Highland Resurrection (Blades of Honor Book 2)

by B. J. Scott

  Louis scowled at her. “As for you, mademoiselle, I grow tired of playing games. If I want to sate my needs, nothing you can say or do is going to stop me.”

  “What is she doing here?” Father Marquis bellowed from atop the stairs of the abbey.

  Louis released his hold on Sheena and spun around to face the priest. “I was just trying to ascertain that very thing.”

  “Perhaps if you try asking her instead of fondling her, you might get the answer quicker,” the priest snapped.

  Sheena stepped forward and addressed the priest. “He knows very well why I’m here, as do you.”

  Father Marquis matched her glower of contempt with one of his own. “Is that so? I’m afraid you will have to enlighten me.” He glanced at Louis. “Take her into the rectory, I’ll speak with her there.” He focused on Simon. “You, Brother Simon, may wait here. Unless you wish to join your friend as my prisoner.” He spun on his heel and stomped into the abbey.

  “You heard him,” Louis grumbled. “He will see you in the rectory. Best you make haste before he changes his mind.”

  Sheena nodded and began to climb the stairs, but Simon latched on to her arm, stopping her advance.

  “Dinna go, Sheena. Come away with me now and forget this foolish notion,” Simon pleaded. “Lazarus would not want you to put yourself in jeopardy on his behalf.”

  “Nay. I must do this, Simon. Dinna try to intervene.” She patted his hand, then pried her arm free. “You can wait for me here or go back to Ayton Abbey and wait for us there. I hope to have Quinn with me when I leave this place.” While she prayed that would be the case, Sheena knew Father Marquis would not be easily swayed.

  As she traveled the long dark corridor leading to the rectory, she prayed for the words that would convince Father Marquis to free Quinn. When she arrived at the ornately carved oak door, she knocked.

  “Come in,” Father Marquis called.

  Sheena swallowed hard, then shoved open the door and entered the devil’s den.

  Father Marquis stood with his back to her, staring out the window. “What do you want?” he asked bluntly, but didn’t turn to face her.

  Sheena inched closer. Her throat suddenly as dry as wood, she coughed to clear it. “I have come to take my brother home with me.”

  “I don’t recall summoning you here.” Marquis slowly turned to face her. “Leave now and I may find it in my heart not to see you thrown in a cell like your lover.”

  “You’re wrong. I have no lover. Certainly not a monk. The idea is ludicrous.” She raised her chin, looking him in the eye. “You did, however, promise to let Quinn go once Brother Lazarus was in your custody. I ask that you stand by your word and return him to me.”

  “I said I would release him, but dinna say when,” he replied.

  As hard as it was for Sheena to refrain from launching herself at the priest’s throat in a fit of rage, or better yet plunging a dagger into the bastard’s heart, neither act would secure Quinn’s freedom. She balled her hands at her side and silently counted to ten beneath her breath, trying to curb her ire and to keep from saying or doing something that might make things worse. “But that is not what you—”

  “Silence!” The priest slammed his fist on the desk in front of him. “I do not need a whore reminding me of what I did and didn’t say.”

  “How do I even know my brother is still alive?” She swallowed hard against the lump emotion rising in her throat. “And what about—” She bit her lower lip and glanced away. While she wanted to comment on Lazarus’s deplorable state of health, she did not wish to alert the priest to the fact that she’d snuck into the dungeon and had seen him. What happened to them both could very well depend on how she conducted herself around Father Marquis.

  “I assure you the boy is alive and well. He will remain so if you do as I say.”

  “I want to see for myself. Please take me to him,” she requested.

  The priest shook his head. “No. Leave now, and I’ll forget this visit happened. Pursue this issue, and I’ll see the lad punished.”

  “He is but a wee bairn. What sort of monster are you?” she blurted, then covered her mouth to keep from saying any more.

