A tall, thin stranger, the smell of grog strong in his breath, stepped out from the bushes to their right. Connor winced as Tegan squeezed his arm. Somehow, she managed a strong, controlled voice despite the danger that now confronted them. “This bridge was built by the Sinclairs for everyone to use. You have no right to charge a toll,” she answered.
“I’m afraid I can,” he snickered. “You see, I have been given the royal appointment of official tollkeeper by Prince Henry himself. It would be a dereliction of duty to let you pass free of charge.”
As the stranger staggered forward, Tegan and Connor retreated warily.
“We have no money,” she lied. “Please, let us cross. The English have just sacked our home. We have nothing left!”
“Nothing?” he laughed, stumbling forward. “I’m sure you have something to give me.”
Tegan gently edged Connor away from the stranger. Instinctively, the young boy understood. They were about to make a run around the highwayman. Just as Tegan and Connor started to bolt forward, a second apparition appeared from behind, grabbing Tegan around the waist and neck. The sudden jolt from his mother’s arm sent Connor tumbling to his knees. He turned and saw his mother writhing to get free herself from the second highwayman, chuckling at her as if she were a snared rabbit.
“Let go of my mother!”
Although only ten, Connor had strong body from his years of work on the farm. In a flash, he launched himself at the attacker. Leaping up into the air, he swung an arm around the highwayman’s neck and squeezed until only a weak rasp escaped from the stranger’s lips. The grip on his mother weakened. With a twist, she broke free just as Connor’s head exploded in pain. The world spun as he collapsed onto the ground, stumbling and falling into the ditch beside the bridge. Through a sea of spinning stars, he heard his mother scream.
Guffawing at the boy’s stupor, the two robbers returned their focus to Tegan, who was firmly back in the grasp of the second attacker.
“Perhaps that will teach your boy some manners!”
“Look here, Niall! The lady was telling us a tale! She has at least a few shillings hiding in a pouch.”
He viciously snapped the purse off from around her neck and held it in front of Tegan’s face.
“Aye, you’re right, Dougal. And that’s too bad for you, my dear. Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to lie? Now we’ll have to double your toll.”
She screamed again as the strangers pressed in on her. Connor clawed and crawled up the embankment. Somehow finding his feet, he staggered back towards his mother, ready to defend her to the death. Just then a sound from the other side of the creek caused everyone to freeze.
“The bloody English,” cursed one of the highwaymen.
The echo of horses’ hooves quickly approached the gathering. Three horsemen appeared through the gloom, their steeds snorting as they burst across the bridge and pulled to a halt in front of the frozen fray. The highwaymen gaped as the lead rider dismounted. The other riders followed suit.
Connor, wild-eyed and confused, changed his target from the highwaymen and instead charged toward the lead rider.
“I’ll kill you bloodsucking English with my bare hands! This is all your fault!” he screamed, tortured by his unwinnable situation.
“Stand down, son,” said a voice in calm Gaelic. “We’re not English.”
Hearing Gaelic from the soldier completely bewildered Connor, who slid to a halt and stared dumfounded into the face of a shadow.
“Who are you then?”
“A friend,” the apparition answered.
The sound of swords being drawn sliced through the mist. Suddenly frightened, the highwaymen released Tegan, who immediately ran to Connor’s side, wrapping her trembling, icy arms around his body.
“What has just transpired here?” asked the horseman sternly.
“We were just helping this young lady and her son across the bridge,” answered the thief. “’Tis so dark, we feared that they might end up in the creek.”
“That’s not true!” blurted Connor. “They demanded money, then they attacked us!”
“Thieves?” questioned the leader. “On my land?”
He stepped closer and peered into the eyes of one thief then the other. The point of a glistening blade suddenly came to rest under the highwayman’s stubbly chin.
“I know you. You’re Dougal McPhee. And you, you’re Niall Kincade. What kind of disloyal filth attacks a helpless Scottish family while the English are ransacking our lands?”
“’Tis . . . ’tis not as it looks . . .” stammered the thief. “I swear.”
