Approach to Castle Cathan,
Western Scotland
Thursday, October 18th,
Year of the Lord 1307
It might have been a memory, but it felt more like the realization of a prophetic dream. In any case, the sombre image of Ewan’s ancestral landscape, despite the passing of the years, had not changed. Its mirrored likeness still remained clear in his mind. Even the clouds looked the same as they skittered across the darkening sky, herded along by the eternal whistle of the wind. Salt tingled on his tongue as he breathed in the rich smell of rain and damp earth. The sensation of it stirred a dull memory, one forged in the depths of battle. Or perhaps it had merely been a dream. Ewan had never been quite sure.
He filled his lungs again, savouring the sweetness. Above him, gulls wheeled through the air, mocking each other with their cries. And then, of course, there was the castle itself.
On the cusp of nightfall, Castle Cathan appeared as a hard, grey silhouette, emerging from the coastal crag as if born from it. The main keep—an unadorned, rectangular tower—rose up at one end of a protective curtain wall. The backdrop of fertile pasturelands and distant mountains blended into the twilight, creating an ancient tapestry. In contrast, to the west, the sea stretched out to a horizon still aglow from the sunset. Below, the waves lashed incessantly at a rocky shore, stirred into a perpetual frenzy by the tides and winds.
Conflicted, Ewan tussled with his feelings. Part of him wanted to turn, dig his spurs into his horse’s belly, and flee. At the same time, he felt the inexorable pull of the past, both curious and fearful to know what had become of his family. In addition, the disciplined Templar knight he had become still grappled with feelings of betrayal and anger aimed at the French king.
Their exodus to Scotland had not been without problems. Rough seas had forced them to drop anchor in a sheltered Scottish bay for two full days before continuing on to their destination port. On the way, they had lost one of their horses to sickness. Upon landing, they continued the journey north, through terrain both majestic and unforgiving, seeking shelter and sustenance where they could.
The Templar mantles had drawn some curious glances, but the Order was well enough known in Scotland, and the men had journeyed unchallenged. Given the remoteness, Ewan knew it would likely be a while before news of Phillippe’s edict reached these northern climes.
“It’s a fine bastion,” Gabriel said, drawing Ewan from his musing. “A birthplace befitting a warrior such as yourself.”
Ewan eyed said birthplace and grimaced inwardly. “Aye, well, I cannae say what kind o’ welcome we’ll receive. If any.”
“I hope they don’t turn us away,” young Hammett said, stifling a yawn. “I could sleep standing up.”
“Not in this wind, you couldn’t,” Jacques said, gazing out over the sea. “It reminds me of the Côte Basque. A little more savage, perhaps, but quite magnificent.”
A man’s voice called out as they drew close to the gates. “Who approaches?” it demanded, in the Gaelic tongue. “And what is your purpose here?”
Ewan peered up at the shadowed figure atop the gatehouse. “I would speak with the laird of Castle Cathan,” he shouted. “Does Calum MacKellar still hold the seat?”
An elongated moment of silence ensued, then, “Who asks?”
Ewan lowered his gaze and shifted in the saddle.
Twelve years.
“I assume he’s demanding a name,” Jacques said.
Ewan gave a single nod. “Aye.”
“So, why do you hesitate? Tell him who you are, Brother. And tell him what you are, in case he does not understand the significance of our garb.”
Ewan doubted the latter to be true. Everyone in the clan, and others besides, knew of its long affiliation with the Templars. “My name is Ewan Tormod MacKellar,” he called out. “I’m a Soldier of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon, and the second-born son of Laird Calum MacKellar. Open the gates.”
This time, the resulting silence stretched out even longer.
“Do you think he has fainted from shock?” Hammett asked, squinting up into the gloom.
“Nay.” Ewan settled back in his saddle. “’Tis merely the sound of a man struggling to make sense of what he heard.”
“Wait there,” called the voice from above, moments later.
“An interesting language,” Gabriel observed. “I shall endeavour to learn it while I’m here.”
