True Highland Spirit

by Amanda Forester

  A chill tickled the back of her neck. She had tried to kill the bishop too. It had been an easy shot, simple, no way to miss. Yet she had hesitated and was tackled to the ground. Had she also been thwarted by divine intervention? She had never been particularly religious, except to recognize she was on the list of the damned, but it was somehow important to her that God did stand beside the worthy. Not her, of course, but the chosen few.

  “I hope this bishop o’ yers will extend his protection to ye when ye travel,” mumbled Morrigan.

  McNab’s eyebrows shot up, and Morrigan scowled. She had been tricked into showing uncharacteristic sisterly concern.

  “Thank ye.” Archie said softly. “Now tell me how is it wi’ the clan. How much was destroyed? Can we survive the winter?”

  Morrigan opened her mouth to tell him the truth but closed it again. Archie needed to go with the bishop and testify against Abbot Barrick or none of them would ever have any peace. “I have heard there are French soldiers trying to convince the clans to join them in fighting against the English,” Morrigan said instead.

  “Aye, and willing to pay for every clan that joins,” added Archie.

  “Pay?” Archie had her attention. Odd that her French knight had not mentioned anything about payment. “They are paying the clans who join them?”

  “Dinna even think it, Morrigan. I dinna want ye fighting against the English. They will just slaughter us, and I dinna want ye anywhere near a camp o’ soldiers.”

  “Ye doubt my ability to defend myself?” Morrigan gave him a cold stare.

  “Nay, I trust ye would slaughter any man who came within arm’s reach. And then ye’d face a hangman’s noose. Tell me we are no’ so desperate we need think o’ joining a war party.”

  “It was a thought, that is all.” Morrigan stared at the blank wall.

  “Morrigan, tell me true. Can we survive the winter? I want to testify in Rome but not so much as to leave the clan to starve. The clan comes first. Always has. Always will.”

  Morrigan nodded. “I know it.” And saying it she realized she did know it. He was not much of a leader perhaps, but he had always tried to support the clan. And now he had a chance to finally stop Barrick. “We will be fine,” Morrigan lied. “Go to Rome. Stop Barrick. ’Tis the best ye can do now for the clan.” That part was true at least.

  “Thank ye. I am confident ye will do right by the clan.”

  Morrigan looked down at her hands. It was the best compliment her brother had ever paid her, and it touched her more than she wished to acknowledge. She took a deep breath and searched for something to say to break the awkward silence that stretched between them. Brothers and sisters were not meant to be kind. “Yer new wife is a nuisance.”

  Archie frowned. “Ye best be treating her right. If I need to choose, yer arse will be banished.”

  “Banished from the poorest clan in the Highlands? Oh, how will I e’er survive the loss?” Morrigan mocked. She was feeling much better. Normal. Normal was good.

  “Truly Morrigan. I want ye to make her welcome.”

  “I avoid her when possible. She’s always up to something. First it was cleaning the tower, and then it was planting a kitchen garden. She made poor Kip clean out the cesspools, I tell ye it was something foul.”

  “The clansmen treat her well?” Archie could not hide the twinge of anxiety in his tone.

  Alys had done more to make the tower habitable than the rest of the McNabs had in the past twelve years since their parents died. The clansmen adored Alys and fell over themselves to carry out her requests. Morrigan shrugged and glanced away. “She is tolerated.”

  “I think I love her.”

  Morrigan’s head snapped back to Archie.

  “Tell her that if I dinna return.”

  “Tell her yerself. I’m no messenger.”

  Archie gave a faint smile. “Aye, I hope to.”

  Another silence fell. The task before them was monstrous. Archie was headed for Rome. She needed to find a way to keep the clan alive until he returned.

  “I best go before they realize it was I poaching on the bishop’s land.” Morrigan stood and took two steps toward the door. “Dinna die Archie. ’Tis yer responsibility to be laird, and I expect ye to come back.”

