Darkness had all but retreated, scattered by a feeble morning light that still crawled over land and sea. Despite his weariness Ewan had slept little. He felt as though he’d crossed the furthest threshold of fatigue and surpassed any need for sleep. On this, his first morning since returning to Castle Cathan, he stood on the gatehouse roof and saturated his lungs with brisk air that intoxicated his blood. The subsequent rush of exhilaration both inspired and refreshed him, but he suspected it would not last.
Indeed, his spirit sobered even as he gazed at the distant line of snow-capped mountains, the imposing granite wall dividing MacKellar and MacAulay holdings. These ancient, northern lands had a wild, majestic beauty, but they were merciless to those who dared to cross them unprepared. And they were not without their secrets.
Where are you, Ruaidri?
Anticipation sat upon Ewan’s shoulders like some accursed imp, tormenting him with all manner of imagined scenarios and possibilities. He had not voiced his fears to Morag. Like her, and everyone else at Castle Cathan, all he could do was wait and pray for his brother’s safe return.
And that was not all that stretched his nerves. That morning, he had a mission to undertake. An obligation, of sorts. One that he did not entirely relish.
A footfall drew his attention.
“They’re about ready for you,” Duncan said, moving to Ewan’s side.
Ewan glanced down at the courtyard, where Gabriel, Jacques and Hammett waited. “My thanks.” He turned his gaze back to the hills. “I confess, I’d forgotten how bonny it is here.”
“’Tis a blessing for the eyes, right enough,” Duncan replied. “Dinnae fash, Ewan. The laird’ll be back today, mark my words. Likely not till later, mind. ’Tis a fair ride from the bothy to here, especially since he’ll have his lady with him.”
“I pray you’re right,” Ewan said, heading for the stairs. “Stay vigilant, Duncan. We should be back by midday.”
He descended, nodded his readiness to the others, and prepared to mount his horse just as Morag appeared. “Tell me, Templar, do you remember the way?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.
Ewan’s mouth quirked as he stuck his foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle. “Aye, my lady, I believe I do.”
“Father Iain will think his time has come when he sees these white mantles approaching.” She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “He’ll ask where Ruaidri is, so please be careful what you say. He wanted to officiate at the wedding, but Alastair insisted the ceremony take place at Dunraven. Oh, and if the white heather is still blooming, will you please pick a wee sprig to put on our Grandsire’s grave? I’m sure you know why. Maybe on Da’s too, if you like.”
The surrounding pine forest, dark and sweetly scented, granted the knights and their squire a peaceful, cloistered trail. Jacques chatted quietly with young Hammett, their conversation unobtrusive. Gabriel, never one for speaking without cause, sat his saddle in easy silence. Ewan, meanwhile, toyed with Morag’s words like a dog worrying a bone.
Alastair ’s insistence that the wedding take place at Dunraven further heightened Ewan’s suspicion that something was afoot. He hoped his angst was ill-founded, of course. For reasons that needed no explanation, Ewan wanted his brother to come home. But, until Gabriel’s observation the night before, he hadn’t considered the other, far-reaching consequences that would apply should Ruaidri not return. Those consequences tacked an addendum onto Ewan’s heartfelt prayers.
Should it be called upon—Heaven forbid—Ewan’s obligation to his clan was irrefutable, but not without some qualms. To surrender his Templar existence would not be easy. He’d found stability within the ranks of the Brotherhood, something he had previously lacked. Aye, his ability to abstain from the pleasures of the flesh had been a challenge, but one he had obstinately—and successfully—met.
He remembered a time when mortal indulgences had filled his days and his nights. He also remembered a time when those indulgences had almost killed him. Unwilling to visit that dark period in his life, Ewan straightened his spine and looked ahead to where the trail exited the forest.
A short while later, they reined in their horses and gazed down at their destination. It was, for Ewan, a bittersweet moment. The last time he’d visited this sacred place, only one tomb had occupied the quiet interior. Now there were two.
“Remarkable,” Jacques murmured.
“Unexpected,” Gabriel added, “though it is precisely as you described.”
“’Tis known as Lorg Coise Dhè,” Ewan said, his heart quickening. “Which means God’s Footprint. And that…” he pointed to a building nestled beside the tarn, “is Eaglais Chruinn, or the Round Church. It took my grandfather ten years to build it. A labour of love and a testament to his beliefs.”
“God’s Footprint. I should like to hear the story behind that.” Jacques’ gaze wandered over the landscape. “Such beauty. It stirs the soul.”
“Aye, ’tis a special place. A sacred place.” Ewan pressed his heels to his horse’s flanks. “Come. I’ll introduce you to its holy guardian.”
