Chapter Twenty-Seven
Five days had passed since Ruaidri’s return. There had been no sign of Alastair MacAulay or Tasgall. No news at all, in fact.
Till now.
“I cannae decide if you’re brave or foolish,” Ruaidri said, eyeing the two people who stood before him in the great hall. “Whichever the case, I’m sure you can understand if I dinnae extend a warm welcome to Clan MacAulay. What do you want?”
Cristie looked on in disbelief, wondering what on earth had brought Brochan and Elspeth MacAulay to Cathan’s gates. Brochan’s pallor reflected his shock at the sight of the emaciated man before him. Elspeth’s hands were clenched, prayer like, over her mouth, and had been like that since she’d first seen Ruaidri. She stared at him in blatant horror, her eyes bright with tears.
“Laird MacKellar.” Brochan glanced at Cristie, the slight tilt of his head acknowledging her presence. “We… Christ have mercy, I dinnae ken what to say. I knew naught of your kidnapping or confinement till Elspeth told me of it. And I didnae… I mean, I didnae expect to see you so…”
“Close to death?” Morag spat, not hiding her contempt.
Brochan shifted on his feet. “Aye, in truth.”
“Thank God Cristie got to you in time, Laird MacKellar,” Elspeth said. “And Brochan speaks true. We had nae knowledge of your abduction. None at all.”
Ruaidri’s gaze swept over the lass. “Cristie told me what you did, my lady. For that, I owe you a debt of thanks. But answer the question, and tell us what brings you here.”
“Our brother.” Brochan straightened. “We would know what became of him. We’ll understand, of course, if… if you’ve hanged him already, given the circumstances.”
Ruaidri raised a brow and cast a quick glance at Ewan. “Hanging would be too good for Alastair MacAulay. Chained in a dark dungeon and left to starve to death might be a wee bit more appropriate.”
Brochan cleared his throat. “Is that where he is? Chained in your dungeon?”
“Nay,” Ruaidri replied. “Unfortunately, we havenae had the opportunity.”
“What do you mean?” Brochan frowned. “Are you saying you havenae seen him?”
“Neither hide nor hair.”
Brochan threw a puzzled glance at Elspeth. “Then, where is he?”
Ruaidri huffed. “I’d like to know the answer to that as well.”
“Burning in Hell, I hope,” Morag said.
“Where’s Tasgall?” Cristie asked. “Was he with him?”
“Tasgall is dead, Cristie,” Elspeth said. “Alastair put a blade through him the night he returned from letting you and Laird MacKellar go. Alastair left right after. We just assumed he’d gone after you.”
Ruaidri uttered a curse under his breath and turned away for a moment. “Be seated,” he said, gesturing to the table, “and tell us everything.”
Brochan inclined his head. “Thank you, laird.”
Elspeth approached Cristie. “You did it,” she murmured, glancing at Ruaidri. “But, Cristie, the poor man! I still cannae believe what Alastair has done. And these are yours, by the way.” She held out a cloth bag. “I thought I’d bring them, though I’m no’ sure if you mean to stay here.”
“My gifts! Thank you. And, aye, I’ll be staying here.”
“I see.” Elspeth looked past her, raising a brow. “You must be Ewan.”
Ewan inclined his head. “My lady.”
“You’ve forgiven my daft sister, then? For pretending to be me?”
Cristie gasped. “Elspeth!”
“I have, aye.” Ewan slid an arm around Cristie’s waist. “The lass rowed across a loch, offered her life in exchange for my brother’s freedom, rode a horse through the mountain fog, and delivered my brother safely home. I had nae choice but to forgive her. I had nae choice but to marry her as well.”
Elspeth blinked. “You’re married?”
Cristie grinned. “For three whole days.”
“Well, I’m happy for you, truly.” She heaved a sigh. “’Tis nice to have something to feel happy about. The past few weeks at Dunraven have been absolute shite, quite frankly.”
*
“I ken you didnae like him, but I have to tell you, I feel sad for Tasgall.”
Ewan frowned. “I ken you do, lass.”
Cristie, sitting crossed on the bed, leaned over and grabbed her comb from the bedside table. “’Tis as if Alastair is unhinged. Or was, since he’s likely dead by now.”
A chill brushed the back of Ewan’s neck. “Until we find out, you’ll no’ leave the castle without me for any reason. Understood?”
“Aye.” She eyed a strand of her hair and pulled the comb through it. “Though I cannae believe he’s still alive, Ewan. He’s been missing for five days.”
