Templar house
Port of La Rochelle, France.
Wednesday, October 11th,
Year of the Lord 1307
Ewan slid his sword from its sheath and tilted the blade toward the candlelight to better examine its honed edge. His keen eye sought flaws—small anomalies that marred the burnished steel. None were visible. Hardly a surprise. The weapon had not seen battle in a good while.
No matter. He would administer to it anyway. The grind of stone on steel was a gratifying sound. If nothing else, the exercise might at least help to smooth out his mild feeling of angst. Perhaps the summons meant nothing. Perhaps he worried for naught. And perhaps his instincts were wrong.
As Ewan lifted the whetstone from its place on the shelf, the sudden trill of a cricket broke the evening silence. The distinctive song was rare this late in the year, an anomaly that drew Ewan’s gaze to the open window and the twilight beyond.
“The warm weather has undoubtedly aroused the little creature,” said a sober voice from the other side of the room. “In the Orient, its song is considered to be a sign of good fortune. A foolish, heathen belief. And Hammett should be the one sharpening your sword. Where is the lad?”
Ewan threw a fleeting glance at his companion, who sat, quill in hand, at the writing desk, no doubt recording the day’s events as was his habit.
“He’s away with Jacques on a wee errand.” Ewan settled himself in a chair by the empty hearth and bent to his task. “I’m no’ above sharpening my own weapon, Brother. ’Tis a soothing way to pass the time, I find. After I’ve done mine, I’ll hone yours too, if you wish. ’Tis likely in need.”
“My blade, I can assure you, is without blemish,” came the firm and somewhat piqued reply. There followed a soft sigh and the scratch of a quill on parchment.
Ewan smiled to himself.
His cohort, Brother Gabriel Fitzalan, was said to hold a crucifix in one hand and a sword in the other. Pious and disciplined in matters of faith. Deadly with a blade. Attributes befitting a Knight of the Temple.
What he lacked in totality, however, was a sense of humour—a deficiency that Ewan tended to exploit without apology. After all, who could resist hurling a stone into calm waters simply to watch ripples spread across the surface?
Not Ewan. Especially since Gabriel’s veins ran with noble English blood. By virtue of birth alone, the two men should have been sworn enemies. Ewan, being the second-born son of a Scottish laird, was surely obliged, then, to ruffle his friend’s Sasunnach feathers once in a while.
And friends they were, despite and above all else. Brothers-in-arms. Each ready and willing to die for the other and for the Brotherhood, if called upon to do so.
Ready and willing.
Ewan slid the whetstone along the edge of his blade and awaited Gabriel’s anticipated question. A moment later, the scratching of the quill ceased.
“What errand?”
Ewan smiled to himself. “The Master sent a summons while you were at prayer. Only one of us was required to respond. Jacques took it upon himself to do so and took Hammett with him.”
A brief pause ensued. Then, “My instincts tell me things do not bode well for the Temple.”
“Your instincts and mine.” Again, Ewan tilted the sword to the light and squinted along its edge. “The Brotherhood will, however, endure. Of that I have nae doubt.”
Gabriel grunted. “But in what capacity, I wonder?”
The cricket ceased its singing, and Ewan lifted his gaze to the open window. “Methinks we’re about to find out.”
*
“Nay, I cannae believe it. ’Tis some kind of unholy madness.” Ewan sprang to his feet, thrust his sword into its scabbard, and glared at the Templar brother who stood before him. “I’ll no’ do it, Jacques, do you hear? I’ll no’ run off with my tail ’tween my legs, like a kicked dog.”
“Nor will I,” Gabriel said, the sombre tone of his voice not quite hiding his indignation.
“To refuse is to disobey a direct command from the Grand Master himself.” Jacques Aznar’s dark, Basque eyes flicked from one man to the other. “Believe me, I share your anger and your desire to stand and fight. But this is not a battle to be won on some foreign field. This is not even a foreign enemy. This is a planned persecution by the crowned head of France. This Friday, Philippe will execute his royal edict and demand a widespread arrest of our Templar brothers. Others, besides us, have been similarly forewarned and ordered to seek refuge beyond the French borders. Though, in truth, we are few.”
