True Highland Spirit

by Amanda Forester

  “I have more here that are designed for everyday wearing. A red linen and a green wool.” Alys pulled the gowns from her basket and looked at Morrigan with expectation.

  “Verra serviceable,” said Morrigan. Why was Alys showing her gowns?

  “Ye like them?”

  “I’m sure ye’ll look fine in them.” Morrigan guessed at what Alys wanted her to say. She stared into the fire and hoped if she ignored her, Alys might find another confidant for the perplexing talk of gowns and ribbons.

  “Oh, they woud’na fit me. They are for ye.”

  Morrigan turned toward Alys so fast her head spun. She opened her mouth but no words emerged. She was so utterly surprised she could not say how she felt. Should she be upset? Insulted? Pleased?

  “Why dinna ye try one on?”

  Morrigan shook her head, still unable to speak. How could Alys see her as anything other than an overbearing harpy, hopelessly ruined? If Morrigan admitted she wanted to be a lady, to get married, to have a normal life, it meant acknowledging how truly miserable she was. It was better to stay angry, and in denial than open that pretty box of grief.

  “I could do yer hair too. Ye’ve got lovely hair.”

  Morrigan shook her head more vigorously. Her hair was her one feminine vanity. Alys was treading on sensitive ground.

  Alys sat on a bench next to her and sighed, fingering the beautiful, blue silk. “Please will ye tell me why ye winna consider wearing a gown.”

  “It is too late for me.” Morrigan swallowed a large lump forming in her throat. “With what I have done, the things I have seen, I can never be a lady now.”

  “’Tis ne’er too late to change, Morrigan.”

  Morrigan shook her head. “Everyone knows what I’ve done.”

  “What ye’ve done is provide for yer clan. Ye should be proud o’ yerself. I heard how ye fought off five English at once and captured the governor o’ Nisbet. And did ye keep yer share fer yerself? Nay, ye gave every last coin to see to the comfort o’ yer clan.”

  Morrigan grabbed a poker and thrust it ruthlessly at the fire. “I hardly fought five at once, three at the most.”

  “Quite so!” exclaimed Alys warming to her topic. “I see all ye do for the clan, Morrigan. Ye should be proud o’ yerself. Ye deserve a good husband, to be mistress o’ yer own home.”

  Morrigan put up her hands, signaling Alys to slow down. “First ye want me to put on a gown, and now ye wish me married?”

  “And why not?”

  “I’ve been a raider, an outlaw since I was old enough to wield a sword. No self-respecting man would wed a lass who wears breeches and can best him with a sword.”

  “So marry someone from a different clan. Ye could go somewhere else, start over. No one would e’er have to know. Look at me. I was a ladies’ maid and companion to Lady Cait for many years. I was ne’er given the opportunity to marry, and no one e’er thought o’ me as anything but a lady-in-waiting. By running away wi’ yer brother I became mistress o’ my own home.”

  “No decent man would marry me!” Morrigan stood and started to pace. Alys was determined to bring it all out into the light. “Understand this, Alys. I am not a Campbell like ye. I am a McNab. A clan disliked from one side o’ this country to the other. I have no dowry. Nothing to tempt a man’s interest. Even if I ne’er dressed as a man and stole for my supper, there isna a man from here to Hadrian’s Wall who would take me. Never was. Never will be.”

  “Then go beyond the wall,” Alys stated, utterly unfazed by Morrigan’s outburst. “Marry an Englishman.”

  “Alys!”

  “Alright, ne’er mind that. Bad idea. How about a Frenchman? Did ye meet any in yer travels?”

  “A Frenchman,” murmured Morrigan. She brushed her fingertips over the smooth blue silk.

  Twelve

  The good news was Andrew was starting to recover. The bad news was Dragonet was no closer to finding the silver box his father wanted. They had been at St. Margaret’s a week, and thanks to the skilled hands and potent potions of Mother Enid, Andrew’s fever broke and the wound was looking less red and angry. Dragonet had called on all the lessons he learned from the Hospitallers to keep Andrew alive until they reached Mother Enid. Fortunately, she knew what to do from there.

