Jacqueline could not imagine what worries Edana might have, but she went with her. They found a pool where the water flowed more slowly and the rocks hid them from view. They bathed and laughed together, their companionship surprising Jacqueline. She quite liked Edana’s tart commentary.
But she was shocked when the older woman rose from the water and let her hair hang wet down her back. ’Twas true that the tresses were whiter than white, as shining as fresh snow, and long, but that was not the source of Jacqueline’s surprise. ’Twas that the woman herself was less crooked than she recalled. Edana cast her a smile and dried herself quickly, then hastily enfolded herself in her tattered garb once more.
“Do not look so startled, lass. It has long been maintained that the fount of youth itself is none other than the mighty Finnan. And indeed, I have heard tell that the pool of the lady’s own well in my glade is fed by an underground fork of the Finnan, one that slips through the land of Faerie.”
Once the older woman stepped out of the river, her vigor seemed to falter, as if proving the merit of her words.
Jacqueline offered her hand in assistance and Edana settled upon a rock, sighing with satisfaction.
“Even if ’tis a lie, a woman can savor the fleeting sense of youth once more, no less the conviction that all is possible.”
Edana looked sharply at Jacqueline and Jacqueline studied her features, amazed what a difference the removal of dirt made. Edana must have been quite beauteous in her own time.
“Remember, lass, that each day is a blessing, though each night we all age a little more.”
“Who could forget such a truth?”
“People forget it all the time,” Edana retorted. “’Tis a feat indeed to appreciate what one has for one’s own, to reach for what one desires, yet never to be consumed by lust for what can never be.”
Jacqueline found her gaze straying to the distant tent once more, wondering which of those categories addressed her love for Angus MacGillivray.
On the following morning, the runner returned from Airdfinnan and confirmed that Father Aloysius would accept the impartial opinion of the Templar master in this matter.
’Twas understood by all that the archbishop would have the final say, as Airdfinnan had fallen beneath his jurisdiction, but none underestimated the influence the Templar master could wield. Pledged to neither the King of Scotland nor the King of the Isles, and independent of the archbishop himself, the master was answerable only to the pope.
Indeed, no one who chose to be perceived as just could ignore his counsel.
The horses were saddled, the five knights from the Templar foundation dazzling in their white tabards marked with red crosses. They wore red cloaks similar to Angus’s own though theirs had seen fewer adventures. Their mail gleamed, their horses stamped, their caparisons fluttered in the breeze.
Angus was similarly garbed, though he had no tunic any longer. His mail shone dully beneath his stained cloak, though he sat upon Lucifer as regally as a prince. He watched the master and did not glance to Jacqueline.
The master of their foundation was garbed all in white, with the exception of the blood red cross upon his chest. His destrier was the only other of the same ilk as Lucifer. That stallion was dappled gray, though no less proud a beast. The other knights rode stallions, larger than the palfreys Jacqueline knew, but not so fearsome as these two destriers.
The Templar sergeants and squires were armed and mounted as well. When the pennant bearer lifted their standard before the master himself, Jacqueline felt that a foreign pageant came to life before her eyes.
The men silently formed a procession, the pennant bearer first, followed by two Templar knights. Then followed the master, then Angus and Rodney, then Duncan as a local dignitary and some of his men. Jacqueline and Edana rode together, the squires and sergeants and remaining knights behind.
Sentries were left at their camp and at intervals along their approach. It seemed the master was not entirely trusting of his host.
The wooden bridge groaned beneath the weight of the horses, and the Templars staggered their approach accordingly, leaving no more than three upon the causeway at once. Again a sentry was posted on the shore along with one of the knights, another pair of sergeants taking up positions on either side of the gate. This master did not intend to be cornered inside Airdfinnan, Jacqueline guessed, which hinted at Angus’s counsel.
Father Aloysius was waiting for them, garbed in robes so simple that he might have been a pilgrim seeking favor. He seemed bowed beneath the weight of his responsibilities and more humble than Jacqueline recalled.
“I welcome you to Airdfinnan,” he said to the master. “We are graced by your presence.” Father Aloysius folded his hands together and shook his head. “I would invite you to the hall, but as you can see, it has been ravaged by needless violence.” He sighed. “We have yet to even bury our noble dead.”
“You are not alone in your grievances, Father,” the Templar master said curtly. “’Tis why we are here, after all.” And he strode to the sole chair that had been brought into the courtyard, claiming it for himself.
Father Aloysius’s lips tightened, then he sat upon one of the benches to the master’s side. The monks and sentries pledged to him gathered around. “I believe we should start with the crimes wrought against my holding.”
“With respect, Father, we shall begin where I decree we shall begin,” the master retorted. “And I believe we should begin at the root of the matter, in the identity of this man. If he is Angus MacGillivray, son of Fergus MacGillivray and legal heir of Airdfinnan, then his attempts to regain this holding were justified. And truly, he has destroyed only his own property in that case, which is his responsibility to repair.” Father Aloysius opened his mouth but the master held up a hand. “On the other hand, if he is not Angus MacGillivray, then he had no right to attempt to seize this holding and owes restitution, either to its rightful heir or to that heir’s trustee.” The master shed his gloves and accepted a dossier from one of his squires, unrolling several pieces of vellum from within. “There are other issues, of course, and other matters requiring discussion, but let us begin at the beginning.” He looked at Angus. “Who are you, and how can you prove it?”
