like solid oak; no hollow-core veneer there.
She took a deep, calming breath and assured herself that she must have overlooked something, at least in terms of the heating. Circling the room a second time, she surveyed every nook and cranny as she trailed her hand along the wall—another way of testing the solidity of her prison. Her fingertips brushed a thick tapestry that yielded beneath them and felt far colder than the stones. The rough fabric shivered beneath her palm as if the wind were batting at it from the other side. Mystified, she tugged it aside.
She lost her breath in a sudden rush of air. The view from the window struck her as intensely as an unexpected blow to her stomach.
She gazed out upon a misty night from ancient history.
Fifty feet above the ground, she was in a stone castle that stood on an island promontory surrounded by a thundering sea. Waves hurled themselves at the rocky crags, breaking into foam and becoming one with the mist that swirled up from the black surface of the ocean. On a cobbled walkway, men carrying torches moved silently between the castle and small outbuildings. The distant cry of a wolf competed with faint strains of bagpipes. The night sky was blue-black, tinted purple where it met the water, dancing with thousands of stars and a thin scythe of a moon. She’d never seen so many constellations in Cincinnati; smog and the halo effect of the brilliantly lit city dimmed such beauty. The view from the window was breathtakingly stark, majestic. A bitter wind howled up from the sea and across the promontory, buffeting the tapestry in her hand.
The Highlander Series 7-Book Bundle Page 64