“I do not tolerate traitors on my land,” the horseman growled. “I should kill you both on the spot. You have until sunrise to get yourselves off my land, or else I’ll run you through and display your worthless swinging corpses at the crossroads. Don’t ever set foot within a week’s walk of Roslin again!”
“Yes, sir, your lordship, sir,” answered the cowering men. “Thank you! Thank you for your mercy!”
They turned and fled, stumbling across the bridge and disappearing into the foggy moors. Tegan and Connor’s mysterious saviour then turned and approached the shivering woman and child.
“Are you well, my lady?”
“Aye, thank you,” Tegan whispered, her free hand trying to pull together her torn dress.
“And why are you walking in your current state on such a dangerous road?” he queried.
“Our farm, my lord, was attacked by the English. Our home was in flames when my son and I fled for our lives.”
“The MacDonald farm,” answered the stranger, looking off toward the distant glow. “You must be Tegan and this must be your son, Connor.”
“Y—yes, we are MacDonalds,” answered Tegan. “Do I know you, sir?”
“Your father accompanied mine on his doomed quest to the Holy Lands. Forgive me for not introducing myself. I am Henry Sinclair.”
Connor could see the shock in the silhouette ofhis mother’s face. Tegan humbled herself, curtsying deeply. Connor followed his mother’s lead and bowed to the stranger.
“Prince Henry,” she said, her eyes lowered. “Thank you for coming to our rescue.”
Prince Henry looked to the hill that glowed from the distant fire.
“My good knights and I were on our way to scout the English movements when we heard your screams. I’m sorry that I was not able to save your homestead. Their advance has caught us by surprise. Where were you heading?”
“To Aunt Maggie and Uncle Ian’s farm,” answered Connor bravely.
Prince Henry hesitated. “The farm of Ian MacEwen, near the village?”
“Yes,” said Tegan. “Maggie is my sister.”
His face dropped. “I’m afraid, then, that I am a bearer of further sad tidings. The English moved through that area earlier tonight. Angus MacEwen’s farm is no longer.”
“No longer?” asked Tegan, weakly. “My sister, Maggie . . . her family . . . Are they well?”
There was a long pause. “I’m sorry. They were killed during the sacking of the farm.”
“Nae, say ’tis not true . . . !” sobbed Tegan. Connor caught his mother by the arm, but his tired legs buckled under her weight.
Prince Henry leapt forward to steady her other side. He turned to his men. “Rudyard, you ride on ahead to keep an eye on the English and their movements. Report back to me before daybreak. Alex and I will take the lad and his mother back to Roslin.”
“As you wish, my lord,” answered the taller of the two, who leapt up onto his steed. The horse and knight galloped off toward the distant, glowing hill.
The prince and his friend then helped Tegan onto the nearest horse. Prince Henry swung up and steadied Tegan with an arm around her waist. Connor climbed onto the back of the second horse. Holding on to a leather belt, he leaned into Prince Henry’s friend.
The night had completely overwhelmed Connor. His young mind tried to deal with the many losses by drifting back to an earli
er time, one of peace and comfort. Distant memories of his father drifted into his exhausted thoughts. He remembered when he used to snuggle into his father during the long rides into town. Why could Father not be with them now? He would know what to do. He could have somehow saved the farm! But then he remembered what Prince Henry had just said about his aunt and uncle. Gone. Except for his mother, everything he had loved so dearly was now gone. Tears began to flow freely down his cheeks. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping somehow to wish this living nightmare away. Who was going to look after them now?
Two
Four Years
Later . . . Near a shoreline that, far in the future, would be called Mahone Bay, Nova Scotia, May, 1397
Glooscap!” his sister screamed. “He’s returned!” Na’gu’set rubbed his eyes, not yet fully awake. He had just returned from a four-month paddle to the land of the corn growers. His body ached from the constant paddling, and he had uncharacteristically slept late. Ronalaka, wide-eyed and braided hair flying, hopped back and forth impatiently in the entrance of the wigwam.
Midmorning light poured in through the entrance but what he found strange was the silence beyond the doorway. The village was usually a buzz of activity during the daytime hours.