“’Tis no’ a bad idea, that.” Ewan cleared his throat and tried to calm his stretched nerves. “I doubt anyone here will take too kindly to your Sasunnach babbling.”
“I never babble,” Gabriel said, frowning, “in English or any other language.”
The indignant reply teased a smile from Ewan as he dismounted. He approached a small, grated portal in the gate, wondering whose face he would see when it opened.
The resulting wait only served to heighten his angst, and he sought out the customary comfort of his sword hilt. As he wrapped his fingers around it, his unsettled thoughts veered unexpectedly onto another road. “Eight days,” he said, looking back at his cohorts. “It has been eight days since the edict. I cannae help but wonder what––”
From behind him came the sound of the small portal opening. Ewan drew breath and turned toward it, seeing… no one.
Puzzled, he moved closer. “Would it hurt you to show yourself?” he asked, squinting into emptiness.
The sudden flare of a torch through the small window startled Ewan and also, apparently, the person on the other side of the gate, since he heard an audible gasp. It was a response he’d come to expect from those who looked upon him for the first time.
“So, now that you’ve seen my face,” he said, hardening his tone, “might I ask that you return the courtesy?”
“Who are you?” asked a female voice. “I was told you had news of my brother. Is that true?”
Brother? Ewan’s instincts bristled. Something felt wrong. Out of place.
Gabriel asked Ewan’s unspoken question. “Why is a woman challenging our presence here?”
Why indeed?
“I already gave my name,” Ewan said, seeing only shadowy shapes beyond the torchlight. “And as for news of your brother, I’m no’ certain who you mean. It might help if I knew to whom I am speaking.”
Morag? Is that you?
A mumbled exchange of words could be heard beyond the door, followed by a soft cry. Then, “Please, good knight, repeat your name again.” The woman sounded breathless. “I need to hear you say it, for my own sake.”
Aye. It has to be her. Twelve years! No longer a child.
Ewan leaned in and put his mouth close to the small opening. “Is that you, my wee lass?” he asked. “Not so wee anymore, I’m thinking. You’ll have seen, what… seventeen summers now? I’ve been away a good while, so I’m no’ certain how well you’ll remember me.”
“Dear God, it cannae be,” she said, her voice raspy. “Ewan? Is it you? Truly?”
“Aye, it truly is.” His throat tightened. “Will you please open the––?”
Another cry cut off the rest of his words, followed by the clattering of bolts being pulled and lock bars lifted. At last, the castle gates swung open.
It seemed to Ewan, for a fleeting moment at least, that time paused. Unmoving, he looked upon the small group of people before him; three men, two of them armed, the third holding a flaming torch that battled against the elements.
And a lass at their head, pale-faced and breathing hard, arms at her side, hands fisted.
The gloom barely subdued the reddish glow of her hair, errant strands of it writhing in the wind, the rest draped over one shoulder in a loosely bound mass. The stubborn curve of her chin was the same as Ruaidri’s and reminded Ewan of how wilful she had been, even as a child. Small, and of slender build, the lass nevertheless stood straight as a reed and stared at Ewan as if seeing a ghost.
He stepped forward.
“You’ve grown a bit since last I saw you, Morag,” he said, “but you’re still as bonny as I remember.”
The utterance of her name seemed to awaken her from a trance. She blinked and tugged at her shawl as she approached, stopping less than a stride away. A slight frown settled on her brow as she studied Ewan’s face, her gaze at last coming to rest on that damaged part of it. Ewan waited for the expected response, but she neither balked nor turned away. To his utter surprise, she touched her fingertips to his disfigured flesh, making him flinch.
Her frown deepened, and Ewan swallowed over what felt like a stone in his throat.
“And you have obviously suffered,” she said, tears shining in her eyes as she met his gaze again. “But you’re still alive, thank God and all His saints. We have wondered all these years, Ewan, and I have prayed for your return. Every night since you left, I have prayed for it. Ruaidri has, too. And… and you wear the white mantle, I see. Are you truly a knight of the Temple?”
