Na’gu’set nodded. “I will ask the elders.” He turned to the crowd and conversed with a small group of older men. “Our elders would like to know what brings you back to the land of the Mi’kmaq.”
“Na’gu’set,” grinned Prince Henry, “you will soon be in the presence of a treasure that the Ancient Teachers would have sacrificed their very lives to see, if only for just a moment.”
“Treasure?” he asked, puzzled. “I do not know this word.”
“The word treasure means items of great importance. Some are beautiful works of art made to glorify God, or the Great Manitou, as you call him. Others are important pieces that have been created by hand to partake in worshipping the greatest of all Teachers. And one piece, the most important one of all, was created by the Hand of God himself.”
Na’gu’set stared into the smiling blue eyes of the prince, trying to comprehend what he had just been told. “The treasure, The Great Manitou’s treasure . . . is it out there, on your whale?”
Confused, Prince Henry followed the young man’s eyes out into the bay. “Whale? Ah . . . no, ’tis not on the ships. It is back in the Land of the Teachers. You must understand, the reason we are here, and surely the reason God brought us to you, is to help us find a safe resting place for our treasure. There are many people in other lands who desire our treasure, and because of their greed, the holy relics will soon be in grave danger. We need to find a place where the treasure can rest until the divided, sinful world we left behind is once again worthy enough to possess such holy objects.”
Na’gu’set looked out to the ships. “I will do whatever I can to help you. I am honoured to be in your service, Teacher.”
“No, not Teacher. Brother.” Prince Henry grabbed him by the shoulders. “I am your brother, Na’gu’set.”
Na’gu’set smiled and locked his gaze upon the blue-eyed stranger. “I am honoured to be of service, my brother.”
Three
Roslin Castle, July, 1399
Connor spun and ducked as the weapon sizzled through the air, brushing his long wavy hair as it arched past his skull. He stepped to his right, taking his eye off of his attacker for just a second. That was a mistake.
He didn’t see the reverse thrust of the weapon as it now came towards him from a new direction. As Connor straightened to counter-attack, his shoulder exploded in pain. Instinctively, he rolled with the blow, somehow managing to hold on to his only weapon, a long thin pole, with the injured arm. Despite the slippery hay beneath him, he managed to once again spring to his feet like a cat. He deftly switched the pole to his other, uninjured hand. The corner of his eye caught the next approaching blow. He twisted and parried the assault, causing the attacker to send his weapon high.
Connor would not waste the split-second advantage he had created, and ignoring the white-hot fire erupting from his shoulder, smacked the side of his pole into the attacker’s exposed ribs. His attacker grunted and lowered his arm slightly to protect his damaged ribs. Connor swung around again, and raising the trajectory, glanced his weapon off the back of the attacker’s skull. The attacker keeled over in pain. Connor took full advantage. Spinning into a crouch, he swung his weapon low and cracked it against his attacker’s calves. Feet flew up in the air, and his attacker landed hard on his back. Connor sprung forward, placed a foot on the attacker’s chest and raised the weapon up, dagger-like, above his chest for a final blow. The cold stare in Connor’s eyes showed no emotion. This would end quickly.
“Och, aye, Connor,” confessed the attacker. “I give up. You bettered me again.”
Connor’s face transformed from stony concentration to a broad smile. He lowered the long wooden pole hovering above his head, brought it to his side and extended a hand. Angus Gunn, sprawled on the straw, lay defeated. He grabbed hold of Connor’s offered hand and heaved himself up, shaking the straw out of his thick, red hair.
“Actually, you had me, Angus,” Connor replied, brushing the straw off his back while avoiding the soft glob of horse dung that clung to his left shoulder. “If you had connected with your reverse strike, you would have finished me off.”
“Nae. You ducked it well,” a deep, firm voice interjected. “But Angus should have compensated for your defensive move by adjusting his attacking strike downwards.”
Surprised by the voice, the boys turned to the stable gate.
