by B. J. Scott
“Lucky for her you came by when you did.” The man squatted. “She may not have been violated, but she looks to have taken a nasty beating. And there is blood on her sleeve.”
“Aye, the brutes roughed her up pretty good. Do you know her?” the monk asked.
“I dinna live in Berwick. I’m here on clan business, and like you, just happened by.” He held out his arm. “I’m Ian Fraser.”
The monk grasped his forearm and gave it a shake. “I’m Brother Lazarus from Ayton Abbey.”
Fraser leaned closer. “What is your name, lass?” he asked as he lightly stroked his fingers across Sheena’s brow, catching a stray lock of hair. “Do you live in Berwick?”
She shied from his touch and did not answer. While the two men seemed harmless, she had learned a long time ago to trust no one.
“I mean you no harm, lass,” Fraser said.
“I’m sure she’s frightened, and understandably so,” Lazarus remarked. “Or perhaps she is unable to respond due to her injuries. Either way, she needs someone to see her home. Wherever that might be.”
“Can you tell us where you live?” Ian asked.
“A small croft . . . outside the curtain wall,” she sputtered, the effort to speak causing her a great deal of pain.
“We are agents, here in Scotland on behalf of His Majesty, King Phillip of France.” The voice of a man with distinct French accent suddenly appeared to come out of nowhere.
Then another man’s words echoed on the breeze. “We are searching for fugitives who escaped from France and would like your assistance.”
The monk pinned Ian with an intense stare. “I must return to the abbey at once. Would you be able to see the lass home?” Without waiting for a reply, he carefully shifted her head from his lap to Fraser’s, then stood.
Sheena narrowed her eyes, trying to see Lazarus’s features, but remaining conscious was becoming more difficult. She didn’t know him, but given his sudden urgency to depart, the sound of the approaching Frenchmen appeared to have rattled him.
“I dinna know where to take her. Besides which, I have no healing skills,” Fraser said. “I thought monks were trained to care for the sick and wounded.”
Lazarus glanced over his shoulder in the direction from which the Frenchmen approached. “I’d be most grateful if you would see she is taken care of, Lord Fraser. I have no coin with which to pay you, but do have this. It is my only possession, but it has several jewels in the handle, so it should fetch a good price.” He handed Fraser a dirk. “If you sell this, there will be more than enough to pay someone to tend to her injuries, and plenty left over to reward you for your service.”
“Where did you get this?” Fraser stared at the dagger in his hand. “I have only seen weapons like this in one place. Those belonging to my—” As the sound of the French guard got closer, Ian stopped mid-sentence for a moment, then returned his attention to Lazarus. “As I was saying—” He stopped speaking again, then glanced around and scratched his head. “Where did he go? I guess I’ll be the one taking you home, after all.”
The monk was gone and Sheena found herself alone and at the mercy of another man she didn’t know. “Please . . . my brother . . .” She tried to speak, but staying awake was next to impossible.
Ian shifted Sheena into his arms. “You’re in no shape to walk, so I’ll have to carry you.” He slid his arm under her shoulders and helped her to sit up.
The change in position caused her head to pound and spin. “I—” she began before everything faded to black.
Chapter 2
Lazarus peered out the window of his cell in Ayton Abbey, a small friary of Benedictine Monks, located north of the disputed Scottish-English border and the coveted town of Berwick-upon-Tweed.
“There you are, Brother, I thought I might find you holed up here,” a man said as he entered the cell, then shut the door.
Lazarus spun around, coming face-to-face with Brother Simon, a sixty-year-old monk he considered as much a father figure and mentor as he did a friend. “Is it time for evening prayers?”
Brother Simon shook his head. “Nay, but I was concerned when you dinna come down to break your fast. I knocked on the door, but your mind was obviously on something else.”
“You fash about me more than a mother hen does her chicks, Simon. I’m no longer a bairn in need of tending.”
“Perhaps. But since you returned from Berwick, you have been locked away in your cell, brooding.”
“You are letting your imagination get the better of you again, my friend.” Lazarus raked his fingers through his hair, then released a heavy sigh. He found it difficult, if not impossible, to hide his feeling from Simon. But there were times when a man needed to sort things out for himself. And this was one of those times. “I’m fine. Go back to the chapel and I’ll join you there shortly.”
Simon studied him for a moment. “You’re keeping something from me. I knew going to Berwick was a bad idea. Visiting there can only cause you strife. Not to mention it is dangerous for you to be seen there.” He closed the gap between them, then placed his hand on Lazarus’s shoulder. “You may be a grown man, capable of making your own decisions, but something happened while you were away that you havena shared with me or any of our brothers. It might help to talk.”
Lazarus faced the window again, his hands resting on the stone sill. “What happened to our vow of silence?”
“You may live in the abbey, but you never took your vows as a monk,” Simon pointed out.
“True, but I did pledge my allegiance to the holy order of the Knights of Jerusalem. The rituals I was required to perform and the oaths I swore were even stricter than those taken by a cleric. Piety, poverty, secrecy, humility, chastity, dedication to prayer, obedience to the laws of the Catholic Church . . .” Lazarus glared at Simon. “Need I go on?”