Ewan inclined his head. “These past ten years.”
“One of God’s own warriors, then, like our Grandsire. I swear I can scarce believe my eyes.” Uttering a soft groan, she threw herself forward and hugged him, nestling her head against his chest. “My beloved brother, home at last. We have missed you so much.”
Ewan should have stepped back and put space between them. To touch a woman—any woman—was forbidden, unless to provide aid or protection. But, unable to reconcile heart and doctrine, he ignored the rule and returned the hug with genuine ardour. “I have missed you too, wee lass,” he said, swallowing against what felt like a lie. “I dinnae travel alone, either, in case you have nae noticed.”
She untangled herself and glanced past him. “I noticed, aye. Bid your friends enter, please, that we might close the gates again. I should imagine you have journeyed some distance and must be weary. Hungry too, no doubt.”
“Both, I confess.” Ewan summoned the others with a gesture and then turned back to his sister. “But it troubles me to find you here alone. Where’s our father? And Ruaidri?”
“I’m no’ precisely alone, Ewan,” she replied, turning to the men who stood in silence at her back. “Duncan, we have guests. I trust you’ll make preparations? Dinnae argue with me, please. Brody, cease gaping like a codfish and close the gates. Niall, you’ll see to the horses.”
Brody, whose mouth had been hanging open, looked sheepish. “Sorry,” he said, continuing to stare at Ewan with unabashed fascination, “but is it true what you say? Are you really a Templar knight? And your friends as well?”
“Brody!” Morag snapped. “The gates. Now!”
“You always were a fiery wee thing,” Ewan said, watching as the men dispersed without further comment. “A temperament to match that red hair. Tell me, what does no’ precisely alone mean, precisely?”
A glimmer of tears appeared in Morag’s eyes, and Ewan felt a sudden twinge of dread.
“What’s wrong, lass?” he asked. “’Tis plain something is amiss. What of your mother? Where is she?”
Morag answered with a shake of her head and looked past him again at Gabriel and Jacques. Both men had dismounted and were leading their horses into the courtyard. Morag’s brows raised at the sight of Hammett driving the loaded wagon, with yet another horse trailing behind. “It seems we each have much to tell the other,” she said, “but will you first introduce your friends? Afore aught else, I would ken who we have under our roof, especially since I get the impression they mean to stay more than a day or two.”
Ewan shifted his mind away from dark thoughts and waved his companions over. “How’s your French?”
Morag blinked. “They’re French?”
“Nay. Only the wee lad, there, who goes by the name of Hammett. Jacques Aznar, leading the grey horse, is Basque and Gabriel Fitzalan is a Sasunnach. But they’re comfortable in French. English as well, if you’d rather use that.”
Morag gasped and stared at Gabriel. “You brought a Sasunnach to Castle Cathan? Are you mad? He’ll no’ live to see the sunrise.”
“Och, dinnae say that. Any man who threatens Gabriel would be making a grave mistake.” Ewan sighed. “These men are nae threat to anyone here, Morag. They’re Knights of the Temple. Warriors of Christ, loyal only to the Holy See and each other. Gabriel is as a brother to me. Jacques too. I’ll no’ tolerate a lack of respect to either one.” He shifted his gaze and dropped into English. “Jacques, Gabriel, this is my wee sister, Morag who, for reasons I have yet to discover, seems to be in charge here.”
Morag frowned at him and then turned her gaze back to Jacques and Gabriel.
“Welcome to Castle Cathan, good sirs,” she said, also in English. “It would seem I stand in the presence of greatness, which in turn begs the question of why that might be. What, under God’s great sky, would bring three Templar knights, a wee French laddie, and a wagon load of… whatever that is, to this remote corner of Scotland?”
“I’ll tell you,” Ewan replied, “right after you tell me what is going on here.”
*
The arrival of three Templar knights at the gates of Castle Cathan would have created a bit of a murmur at the best of times. That one of the Templars happened to be Calum MacKellar’s alienated second son turned the murmur into a barely controlled clamour. All at Castle Cathan, not that there were any more than a dozen, had herded into the great hall like sheep, eager to see the visitors for themselves.
