A solitary candle burned atop the carved granite altar, its golden flame casting a halo of light around the wooden crucifix that graced the back wall. The faint scent of incense hung in the air but failed to oust the musty odour that occupied the small, windowless space.
No mighty cathedral, this, yet the castle’s small private chapel served the same purpose as any of the towering basilicas that scraped the skies of England and France. The stone beneath Ewan’s knees was no less hard. No less cold.
He barely noticed the discomfort. He had whispered his prayers, submitted his penance, and asked for much needed guidance. Yet peace of mind continued to elude him.
Ewan’s gaze came to rest upon a tattered piece of fabric hanging to the left of the altar, its faded colours barely visible in the frail light. At one time, the cross emblazoned upon its surface had been as red as the blood in Ewan’s veins, and the backcloth as white as virgin snow.
It had been carried thousands of miles over land and sea; frozen by winter frost, soaked by sea-spray, and bleached by hot, desert sun. It had borne witness to battle, and had been spattered with both Christian and Saracen blood. Now it rested in quiet seclusion within this small Highland chapel.
His grandfather’s Templar banner had served its purpose.
The bitter undertone of that observation further tainted Ewan’s thoughts. Had all the Templar banners in France been torn down? Cast aside? Trampled into the dirt? Had the Order, so widely acclaimed throughout Christendom, served its final purpose?
It was unthinkable. Surely the Pope would intervene. He had to. Ewan breathed in a lungful of stale air and endeavoured to steer his mind onto calmer waters. No easy task.
Behind him, a door creaked. Ewan glanced over his shoulder and nodded a silent greeting as Gabriel approached. The man dropped to one knee, crossed himself, and whispered a brief supplication before rising to his feet once more. “The tales it could tell,” he said, seemingly following Ewan’s gaze. “Do you have any memory of your grandfather?”
Ewan shook his head. “None,” he said, grimacing as he stood. “The man died even before Ruaidri was born.”
“Yet his story lives on.”
“And in a grand fashion.” Ewan gave a sober smile. “He is something of a legend in the MacKellar clan. I was raised listening to tales of his remarkable feats. According to some, he single-handedly saved Christendom itself.”
Gabriel shrugged. “Time and repetition tend to blur the truth.”
“Aye, they do.” Ewan sighed. “Which makes me wonder what will be said about our order in years to come. Its reputation has already been sullied by lies and exaggerations.”
“Which is why I write,” Gabriel replied. “I endeavour to keep a truthful account of our daily lives so those yet to come may understand who we are. Who we were. And there are others who inscribe as I do, Ewan. Much has already been recorded. Our rules, our conquests, our battles fought and lost. Which reminds me why I came to find you. I fear Jacques is currently losing a battle in the great hall.”
Ewan tensed. “With whom?”
“Your sister.” A rare expression of amusement flitted across Gabriel’s face. “She is arguing with him over our sleeping arrangements. I don’t believe I have ever seen our Basque brother quite as… irked.”
*
“I’m sorry, but nay. A hundred times nay. Sleep on the damn floor if you must, but it’ll no’ be this floor, sharing the space with all and sundry.” Hands on hips, Morag stiffened her shoulders and glared up at Ewan, the top of her head not quite level with his chin. “I understand you adhere to certain disciplines, but as I explained to your friend, this is nae a monastery, nor anything like. And being a Templar knight doesnae change the fact that you are Calum MacKellar’s son, brother to our chief, and for now, at least, the clan heir. Whether you like it or not, that entitles you. Your auld chamber is empty, so you and your friends should use it. Your wee squire will be fine down here, mind. I’ll find a warm spot for him. Ru would support me in this, you know he would.”
Ewan threw a resigned glance at Jacques, who failed to suppress a disapproving growl as he cast a dark glare at Morag. She responded with an equally unflinching stare and a raised brow.
Not long after, the three knights laid their pallets down in Ewan’s old chamber in readiness to retire for the night.
Ewan lay back, folded his hands behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling. Fatigue pricked at his eyes, but his overwrought mind refused to entertain much hope of sleep. Other than a subdued whisper of wind from beyond the shutters, the only sound was that of a quill scratching against parchment. It came from the corner, where Gabriel sat at a small table, writing by the light of a solitary candle.
“She is enough to make a saint pray for patience,” Jacques muttered, as if voicing his thoughts out loud.
A smile tugged at Ewan’s mouth. Obviously, his sister had undermined Jacques’ disciplined composure. “She’s a Highland lass, Jacques. Dinnae attempt a victory. Settle for a compromise. ’Tis always safer.”
“In this case, she is correct, however,” Jacques continued, as if still talking to himself. “This is not a monastery, nor is it even a Templar holding. Given our position here, we have no choice but to adapt.”
Ewan threw his friend a bewildered glance. “’Tis nae what you implied a wee while ago.”
“True. But I have since given it some thought.” He cleared his throat and turned to face Ewan. “As your sister reminded me, this is a secular domain. Consequently, many of our rules cannot be realistically applied here. Until such time as we are able to return to our own, we must tolerate a measure of disharmony.”
“Disharmony?” Ewan felt a mild flutter of resentment. “I’m no’ sure what you mean. They have taken us in, Brother, without question. Dinnae lose sight of that.”
Jacques grimaced. “A bad choice of words. That we must allow ourselves some leniency is probably a better way to describe it. Within limits, of course.”
“Our rules and self-restraint will be tested, no doubt,” Gabriel said. “But I wonder, Ewan, at your choice of words too. Jacques and I have indeed been given refuge, but you are family, entitled to a place beneath this roof.”
Ewan grunted. “I’m no’ certain my father would have thought so.”
“Your sister implied otherwise.” Gabriel’s brow furrowed. “From what she said, I got the impression your father felt your absence keenly.”
“He likely missed having someone to fight with,” Ewan replied. “We did naught but argue all the time.”
Gabriel’s frown disappeared. “About what?”
More images, like ghosts, rose up in Ewan’s mind. “Anything. Everything. The man was as stubborn as a damn donkey. I couldnae please him. No matter what I did, he’d always find fault. I reckon he never forgave me for killing my mother.”
Jacques gave him a sharp look. “Did he actually accuse you of that?”
Ewan pondered, and found himself surprised by his conclusion. “I’d have to say nay, he didnae actually voice it. It was more a feeling I had.”
“It’s a pity you never got the chance to resolve your differences.” Gabriel’s remark held no malice, but the reflection stung like vinegar in an open wound nonetheless.
“Aye, but there’s nae point dwelling on something I cannae change,” Ewan replied. “Right now, I’m more concerned about my brother’s whereabouts.”
Jacques propped himself up on an elbow. “You think he’s come to harm?”
“I’m no’ sure what to think.”
“Have you thought about the repercussions if your brother is not found alive?” Gabriel asked.
Ewan blew out a breath. “It doesnae bear thinking about.”
“But you’ve considered your obligation.”
“My obligation to what?”
“To your clan,” Gabriel replied. “You’re the heir, Brother. If Ruaidri is lost, they will look to you for leadership. Your loyalty must surely be to them, which will mean rescinding your Temple vows.”