  “Morrie.” Archie spoke the name he used when she was a child. He had taken over raising her and Andrew twelve years ago after their parents died of the fever. How she had looked up to him during that horrible time of loss. She had been only ten and had adored her older brother. The bitterness had grown over time.

  Morrigan turned and found a different Archie McNab before her. He stood taller; his eyes were warmer, less haunted and desperate. He was changed, she could feel it.

  “I apologize for not giving ye the life ye should have had,” said Archie. “Ye should be a wife and mother now, not acting as laird in my absence, and certainly no’ going wi’ me on raids. I failed ye and I am sorry.”

  Morrigan opened her mouth to respond but said nothing. Archie never apologized. Never.

  “’Twas my choice,” Morrigan said, her voice oddly hoarse. “I dinna blame ye.” But she had blamed him. She did not realize until that moment how much she needed to hear him say he was sorry.

  “I want to make things right, ye ken?”

  “Aye, Brother. And ye will.” A lump formed in her throat. She feared this would be the last time she ever saw her elder brother.

  “Thank ye, Morrigan.”

  Footsteps sounded outside in the hall.

  “What is the punishment for poaching?” Morrigan asked.

  “Why did ye bring the carcass here?”

  “Ye would have me let that meat go to waste?”

  The footsteps grew louder.

  “Come quick.” Archie removed the screen to the window that opened to the forest behind the castle.

  Morrigan grasped Archie’s offered hand and climbed through the window.

  Archie held her hand with a firm grip. “I trust ye to do what is right.”

  Morrigan’s eyes met his for a brief second and she nodded. He released her and she slipped through the garden without a sound.

  Well concealed in the large, green summer leaves of a bush, Dragonet watched Morrigan creep through the garden and easily scale the castle wall. Dragonet smiled.

  Merci, ma chérie, Dragonet silently mouthed the words. He now knew the possible location of the lost treasure and the name of the last Templar.

  Eight

  “You have served me well, Sir Dragonet.”

  Dragonet inclined his head, accepting the praise of the Duke of Argitaine. The duke sat at a table in a private sitting room of the inn, reviewing the map Dragonet had made, which indicated those clans who were likely join the French in fighting against the English and those clans who were more likely to side with the English. The news had spread that the duke was paying clans to join his cause, and clan representatives started to arrive to negotiate price.

  “I understand your reticence in using these methods, but you must admit they produced results.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” replied Dragonet, standing at the duke’s side. In truth he had not been enamored with the prospects of pretending to be a minstrel, but listening to the castle gossip and noting the reactions to patriotic Scottish songs were telling methods of finding a clan’s true loyalty. It also provided him an excellent way to try to find the last Templars, not that the Duke of Argitaine had any idea of Dragonet’s other mission.

  “I am glad to have found favor in your eyes. If I have pleased you, I would ask to take your leave for a while, that I may visit the abbey of the Abbot Barrick.”

  “You wish to visit an abbey?” asked the duke.

  “Some prayer it would do me good, Your Grace.”

  “I admire your discipline, sir knight, but we are here in Glasgow with their impressive cathedral. Surely there can be nothing in a remote abbey you cannot find here at the cathedral. You may have leave to do your prayers here, for I need
you to help make decisions as to which clans to trust to join our cause.”

  “My full report has been given to you, Your Grace.”

  “And I appreciate it, but nothing can replace you by my side as I speak with different clans. I need not remind you that if I trust a clan loyal to the English crown with our battle plans, all will be lost.”

  Dragonet paused to consider. He did not wish to leave the duke, for he felt some loyalty to him. More importantly, however, Dragonet was on a mission for his father. He needed to find the silver chest and the treasure it contained. It was time to sever his ties to the duke.

  The door opened, and in stepped a serving maid with a respectful bow to the duke. “Another man to see ye, Yer Grace.”

  “Before you see this next man—”

  “In a moment, Dragonet.” The duke raised his hand to silence him. “Which clan comes?” he asked the serving maid.

  “Clan McNab,” said the maid with another curtsey.

  The duke glanced at Dragonet who remained silent. “Show him in.”