From the laird’s dais, Morag had announced her brother’s return with a voice beset by emotion, and a chorus of greetings had echoed across the hall. Ewan picked out a few familiar faces in the crowd, while others he could not recollect. He wondered, too, at the small size of the gathering. Surely, there should be more folk than what he now looked upon.
Audible whispers of disapproval had emerged when Gabriel had been introduced, but Ewan wasted no time in quelling them. Jacques’ introduction had been met with mild curiosity. As a Basque, he was a foreigner, but not an enemy. The same went for young Hammett.
Yet Ewan couldn’t shrug off a gut-feeling that something was awry. The structural strength of Castle Cathan was as he remembered it, but the air within felt different somehow, as if the clan’s spirit had been wounded and had not yet rallied.
Introductions complete, Ewan and the others had settled at the laird’s table and listened to Morag’s tale. As her account unfolded, he realized his gut had been correct.
Regret, he thought, had to be the bitterest of all emotions; a desolate sensation that gnawed at the conscience. Time did not negotiate. It had flown by and snatched away any chance to make amends. Chilled by more than the draught seeping through the shutters, Ewan stared at his sister without seeing her as he absorbed all she had said. The blood pounded in his ears as he struggled against an onslaught of memories, particularly those leading up to his departure and the last time he had seen his father.
He now knew that it had been the final time.
Laird Calum MacKellar had been gone not quite a year, felled by a merciless ague that had cut through Clan MacKellar like a scythe. He and many others of his clan had been taken, children and women among them, including Euna, Calum’s wife.
Morag’s mother.
“Màthair had been in poor health for a while,” Morag said. “She gave birth to a stillborn son in the spring of last year. The birthing near killed her too, so she was already weak when the ague struck. She was the first to go.”
“May Christ have mercy on you, lass, you have lost so much,” Ewan said.
“Not just me, Ewan.” Morag’s eyes grew bright with fresh tears. “I dinnae think there’s a family in the clan that has nae been affected in some way. That now includes yourself. Calum MacKellar was your sire, too.”
Ewan’s throat tightened. “Where does he rest?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“At the Eaglais Chruinn, next to our grandsire,” she replied. “You’ll be going there, no doubt, and taking your friends?”
He nodded. “Tomorrow morning, first thing. Is Father Iain still there?”
“Aye. Never changes. I swear God doesnae want to take the man.”
Food and drink had been placed before them although Ewan had yet to touch any of it. His appetite had disappeared, due mostly to self-recrimination. He had once vowed never to return to Castle Cathan. Aye, the vow had been spat out in anger, but did that make it any less valid? And if not for threat to the Templars, would he ever have returned home? No one had forced him to remain with the Order. He’d always been free to leave had he so wished. Yet he’d chosen to stay, shunning his past. And his family.
Cursing inwardly, Ewan pushed his unused plate aside and curled his hand into a fist. Morag placed her hand atop it, her pale, slender fingers bare of adornment.
“I’m sorry ’tis no’ a happy homecoming for you, Ewan,” she said. “But despite what you might be thinking, Da never once spoke ill of you after you left, nor would he allow anyone else to do so. He always hoped you’d return. You’ve always held a place in our hearts. I swear Ru would be weeping with joy if he were here.”
Morag’s words, meant to placate, actually twisted like a blade in Ewan’s gut. He silently cursed his stubborn pride and struggled to voice a question he was afraid to ask.
Ever perceptive, Jacques leaned in and asked it for him. “Where is your brother, demoiselle? Does he yet live?”
“Aye, he does,” Morag replied, and Ewan bit back a sigh of relief. “At least, I pray he does. He took himself off five days ago to get wed.”
Ewan’s brows lifted. “To get wed?”