“Nay. But I’ve never known you to be short on words when something is bothering you.”
“There is no reason for you to be concerned, Simon. However, I’ll admit that I regret not paying heed to your warning. Instead, I allowed my restless spirit and obsession with the secrets buried at Berwick to cloud my judgement. Yet, an undeniable force that I canna explain draws me to the place, despite the danger.”
“It is understandable for you to be curious, even compelled to go there,” Simon said. “After all, that was where I found you, following Longshank’s massacre in 1296, your broken body discarded amongst the dead. It was a miracle you were still alive, let alone survived. For that, I thank the Lord.” Simon crossed himself, then kissed the pewter cross he wore on a leather thong around his neck.
“Aye, but I woke with no memory of who I was or where I belonged, so it was like being dead,” Lazarus muttered.
“I prefer to think of it as rebirth. Like you were given a second chance at life and the opportunity to make amends,” Simon answered, then patted Lazarus on the back. “Not every man has that chance.”
“I was a lad of fifteen summers, sixteen at best, when you found me and took me in. What sins could I have committed that required attornment at that stage in my life? Not a day passes that I dinna wonder where I came from.”
“I know it hasna been easy for you. Just as I’m aware that you believe the secret of your identity lies in Berwick,” Simon said. “But you must resist the urge to go there again. I want your word that you willna leave the abbey for any reason while your life remains in jeopardy.”
“That could take an eternity. I canna stay locked up forever,” Lazarus replied. “King Philip the Fair of France is dead. Thank the Lord.” He glanced skyward and crossed himself. He’d never wished ill of anyone until he met the sadistic, heartless bastard, a man who tortured innocent people for his own gain, and did his utmost to destroy the Knights Templar.
“Aye, the French King has been dead f
or two summers, and I’m sure you and many others still rejoice in that knowledge,” Simon remarked. “But the Lord says we must forgive those who trespass against us.”
“How does a man forgive the Devil?” Lazarus made no effort to hide the distain in his tone. “In my opinion, he dinna die soon enough. The bastard caused the downfall and persecution of a sacred order of knights sworn to protect pilgrims on their journey to the Holy Land. His wrath struck fear into the hearts of some of the bravest men I’d ever hoped to know.”
“They were dark days, my son, but mercifully are over.”
Lazarus thumped a clenched fist against his chest. “For some perhaps. But I’m thirty-six, practically an old man. I have lived in fear, watching over my shoulder for so many summers, I have lost count. How long must I wait to taste freedom? To find peace?”
“I pray every night that day will come,” Simon replied. “When King Philip the Fair died, some say it was a result of a curse put upon him and Pope Clement by Templar Grand Master Jacques De Molay on the day he was burned at the stake for heresy.”
“We both know De Molay and the other Knights Templar were innocent of all the bogus charges brought against them. Philip’s arrogance, fear of losing his throne, and insatiable greed got the better of him.” Lazarus slammed his balled fist against the wall, causing his knuckles to bleed.
Lazarus wiped the blood on his robe, before continuing his tirade. “Philip believed the only way to get rid the world of those he was indebted to, or knew held more power than he did, was to have them imprisoned and tortured without mercy until they confessed to crimes they dinna commit. France faced financial ruin and when denied more money by the Knights Templar, he sought to destroy them.”
“Temperance, says the Lord,” Simon cautioned, then grasped Lazarus’s injured hand to inspect the damage. “You must mind your tongue and harness your anger.”
“Be damned!” Lazarus tugged free. “He tortured men until they would confess to buggery or sodomizing their own mothers, in order to be spared. But as Jacques and his men faced death, he renounced his confession and declared all charges against them were a lie.” He hung his head. “His cell in the dungeon was directly across from mine.”
“Unfortunately, Philip’s son now sits on the throne of France and he has vowed to follow in his father’s footsteps,” Simon said softly.
“Philip the Tall was once a knight himself. One would think he would renounce his father’s tyranny,” Lazarus said. “But then again, no one thought his sire would betray those who trusted him either. Now that the world suspects those knights who managed to escape persecution have made off with a vast fortune and many of the church’s coveted artifacts—including the Holy Grail and Arc of the Covenant—I’ve no doubt the new French King is more determined than ever to round up those of us who remain fugitives, while seeking the return of the lost treasures for himself. They say the apple doesna fall far from the tree.”
Brother Simon didn’t respond at first. Instead, he cocked his head and furrowed his brow, ogling Lazarus in silence.
“Now what?” Lazarus grew uncomfortable with the brother’s scrutiny. All he wanted was to be left alone with his thoughts.
“This fury you express is more than your hatred for French monarchy,” Simon answered. “What happened when you went to Berwick? Did someone see you, perhaps recognize you? I heard rumors that French guards have been milling about the village of late.”
Lazarus shook his head. “Nay. At least not that I’m aware of,” he lied, seeing no point in telling Simon he had come close to being seen by men he assumed were French agents. “I just canna tolerate the unfair persecution or mistreatment of innocent people.”