Angus stepped forward and his voice carried over the company with confidence. “I am Angus MacGillivray, born to Annelise and Fergus MacGillivray, here at Airdfinnan, some thirty-one summers past.”
“Who can vouch that you are who you say you are?”
“I can.” Rodney stepped forward. “I have served him for fourteen years.”
“And how did you meet?”
“I was serving as a sentry on the Jaffa Gates of Jerusalem. He came, having been beset by thieves upon that treacherous road, bearing the body of the man who had been assigned by his father to protect him in his journey to the East.”
The master looked up. “And you chose to serve him why?”
“Because he was so young, no more than a boy; because he had lost the only person that he knew in that distant land; because he was valiant enough to ensure that his companion was buried as befits a man; because he spoke with the lilt of one from my own homeland.” Rodney looked at Angus. “There were so many reasons, and I regret not a moment of what has ensued from that choice.”
“Yet you did not know him before that day?”
“Nay.”
“So you had no means of being certain that the name he gave you was truly his own?”
Rodney frowned. “Why would a man lie of such a thing?”
“That is precisely what we seek to determine on this day.”
“Then, nay, I had no way of knowing that Angus was not who he claimed to be.” Rodney clearly had not had his say. “But ’twould be beyond credible for him to have lied to me on that day, some fourteen years past, in order to make a claim on this holding on this day, after all that we have seen and done.”
“’Twould indeed have been remarkable,” the master conceded, “though a
ll those years in Outremer should have persuaded you that many incredible things are possible.” He smiled primly. “Is there any other?”
“Iain?” Duncan prompted. “Can you speak for him?”
“Who is this?” the master demanded, and Iain stepped forward.
“I am Iain, son of Cormac MacQuarrie, who was the chieftain of Clan MacQuarrie and a sworn enemy of Fergus MacGillivray.” He frowned. “And for this reason, I cannot say whether this truly is Angus or not. I knew Angus, but we were mere boys when our fathers quarreled. I have not seen him in over twenty years, and ’tis impossible for me to say with any certainty whether this is he or not.”
“I see.” The master looked over the assembly.
“Can the order itself not vouch for the man?” Rodney asked indignantly.
“Though ’tis true you two were hosted at our board but a month past, I have no evidence that either of you is who you claim to be.”
“But there must be records!” Rodney protested.
The Templar master frowned in thought. “There are records of Angus MacGillivray serving the order with distinction; however, they do not carry a description of the man in question. And none of us harkens from Outremer. The same argument applies, for even one of us had been there some fourteen years past, there is no guarantee that his word was of merit then.”
“There is one guarantee,” Father Aloysius declared as he rose to his feet. “I was here at Airdfinnan and have been here almost forty years. I knew Angus MacGillivray and I sewed the crusader’s cross upon his tabard.” He pointed a finger at Angus. “And I know that this man is not Angus, for I do not recognize him.”
“Ah.” The master sat back and templed his fingers together as he looked between the two men. “So ’tis one man’s word against another.”
“Not quite.” Edana spoke with sudden clarity. Indeed, she straightened beside Jacqueline and stepped forward with surety. She cast back her hood and her hair shone white in the sunlight. The years seemed to have slipped from her shoulders, and Angus stared at her in astonishment.
Father Aloysius paled. “Annelise!” he hissed. “But, but—”
Edana smiled, turning to survey the assembly. “I thank you, Father Aloysius. I did so fear that since you did not recall my son, you also would not recall me.”
Jacqueline and most of the company gasped in surprise. “But Annelise is dead.” Father Aloysius shook himself. “I simply mistook you for her. She is long dead and buried in the village.”
The woman shook her head. “One old woman is so much like another, is she not?” she mused. “I fled to Edana, for I had nowhere else to go. But she was dead when I arrived, an ancient crone cold in her hut in the woods. I waited and then I sent her body to you, claiming ’twas me.” She smiled. “I was so afraid you would be curious enough to look within that sack and that my plan would fail.”
“’Twas putrid and stinking! I could not look within it” Edana, who was truly Annelise, laughed. “I so hoped you would not be a man of the same ilk as my Fergus. Fergus would have looked,” she said, looking suddenly as grim as her son could look. “He might have lost a meal, but he would have been certain.”
She offered her hand to Angus, who still shook his head in astonishment. “Mother! I never guessed,” he murmured.
“You never truly looked,” she chided. “You assumed you knew what you would see, so can it be any surprise that you found what you expected?”
“I am sorry, Mother.”
“I am not. In truth, I have dreamed long of this moment.” She gripped his hand tightly and looked back at the Templar master. “This is my son. This is Angus MacGillivray, fruit of my womb, wrought of Fergus MacGillivray’s seed. I shall swear it before you upon any relic you so choose.”
“She lies!” Father Aloysius cried. “She has admitted that she bears a grudge against me. She has joined with a brigand to see her vengeance fulfilled.”