A giant of a man stood silhouetted against a background of brilliant, blue sky. His formal white tunic, emblazoned with the even-sided black cross of the St. Clair family, fluttered in the afternoon breeze as he shook his head in amusement. “Father!” Angus called and bolted to the doorway, where the two warmly embraced.
Connor smiled and stood his ground, politely giving them a moment as he cleaned up the improvised sparring ring. Although the Gunn family had virtually adopted him as a second son, it was a time like this that demonstrated to Connor the thickness of blood. Even though Connor had lost his own father many years ago, shows of affection such as this didn’t bother him any more. In fact, every night he thanked God for blessing him so richly with close friends. He knew only too well what could have happened to his family that fateful night on the bridge if Prince Henry had not come to their rescue. Connor walked up to the stable entrance and joined his friends.
He studied the long scar that sliced diagonally across the forehead and cheek of Angus’s father, Sir Rudyard Gunn. He wondered in what battle the wound had been inflicted. Most knights spent countless hours bragging about their various war wounds, especially after downing several rounds of the castle’s finest ale. Sir Rudyard, however, was a member of the Order of the Knights Templar.
After being banished by the Pope from most of continental Europe, many of the Templar Knights had travelled across the English Channel to the safe haven of Scotland. Robert the Bruce, the King of Scotland, had given the Order sanctuary and allowed them to secretly reorganize within his homeland. During that time, it had been decided by the highest ranking knights that the head of the Sinclair clan should be the hereditary leader of the Templar Order.
One of the few complete Templar stories Connor had managed to piece together told how the recently-arrived Templar Knights had helped the pitifully undermanned Scottish forces defeat the mighty English army in the Battle of Bannockburn in the summer of 1314. The Scottish fighters were outnumbered three to one, yet they managed to destroy over half of the English army in only two days of fighting. King Edward of England fled for his life on a boat, leaving the foot soldiers behind to try to make their way back to England by land. With the victorious Scottish army hotly pursuing them, most didn’t ever set foot on English soil again. The carnage was huge and the incredible Scottish victory complete. Ever since that legendary day, the humiliated English forces had plotted revenge against the Scots. Connor and his family had already paid a heavy price in the ongoing war with the southerners. Now, Connor was willing to die for Prince Henry if it meant keeping his homeland free.
Connor glanced at the scar that crossed Sir Rudyard’s face. The scar was as mysterious as the Order itself. Sir Rudyard had never told the story of the scar to anyone, not even to his only son. Connor could only dream that someday he too might be allowed to join their noble ranks and learn of their secrets. Sir Rudyard gave Angus an extra squeeze then stepped back with a grin as big as his scar.
“It’s good to see you, my son.” He looked to Connor. “And what about you, young stable boy . . . besting the son of a knight? How should I punish such insolence?”
Connor smiled and knelt. “Please forgive me, Sir Rudyard. I promise to go lightly on him next time.”
“What?” snapped Angus.
Angus put a foot on Connor’s shoulder and pushed the boy sideways, flipping him into the soiled straw. Sir Rudyard laughed, held out a hand to Connor and brought him back up onto his feet.
“You’ll do nae such thing, young Connor. You keep givin’ it to him. I’m glad to see that the two of you have taken to the lessons I gave you in the a
rt of Eastern Bo Fighting. I learned that technique from a master fighter in Damascus.”
Connor sighed. “I would love to see such distant lands myself.”
Sir Rudyard cleared his throat, then looked from one boy to the other. “An interesting choice of words, Connor. There is something that I need to ask of the two of you.”
Connor stepped up next to Angus.
“Yes, father?” queried Angus.
“As you know, I have often been away from Roslin, sometimes for months at a time.”
Angus’s face fell. “Are you going away again?”
Sir Rudyard nodded. “Prince Henry has sent orders to the men. I have to leave tonight.”