  Father Marquis’s brow furrowed, his expression of ire sending a shiver up her spine. He took a menacing step in her direction. “I’ll excuse your outburst, but just this once. If you value your brother’s life, leave now and tell no one of this conversation or that the boy is my prisoner. If you breathe a word of this to anyone, the boy will be returned to you in pieces.”

  With that, the priest turned and left her alone, her mind reeling at his threat.

  Chapter 16

  Lazarus groaned when he heard voices outside his cell. Had the bastards returned to interrogate him again or was his muddled mind playing tricks on him? He sucked in a ragged breath, holding it until his head stopped spinning and the excruciating pain ravaging his body subsided to an almost tolerable level.

  “Well, I see you are finally awake. After our last visit, I had my doubts that you would ever open your eyes again.” Louis nudged Lazarus with the toe of his boot.

  “What, and miss seeing your ugly face?” Lazarus wrapped his fingers around Louis’s ankle, then glared up at him.

  “Get your hands off me,” Louis demanded, then kicked Lazarus in the side.

  “He’s a tough bugger,” one of the others said. “Most men would have told everything they knew after the first beating. Are you going to question him again? I’m not sure how much more he can take.”

  “Nay, we have finished questioning the obstinate bugger. Get him up,” Louis ordered. “He is going on a little trip.”

  Two of the men hauled Lazarus to his feet. Unable to stand on his injured legs, he was forced to lean on the guards for support.

  “Since he refuses to tell us the location of the Templar treasure,” Louis said, “he will be sent back to France for further interrogation. I’m certain they have ways of getting a man to talk.”

  “It canna be any worse than I have endured the last time I was there,” Lazarus replied, inwardly shuddering at the thought of what fate had in store for him.

  “None of this would have been necessary had you not been so stubborn. If you had complied when Father Marquis ordered you to do so, you could have saved yourself countless beatings and the agony you’ve suffered. Not to mention the uncertainty of what lies ahead. There is still time to tell me what I need to know and this will all be over.”

  Lazarus raised his chin, the action causing his head to throb. He peered at Louis through the one eye he could still partially open, while the other remained swollen shut. “I know what awaits me in France. And I still have naught to say.”

  Louis turned to one of his men. “A ship leaving for France awaits us at Berwick. Ready the mounts, Morris. If we hurry, once he’s aboard and in irons, we can go in to town for some ale and women. Maybe his little chit will be lonely and looking for some companionship.” He elbowed his friend in the side and laughed. “I’d have had her already if Father Marquis hadn’t interrupted us.”

  Lazarus chewed on the inside of his cheek and balled his fists to keep from lashing out at Louis. He knew the bugger was trying to goad him by taunting him with Sheena, but he’d not give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his comments angered him.

  Louis grabbed a fistful of Lazarus’s hair and forced him to look at him. “What’s the matter, did you suddenly lose your ability to speak?”

  Lazarus met his glare, but said nothing.

  “I’ve never met such a bolshie monk,” Morris said. “After what he’s endured here at the abbey, it’s a wonder he is still breathing, let alone able to sit a horse or survive the voyage.”

  “He’s a damned fool if you ask me. But he’ll have plenty time to rest up and regain some of his s
trength on the journey.” Louis laughed. “Providing they see fit to feed and water the bastard, and he doesna die aboard ship. Bring him outside at once. We must be on our way if we wish to meet the vessel before it sets sail.”

  “He canna walk,” one of the guards pointed out.

  Louis shrugged. “Then carry or drag him, it matters not. As long you have him outside and atop a mount when I come back from speaking with Father Marquis one last time,” he said, then stomped out of the cell.

  “You heard the man.” The guard secured his hold on Lazarus’s upper arm and waited for his companion to do the same before they tugged. “Let’s haul the poor bugger out of here.”

  The moment Lazarus moved, gut-wrenching pain stole his breath. Then, mercifully, everything went black.