“I’m relieved you werena spotted. Given these are dangerous times for men with your past, venturing beyond the abbey walls isna safe,” Brother Simon pointed out again. “And since Berwick is so close to English territory, it makes it even more risky. You are aware that King Edward II of England now endorses France’s stand against the Knights Templar?”
“Aye, but we are in Scotland,” Lazarus replied, not believing for a minute he was safe anywhere. And perhaps never would be.
“While King Robert never fully supported the French vendetta to annihilate the Knights’ sacred order, I’m certain he still wishes to keep his alliances with France strong. I fear if Philip’s agents come for you, he may look the other way.” Simon moved to a wooden chair in the corner of the cell and sat. “I often wonder how long we can continue to offer you sanctuary.”
Lazarus faced his friend. “I appreciate everything the brotherhood did for me when I returned to Scotland. Ayton Abbey was the only home I knew before I left to serve in the Holy Land. But you can rest assured, if a time comes when my presence poses a risk to you or any other members of the order, I’ll leave.”
“That is not what I meant.” Simon stood. “I wonder how long before they find out where you are hiding, and come to drag you away. You know you are welcome to stay here as long as you like. This was your home and always will be.”
“Thank you, but I willna risk putting any of my brethren in danger. When the time comes, home or not, I’ll go.”
Simon scrubbed his chin, then peered up at Lazarus. “I know more than twenty summers have passed since Longshanks attacked Berwick, but are you certain you have no inkling of where you might belong?” He moved forward and rested his hand on Lazarus’s shoulder. “When you were a lad, I often heard you call out names in your sleep. And things havena changed since your return from Europe. Each time, I pray the Almighty will ease your suffering and allow you to remember where it is you came from.”
“The dreams are always the same,” Lazarus replied. “So vivid, I feel like the truth is within my grasp. I see the faces and hear the voices of a ginger-haired man, a beautiful raven-haired woman, and four lads, people I suspect I once knew. Those images warm my heart. But the pleasant thoughts are soon replaced by faces contorted by pain, screams of anguish, and pleas for mercy. When I awaken, aside from my chest feeling like it is wrapped in a band of iron, so tight I’m unable to breathe, I’m no closer to knowing what significance this has to my past.”
“The Almighty has reasons for all he does. Perhaps he isna ready for you to learn the truth. I pray someday he will release you from this torment,” Simon said. “In the meantime, I have sent word to St. Peter’s Abbey on the northern shore of Scotland, hoping they will take you in. The head friar, Brother Mackay, is a longtime friend, and I’m awaiting his response.”
“I dinna wish to leave Ayton. This is my home, the only place I have found some semblance of peace. I canna keep running.”
“Had I known things would change so drastically for the Knights Templar, that their world would come crashing down around their ears, I would never have let you go to Jerusalem in the first place.”
“I went of my own accord, Simon. You werena responsible for my actions or my decision to go. I knew things had deteriorated greatly after the Templar Knights were defeat at Acre, and that the once highly revered order of the Temple of Solomon were in jeopardy. But I owed my life, my very existence, to the Catholic Church, so how could I refuse when asked to do my part?”
“You have always been a brave, dedicated young man,” Simon said. “However, I had no idea your noble deeds would result in punishment.”
“I was proud to take the sacred vows, to wear the red Templar cross, and to work with and support the other knights, priests, and serving brethren, who swore an oath of obedience to the Master of the Temple of Jerusalem.”
“I’m just glad you escaped King Phillip’s wrath, and were able to leave France before it was too late,” Simon said. “But I shudder when I think of all you endured. I canna imagine taking part in horrific battles from which you were forbidden to retreat. And then being locked in a dungeon by the very same people you served, subject
ed to unthinkable torture, and forced to watch your fellow knights be put to death, knowing you might be next. I wish it had been me and not you.”
Lazarus hauled Simon into a tight embrace. “I must admit, there were many times I asked myself why I went in the first place, found the idea of death more appealing than life, and wished someone else was in my place. But never you, my friend.” He released his hold and took a step back.
“No man should suffer the way you did,” Simon said.
“True, I dinna have it easy, but I was more fortunate than most. At least I left France with my body and manhood intact.” He rubbed his leg where it had been broken in three places in an attempt by the king’s agents to get him to confess to heresy and homosexuality. They’d have continued on his other leg, had he not passed out from the pain. Despite the healing skills of his cellmate, he still had a slight limp and experienced a great deal of discomfort when it rained.
Lazarus flexed his fingers in the air—his right hand having been placed in a vise on more than one occasion. But he’d refused to yield. “I got out in one piece for the most part.”
“The Almighty clearly had other plans for you. And I am grateful you escaped and found good Samaritans to help you along the way.”
“I would have been executed, were it not for a guard whose brother was a knight who’d been punished by the king. And then there was Marie.” Lazarus stiffened and his chest ached as if his heart was suddenly ripped from his breast, leaving a gaping hole. “I dinna want to think about those days. Too many died for what they believed in.”
“They knew the risks, as did you. But they chose to do what was right, regardless of the consequences. God rest their souls.” Simon crossed himself and muttered a quick prayer.