  Attending a wounded soldier had also given Dragonet the excuse to prowl the convent and the nearby abbey. Using a stolen key, he had searched the abbot’s personal apartments both in the abbey and at the convent, but found nothing of significance. There was considerable correspondence in which the abbot had requested permission to build a large cathedral, but his requests had been repeatedly denied. Nothing in his papers led Dragonet to the location of the silver box.

  The abbot himself was a gruff man with a hostile demeanor. Dragonet supped with him once and decided one ruined meal was enough for a lifetime. The abbot was not one to share his secrets willingly; there would be no dropping of information at his silent table.

  The Templar chest was out there somewhere, and he had one more place to look. Dragonet prayed long into the night, waiting for the elderly nun keeping vigil in the chapel to fall asleep. When she began to quietly snore, he knew the time was right.

  On silent feet, Dragonet slid from the pew and snuck to the front of the chapel to begin his search. His searched behind the altar and around the pulpit. To the side he found a small door in the wall, no bigger than a barrel, which led to catacombs below. It looked promising.

  “I’ll save you the trouble and tell you I have already searched there,” said Chaumont.

  Dragonet whirled around to find the tall knight sitting in the front pew, his long legs stretched out before him. Dragonet bowed. “I am much obliged to you, sir. What is it I am looking for?”

  Chaumont smiled and held out a knife. “Same thing as I, unless I mistake myself.”

  Dragonet glanced over at the still-sleeping nun and sat down beside Chaumont. On the knife handle was a familiar marking, a black circle with a white cross. “You were a Hospitaller monk?”

  Chaumont laughed softly. “Never a monk, no, but I was born in a hospital run by the Hospitallers, and after my mother died, I was raised by the monks there. I heard of the treasure that was taken by the Templars and have been determined to find it and return it if I can.”

  “That is why you came to Scotland?”

  “One of many reasons. It was not, however, why I stayed.”

  Dragonet nodded. He had listened to many stories about Mary, Chaumont’s wife, in their travels. He tried not to be jealous. A loving wife may be his desire, but it was not his future.

  “Are you certain Barrick is or was a Templar?” asked Dragonet.

  “Yes, of that I am certain. The Templars came several times to the monastery. I was young, but I remember him. I have searched this place, the abbey, everywhere I could think of, but I have not found anything that might be called a treasure. I begin to believe Barrick does not have it after all.”

  “Who does?”

  “I am not certain, but Barrick has never been what you might call sociable. Perhaps the other Templars did not trust him and hid it.”

  “Are there any other Templars left?”

  “None that I know.”

  The two men were silent in the dimly lit chapel. There was much Dragonet wished to say but could not. “Thank you for confiding in me,” he said instead.

  “You seem an honest man,” said Chaumont.

  “I am sorry to disappoint you then,” said Dragonet.

  “I think not. I have learned to trust my judge of character. I believe you will do what is right when the time comes.”

  Dragonet swallowed a lump in his throat. Chaumont believed him to be a Hospitaller, seeking the return of their property, but he was not. He would give the treasure to his father instead.

  Dragonet pushed aside guilty thoughts. He must get back to his quest. Nothing, not even his honor, must stand in the way. With a sudden flash of irony he realized he had criticized the duke
for putting the mission before honor. Dragonet realized he was no better.

  Dragonet stood. He suddenly felt unworthy to be in the chapel. He made his bow of respect and left, Chaumont following behind.

  “Do not be discouraged, my friend. I am sure you can succeed where I have failed,” said Chaumont cheerily.

  Dragonet stopped in the courtyard, the moon struggling to be visible through the thick fog. Chaumont was a good man, honest and open. And trusting. Too bad Dragonet was unworthy of it. He wanted to please his father, but he was beginning to hate the man he was becoming to win his father’s approval.

  “Is there no one else?” Dragonet asked. “None that came from France that may know Barrick or the other Templars?”

  Chaumont pondered for a moment. “Mother Enid came from France. She has been here a long time and knows Barrick. I do not know if she can help, but we can ask.”