“I dinnae care if it’s been fifty-five days. You’ll no’ step out of those gates unless I’m with you. Swear it, lass.”
She grimaced as her comb hit a tangle. “I swear.”
“And I’ll be telling Morag the same.” Ewan held out a hand. “Let me do that.”
Shuffling around, she settled herself in front of him and shook her hair back. “What do you think of Brochan and Elspeth?”
“I like them much better than their brother.”
“I think Ruaidri likes Elspeth,” Cristie mused. “I think she likes him, too. They chatted for quite a while last eve. Did you notice?”
“She was the lass meant for him, so he’s curious about her. There’s naught more to it than that.” But Ewan smiled to himself. He’d noticed Ruaidri’s interest as well.
“I think they’d be well suited.” Cristie sighed. “And you can cross a shawl and a comb off your list, by the way.”
*
“Do you think Alastair is still alive?” Ruaidri asked, watching Brochan and Elspeth ride out of the gates the next morning.
“Aye.” Ewan’s hand tightened on his sword hilt. “Though I’m no’ sure why.”
“Maybe he’ll be at Dunraven when they get back.”
“Rather there than here.” Ewan gazed up at a dawn sky. “I’m going to Lorg Coise Dhè this morning.”
“Taking Cristie?”
“Aye, though she doesnae ken yet. I only said we were going for a ride.”
“’Tis putting her at risk. And I’m no’ talking about Alastair MacAulay.”
“No more at risk than Morag, Ru. Given what’s happened, I dinnae want any more secrets between us. She’s my wife. She has a right to know.”
Ruaidri nodded. “I understand. Tell Father Iain I’ll get there myself when I’m feeling stronger.”
“I just wish we had news from France.” Ewan grimaced. “Then again, maybe I dinnae.”
“It’ll come.” Ruaidri put a hand on Ewan’s shoulder. “But I fear it willnae be good news, Ewan. Here’s Cristie. Stay vigilant, brother.”
*
A look of wonder on her face, Cristie gazed out over the small glen. “What is this place? ’Tis incredible.”
“’Tis called Lorg Coise Dhè,” Ewan replied. “And the church down there is called Eaglais Chruinn. It was built by my grandfather. The glen and the church are pledged to the Templars.”
“But, why would he build a church here?”
“’Twas a dream of his, apparently. One he carried with him from childhood.” Ewan pressed his heels to his horse. “Come and say good morn to its sole resident. You already know his name.”
As usual, Father Iain stepped outside as they approached. Ewan dismounted and lifted Cristie down.
“Father Iain.” She glanced about. “What a fine place to live.”
“Good day, to you, my lady. And to you, Ewan. Aye, I’m a fortunate man.”
“But, do you no’ get lonely?”
“Nay, lass. God is always with me. And if I fancy some mortal company, my wee donkey and I head on over to Castle Cathan.”
Ewan cleared his throat. “I’ll be showing Cristie around, Father Iain.”
The man’s brows raised. “I trust she’ll find it enlightening, Ewan.”
Ewan nodded. “I trust she will.”
The priest nodded, the hint of a smile on his face. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
Ewan tethered the horses and then took Cristie’s hand. “The white heather is over here,” he said, leading her to toward the loch. One or two sprigs still had flowers on them. Ewan picked one and gave it to Cristie.
“’Tis a bonny place,” she said, gazing about. “Now I’m here, Ewan, I can understand why your grandfather built his church. ’Tis the perfect place to build one.”
“It pleases me to hear you say it, mo chridhe, for I always feel the same.” He kissed her. “Come and see his legacy.”
They climbed the church steps and passed beneath a carved stone archway. “Hewn from an English oak,” Ewan said, pushing the heavy door open, a groan from the hinges resounding through the church. It faded to silence, and Ewan felt the familiar sense of peace as he set foot inside.
“I have never seen the like,” Cristie whispered, crossing herself as she glanced about. “The carvings are incredible.”
“The masons were chosen with care,” Ewan said. “Most of them had worked for the Templars previously. The symbolism represents the Holy Land and Scotland. You’ll see carvings of olive and palm leaves as well as heather and thistle.”
She turned a circle. “Yet there is little adornment elsewhere. ’Tis very plain, otherwise.”
“The Templars are no’ given to ostentation,” Ewan replied.
Shafts of daylight tumbled through the windows, lighting the way till Ewan and Cristie came at last to the apse. Here stood the altar, covered by a green altar cloth, and lit by three slender candles. A large wooden cross hung on the wall.