“Aye, to Elspeth MacAulay.” She released a soft sigh. “Alastair MacAulay has been pushing for an alliance ever since Da died. Ru has never officially met the lass but agreed to MacAulay’s offer. Said it would keep the wolves from the gates. But I’m worried, Ewan. I cannae explain it, but something doesnae sit well with me. It’s been five days. Ru should be back by now.”
“Alastair, you say?” Ewan asked, frowning. “Is he not the eldest son?”
Morag nodded. “Aye. Malcolm MacAulay died from the same ague that took our father. ’Tis Alastair who is laird now. Elspeth is his sister, of course. And there’s Brochan, too. Elspeth’s twin.”
Gabriel spoke. “Did your brother take anyone with him?”
Morag shook her head. “Nay, he went alone. Alastair was supposed to meet him at the bothy atop the eastern pass and escort him the rest of the way.”
Ewan grunted. “About a day’s ride from here, aye?”
“To the bothy? Aye, thereabouts.”
“And Dunraven is about a half-day’s ride beyond that,” Ewan said. “So, three days travelling, there and back.”
“Which leaves two days for a wedding celebration,” Jacques said, with a shrug. “Not unreasonable, surely.”
“That’s what Duncan reckons, but I cannae lose this feeling that something is wrong.” Morag lowered her gaze and picked a speck of fluff off her skirt. “I dinnae trust Alastair MacAulay and said as much to Ruaidri. The man’s eyes are set too close together for my liking.”
Twelve years had passed, but Ewan recognized the reticence in his sister’s demeanour and knew what it meant. He nudged her arm. “What are you not telling me, lass?”
“I’ve told you everything of note,” she said, squaring her chin and meeting his gaze.
“Och, I think there might be a wee bit more yet,” Ewan said. He didn’t want to admit that he shared Morag’s unease, that her story had already raised several questions in his mind. “Something else is weighing you down. Dinnae deny it.”
Morag held her expression a moment longer, then her face crumpled. “Oh, Ewan,” she said, a sob in her voice, “’tis because of me that Ruaidri is marrying the lass.”
Ewan frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Alastair MacAulay offered for me first, but I refused him,” she said, her voice breaking. “Alastair wasnae too happy, to say the least. He insisted the union go ahead. Said the alliance was important for the clan’s survival.”
Ewan grunted. “His clan or ours?”
Morag sniffed. “Both, I suppose. In any case, Ruaidri wasnae too happy with me, either.” She dropped her gaze. “Things have nae been easy since Da died. I ken it’s important to keep on good terms with neighbouring clans, but I… I just wasnae ready for marriage. Especially to Alastair MacAulay. In truth, I dinnae like the man at all.”
Ewan sighed. “Did he make threats, lass?”
“Alastair?” She grimaced. “Not precisely.”
“There’s that word again.” Ewan cocked his head. “Tell me what he said, precisely.”
She shrugged. “He said the agreement was binding, and Ruaidri was obliged to hold to it. To break it wouldnae bode well for the clans’ alliance. So, Ruaidri offered to wed Elspeth instead, but Alastair still wouldnae agree. He wanted my dowry, you see. Not that it was much, mind you. Some livestock and a couple o’ horses, is all.”
Ewan shot a quick glance at Gabriel and Jacques. “So, what changed Alastair’s mind?”
“Ruaidri offered to pay a bride price for Elspeth. In the end, Alastair agreed to take half my dowry, though he wasnae too happy about it.” She grimaced again. “So, you see, ’tis my fault Ru has gone.”
Ewan shook his head. “He’s clan chief, Morag. He’s doing what he must to protect his own, and that includes his wee sister. Dinnae fash. I’m sure he’s fine. He’ll likely show up on the morrow.”
“I pray so.” Morag touched Ewan’s cheek. “But what a blessed night this is, anyway! ’Tis your turn now, dear brother. I would hear your own story. Where you went after leaving here, and how you came by this scar. Something tells me ’tis a need for sanctuary that has brought you back home. Am I right?”
“Aye, you are.” Ewan smiled at her intuitiveness. “And I think we should tell you about that afore anything else. My story can wait.”