  “Ask me what?” asked a voice from the fog.

  “Mother Superior,” said Dragonet with a bow. “You are awake late.”

  The frail figure of Mother Enid appeared out of the dense mist. “I am awake early. Have you two not yet taken your rest?” She shook her head and made a tsking sound. “Enjoy your youth whilst you can, my lads, for it is fleeting.”

  “Since we are all awake, is there somewhere we could go to talk in private?” asked Dragonet.

  “Well now,” said Mother Enid with a mischievous smile. “I have not had an offer like that from two handsome knights in many a year. Nice to know I still have some appeal.”

  Chaumont laughed heartily and followed the slow-moving Mother Enid to the library. He coaxed the embers of the fire into a fresh blaze, and they all sat around the hearth warming themselves from the night chill.

  “Now what is it you two wanted to know?” asked Mother Enid.

  “I seek information about the Abbot Barrick and how he came here from France,” said Dragonet.

  The smile left Mother Enid’s bright blue eyes. “And why do you ask me about Barrick?”

  Dragonet took a breath. “I believe he was a Templar and may have taken something from France that I have been sent to return.”

  Mother Enid stared into the fire without speaking. The silence grew so long Dragonet glanced at Chaumont, who shrugged.

  “He was and he did,” Mother Enid finally spoke.

  “I beg your pardon?” asked Dragonet.

  “I knew someday I would be called to give an account,” said Mother Enid, still staring into the fire. “I decided I would tell the truth to any who asked. In all these years, you are the first who did.”

  Mother Enid took a deep breath. “I was treated by the Hospitallers. It was toward the end of my pregnancy, and no, I had no husband. I became quite ill; the delivery was very difficult. At the time I believed I was being punished for my sins. Afterwards I was gravely ill. I burned with fever, and I have little memory of that time. At one point I remember waking up on a boat. I was lying on a special pallet and was told not to try to move.

  “From there I remember traveling overland in a wagon, still lying on the pallet. At one point, one of the men who were with me took something out from under my pallet. He told me to forget it. I believe it was a silver chest.”

  Dragonet sat up straighter. “Do you know where this chest is now?”

  “No. There were other things too. I believe I was used by these men, former Templars, to smuggle treasure out of France that they believed to be theirs. Perhaps they were right; I cannot judge.”

  “How did you come here?” asked Chaumont.

  Mother Enid smiled slowly. “I made a deal with God in my travails that I would become a nun if I survived. I do not think the men believed I would live. Indeed, they appeared to be surprised that I survived the journey. In the end they offered to send me back to France, but I declined. I felt starting over in Scotland may be the best for me.”

  “This treasure, where is it now?” asked Dragonet.

  “I do not know. In truth I never spoke about the things under my pallet with them. I was feverish for much of my journey, I do not think they knew that I was aware of these items. I feared if I mentioned it…” Mother Enid shrugged. “I do not think they valued my life as much as I did.”

  “Who were these men?” asked Dragonet.

  “I knew them as Michael, Claude, Stephan, and Barrick.”

  “Those must be the same men who came to the Hospitaller monastery in which I was raised,” said Chaumont. “I remember them from when I was young, Barrick in particular. I was told they made several trips to the monastery over the years. I believe they lightened the storerooms of the Hospitallers every time.”

  Mother Enid smiled with a glint in her eye. “I do not doubt it. I believe they felt it was very much their own, since the pope gave the Templar treasure over to the Hospitallers when the order was disbanded.”

  “Other than Barrick, are any of the men still alive?” asked Dragonet.

  “No. I believe Stephan may have had a son, but there are no other descendents I know.”

  Dragonet nodded. He had found the grandson of Stephan alive and drinking himself into an early grave. “Did ever you meet or see any of them again?”

  Mother Enid nodded. “Michael. I cared for him as he lay dying.” Mother Enid paused for a moment. “He kept repeating ‘pray the hours for the treasure.’ He said it many times. I thought he was speaking of prayer leading to a heavenly reward, but I cannot say for sure.”

  “‘Pray the hours’?” Dragonet leaned closer. “Other than monastic prayer, do you know what he meant?”

