True Highland Spirit

by Amanda Forester

  “I have eaten myself sick. Feels great,” said Morrigan. “Now what?”

  “Ask around. See what we can discover of our friend Mal. We must find the silver box.”

  “Aye,” said Morrigan, though in truth she would have been quite content with a warm bath and a nap. Or even better, a warm bath, gingerbread, and a nap. Dragonet stood up from the table and stretched lazily. Morrigan’s mind went rogue. Best of all would be a warm bath with Dragonet, slow sex all afternoon, and then a good, long sleep.

  Morrigan stood and shook her head to dispel the fantasy. That man had ruined her. He had made her forget the gingerbread.

  “Morrigan?” asked Dragonet. He was looking at her oddly. She guessed that was not the first time he had said her name.

  “Aye? What? Let’s move!” She bustled ahead, leaving him in her inarticulate wake.

  Mal’s location was surprisingly easy to ascertain. According to the innkeeper, he had checked in yesterday and had been feeling poorly. He paid to have a dispatch sent to the abbey. That morning a monk arrived and spent a short time with Mal. When the monk left, he told the host that the man was sick and needed to be left alone to rest, which the good innkeeper had done, not disturbing the man.

  “Was this monk an elderly man, but sturdy built with square shoulders and a mean look?” asked Morrigan.

  The innkeeper was slightly taken aback. “I dinna wish to speak unkindly about a monk, but… yes, he was as ye described.”

  “Which room is he in?” asked Dragonet. “Do not fear; we shall not disturb him.”

  “I warrant no one can disturb him now,” muttered Morrigan to Dragonet, who nodded in agreement.

  They went up to Mal’s room and Dragonet paused outside the door. “Best let me go in first.”

  “Nonsense!”

  They entered the room and found what they both expected, Mal dead on the bed.

  “Is he?” asked Morrigan.

  Dragonet briefly inspected the body. “Yes, quite. I can still smell the poison on his lips.”

  “You think it was Barrick?”

  “Very likely. I would suppose Mal found he could not go on, sent to Barrick for help, and got this instead.”

  Morrigan nodded. “I dinna suppose there would be any point in looking for the silver box.”

  “Barrick, he must have it now,” said Dragonet, but they made a search of the room for the sake of completeness. It was a small room, serviceable, but not many places for an injured man to hide a silver box, which was indeed gone.

  “What now?” asked Morrigan. “I still need to get the medicine for Andrew.”

  “Let us go to the abbey. Maybe we could find a way to steal the medicine. No matter what we gave Barrick, I would not trust him to give us the right bottle, as our friend Mal discovered too late.”

  “Agreed.” Morrigan worried for a moment that Barrick sent poison to Andrew instead of medicine, if he sent anything at all. Morrigan sighed and forced herself to follow Dragonet back downstairs. She could do nothing about it now. The best she could do was to find the medicine and return to Andrew as soon as possible.

  Dragonet calmly explained to the Innkeeper that Mal was doing quite poorly indeed and an undertaker might best serve him. Before they left Kimlet, Dragonet collected a few personal effects he had left at the inn, paid the innkeeper, and retrieved his horse. Morrigan also found her mount in the stables, and they were quickly on their way.

  They were allies, but how long could it last?

  ***

  Dragonet drew his cloaks closer against the biting wind. It was cold, but the snow had stopped, making travel slightly easier. They should reach St. Margaret’s before nightfall, but then what? They must get the medicine for Andrew, and Morrigan would need to race back home to save her brother. Once he helped her find the medicine, there was nothing else to keep him in Scotland. He was still a monk. He was still on a mission. It was time to go home.

  He had the relic his father had desired for years. He would finally prove to the old man he was not useless, unworthy of his notice. He would earn his father’s respect, perhaps even make the old man proud. He would… Dragonet paused in his familiar rendition of how he could finally prove his worthiness to his father. What would his father really do?

  “What are ye going to do wi’ the shroud?” asked Morrigan, as if she could read his thoughts.

  Dragonet considered the question for a moment, rocking gently in the saddle as his horse plodded through the snow. “Give it to my father, unless… in truth I do not know.”

  “I still need to get the medicine for Andrew.”

  “Even if you gave the abbot this relic, he may not give to you the medicine.”

  “So ye’re going to give it to yer bastard father?”

  “I am the bastard, I fear.”

  “Not in anything that counts.”

  Dragonet smiled. “Thank you.

  “Ye canna give him this relic!”

  “Many years have I sought to prove my worthiness to my father. This relic, it would redeem me in his eyes.”

  “I thought ’twas God who did the redeeming.” Morrigan gave him a hard look.