Cristie glanced down at her feet. “What does this say, Ewan?” she asked, seeing letters carved into a flagstone.
“’Tis from the book of Psalms, and is written in Latin.” Ewan crossed himself. “‘Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto thy Name give glory’”.
Cristie crouched, and traced the lines of one of the letters. “Do you think you could teach me to read? It must be wonderful to understand such words.”
“Of course, mo chridhe.” Ewan helped her to rise. “Come and see where my father lies.”
He led her, then, to the side chapel, where the effigies of two knights lay side by side.
“At certain times, when sunlight pours through yon window, it reflects the cross onto their tombs,” Ewan explained. “My father was not actually a Templar, but all and any future lairds of my clan are allowed to rest here if they wish.”
Cristie bent and placed her sprig of white heather on his father’s tomb. “I wish I could have known him,” she said. “If, as you say, you were much alike, I’m sure I would have loved him.”
Moved, Ewan lifted her hand to his lips. “You honour me, lass. I’m certain he would have loved you too.”
“I am the one honoured,” she said. “Thank you for bringing me here, Ewan.”
“We’re no’ quite done yet.” He gave a sober smile. “There’s one more thing I’d like you to see before we leave. Come.”
They returned to the altar and the carved floor stone.
“Stand here,” Ewan said, moving her to the side, “and dinnae move.”
“Why?” Frowning, she glanced about. “What are you doing?”
Ewan didn’t answer.
Instead, he unsheathed his sword and anchored it, point first, into the second Latin ‘i’ that had been carved into the flagstone. The weapon stayed upright, swaying slightly. Ewan waited till the blade stilled and then knelt before it, head bowed as he prayed. Then, he crossed himself and rose to his feet.
“I’m trusting you, Cristie,” he said, and pushed down on the hilt of his sword. A moment later, a soft rumble sounded beneath his feet. He watched as an unmarked flagstone at the foot of the altar sank below the floor and slid of sight beneath the altar steps.
The air fell silent.
Ewan looked over to where Cristie stood, an expression of shock on her face. He could almost hear the rattle of her heart as she stared at the opening in the floor. “What is this?”
“My grandfather was a man of vision,” Ewan said. “He studied history, and in doing so, came to the conclusion that the powerful are always doomed to fall. ’Tis the way of the world. The way of God. So, he decided to prepare, certain that a day of reckoning would one day befall the Templars. That day, it seems, came on October the 13th this year.”
Cristie stepped forward and peered into the blackness. “What’s down there?”
“The means to survive, perhaps.” Ewan shrugged. “The Templars are the richest military order in Christendom.”
She gasped. “Are you saying Alastair was right?”
Ewan went to the altar and lifted one of the candles. “Come and see for yourself, mo ghràidh.” He extended a hand. “And mind your step.”
The candle flame cast a halo of light across a half-dozen boxes that had been neatly stacked on the earthen floor. Ewan went to one of them, took his dagger, cut through the binding, and threw back the lid. Inside, a dozen or so burlap bags, the outlines of their contents bulging against the fabric.
Ewan cut a small slit in one of the bags, just big enough to see the silver coins inside.
“We had an entire night to prepare, Cristie.” A sigh escaped him. “We were never going to leave France empty handed.”
“All these boxes contain silver coins?”
“Nay, dinnae be daft.” He grinned. “Some have gold in them.”
“Oh!” She laughed, and glanced about. “Truly, this is incredible.”
“Silver and gold only have practical worth, lass,” Ewan said. “’Tis the holy artefacts that have true value.”
“They are here too?”
“A few, aye.” He lifted a small, leather-bound chest from atop one of the boxes. “This is the most important one. Hold the candle for me.”
He flicked the small brass latch, lifted the lid, pulled out a yellowed scrap of linen, crossing himself before he opened it.
“What is it?” Cristie asked. “It looks like a piece of wood.”
“’Tis part of a cross,” Ewan said, “a cross that once stood in a place called Calvary.”
*
Later that night, Ewan quietly admitted to himself that there were few things in life better than holding a soft, warm, lass in his arms. That he had come to love the lass beyond measure surely added to the pleasure of it.
Yet his visit to Eaglais Chruinn had churned up fresh feelings of frustration and anguish. His heart ached for his Templar brothers. Despite his father’s prediction, it seemed impossible to believe that this might truly be the end for the Order. Ewan’s future seemed set, but for Gabriel and Jacques, it was still uncertain.
All they could do, for now, was wait for news.