“For what reason would she seek vengeance against you?” the master asked mildly. “I understood that Annelise went mad after the untimely death of her spouse.”
“Because my father and my brother did not die without this man’s aid,” Angus declared, his grip fast upon his mother’s hand.
“All men have need of a priest afore they die!” Father Aloysius declared.
“Not all men die because of another man’s intervention,” Angus retorted. “I learned much of poison in Outremer, and I know now that the figs you claimed to have been delivered by the favor of Cormac MacQuarrie were poisoned by your own hand.”
“Why? Why would I do such a foul deed?” Father Aloysius appealed to the master. “This is madness!”
“What proof is there of these charges?” the master demanded.
Silence reigned. “There is none,” Angus admitted. “Save the evidence of our own eyes, we who watched two vigorous men wither and fade to naught without warning.”
“So there is no certainty of poison?”
“We were too innocent in those days to have discerned such wickedness.”
The master frowned; Father Aloysius looked triumphant.
Then Father Michael cleared his throat and stepped forward from the company. Jacqueline had not realized he was there, and she wondered which side he had chosen in this dispute.
She did not have to wonder long.
“With respect, I must add my commentary in this. ’Tis true that I was not here in those days and witnessed naught, but I have some skill with herbs.” He heaved a sigh. “It may mean naught, but Father Aloysius has oft asked me about the poisons that can be derived from the plants in the garden I tend.”
“I seek only to ensure that none are inadvertently wounded.”
“Perhaps, but I must confess that I find your persistence in seeking such details to be troubling.”
“Then you are lacking in caution,” the older priest maintained crisply. “Any to fall ill within these walls would be my burden to heal. It only makes sense that I know the risks that surround us and the symptoms of their appearance.”
“Perhaps. But then how would one explain this?” Father Michael removed a box from his sleeve, one so familiar that Jacqueline caught her breath.
“’Tis the one from the kitchen!” a boy cried. “The one kept always on the top shelf.”
Father Aloysius turned on the boy. “I told you to guard it with your life!”
“I thought someone else had put it away.” The boy retreated red-faced from Father Aloysius’s glare.
“You are concerned with this box,” the master commented.
Father Aloysius smiled. “’Tis rare indeed to have such a rich gift sent to us. I would not see it wasted.”
“From whom was it sent?”
“I do not recall.”
The cook cleared his throat. “’Twas not a gift, my lord. You requested we send for figs when next we ordered wine from the shipyards in London.”
“Ah. Of course.” Father Aloysius smiled. “I had forgotten. All the more reason to savor a treat acquired with one’s own coin.”
Father Michael shook his head. “I would not suggest that any partake of this fruit. It has been poisoned, just as this knight suggests was done before.”
He offered the box to the master, who took one fig and sniffed it. “You are certain?”
Father Michael nodded.
The master looked unconvinced.
Father Aloysius smiled. “’Tis whimsy.”
“Perhaps you would care for a fig, then,” the master offered solicitously, and none missed the way the priest shrank back from the box.
“’Tis not my taste.”
“I thought it might not be.” The master surveyed the documents before himself, then nodded. “There is another item of which we must speak. You should know, Father Aloysius, that I have received some correspondence from the archbishop himself.”
“How pleasant.”
“Perhaps not. He expresses concern with the lack of tithes delivered from your holding to t
he coffers of the diocese. It seems that many promises have been made but no coin has been forthcoming. He asked me to visit you—though, indeed, these matters have hastened my arrival—in order to determine the root of the problem.”
Father Aloysius licked his lips then glanced from one knight of the order to the next. ’Twas clear that the archbishop believed some persuasion was necessary to encourage the delivery of those tithes.
“We have had a number of poor years here at Airdfinnan. Tithes are not what they were.”
The master’s gaze never swerved from Father Aloysius. “Cook, when did you last order wine from London?”
“In March.”
“Is this customary?”
“At least twice a year, sometimes thrice.”
“And how much did you order?”
The cook named a quantity that made the brows of more than one man rise.
“Does the entire household drink of this wine?”
“Nay. Not regularly.”
“How much did you spend?”
The cook answered dutifully.
The master sat back and Father Aloysius looked somewhat less confident than he had before. “How remarkable that there would be such a sum available for wine, when the land was so impoverished.”
“Revenue from previous years.” Father Aloysius smiled. “Skillfully managed.”
“Yet not so skillfully managed that a single denier has made its way to the archbishop in five years. I suspect he will be skeptical of the skill of your management.” The master snapped his fingers, pointed to four of his men, and flicked his hand toward the hall. “Fetch the contents of the treasury.”
“Nay!” Father Aloysius sprang to his feet, his dismay evident.
“I would suggest you be seated, Father Aloysius. They are most clever men and undoubtedly do not need your aid in this matter.” He smiled coolly. “Especially as there is so little wealth here in Airdfinnan, according to your own claim.” Jacqueline would have wagered the opposite, by the priest’s agitated manner. His fingers worked incessantly, his composure considerably less than it had been. He straightened when two of the men reappeared, settling back when he saw that they carried only a small chest between them.
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