“Where is everyone?”
She shook her head impatiently. “I’ve already told you! It’s Glooscap! He’s in the bay! Just like in the stories you told me by the fire! He came on the back of not just one but three whales! The whole village is there to meet him, but they need you! You’re the only one who knows the tongue of the Teachers!”
“Glooscap?” he said, straightening. He could not believe what he was hearing. “In the bay? Are you sure?”
“Yes! Hurry!”
And with that, the young girl turned and sprinted away.
“So, how many fair damsels are awaiting our arrival with open arms this time?”
Prince Henry lowered the hand that was protecting his eyes from the early morning sun and gave his Italian friend a poisonous stare. Antonio’s twinkling dark eyes rolled heavenward, and he shook his head sadly, allowing the thick black curls that covered his head to sway back and forth. Prince Henry returned his gaze to the coast.
“Do not forget that I am paying you to complete the mapping of this voyage. Next time leave your secret ambitions of being a court jester in Venice.”
Antonio smiled at his captain. He often thought of the life Prince Henry could have had if he had chosen not to accept his inherited role as Protector of the Templar Order. He had seen on many occasions the countless number of wealthy and beautiful women who had attempted to woo the ruggedly handsome prince. He had caught the female whispers at castle dinners as they admired his chiselled Nordic features and the thick, wavy blond hair that framed his penetrating blue eyes. Prince Henry could have married a princess, enjoyed the royal trappings of mistresses, wealth and power and lived a comfortable life without ever having to take one step beyond the borders of his beloved Scotland. And yet this charismatic man chose to stay true to his two true loves, his wife, Princess Janet, and his devotion to the Templar Order.
Yet those qualities were not the ones which had bound Antonio to his leader and best friend. The intoxicating power of the sea ran equally through their veins. They both had a burning love for the challenge and adventure of ocean exploration. Their duty to the Templar Order had taken them to the coasts of Africa and Asia Minor. But those voyages paled in comparison to the miraculous crossing of the Atlantic Ocean. Together, they had followed the ancient maps of Prince Henry’s Viking ancestors to the land the Nordic explorers called Vinland. It had been almost four hundred years since the last European had set foot on these distant lands! Vinland was indeed beautiful and seemingly endless. But as the Viking sagas foretold, it was a land already claimed.
“Are they stained red like those at our last landing?”
Prince Henry shook his head. “No red stain this time. They are all dark-skinned.”
“Praise the Lord,” Antonio replied. “We might not need the cannon this time.”
Prince Henry smiled. “Let’s hope not.” He nodded. “This reception seems quite different. No sign of weapons. The people actually seem to be enthusiastic to see us, not nervous or angry.”
“Enthusiastic to have us for dinner, perhaps?” Antonio quipped.
Prince Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Prepare a skiff for launch.”
Antonio squinted at the people lining the shore. “I’ve always trusted your amazing eyesight, Henry. If you think they’re going to throw us a welcoming party, then I believe you. But do you think it prudent of me to still prepare the cannon? Just in case?”
Prince Henry’s blue eyes sparkled in the morning light as he lifted a battle-tested helmet and placed it over this thick mat of yellow hair. “Fools only hope for the best without preparing for the worst. Aye, Antonio. Prepare the cannon.”
He stood in the bow of the landing craft as a half-dozen of his most trusted knights paddled for shore. The men were dressed in full battle gear, their metal breastplates, helmets and swords glistening in the bright spring sunshine. As they neared shore, the men raised their paddles, and the boat skidded up onto the pebbly shoreline.
Prince Henry stepped over the rail of the boat and onto the shore facing the leather-clad crowd. Almost a hundred people approached and surrounded their tiny craft.
A gasp rippled though the native population as they noticed Prince Henry’s eyes. They were as blue as a clear winter sky. What could that mean, they wondered? Such eyes had never been seen before. Surely he was not of this world.
The rest of the crew jumped off the boat and fell into a v-shaped position on either side of their leader, one hand resting on the handle of their swords. Prince Henry stepped forward and addressed the gathering in Gaelic. “My name is Prince Henry Sinclair. I come to you in peace.”