Connor felt for his best friend. The heartache etched across Angus’s face brought him back to the time on a drizzly autumn day when they’d buried his father at the family farm. Sometimes it felt as if it had happened just yesterday. Connor couldn’t help but wonder what was really worse; saying goodbye to a father only once at his gravesite, or having to continually say goodbye, as often as Angus did with his own father. Angus suppressed his emotions as best he could and put on a brave face.
“I understand, father. I know that if you had a choice, you would stay with me, at least for a little while.”
Sir Rudyard smiled and tousled his hair. “You are a good lad, Angus. I have talked to Sir Stephen, and he has told me of your training as a squire. He said that both you and young Connor are showing exceptional promise in your practice, and soon the two of you will be ready for knighthood.”
Their eyes lit up.
“Then we can join the Templar Order and go with you on your travels!” blurted Angus.
Sir Rudyard’s face hardened. “The Templar Order doesn’t exist any more. Do you understand that? Don’t mention that name again.”
Angus swallowed. He had forgotten that the since the arrival of the Templars in Scotland, their continued existence had been kept a secret. In its place, the Order had decided to use the cover of the newly formed Lodges of Freemasonry in order to continue their network of meetings, decision-making and hierarchy.
“Sorry, father. But is there a chance that someday you will take us away from Roslin Castle so that I can help with your duties?”
Sir Rudyard grinned. “How would you like to leave with me tonight?”
Shocked, Connor and Angus looked at each other and then back to Sir Rudyard. “Tonight?”
“Can you keep a secret?”
They both nodded eagerly. The knight leaned forward and whispered in their ears. “Not a word to anyone. Go and quietly pack your belongings, then meet me at the gates after dusk. I’ll tell you about it later.”
Connor and Angus turned to each other, their faces beaming. “Aye, sir!”
They burst out of the stable and made a mad dash across the narrow bailey of Roslin Castle. As they approached the side entrance of the castle, Connor stopped so quickly that Angus crashed head first into his back.
“Why did you do that?” he asked, rubbing his nose.
Angus heard the approaching steps and understood. The rhythmic clicking noise could only come from the delicate steps of a woman. The boys tried to brush the clinging manure from their clothes then stood to attention. The heavy wooden door swung open, and the afternoon breeze blew forth a wave of golden locks into the air. Their nostrils filled with the sweet smell of lavender and rose as a beautiful young lady stepped out into the warm sunshine. Her long white dress billowed in the breeze, and the boys fought the urge to gawk at her angelic presence. They bowed with deep reverence.
“Good mornin’, Princess Sarah,” said Angus.
The princess stopped before them. The pungent stench of fresh horse manure filled her nostrils. Her nose twitched in confusion as she looked at the young men.
“Angus and Connor, have you been playing in the stable yet again?”
“Not playing, but practicing, my lady,” Connor answered quickly.
A slight smile replaced the wrinkling of her nose. “It does my heart good to know that I have an army of dedicated, albeit rather pungent men to defend me.”
A mighty clang of metal cut short the conversation. A giant of a man, clad in chest-covering battle armour, stepped through the doorway and came to a halt behind the princess. His wide, well-fed face sported a thick black mustache. Under his arm he carried his darkened helmet, bearing the scrapes and dents of past battles. His narrow charcoal eyes sized up the two filthy squires with disgust.
“An entire enemy army could be repelled by such stench,” he growled. “Come along, Princess Sarah. I’m sure there is better air near the front gate.”
The boys bowed again as the young woman left their company and began a leisurely stroll with her guardian through the courtyard. Angus smiled at Connor, who daringly eyed the departing princess.
Angus elbowed him hard in the side. “Better think again, mate. If Prince Henry even gets a hint that you have eyes for his sister, he’ll string you up on the outer wall and leave you there for raven food.”
Connor felt his cheeks burn. “I mean nothing by it. It’s just that I’ve never seen a more bonny lass in my entire life.”
Angus rolled his eyes. “And I’m sure she’s thinking right now that you were the most disgusting calf she has ever smelled in her entire life.”