“But why us?” Ewan gripped his sword hilt as if seeking support. “Why have we been singled out for exile?”
“I voiced the same question.” Jacques gave a grim smile. “And it is simply that we are better suited for it. We have each proven ourselves courageous. We’re still relatively youthful, strong in body and heart.” He gave Gabriel a pointed look. “We are also literate, able to read and write—important if we need to record our actions and communicate with others in the Order. And we each speak at least two languages.”
“So, the reward for being an exemplary knight is a command to forsake the rest of our brethren.” Bile rose to the back of Ewan’s throat. “It goes against the code, may God forgive us.”
“The Order must prevail, Ewan.” Jacques heaved a sigh. “Its future now rests upon those who are able to elude Phillipe’s oppression.”
“Last year the Jews were targeted,” Gabriel murmured. “This year, the Soldiers of Christ. Remove your creditors. Eliminate your debt.”
Jacques gave a solemn nod. “Undoubtedly Philippe’s motive, although he would surely deny it. According to our source, we stand accused of blasphemy, heresy, and all manner of unsavoury rites.”
“I’m aware of the falsehoods spoken against us,” Ewan said, “but to scatter like chafers into the night… I tell you, it turns my gut to even contemplate such a thing.”
“Consider it a tactical manoeuvre, Brother.” Jacques gave a half-shrug. “Not all battles can be fought with a sword, and I suspect we’re facing our most formidable challenge yet. A sacrifice that demands the greatest courage from those chosen to take it.”
Ewan failed to see the courage inherent in a retreat, and Jacques’ words weighed heavy on his spirit. He knew the mighty heartbeat of the Order, a sound that had echoed throughout Christendom for two centuries, had faltered in recent years.
Pray God it does not fall forever silent.
“Where, then?” Ewan asked, without enthusiasm. “Where are we commanded to go?’
“England, I should imagine,” Gabriel said, leaving his perch to move to Ewan’s side. “We have a strong presence there.”
“Nay, not England.” Jacques kept his gaze locked with Ewan’s. “We’re unsure, for the moment, of how much influence Philippe might have over the English crown. This damnable persecution may yet traverse the Narrow Sea. Our destination is England’s hostile neighbour. A less vulnerable and more distant shore.”
“Scotland,” Ewan muttered, realizing what lay behind the odd glimmer in Jacques’ eyes. “You mean Scotland, aye?”
Jacques inclined his head. “Personally, I’d have preferred to take my chances in Andalusia, which also offers refuge, but Scotland has been chosen as our destination. All other reasons aside, it seems your ancestral home has long had an affiliation with the Order and has a standing promise of refuge. I understand your grandfather, Calum MacKellar, fought with the brothers at La Forbie, and was one of the few Templars who survived that terrible day. Your sire is named for him, I believe.”
“My ancestral home?” Ewan frowned. “Are you referring to the country now, or the MacKellar family seat?”
“Your family seat,” Jacques replied. “It is to be found on the western coast, is it not?”
“Aye, but…” Ewan shook his head. “We cannae go there.”
Jacques raised a brow. “Might I know why? Does your grandfather’s pledge to the Temple no longer stand? We’re not asking for charity, Ewan. Your clan will be well compensated for giving us refuge.”
Ewan grimaced. “’Tis no’ a question of money, Brother. ’Tis more the fact that my sire and I dinnae see eye-to-eye. I left on bad terms. I doubt very much he’ll raise a welcome banner for me, or any who travel with me.”
Jacques gave him a bemused look. “But surely these differences can be set aside. Are you not his only son?”
Ewan shook his head. “Nay, I’m the second-born. Ruaidri is the elder by nearly three years, and heir to the seat. My mother died when I was born, and my father remarried. I also have a half-sister.” An image of vivid red curls and wide blue eyes slid into Ewan’s mind, and he felt a wistful tug at his heart. “She was but a wee lass when I left.”