To Ewan, Father Iain had always seemed ancient. Despite his advanced years, however, the old man’s faculties appeared to function well enough. His hearing, for one thing, judging by his sudden appearance at the church door as soon as the horses drew near. The priest, clad in pale, priestly robes, lingered a moment on the threshold before stepping out, staff in hand.
Even from a distance, the man’s sense of disbelief was apparent. He fidgeted on his feet and crossed himself. Then, after a brief pause, he descended the remaining steps and stood on the path, watching. As they drew near, the priest crossed himself once more and stepped forward to greet them, his expression one of incredulity.
“A vision I thought never to see again.” Of a slight build, Father Iain looked as though he’d be blown away by the merest hint of a breeze. His dark, weather-worn flesh created a stark contrast to his halo of silver hair and his quick green eyes glinted with what looked like tears. He banged his staff on the ground. “Are you come to fetch me home, my lords?”
Ewan smiled to himself as he dismounted, gratified to see that the man had changed little in twelve years. “Nay, Father Iain. I dinnae think our Lord is quite ready for you yet. Do you not know me?”
The priest blinked, moved closer, and squinted up at Ewan. “Curse my eyes, I thought you were my old friend sent back to give me absolution.” He reached up and touched Ewan’s face with a hand that trembled with age rather than fear. “Battle scars, I presume?”
Ewan nodded. “Aye.”
“Still, you look just like your grandsire. Och, and he’d be proud to see you wearing the mantle, Ewan. Beyond proud. You’ve been gone a wee while, aye? When did you get home?”
“Yester eve,” Ewan replied, conceding that twelve years was indeed a wee while to a man of Father Iain’s years. “’Tis good to see you, Father. You’ve no’ changed at all. These are Brothers Jacques Aznar and Gabriel Fitzalan. They dinnae speak the gàidhlig.”
Father Iain’s brows rose as he peered at Jacques and Gabriel. “Then I shall continue our discourse in French, a language almost as beautiful.”
“This is Father Iain Bànach,” Ewan said, to his companions. “Templar priest and a friend of my grandfather.”
Jacques inclined his head. “We’ve heard much about you, Father Iain.”
“All good, I trust,” the priest replied. “Welcome to Lorg Coise Dhè, my lords.” He frowned as his gaze settled on Hammett and the cart. “And you too, laddie, though I pray this doesnae mean what I think it means.”
Ewan’s smile dissolved. “I’m afraid it does, Father.”
“God protect us.” Father Iain crossed himself. “Well, I’ll no’ hear of it out here. You’ll come inside and tell me all.”
*
Sunlight tumbled through a single arched window, capturing the image of the red cross that stained the glass. The blurred reflection fell across the carved effigies of two knights that lay side by side; a calculated consequence. The window’s southern aspect harvested much of the sunlight on clear days.
The white heather, though a little tired in appearance, had still born some blooms. Ewan had gathered a couple of sprigs and bent to place one on each grave. Then he stood for a while in quiet contemplation. He sought peace. Nay, he sought answers. Maybe one would bring the other.
Like the great red deer that roamed the highland glens, he and his father had locked antlers many times. But over what? He couldn’t remember anything of great worth they had squabbled about. They had all been petty things. Unnecessary things. Big storms in small puddles.
Perhaps the resentment he’d harboured for so many years lay buried beneath his grief. Or had it, without him even realizing it, dissipated like a morning mist? In any case, he no longer felt it. Other feelings surfaced instead, the bitterest of all being regret.
A footfall behind him pulled him from his musings.
“Your sire always said you’d come back,” Father Iain said. “He never doubted it.”
Ewan shifted on his feet. “But a wee bit late to make amends, Father. If I’m honest, I must ask myself if I’d be here at all if no’ for Philippe’s edict.”
“Dinnae trouble yourself with such anxieties, Ewan. God has a plan for you, no doubt, and you must trust it. I still cannae believe it has come to this, though. History will condemn the king’s action, mark my words. Let it be known that Lorg Coise Dhè will always be a refuge for any brethren who need it.”
“’Tis already known by those highest in the order, Father.” Ewan sighed and glanced over his shoulder at the empty church. “I suppose we’re done here, for now.”
“For now, aye. Your brothers await you outside.”
“Then we’d best be off, or Morag will fret.”
“I pray Ruaidri will be there to greet you, too.” Father Iain grimaced and scratched a spot behind his ear. “He’s a canny laird, much loved by his clan. ’Twould be another harsh blow should he be lost.”
Ewan shook his head. “It doesnae bear thinking about.”
Father Iain squeezed Ewan’s shoulder. “All you can do is pray and keep the faith, lad.”
