Highland Covenant

by Scott, B. J.

  Famished, Francois wasted no time digging into the food. He broke off a piece of bannock and popped it into his mouth, followed by a morsel of cheese. He closed his eyes, savoring the flavor. Since meals of any sort were few and far between, he intended to enjoy every mouthful.

  “We have already established how you got to Scotland, but you have yet to disclose why, or how you knew to come to me.” Monnet said.

  Francois washed the food down with a gulp of wine, then answered his host. “We have a mutual friend. Jean Rideau.” He lowered his gaze. “Had.”

  “Am I to take it Jean is dead?”

  “Oui. Killed by Philip’s guards for his part in aiding Templars fleeing persecution. Men like me.” The words caught in his throat, and he swallowed hard against the rising ball of emotion threatening to cut off his ability to breathe.

  “You are a Templar. Did you fight in the Holy Land?”

  “I did. Just prior to its fall. But I was a squire before I took my oath as a knight,” Francois said. “My master Lloyd Marques was a member of the sacred covenant formed to ensure that religious artifacts were delivered to the ships in La Rochelle. Before his arrest, he gave me a chalice, and bid me see that it arrived at its destination.”

  “That was several years ago,” Monnet remarked. “Do you still have your part of the treasure?” he asked bluntly. “That would explain Bateau’s visit today.”

  “Not exactly,” Francois replied.

  Monnet looked puzzled. “I do not understand?”

  “I honored my vow to protect the chalice, but unforeseen circumstances forced me to hand it over to a fellow knight rather than risk it might fall into Philip’s hands. We have not seen each other in over three years, and I believe he brought it with him when he returned to Scotland.”

  “And you think this man still has the chalice?”

  “I am certain if he made it home alive, he still guards it,” Francois said. “That is why I came to Scotland, and I need to find him. The problem is, I only knew him as Brother Lazarus. He was raised by monks in a friary near Berwick upon Tweed, and he told me that, God willing, he intended to return there once he left France.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I thought to start my search there, but if he is no longer in Berwick, I have no idea where to look for him.”

  Monnet tapped his forehead, his brow creased. “I did hear of a former knight who went by that name.”

  His interest piqued, Francois put down his goblet and sat straighter in his seat. “Do you think it is the same man?”

  “Apparently King Philip held him prisoner for nearly a year, but on the eve of his slated execution, he and several others managed to escape.” Monnet refilled the two goblets and pushed one in Francois’s direction. “By the grace of God, he managed to find his way back to Scotland and the monastery he grew up in outside of Berwick.”

  “That sounds like my friend,” Francois said. “Do you know if he is still living with the monks? Was there any mention of him having a piece of the treasure?”

  “It has been a while since he returned home. He too found himself dodging the French guard, and when cornered suffered their wrath.” Monnet took a sip of his wine, then continued to tell the story.

  “I canna tell you for certain if he actually had a piece of the treasure in his possession, but Philip’s men believed that he did,” Monnet said. “Since the monks kept your friend hidden, the French Guard took the wee brother of a local whore hostage and threatened to kill the lad if Lazarus refused to turn himself over to them immediately. They demanded he inform them where the treasure was hidden, and betray his brother knights.”

  Francois’s chest tightened as if squeezed by bands of iron. By the sounds of it, Lazarus had no choice but to hand over the chalice if he hoped to save the boy. And he might even be dead. “Did he give them what they wanted?”

  “He offered himself in exchange for the boy, but once the child was safe, he refused to turn over the chalice or to divulge any information about his fellow knights.” Monnet shook his head. “They beat him within an inch of his life, and if not for the intervention from a Clan by the name of Fraser, he would be dead, or rotting in Philip’s prison as we speak. Three men claiming he was their long-lost brother came to his aid and saved his life.”

  Francois expelled a heavy breath. “He is alive?”

  “As far as I know, and living in Beauly, a village near Loch Ness, and he remains there under the protection of Clan Fraser and a decree of sanctuary from Robert the Bruce.”

  Relieved to learn that Lazarus was still alive, Francois rose and began to pace. “How do I find this place called Beauly? I believe Lazarus still has the chalice, so I must find him, then see the goblet reaches northern Scotland. The sooner I leave, the better.”

  “Hold on,” Monnet cautioned. “It will not be as easy as you think. First you must slip by Bateau and his men, then continue to evade them until you find Lazarus. Once you do, and if he still has the chalice, you will need to get it to Clan Sinclair.”

  “I believe he still has it and vow to do whatever it takes to find him,” Francois declared directly.

  “Your intentions are most honorable, but Beauly is at least a three to four day’s ride to the north, through some very rugged country, while doing your best to stay one step ahead of Bateau. Maybe you best count your blessings, find a place to settle down, and forget about this quest.”

  “I survived unfathomable torture and hardships in the bowels of the bastille, I managed to escape from France in the hull of a ship, and have stayed alive this long, so I have no intention of giving up now. Nor do I plan to forsake those who risked their lives to protect me.” His heart ached when he thought about Giselle. It had been so long since he’d seen her and held her in his arms, but if possible, he loved her more now than ever. He owed it to her and her father to see this through to the end. He was determined to do her proud, or if necessary, to die trying.