  Dragonet froze as Morrigan entered the room. She was cleaner than the last time they met, but she was still wearing the loose men’s clothing that disguised her shape, and a long cap that hid her hair. She wore a long, black cape pinned to her shoulder and the unmistakable shape of a sword was at her side.

  She glanced at him when she entered the room, their eyes meeting for the briefest of moments before she turned her full attention to the duke. It was the eyes that gave her away. How could those seductive, dark eyes belong to anyone other than a beautiful woman? Surely the duke must see through her disguise. Dragonet glanced at the duke, but he remained seated and calm. He only saw what he expected to see.

  “Yer Grace,” said Morrigan with a bow.

  “McNab,” acknowledged the duke, switching from his native French to the English he spoke but hated. “Why did you wish to see me?”

  “I hear ye are paying clans to join yer fight against the English,” said Morrigan.

  “You are correct in your understanding,” said the duke with his smooth French accent. “Do you wish to join the noble cause of defending the Scots against the English, your oppressor?”

  “How much will ye pay?”

  The duke turned his head to look at Dragonet. They’d reached the point at which Dragonet would either give a nod or shake his head, making the final judgment as to whether or not that clan should be trusted. Morrigan also turned toward Dragonet. Her eyes were wide and pleading.

  Dragonet was torn. He did not wish Morrigan to be caught up in the war that was coming. He wanted her far away from harm. And yet, he had overheard enough of her conversation with her brother to know her clan was in a desperate situation. What would happen to them if she was denied the coin to support them? And what would Morrigan do next to raise those funds?

  Dragonet nodded his head.

  “Good. Your payment will depend on how many warriors you can bring.” The duke reviewed the many key elements to the contract, waxing elegant on his own remarkable contribution.

  Morrigan again met Dragonet’s eye and gave him a small nod, thanking him. Dragonet’s heart soared even as his stomach churned. He hoped he had made the right decision.

  Morrigan and the duke negotiated price until both were satisfied. Their business concluded, Morrigan gave a bow and exited the room without a backward glance.

  “What did you wish to speak to me about?” asked the duke.

  Dragonet paused. He needed to search the abbey. “I would be most pleased to stay with you and fight the English,” Dragonet said, surprising himself.

  “We are pleased to have you,” replied the duke. “Perhaps we can visit this abbey of yours later.”

  “Yes, later,” murmured Dragonet. He needed to find the relic in the abbey… but for the moment his attention was seized by a different kind of Highland treasure.

  ***

  Morrigan marched her men toward the makeshift war camp, her mind focused on the wrong thing. She should have been considering the accommodations for the men, wondering if the meager tents and provisions they brought would be enough. She ought to have been considering battle strategies, and how to best train her men to fight effectively or, more importantly, stay alive. She should have been concerned about when the well-known secret of her gender would be revealed.

  All these things were more important and more pressing than the one question that haunted her thoughts and dreams. Was he here?

  He of course was the minstrel… knight… Frenchman, who went by the name Jacques or Dragonet or heaven only knew what else. Who that man truly was, she had no way of knowing. Yet he had taken up residence in her thoughts and refused to leave, despite Morrigan’s best attempts to free herself from his ghost.

  Morrigan’s soldiers, who consisted mostly of temporarily reformed highwaymen and farmers with bad attitudes, reached a slight rise above the makeshift camp for the Scots’ army. The Scots were amassing their forces for an assault on the English town of Nisbet. It was to be their first attack.

  Tents littered the field before them, in a rather deranged arrangement with different banners representing different clans intermixed and confused. The grounds they had picked were hardly ideal, being low and boggy. Even on the rise above the camp, the smell of rotten food, unwashed clansmen, and human waste wafted up as an invisible warning to return from whence they came. Even her horse stopped short, unwilling to step into the camp.

  “Well that’s a sorry sight, I say,” said Harry, one of the McNab raiders.

  “Aye, it is at that,” said Willy, a tough old Highlander of undetermined age.