  “I am sorry, I cannot help you.”

  “I thank you, you have been helpful indeed,” said Dragonet, standing. “Please forgive us for trespassing on your privacy so early in the morning. I am sincerely grateful for your candor. Please be assured of my discretion.”

  “And mine,” said Chaumont, also rising. When they reached the door, Chaumont turned and asked, “Out of curiosity, whatever happened to the child?”

  “My son,” said Mother Enid in a faraway voice. “I was told he died.”

  “I am sorry,” said Chaumont.

  Mother Enid turned away. “So am I.”

  Thirteen

  “Ow! That hurts!” complained Morrigan.

  “’Tis supposed to, Sister dear,” replied Alys and pulled Morrigan’s hair even harder.

  “Ye are going to leave me bald!”

  “Nay, I’ll leave ye a few strands left, I promise. Now sit still. I have done my mistress’s hair since I was eight years old. I ken what I am doing. Dinna worrit yerself.”

  “I canna believe I let ye talk me into this,” grumbled Morrigan.

  Alys began to hum a happy tune.

  “Ye’re enjoying this, dinna deny it!” challenged Morrigan.

  “Aye, I have wanted to do this for a long time.” Alys styled Morrigan’s freshly washed hair into the latest fashion. Apparently, female fashion was painful. “Ye have the best hair I’ve e’er seen. ’Tis such a rich color, like chestnuts, and thick like a rope but shiny like silk. None o’ the Campbell lasses have hair like yers.”

  Morrigan reveled in the compliment without a word. She had always thought her long, straight hair was simply brown. Chestnuts. That was something special. It did occur to Morrigan that Alys may be flattering her to keep her still while her hair was styled. If that was the case, it worked. Morrigan offered no more complaint to the procedure.

  “Have ye thought who will be the first-foot this eve?” asked Alys.

  It was New Year’s Eve, or Hogmanay, as it was known in Scotland, and tradition dictated that the first visitor, or first-foot, of the New Year must be someone special.

  Morrigan shrugged. “We had Harry do it last year.”

  “Harry!” Alys did not sound pleased. She stepped around from her work to confront Morrigan, her hands on her ample hips. “The first-foot determines the luck for the entire year. No wonder ye all are in the state ye’re in.”

  “Wel
l, Harry is tall,” said Morrigan apologetically. The first-foot was supposed to be tall, dark, and handsome, if you could get it. He was also supposed to bear gifts symbolizing good luck for the New Year. Last year Harry had stumbled in at midnight drunk, the bottle of whiskey he was supposed to gift the clan having been consumed while he waited outside for his cue to enter.

  Alys went back to her work with a few extra tugs on Morrigan’s head. “Harry indeed,” she muttered.

  Morrigan started mentally going through the list of tall, dark, and handsome Highlanders who could serve as first-footers. It was a short list. In truth, she could not think of one.

  “Have ye any thoughts on the matter?” asked Morrigan. Alys was sure to have a better plan than hers. Alys had been the one to organize all of the Christmastide celebrations. They were in the midst of the twelve days of Christmas, and never before had the McNabs been so merry.

  Alys mumbled in reply. There was no obvious candidate, but Morrigan was certain Alys would sort it out. Alys was, after all, the one who decorated the castle with holly and ivy. It was she who directed the play of Adam and Eve on Christmas Eve, and she who found a Yule log big enough to last all twelve days of Christmas. Dear to Morrigan’s heart, or more accurately her stomach, Alys had also instructed the cook how to prepare feasts, including boar’s head, mincemeat pies, puddings, stews, and mouthwatering gingerbread.

  Initially Morrigan objected to the Christmastide feast, expressing concerns that they would run out of food before they ran out of winter and demanded the plans be changed. The McNabs had not celebrated with anything more than an extra dose of hearty wassail in years. But Alys calmly explained how Morrigan’s ransom prize, in combination with some well-timed gifts from the Campbells and careful economy, made it all possible. Alys may have been barely literate, but when it came to household accounts, she was the mistress of her domain.