*
“Does it still hurt?” Morag asked, later that afternoon, as she touched her fingertips to Ewan’s scar.
“Nay, although I cannae bear the sun on it.” He grimaced. “It did hurt a wee bit at first, though.”
“A wee bit?” Morag huffed. “I cannae fathom the pain you must have suffered. And you said you were pinned to the ground. Who saved you?”
Ewan grunted. “I wish I knew. I remember commending my soul to the Lord’s keeping, and then hearing a voice and seeing a figure before the world went dark. My mind playing tricks, I suspect.”
Morag blinked. “Why do you say that?”
“Because it—he—spoke gàidhlig.”
“How strange. What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Not today, Brother. Not today’.” Ewan shrugged. “I remember naught after that. When next I opened my eyes, I was on board a Templar ship headed for Cyprus. No one I spoke to could tell me how I got there.”
“This is the first I’ve heard of this story,” Gabriel said. “A figure, you say? Did you see his face?”
“Not clearly. His silhouette blocked the sun.”
“A guardian angel,” Morag said.
“Or simply a brother who coincidentally spoke your language,” Jacques said. “We were many that day.”
Ewan grimaced. “Aye, and we lost most of them in that offensive.”
“It was not our finest moment,” Gabriel said. “Ruad was the last—”
The door to the laird’s private chamber crashed open and Brody all but fell into the room. “Riders approaching!” he gasped. “Two of them, on the low road.”
Morag shot to her feet. “Is it Ruaidri?”
“Um, nay.” Brady hesitated, his expression nervous. “I… I believe one of them is Alastair MacAulay.”
Ewan’s scalp prickled. Fingers wrapped around his sword hilt, he rose to his feet.
“Alastair MacAulay? But why would he…?” Morag’s turned wide, fearful eyes toward Ewan. “Oh, God, nay. I cannae bear it. Something must have happened to Ruaidri.”
“Now then, wee lass, dinnae jump to conclusions.” Yet bile burned the back of Ewan’s throat as he moved to her side. “Let’s find out what brings them here.”
“But it has to be something to do with Ruaidri,” she said, grasping Ewan’s arm. “It has to be.”
Ewan didn’t answer, for he could only agree and had no desire to do so.
Brody hopped from one foot to another. “Should I open the gates?”
“Let him announce himself first.” Ewan glanced at Gabriel and Jacques. “He’s no’ aware I’ve returned, remember? We should prepare a wee welcome for the man. Get back to your post, Brady. Follow procedure but say naught about me being here.”
Brady gave a single nod and then fled.
The impatient hammering of a fist against oak rattled around the courtyard as Ewan and the others stepped outside into the late afternoon dusk. Then the hammering stopped, replaced by a loud, harsh demand.
“Open the gates!”
Brody, already back at his post, leaned over the battlements, his verbal challenge inaudible to Ewan. It obviously raised Alastair MacAulay’s hackles, however, since the furious reply was quite clear. And alarming.
“You ken fine well who I am, you wee shite. Open the damn gates. I demand to speak with Ruaidri MacKellar.”
Ruaidri? Ewan frowned. Had he heard right? Why would he be asking to speak to Ruaidri?
Morag tugged on Ewan’s mantle. “I… I dinnae understand,” she said, dropping into Gaelic. “Why is he asking for Ruaidri?”
Ewan gave his head a slight shake, not quite willing to acknowledge the only possible answer
Jacques grunted. “He doesn’t sound like a man bringing bad news.”
“No,” Gabriel said. “He sounds angry.”
Ewan translated. “He’s asking to speak to Ruaidri.”
“Your brother?” Jacques frowned. “But he’d have no cause to do that unless…”
Ewan finished the sentence in his head. Unless Ruaidri never arrived at Dunraven. His gaze shifted to the distant snow-capped mountains. Six days. God help us.
Duncan, panting, stumbled to Ewan’s side. “What’s going on?”
“Let’s find out.” Ewan gripped his sword tighter and moved forward. “Open the gate, Duncan.”
It opened with a groan, and Duncan staggered backwards as two horsemen charged into the courtyard like marauders. The aggressive entry was short-lived, both lathered beasts tugged to a sudden, sliding halt on the cobbles.
“Obviously, not the welcome they expected,” Jacques murmured.
No, it wasn’t, judging by the expressions of shock on the men’s faces. Ewan studied the visitors. One of them, seated astride a hefty black horse, he didn’t recognize. The other, however, seated atop a skittish roan, aroused a clear memory. With his untamed mop of tawny hair, square jaw and close-set eyes, there could be no mistaking the eldest son of Malcolm MacAulay. The resemblance to his late sire bordered on uncanny.