  “Hope ye like mud, lads, for we’ll be living in it,” said Morrigan with something she hoped was cheerful resolution. “What banners can ye make out?”

  It was far from a passing question. She wanted to ascertain what type of reception she might get, for the McNab clan was not a favorite among the patriot crowd. There may be some clans who would praise the McNab history of loyalty to the successive kings of England, but she was not going to find them among an army roused against the English.

  “Looks like we got the earls o’ Douglas and March. I think there’s Ramsey too,” answered Willy. He had the best eyes of the lot.

  “Anything that looks French?” asked Morrigan, trying to sound nonchalant. She reached in her sleeve and unbuckled and rebuckled the strap that held Jacques’ knife to her wrist. She had worn it since he had given it to her. Because it was useful. No other reason.

  Morrigan’s stomach fluttered. What if he was there? What would he say to her? Would he talk to her at all or pretend not to know her? Would he reveal who she was? How did he feel about her? Did he think of her too?

  Morrigan spat on the ground. She needed to get control of herself and stop acting like a biddable bar maid. She was there to do a job. She had taken an initial payment in gold moutons from the Duke of Argitaine. It had been enough to secure some additional grain and some livestock. The coin was supposed to outfit her men with weapons and gear. Morrigan had decided that providing food for themselves and their families was more important. At least they could face the winter without fear of starvation. If they survived the war.

  “Nay, I dinna see them Frenchies.”

  Morrigan nodded. It was for the best. He could only bring trouble. Yes, she was certainly glad that French bastard was nowhere in sight. Absolutely for the best. Could not be happier. Truly, very happy.

  “Ye coming?” asked Harry.

  Morrigan realized Harry and Willy had started riding off toward camp ahead of her. Morrigan clicked and nudged the horse down the grassy hill and into the stench of camp.

  Ahead of her, Willy suddenly stopped with a curse.

  “What is it?” asked Morrigan, riding forward.

  “Look there to the right. Graham,” said Willy, and spat a large amount of brown liquid on the ground.

  “Hell,” muttered Morrigan. Of all the clans that disliked them, Graham was foremost
on the list, probably having something to do with Archie abducting Graham’s daughter a few years back. Not one of Archie’s better plans to be sure. The daughter had been returned, or rather escaped and returned herself, but the incident had done nothing to improve relations with their neighbor.

  Morrigan briefly considered simply turning around and going back home. It was hardly the honorable response, but camping in a muddy pit surrounded by people who despised her more than the English was not an attractive prospect. They had enough to get them through the winter. If the duke wanted his money back, he could come to the Highlands and repossess the chickens.

  “Look, there’s the Campbell banner, too,” said Harry.

  Campbell? If Campbell’s men were there that would mean Andrew was too.

  “Ride into camp,” commanded Morrigan.

  ***

  Dragonet heard the battle before he could see it. The shouts of men and clash of metal blended into an ominous roar, echoing through the rocks and trees of the rough terrain. Dragonet signaled his knights to follow him and nudged his horse into a gallop, a building sense of concern forming an unsettled pit in his stomach. Was she there?

  Dragonet was conflicted about what to do regarding a certain sword-wielding Highland lass. A single word from him and she would be expelled from the force. But then what would she do? Her clan’s situation was desperate; having spent a few days there he could easily attest to their poverty. If he prevented her from joining the force, would she go back to serving the abbot?

  It was not his problem; heaven knew he had enough of his own, yet he could not get her out of his head. As he raced toward the battle at Nisbet, he wondered if she was there. Would she have the sense to stay clear of the fight? He already knew the answer to that question, and urged his mount faster.

  Following the growing noise of war, Dragonet rounded a corner and found a few English foot soldiers in full retreat. He followed them, encouraging them to run faster or disappear into the brush. Foot soldiers were not who Dragonet had come to harass. Drawing his sword, he charged down the road until he found his target. The Governor of Nisbet was surrounded by his knights, who were putting up a fierce battle to protect their master. Douglas was pressing hard to capture his prize, sword in one hand, a shield in the other.