  When he next opened his eyes, he found himself perched atop an old destrier, his hands bound to the saddle and his legs secured to the cinch with strips of leather. He groaned, then lowered his head, resting it on the horse’s neck as wave after wave of nausea crashed over him, every inch of his body crying out for relief.

  Louis strode toward the group of men, which included ten well-armed soldiers on heavy horse. “Time we were on our way.” He paused for a moment and studied Lazarus. “He doesn’t look good. I just hope he lives long enough to reach the ship. Once on board, he is their responsibility. Tying him to the horse was a good idea. This way he canna fall off during the ride to Berwick.”

  “Is Father Marquis accompanying us?” Morris asked.

  “Nay.” Louis climbed upon his mount. “He has some important matters to tie up here and will return to France in a fortnight. By then, the prisoner will be back in King Philip the Tall’s custody.” Louis urged his steed forward and slapped Lazarus’s horse on the arse, and the beast lunged forward.

  Lazarus fisted his mount’s mane with his injured hands, miraculously managing to hold on as they sped over rough terrain. With his fractured ribs and other array of injuries, a tumble from atop the destrier could be the final blow that put an end to his life and misery. But he’d never been a man to take the easy way out. Gripping the animal’s sides with his knees to maintain his seat was its own form of torture, agony shooting across his lower spine and down both legs. Yet he persevered.

  As they neared the sea, the smell of salt air filled his nostrils. Lazarus heard the ship bells tolling in the distance and the cry of seagulls as they circled overhead. It would not be much longer before they’d arrive at the shipyard.

  A modicum of relief washed over him when the horses slowed to a walk. Lazarus forced himself to partially open his swollen eye, catching a final glance of the Scottish countryside. When he spied Berwick on the horizon, he heaved a pain-laden sigh. The place held the secrets to his past. The truth about who he was and where he’d come from. Answers he would never know. His stomach knotted with dread when he thought about returning to the French prison and he selfishly prayed the Lord would take him before he arrived.

  Sheena’s face flashed before him. The vision of her sweet smile and lovely green eyes lifted his heart. Meeting her was one good thing that had happened in his tormented life. And for that brief glimpse of happiness, he thanked the Almighty. “Please, Lord, bless and keep them both safe.” Lazarus raised his head when his horse came to an abrupt stop.

  “What is it, Louis?” one of the men asked.

  “I’m not certain, François, but the horses are restless, and I thought I heard something up ahead.” Louis craned his neck, his gaze darting in all directions.

  “Maybe the Devil has come to claim your soul,” Lazarus said.

  “Quiet, monk! I do not need you yammering when I’m trying to listen,” Louis snapped. “Open your mouth again and I’ll close it for you permanently.”

  “I didn’t hear anything. Maybe you’re imagining things,” François said. “We’ve only a short distance to go and we’ll soon be at the ship. Once we’ve seen this poor sot secured in the hold, I’m looking forward to that visit to the village pub you promised us.”

  “Halt!” someone shouted from a copse of trees, then rode into plain sight, blocking the trail ahead of them.

  “Who the hell are you, and what do you want?” Louis shouted. “Get out of our way. We have a ship to catch and a prisoner to deliver.”

  Lazarus squinted in an attempt to focus as a mountain of a man slowly approached on horseback with his claymore drawn.

  “It matters not who I am,” the stranger declared. “You have something I want, and I’ll not clear the path until I get it.”

  “If you’re a thief, you’re wasting your time, monsieur. Aside from our prisoner, we carry nothing of value,” Louis replied.

  “Turn the prisoner over to me and you can be on your way without incident,” the stranger bellowed. “Choose to fight and you will wish you hadna awakened this morn.”

  Lazarus could tell by the man’s thick Highland brogue, he was not a French agent. His mind raced. What did he have to gain by stopping them? While he could be a fellow knight, Lazarus doubted he’d be foolish enough to show his face or challenge a formidable group of French soldiers alone. Perhaps he’d heard the rumors about the famed treasure and sought information for his own selfish gains. Regardless of his reason, a niggling in the pit of his stomach warned there was about to be trouble.