The crowd looked at each other, then back to the strange visitors. A voice from the back of the crowd spoke up. Prince Henry did not recognize the unusual tongue, but it had an effect on the crowd, for the wall of people parted and allowed a young man with long, black, braided hair to step forward, seemingly out of breath. Prince Henry assessed the wiry young man. His lean, muscular shoulders were well-defined, and he moved with a natural agility. Like most of the men of the gathering, he was wearing only a simple loincloth and leather shoes.
His dark, calm eyes examined Prince Henry as he caught his breath. The prince looked to his men, and not sensing any danger, simply shrugged and waited to see what would happen next. The young man reached toward Prince Henry’s head with his hands and touched the helmet. Then, with surprising quickness, he lifted the helmet right off the prince’s head! The move surprised the soldiers beside the prince, and they began to draw their swords.
Prince Henry raised his hand, ordering them to stand down. The crowd rippled in apprehension as the raised helmet released the prince’s golden locks. Even Na’gu’set stepped back in surprise.
“Glooscap was not to have hair as golden as maize,” he muttered.
It was Prince Henry’s turn to be surprised. He stared at the young stranger in awe. “Did you just speak in the Celtic tongue? How is that possible?”
Na’gu’set was still staring at his golden hair, the helmet now secure under his arm. “You do not know about the Village of The Teachers? How is that possible when you speak The Teachers’ tongue?”
Prince Henry tried to make sense of it all. “Why did you call me Glooscap?”
“The Ancient Teachers predicted your return. You are Glooscap, the Pale One. Your people taught us the ways of the Great Manitou. They said to always be prepared for this day. It is an honour for me to be the one to welcome you back to our land. My name is Na’gu’set. I am your humble servant.”
Na’gu’set lowered his head submissively. From around his neck, a stone pendant dangled and gleamed in the bright sunlight. Prince Henry’s blue eyes crinkled in joyous amazement as he reached forth and examined it. He th
en grabbed hold of Na’gu’set’s shoulders and straightened him back up.
“Na’gu’set, my name is not Glooscap. My name is Prince Henry of Orkney, and although I am a prince, I consider everyone of my faith a brother or sister. You are a servant to no one but God Almighty Himself. And by the love of St. Mary, boys . . . look at this!”
The men gathered round and were stunned by the intricate Celtic stone cross that Prince Henry displayed in his palm.
“So those old legends were true!” blurted one.
“How can this be? We are an ocean away from Eire!”
Prince Henry smiled. “I have been to see the Irish monks on Iona, and they have written records of those early voyages to the far western island they called the Land of Promise.”
“But those were just tales of legend, were they not?” questioned another sailor. “Are you saying that the ancient Irish crossed the Atlantic in skin-covered boats only the size of a horse’s cart?”
Prince Henry laughed. “Remember, those Irish monks survived to see Iceland and Greenland in skin-covered boats. Why couldn’t they come all the way west to these new lands as well? St. Brendan and his men of the cloth beat us here by over seven hundred years! Just look at this beautiful cross and Na’gu’set’s knowledge of our sister language. ’Tis the only possible explanation!”
“But what does it all mean?”
Prince Henry grasped Na’gu’set by the shoulders. “It means that our almost impossible quest may now have a much better chance at success, thanks to old St. Brendan and his miraculous voyage. Na’gu’set, are you the only one in the village who can speak in the tongue of the Teachers?”
He nodded. “I grew up in the Village of The Teachers, a three-day paddle from here. My distant ancestor, a woman named Kiera, came from the Land of the Teachers, and this cross has been passed on from one generation to the next. We were taught the lessons of the Great Manitou. Many men from the village are sent to all the different nations of the lands to teach our beliefs.”
Prince Henry thought for a minute. He looked around at the surrounding silent crowd. It took a moment for the stunning revelations to sink in, but a smile slowly crept across his face. “Na’gu’set, if it is acceptable to your people, my crew and I would like to stay here for a while.”
Betrayed Page 2