Jacques grunted. “Which was twelve years ago, yes?”
“Almost.” Ewan shifted on his feet, unsettled by memories of his angry departure.
“I would also question their willingness to welcome me,” Gabriel remarked. “As you said, they are hostile to the English, which makes me an enemy. And besides, there are other known Templar holdings in Scotland. Can we not find refuge with our own?”
“We have been ordered to disperse,” Jacques replied, “which means, for now at least, we must seek refuge outside of the Brotherhood. And as a Knight of the Temple, Gabriel, you do not serve the English king. You answer to the Holy See in Rome and serve only Christ. In this capacity, you are a brother to Ewan and to me. If necessary, this will be made clear to Laird MacKellar upon our arrival.”
Ewan huffed in frustration. “Perhaps you didnae hear what I said, Jacques. I’ll no’ seek refuge at Castle Cathan. I swore I’d never return to the place.”
“An unfortunate vow. One made in pride and haste, I suspect.” Jacques squeezed Ewan’s shoulder. “I cannot force you to change your mind, Brother, but I urge you to do so. To set out from these shores without a definitive direction only adds to the sense of… of…”
“Desperation?” Gabriel’s lip raised in a sneer. “Like rats abandoning a sinking ship.”
“I prefer to think we’re seeking survival by means of an ark. One that is making ready to sail as we speak.” Jacques glanced at the window. “Destination known or unknown, we must leave on the dawn tide, so I suggest we begin preparations without further delay. We possess certain items that must not be allowed to fall into the king’s hands. I’m sure I don’t need to explain further. And, since we’re likely being watched, discretion is essential. Needless to say, we’ll be taking the tunnels down to the harbour.”
Ewan muttered a curse in his native Gaelic. “Call it what you will, this entire thing has a bitter taste. What of our squires and sergeants? Are they aware?”
“All those beneath this roof will be made aware of our departure, but they will not be told the reason for it,” Jacques replied. “Only Hammett will be coming with us, although I merely told him to prepare for a journey. He was not present for the meeting, so knows naught of what was said. I wanted to tell you first.”
Ewan gave a bitter laugh. “So, we must add the shame of betrayal to the shame of retreat. May the good Lord forgive us.”
Jacques heaved an audible sigh but said nothing.
“What of our horses?” Gabriel asked.
“Two each,” Jacques replied, “and an ox to pull the wagon once we make landfall. The ship is being readied to carry them.”
Ewan removed his hand from his sword hilt, unaware, till that moment, of how tight his grip had been. A mild pain tugged at the back of his eyes as he stepped over to the open window and gazed up into a clear autumn night.
“I cannae quite wrap my head around this nonsense,” he murmured, furling and unfurling his stiff fingers. “Is there any doubt at all about Phillipe’s intentions?”
There followed a moment of solemn silence before Jacques gave his grave reply. “None whatsoever.”
“Then may God help us,” Ewan turned and regarded his two comrades, “and guide us safely to Castle Cathan.”
From somewhere outside, the soft trill of a cricket once again rose into the air.
*
The nameless, unmarked cog left the port of La Rochelle in that darkest of hours before dawn, tugged into black, open water by three, oar-driven longboats. As the sun rose behind a grey belt of cloud, it aroused a brisk breeze that ruffled the sea. The crew adjusted the ship’s single, large sail, and the hull soon ploughed unerringly through the white-tipped waves, heading north.
It was an unadorned vessel; rudimentary, but large and solid. A single, open deck covered a compartmented storage and sleeping area beneath. Half-a-dozen horses and a hefty ox had been penned beneath a canvas roof toward the stern of the ship. No doubt unsettled by the movement beneath their hooves, the animals jostled each other, ears back and eyes rolling. Hammett stood with them, muttering words of calm that appeared to be having little effect.
Another hefty canvas covered the contents of a two-wheeled cart anchored to the deck by strong rope.
Ewan had slept little the previous night. The salt air whipped through his hair as he stood at the bow watching the distant coastline of Brittany disappear into his past. His thoughts were more turbulent than the surrounding waves, and the pain in his head persisted, like a tether around his skull.