  Monnet rose. “If you insist on doing this, you will need some coin and a horse.” He took a crock from the shelf, opened it, then withdrew a canvas pouch. He handed it to Francois. “There is enough in there to purchase a mount, and to buy some rations along the way.” He jotted down a name on a piece of vellum and instructions as to how he might find Fraser Castle. “Read and memorize this, then destroy it.”

  Francois fisted the pouch. “I am not sure I can repay you.”

  “Find Lazarus and see the chalice to Rosslyn Castle and your debt will be paid in full,” Monnet replied.

  “I intend to try.” Francois picked up the parchment, read it, and committed the words to memory. Once he’d finished, he tossed the crumpled note onto the fire on the hearth. “Thank you.”

  Monnet filled a sack with some dried venison and bannocks, then poured the remainder of the wine into a flagon, before giving them to Francois. “The name on the note is the man you will seek after you retrieve the chalice and where to locate him. He will assist you in getting it the rest of the way to Rosslyn Castle. Just be careful and God speed.” Monnet patted him on the back, then ushered him to the door. “Best you be off. You have a long journey ahead of you, and it is not prudent for you to remain in my company any longer than necessary.”

  Francois nodded, then left the croft and took a well-worn footpath headed north.

  ~ ~ ~

  Judging by the sun’s position in the sky, Francois guessed it was early afternoon by the time he left Monnet’s croft. Their exchange of information took longer than he’d hoped, but he also understood the need for caution. Now they had spoken, he felt confident that given what he’d learned, he could find Lazarus and complete his task. He paused when he reached a portion of the path that branched off into two different directions.

  “You appear lost, monsieur. Maybe I could be of assistance,” a man bellowed.

  Upon
recognizing Bateau’s voice, Francois’s pulse kicked up a notch. He knew if he spoke, his French accent would immediately give him away. But his silence threatened to put him in an equally suspicious light. Torn by what to do, he needed to think fast. Either he could try to outrun them, which was highly unlikely, or stay and stand his ground. However, when members of the French Guard surrounded him, he had no choice but to remain and face his nemesis.

  “I asked you a question,” Bateau snarled, then took a menacing step in Francois’s direction. “Are you lost?” he asked again.

  “No,” Francois replied simply, hoping it might be enough to get Bateau to back off and allow him to leave.

  Bateau shook his head and clucked his tongue, then addressed two of his men. “I grow tired of this game. Seize him.”

  Francois tried to back away when flanked by two large men with their swords drawn. But he failed to notice the one who stood directly behind him, blocking his only hope of escape. When he slammed into a solid wall of muscle that refused to yield, he knew it was futile to continue his attempt to get away. “You have no right to detain me,” he blurted.

  “I have every right. You are obviously a Frenchmen on Scottish soil, and I have reason to suspect you are a Templar knight, a fugitive running from King Philip’s wrath,” Bateau spat. He moved forward and closed his hand around Francois’s throat, the blade of his dirk resting just beneath his chin. “I have a few questions to ask, and how you answer determines if I slit you from ear to ear, or release you.”

  While the first threat was likely, Francois knew Bateau had no intention of letting him go. Not that he planned to cooperate. “I have nothing to say.”

  Bateau’s face contorted with anger, his neck veins bulged, and he leaned so close, Francois could feel his hot breath upon his cheek. But a forceful clout to his stomach caught him completely by surprise.

  “I think you have plenty to say. You can make this easy or painful. The choice is yours.” Bateau jeered at Franc before delivered another crushing blow. “What have you to say, now?”

  Winded, doubled over in pain, and unable to catch his breath, Francois sputtered and wheezed. “Naught.”

  “Tell me where the treasure is hidden and who helped you evade capture and I will spare your life.”

  “There is no treasure. It is but a myth,” Francois rasped. “I came here alone, and no one helped me.”

  “Liar!” Bateau snapped. “I saw you in Monnet’s shop this morning.”

  “Can a man not enter a public establishment to purchase items he needs without suspicion? Francois sucked in a shallow breath of air. “You had no call to stop me. I—”

  “You are clearly French born, and this is not France. Which means you are subject to French rules and laws,” Bateau replied. “We also saw you leaving Monnet’s croft a while later, and followed you here.”

  “You must be mistaken, monsieur. I do not know Monnet.”

  Bateau motioned to his men with a curt flick of his hand. “Show him what happens to those foolish enough to defy us. Just hold off cutting out his tongue. He may reconsider and decide to tell me what I want to know,” he hissed, then turned and walked away.

  Upon hearing Bateau’s command, two men lunged forward, each grabbing one of Francois’s arms, and holding him in place while another brute delivered a series of vicious punches to his face and chest. They pummeled him without mercy until his left eye was swollen shut, blood dripped from his mouth and nose, and there wasn’t an inch of his body that wasn’t a firestorm of pain. Unable to remain standing, he crumpled to his knees, uncertain how much more his body could take.

  “Enough,” Bateau shouted as he stomped forward. He snagged a fistful of Francois’s hair and snapped his head back. “Have you found your voice?”