“Who, by Odin’s hairy balls, are you?” Alastair MacAulay asked, trying to settle his agitated mount. “And what is your business here?”
Ewan gave a sober smile. “Those are nae your questions to ask, MacAulay.”
A brief flash of surprise swept across the man’s face, followed by a scowl. “Who are these men, Morag?”
“Dinnae answer him, lass,” Ewan said. “You’re forgetting your manners, MacAulay. At least have the courtesy to dismount if you wish to parley.”
Lips pulled back in a snarl, MacAulay reached for his sword. “Ye can wipe my arse with your bonny white mantle, Templar. I’ll no’ move from this saddle till I have the answers I seek.”
“Then you’ll be sitting up there a good while.” Ewan threw back his cloak, exposing the hilt of his sword. “You’re the intruder here, not I. Dismount, hand over your weapons, and we’ll talk. Either out here in the cold or inside by the fire. I dinnae care which.”
The man opened his mouth as if to answer, but closed it again, eyes narrowing as he regarded Ewan. “I know you,” he said, leaning forward and jabbing a finger in Ewan’s direction, “though you were naught but a whelp the last time I saw you. You didnae have that devilish mess on your face, either.” He straightened again. “Ewan MacKellar, the absent son. And a Templar knight, as I live and breathe.”
“Alastair, why are you here?” Morag stepped forward, wringing her hands. “Ruaidri left six days ago. Did he no’ arrive at Dunraven?”
The man seemed oblivious to Morag’s question. “As I live and breathe,” he muttered again, apparently lost in thought as he shifted his gaze to Jacques and Gabriel. “Templar knights at Castle Cathan. Why would that be?”
“Have you gone deaf, MacAulay?” Ewan asked, his tone tempered like steel. “Answer the lass.”
Alastair MacAulay threw him a scornful look. “Nay, I havenae gone deaf, MacKellar.” He dismounted and gestured for his cohort to do likewise. “’Twill be dark in an hour, so we’ll need shelter for the night. We’ll talk, aye, but not out here.”
The man’s arrogance had Ewan reaching for patience. He squared his stance and gave Alastair a tight smile. “Your weapons,” he said, glancing from one man to the other, “or we go no further.”
Nostrils flaring, Alastair hesitated. “I dinnae see why—”
“And I dinnae care to explain.” Ewan half-drew his sword and nodded toward Hammett. “You can give them to the young squire there. You’ll get them back when you leave.”
Alastair spat out a curse and unfastened his sword-belt, gesturing for his companion to do likewise. “I dinnae care for your demeanour, Templar.”
Ewan merely renewed his smile and watched as the men handed over their swords. “There,” he said, “that wasnae too painful, was it? And you are correct, Laird MacAulay. I am Ewan MacKellar, second son of Calum MacKellar and a knight of the Temple. Welcome to Castle Cathan.”
*
Ewan’s worst fears had been confirmed.
Alastair nodded toward his companion. “Tasgall and I waited at the bothy for two days,” he said, “but Ruaidri never showed. It was cold enough to freeze the arse off the Devil, so we headed back to Dunraven to thaw out. We left again yesterday, and here we are.”
Despite the fire glowing in the hearth, Ewan felt chilled to his core. They sat in Ruaidri’s private chamber off the great hall, away from prying eyes and ears. Ewan’s gaze drifted to the shuttered window, his mind’s eye seeing beyond it, knowing another night sat in readiness to make its dark claim upon the land.
Knowing that Ruaidri was out there, somewhere.
Six days. Nigh on seven. May Christ have mercy.
“Why did you return to Dunraven?” Ewan asked. “Why did you no’ come straight here?”
Alastair sniffed. “Like I said, we were frozen, and Dunraven was closer. We also needed food and so did the horses.” He gave a half-shrug. “Besides, we’ve kept to our side of the agreement. ’Tis your brother who has failed to keep his.”
A thoughtless remark, one that had Ewan biting his tongue. Morag made a sound that tore into his heart. Seated beside her, he drew her close.
“Hush, lass,” he murmured. “We’ll search for him.”
“May God forgive me,” she said, clutching at Ewan’s shirt. “I knew something would go wrong. I just knew it. And just like I told you, ’tis all my fault.”
“Dinnae say that.”
“But ’tis true.” Morag’s resigned, flat tone worried Ewan more than if she’d had hysterics. “If I’d married Alastair, Ruaidri would still be here.”
Alastair snorted. “I cannae argue with that, Morag MacKellar. You should have taken my offer.”
Ewan felt Morag flinch. “I suggest you curb your tongue, MacAulay,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Or I’ll be showing you and your lapdog the way out.”