  Louis urged his mount forward. “How dare you interfere with agents working on behalf of the King of France?”

  “In case you hadna noticed, this isna France, and you have no business here.” The stranger pointed at Lazarus. “Turn this man over to me and you can be on your way.”

  Louis drew his sword. “That is where you’re wrong. The prisoner is wanted for crimes he committed in France and the Holy Land. He is being taken back to stand trial for treason and heresy. Move aside.”

  The stranger shifted in his saddle, but refused to budge. He glared back at Louis. “Perhaps you dinna hear me. I said turn your prisoner over to me. And once you do, you can leave. This is Scottish soil and you have no jurisdiction here.”

  “Are you a bloody fool, or do you have a death wish, monsieur? There is but one of you and twelve of us.” Louis scoffed. “If I were you, I would move on.”

  “Well, I’m not you,” the stranger growled. “And I’ll take great pleasure in flaying you first. Besides, I’d say the odds just got even,” the stranger said when he was joined by at least a dozen heavily armed warriors dressed in Highland garb.

  “Spread out, men, and prepare to fight. Whatever happens, do not surrender the prisoner,” Louis shouted, then charged with his blade drawn. “Viva King Philip! Viva la France!”

  “France, be damned,” the stranger said, then met Louis’s challenge, running him through on his first pass, the head of the French soldiers topping to the ground. “Bawheid, it dinna have to be this way.” The stranger spat, then glared at the other French soldiers. “Who wishes to die next?”

  The remainder of the French troops answered the challenge and in the commotion, Lazarus’s horse bolted forward, fleeing from the battle at full speed. With his hands and feet still bound to the saddle, all he could do was hold on and hope the animal would settle once it felt safe. But as the clash of metal against metal faded and the got further away from the conflict, the animal continued to run.

  Lazarus called upon his last dregs of strength, gritted his teeth, and squeezed his knees against the saddle. But the animal relentlessly raced over the moor, gaining speed with each stride until the old nag collapsed from exhaustion and tumbled to the ground. Paralyzed by pain, the wind knocked from his lungs, and his injured leg pinned beneath the beast, Lazarus stared at the sky. He felt life draining from his body, yet found solace in the idea that if this was the end, he’d die on Scottish soil and a free man.

  Chapter 17

  “Dinna move him,” someone nearby said. “His
injuries look bad.”

  “We have to get the damned horse off his leg,” another man said.

  Lazarus struggled to open his eyes, uncertain if the men who had come to his aid were friend or foe. He lay on the ground as helpless as a new babe, and at their mercy. The voices he heard were not familiar, but he once again caught a distinct Scottish brogue, leaving him to conclude they were not his French captors come to retrieve him. However, why they’d gone to so much trouble to rescue him remained to be seen.

  Nausea twisted his stomach and his throbbing head began to spin, his mind succumbing to a thick haze that squelched his ability to think and reason. He suddenly felt as if he was encased in ice and could no longer feel his right leg. Was this what it felt like to die?

  “He’s tied to the saddle. Let me cut the bonds before I rouse the horse,” the second man said, his voiced laced with desperation.

  “He’s free. Now let’s get the damned beast off him,” the first man shouted. “But cut the cinch and remove the saddle too, then see if you can coax the nag to stand, Bryce.”

  As he drifted in and out, Lazarus heard the conversation going on around him, but he had no idea how much time had passed since he’d fallen, the moments when he lost consciousness a blessing. As the horse stood, taking the pressure off of his leg, every joint and muscle in his body screamed in agony. Even his skin and hair felt like it was on fire.

  “His leg is in a bad way, but he’s damned fortunate the ground beneath him was marshy and soft, otherwise the weight of the beast would have crushed it, crippling him for life,” one of them said.