  Francois glowered up at him. “I have nothing to say to you.”

  Furious, Bateau delivered a backhanded slap that sent him plummeting to the ground, followed by several swift kicks to his chest. “Damned fool.” He drew his sword, but stopped when the sound of many horses approaching echoed on the breeze.

  “It sounds like someone is coming. Perhaps the Scottish garrison returning from patrol, Lord Bateau,” one of the men shouted.

  “Best we leave.” Bateau sheathed his weapon.

  “What about the Templar?” one of the men asked.

  Bateau nudged Francois’s battered body with his boot, but when he didn’t move, he turned to face his men. “Leave him. If he is not already dead, he soon will be.” He strode toward his horse and mounted. “Let us be away before the Scottish buffoons show up.”

  Unable to move, and finding it difficult to draw anything more than a shallow breath, Francois lay prone on the ground, with his face in the dirt. While excruciatingly painful, his debilitated state played to his advantage, leaving Bateau to believe he was dead or close to it. He managed to open one eye and watched as his enemy mounted their destriers and rode off.

  Chapter 4

  “Easy, laddie, dinna try to move.”

  A man’s voice filtered through the fog surrounding him. Francois moaned, then tried to speak, but he couldn’t make his mouth form the words.

  “Who did this to you?” the man asked. He rolled Francois to his back and gasped. “Whoever it was showed you no mercy. I heard the buggers ride off, but dinna get a good look at them. Judging by your condition, I came along just in time to keep them from finishing you off.”

  “Whe-Where are the rest of your men?” Francois mumbled when he finally mustered the strength to speak.”

  “I am alone. Why would you ask?”

  “They thought you were the Scottish Guard,” Francois said.

  “The king’s men did pass me on the trail, but went on to town,” the man said.

  “You best leave,” Francois managed to sputter. “If they come back, they will kill you.” He sucked in a short, sharp breath, then began to cough, the pain radiating across his chest like nothing he had ever known.

  “The Frenchies did this, I take it.”

  Francois nodded. “Oui. You best leave before they return.”

  “Dinna fash about me, lad. We Scots are accustomed to unwanted foreigners on our soil. First it was the English, and now the French scavengers. My sister is a healer and she will see to your injuries.” He tried to help Francois up, but halted when he rested his hand on his arm.

  “No. Leave me,” he replied weakly, then slumped to the ground, the excruciating pain taking its toll, and everything around him faded to black.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Try to take a sip of this. It will help to ease the pain, and keep your fever at bay,” a woman coaxed, then pressed a mug to Francois’s lips.

  He winced when the clay vessel hit his mouth, his lips split and swollen from the beating. He raised his hand and shoved the mug away, but she refused to give in. “I am sorry if it hurts, but you must drink the elixir if you wish to get well.”

  Francois struggled against the dizziness that threatened to send him back into the abyss of unconsciousness. A battle he was not sure he could win. Finally, he managed to open his swollen eyes enough to catch a glimpse of a young woman hovering over him. The last he remembered, he was lying in the dirt, a stranger offering him comfort. Now he appeared to be in someone’s croft, with an angel of mercy at his side. “Who . . . Who are you?”

  “Malvina Seton. My brother Murdock found you in the woods over a sennight ago, and I have been taking care of you since.” She smiled and stroked her hand across his brow.

  “A sennight?” Francois tried to sit, but halted, his body wracked with pain.

  She rested a hand on his shoulder. “Lie still. You took a nasty beating. I suspect they broke some ribs and have no idea what other injuries you have that I canna see.” She slid her hand under his head, lifted, then brought the cup to his
mouth again. “Drink this. It will help.”

  He took a sip, the brew stinging his lips. “Enough. Thank you.”

  She eased his head to the pillow. “I will leave you to rest, but willna be far.” She rose to leave.

  “Wait.” He snagged her wrist. “You said I have been here more than a sennight?”

  “Aye, nine days to be exact. For a while we werena sure if you would live or die.”

  “We?”

  “My brother Murdock and I live in this croft. He is the one who found you on the trail after you were beaten.”

  “And no one has come looking for me?” he asked.

  “Nay. But you were gravely injured, so the men who did this to you, likely thought you were dead.”

  Francois sucked in an agonizing breath, then exhaled slowly through clenched teeth. He was relieved Bateau and his men had not come searching for him, but feared if they found out these kind people harbored an injured man, that could change in a hurry. “Did you or your brother tell anyone I was here?”

  “I have na left your bedside since my brother brought you home. Murdoch has been so busy tending to the crops, he hasna been into town either.”

  “Bien. It is important that no one knows I am still alive, or discovers that I am here.” He braced his ribs when he began to cough. When the spell passed, he caught her gaze. “I appreciate what you have done for me, but I really must go. Every day I am here puts you and your brother in danger of being taken to task by the ruthless French Guard.”

  “Dinna fash. You are safe, and no one has any call to come looking for you here,” she reassured him. “When Murdock first heard your accent, he knew you were likely running from the French bounty hunters and informed me of his suspicions. My brother has no fondness for them, and neither of us will betray you.”