“And I’ll be happy to assist you,” Jacques said, drawing a surprised glance from Ewan.
Alastair’s expression darkened as he glared at Jacques. “I dinnae like to be threatened, Templar. ‘Specially by a foreigner.”
“Neither do I,” Tasgall growled, eyes narrowed.
Jacques raised a brow. “I do not make threats, Messieurs,” he replied. “Any action I take shall be executed swiftly and without warning.”
Alastair sputtered and began to rise, but Ewan waved him back. “Dinnae be a fool, MacAulay. Sit your arse down and mind your tongue!” His gazed drifted to the shuttered window again. “Ruaidri is out there somewhere, and I mean to find him and bring him home. I’ll be leaving at first light.”
“Aye, and we’ll be leaving too.” Alastair scowled at Jacques and then nodded toward Tasgall. “We’ll help with the search for your brother, of course.”
Tasgall grunted his agreement.
Ewan took a moment to scrutinize Alastair’s companion. At most, he looked to be around thirty summers; a little older than Alastair. Of average height, he had a powerful build and a wild appearance, with unkempt rat-brown hair that hung past his shoulders, and a thick, braided beard. A warrior, without doubt. One who, at that moment, appeared to be somewhat at ill at ease. As if sensing the scrutiny, he met Ewan’s gaze and held it for a moment, eyes narrowing before looking away.
“As will I, Brother,” Gabriel said, gaining Ewan’s attention, who nodded his thanks and looked to Jacques.
“It goes without saying, my friend,” the man said, his expression grave.
Morag lifted her head. “I want to come too.”
“Nay, wee lass, and there’ll be no argument,” Ewan replied, his tone firm but gentle. “’Twill be a hard ride, and we might be gone for a few days.” Besides, I dinnae want you there when – if – we find Ru. It likely willnae be a pleasant sight.
He waited, expecting some kind of resistance. But Morag merely heaved a soft sigh and rested her head against his chest again.
Touched by the bleakness of his sister’s spirit, Ewan closed his eyes against a sudden and unexpected sting of tears. Not from regret this time, but grief, its ache oppressive and bone deep. Father and brother. One dead, the other likely to be. It seemed as if his entire family had been chosen for hardship. The foundations of his faith shuddered beneath the burden of it.
A hand squeezed his shoulder. “Thank God you’re here, Ewan,”
Ewan opened his eyes and gave a bitter laugh. “Dinnae tell me I’m being tested, Jacques.”
“I don’t need to.” Jacques glanced at Morag. “And not only you. All you can do is pray and keep the faith.”
Ewan frowned, remembering that Father Iain had said the same thing.
Alastair cleared his throat and scratched his chin. “I’m curious about what brought you back here, MacKellar. ’Tis no ordinary homecoming, is it? Not when you arrive wearing that Templar garb, and with two other knights besides. And what happened to your face, by the way?”
*
“He is not a pleasant man,” Jacques said, later that night, “and his concern for your brother’s wellbeing, while voiced, seemed to lack sincerity. He was more interested in learning the reasons for our exile than in your brother’s disappearance. Despite what has occurred, it’s as well, I think, that your sister avoided marriage with him.”
Ewan’s thoughts about Alastair MacAulay had been flowing along a similar vein. He shifted on his pallet and folded his hands behind his head. “I cannae say I disagree, Jacques, although I suspect the man’s bluster is bigger than his balls.”
“Do you believe his account?” Gabriel asked. “That your brother never arrived? It occurred to me that with Ruaidri out of the way, Morag might be more easily persuaded to marry Alastair.”
“Who might thereby challenge the lordship of your clan,” Jacques finished.
Ewan grunted. Similar suspicions had whispered in his ear even as Alastair MacAulay had ridden through the castle gates earlier that day.
“Alastair MacAulay is no saint,” he said. “He seems to be much like his sire, from what I recall of the man. Loud, arrogant, and no’ afraid of a fight. But to kill Ruaidri in cold blood?” He grimaced. “I doubt the auld laird would have done any such thing, and I cannae accuse Alastair of it. For now, at least, I’m prepared to believe that some misfortune befell Ruaidri on his way to the rendezvous.”
“I have given it some thought,” Jacques said, after a pause. “And with your approval, Ewan, I believe I should stay behind. It might be prudent to have a clear mind and a steady hand here. Not to mention an extra sword.”
It was a fair point.
“Aye,” Ewan replied. “Now you mention it, I’ll feel better knowing I dinnae have to worry about Morag. Just the four of us then, and I pray we’ll solve this puzzle. A man cannae just disappear without a trace.”
Can he?