Ten years as a Templar knight had changed him. Reshaped him. He no longer recognized the tempestuous young warrior he had once been. Beneath the white mantle of military discipline and piety, however, Ewan’s veins still ran with hot, Gaelic blood. The thought of returning to Castle Cathan naturally stirred dormant memories of his clan.
And the unresolved conflicts he’d left behind.
Gabriel’s voice drifted into his ear. “Have you had any contact with your family at all since you left?”
Ewan lifted his gaze to a seabird soaring overhead. “Nay.”
“So, it should be quite a homecoming. You are their lost son and brother. The prodigal, returned at last.”
Ewan narrowed his eyes against the breeze as he regarded the distant coastline once more. “I’m the unwanted son, Gabriel. The one who killed his mother on his way into the world.”
Gabriel fell silent for a few moments before speaking again. “Castle Cathan,” he said. “Does the name have a meaning?”
“It is named after Saint Cathan,” Ewan replied. “’Tis said the man spent the night there while on his travels. He was taken by the beauty of the place and gave it his holy blessing.”
“Cathan,” Gabriel repeated, his voice ponderous. “I’m not familiar with this saint.”
“He’s been dead many centuries and is little known beyond Scotland.” Ewan shrugged. “And there’s naught sacred about Castle Cathan when the winter winds come screaming out o’ the north. As you’ll soon find out.”
“With God’s merciful grace, aye,” Gabriel said. “You mentioned your sister’s name with some fondness earlier. I must assume, then, that your relationship with her was pleasant enough.”
“It was, aye. Children dinnae judge others till they are taught to do so.” Ewan turned and met Gabriel’s gaze. “I warrant she’ll take one look at the ugliness I bear and turn her eyes away, as most folk do.”
A slight frown settled on Gabriel’s brow. “I’m certain she’ll see beyond it, Ewan, as most folk do when they come to know you. It is a mark of courage, not ugliness. And one acquired while fighting in Christ’s name.”
“’Tis no’ the scar which bothers me so much, nor the reactions of those who see it. ’Tis the fact that I didnae get the chance to fight that day.” Ewan gave a wry smile. “Maybe that’s why the battle was lost.”
“I assume you jest. And besides, our fight is ongoing.”
Ewan pointed his chin at the French coast. “Over there, perhaps, but no’ out here, on this damned vessel. We’re in exile. Nay, worse, yet. We’re in retreat.”
“Knights of the Temple do not retreat.” Jacques stepped up to them, his sober expression offset by a gleam in his eye as he gestured over his shoulder. “Not while the Baucent still flies.”
Ewan looked back along the deck and felt his heart quicken. There, supported between two, twelve-foot poles amidships, the piebald banner of the Templar Order fluttered beneath the invisible touch of the wind.
Blood racing, Ewan dared to turn back and look north, where his future now lay. Despite the declarations of courage and the pledges to endure this trial, a harsh truth remained. He was returning to a world that had become foreign to him. A world where he didn’t belong. How could he even begin to prepare heart and head for such an undertaking?
Twelve years.
It seemed longer. By all things sacred, it felt like a lifetime. A somewhat blurred recollection of his brother arose in his mind. Ruaidri had been the double of their sire, with wild hair the colour of horse-chestnuts, and a square, stubborn chin. Not a tall man, but he’d been strong in body and mind, his quiet demeanour belying the fortitude of his spirit.
If their father had succumbed in Ewan’s absence, Ruaidri would now be laird of Castle Cathan.
Ewan drew a slow, deep breath as he considered the possibility of his father’s demise. What he felt about it could not quite be determined. Such events were mere imaginings, anyway. Fabricated assumptions that served little purpose. In truth, Ewan knew naught of his family’s circumstances. They knew naught of his, either.
All that, God willing, was about to change.
“What is to become of us?” he murmured.
Overhead, the seabird let out a mournful cry, tilted his grey wings, and turned toward the distant shore.