“Who was the monster in armour that followed her out of the castle?” asked Connor.
Angus grimaced. “That’s Sir Jonathon Douglas, but everyone calls him Black Douglas because of the black armour he wears into battle. Oh, he’s jovial enough when he has an ale in his hand, but on the battlefield, he’s as ruthless as they come. I hear that Prince Henry has given him high rank within the Templar Order for the good of our homeland. The Douglases are the most powerful clan in Scotland. Through The Templar Order, Prince Henry, for the first time in generations, has brought all of the warring Scottish clans together to help defend our homeland against the English invaders.”
“I’m glad it’s Prince Henry leading us and not our jovial friend, Black Douglas,” grumbled Connor. “What a horses’ arse.”
“Forget about Black Douglas,” said Angus, changing the subject and grabbing Connor’s arm. “Father is waiting. We don’t have much time.”
The two ecstatic boys slapped each other on the back and ran through the doorway.
Four
Connor’s room was tiny and dim, the only source of light coming through a narrow vertical slit in the stone wall. If the castle ever came under attack, his room would be transformed into an elevated archery station, designed to protect the narrow causeway that stretched over the deep canyon surrounding the castle. A quiver of arrows and a bow stood in the in the corner of the room, ready to be used at a moment’s notice.
The rest of the small room was occupied by four straw-covered cots, a stool and a rough table. On top of the table was a small candle that barely yielded enough light for Connor to complete his tasks. He had to share his sleeping quarters with three other aspiring squires. The others were busy tending to their duties, and he was glad to have a rare private moment. It would save him having to answer a flurry of questions from the other boys as he packed up his meagre belongings.
He pulled out two burlap sacks from under the mattress. After dumping the crumpled collection of clothing onto his cot, he threw the few decent pieces he owned back into the open sack. He left the most tattered pieces of cloth on his cot for the other squires to fight over when they returned to the empty room that evening.
Then, lifting the second bag, he paused. He closed his eyes and repeated his daily prayer, thanking God for continuing to watch over his mother in Heaven. He took a deep breath and carefully removed the items. He gingerly placed his mother’s shawl on the table. He then removed a blackened dagger and held it up to the flickering candlelight. Connor and his mother had returned to their farm several weeks after the English had destroyed their property. They had dug through the pile of ashes that had been their modest home in searc
h of anything that might have survived the inferno. Amongst the charred wood, Connor had discovered his father’s ceremonial dagger. It had been severely damaged in the fire, and Connor would wait until the others had drifted to sleep then lovingly repair and polish the weapon. It had taken over a year before its darkened surface finally shone with a renewed glow. It was a weapon given to the family by a young Prince Henry for the dedication Connor’s father had demonstrated during an ill-fated Scottish pilgrimage to the Holy Lands.
Reaching deep into the bag, he pulled out one final item: the MacDonald plaid. He had worn the red and blue tartan cape on only two other occasions since arriving at Roslin; when the castle staff stood in full colour to welcome Prince Henry home to the castle after a long voyage overseas. Some voyages were talked about openly, such as his required trip to Copenhagen for the crowning of the young King of Denmark, and also his safe passage to the shipyards of London in order to purchase two vessels for his ever-growing fleet. But there were also mutterings of strange, exotic Templar missions as well. Connor would give anything to hear the true nature of those distant journeys.
He grabbed his packed items and ran down the stairs to the wash station. A large barrel of rain water sat in an open room with a hole in the floor. He stripped naked and scrubbed his entire body with a rough leather cloth and lye until most of the stench went down the drain hole with the water. Still wet, he threw on his good tunic, tightened his belt and covered his shoulders with the MacDonald cape.
Sir Rudyard was already waiting with two dozen men when Connor strode out into the darkened courtyard. Connor was mortified to find out that he was the last one to arrive.
“Leave it up to Connor to be last again,” muttered the familiar voice of his friend.
Betrayed Page 3