  She was right. He had fought so long against his father’s disdain, trying to prove his worth, he had never stopped to consider why he struggled so hard to win the respect of a man he could not like. So what to do with the relic? Dare he give the shroud to another? Dragonet shuddered from more than the freezing wind. His father’s rage would know no bounds.

  “Hold there!” Four large, mounted men in black cloaks rode into view, their hoods and mufflers disguising much of their faces. Dragonet stopped short and scanned for weapons or signs of threat. He found none visible, but experience had made him cautious. “Who are you? Identify yourself!” called Dragonet.

  “Are ye Sir Dragonet and Morrigan McNab?” asked a cloaked rider who blocked their path.

  Dragonet glanced at Morrigan, but she gave a barely perceivable shrug. These were not friends of hers.

  “Who wants to know?” demanded Morrigan, her hand on the hilt of her sword.

  “We are friends. Mother Enid sent us to find ye and give ye the medicine ye requested.”

  “Mother Enid found more medicine? Where is she?” asked Morrigan.

  “Follow me,” said the cloaked man.

  He turned his horse, and they followed him down the road and off onto a side path, and wound uphill through snow-covered trees and shrubs. The path narrowed so they could only ride single file; two cloaked men went first, followed by Morrigan and Dragonet, followed by two more cloaked men.

  The men stopped at a cozy cottage, built on the side of the forested hill. Dragonet guessed it was a hunting box of some sort, but why Mother Enid, who did not appear to him to be the traveling sort, would be in a hunting box, he could not say. Four more cloaked men were outside the cottage.

  Dragonet was suspicious. He dismounted with the others and drew close to Morrigan. “Be wary.”

  “Always,” she whispered in return.

  One of the men pointed at the hunting box. It was a snug little cottage, smoke rising from the stone chimney with the promise of warmth. The sun shone brightly on the pristine snow, giving the landscape a shimmering glow. His fingered the hilt of his sword. It might be a trap, but if there was any chance the medicine they needed to save Andrew was inside, Morrigan would be going in. And so he would too.

  “No weapons,” said the man, standing by the door.

  “Mother Enid can tell me that herself,” said Morrigan, brushing past him into the hut.

  Dragonet followed her into the small one-room cottage. The little house was sparsely furnished and dark compared to the blinding sun outside. A small table was at one side of the room near a window, shuttered against the cold. The cloaked men remained outside in the snow. They must have been soldiers.

  A figure was seated beside the fire. He turned and gave them a cold smile. It was Abbot Barrick.

  “How nice of you to see me,” s
aid the abbot.

  “How kind o’ ye to send one o’ yer lackeys to kill me,” retorted Morrigan, drawing her sword.

  “Now let us be civil,” chided Barrick. “I have something you want, and if I not mistaken, you have something I want.”

  “What do ye want? I trust ye already have the silver box. That was the deal. Now give me the medicine!” demanded Morrigan.

  Barrick shook his head. “So impulsive. So aggressive. It is not seemly in a lady. But then, you were never that.”

  “Enough, Barrick,” said Dragonet. “What do you want?”

  “You know exactly what I want. I want the shroud. ’Tis mine and I shall have it.”

  “You have everything that was in the box,” said Morrigan. “We took naught from it. Not one coin.”

  “Who cares about a few measly coins,” sneered Barrick.

  “I do! If ye care naught for it, I’d be most obliged if ye give it back,” said Morrigan.

  “Where is it, Brother Dragonet?” Barrick ignored Morrigan and glared at Dragonet. “Do you think I do not know what you are? You are a Hospitaller knight sent to find the shroud!”

  Dragonet internally recoiled at his words, but experience kept his face without expression. How could Barrick possibly know who he was? “I am a knight, yes. But who says I am a monk?”

  “You did. I heard you pray with us before the meal.”

  “Many knights pray.”

  “You prayed as a French monk.”

  “I am French, yes. As are you.”

  “Oui. A French monk. There are prayers only a French monk would know.”

  “The good monks helped to raise me. I am not the only orphan for whom that is true.”

  “Yes, in truth I was suspicious about you from the moment you came onto the abbey grounds, but I was not sure. I’ll admit you kept your cover better than the others who came before you. It was the only reason I let you leave the abbey alive. But now I find you searching for the relic, so I know the truth. Denials at this late point in the game are futile. Now where is it, Brother?”

  Silence permeated the cottage. Dragonet tried to form the words to deny he was a Hospitaller monk, but could not. He was tired of lying.

  “Where is the medicine?” asked Morrigan.

  “I have it.”

  “Show me.”

  Barrick withdrew his left hand from his robes, revealing a small bottle. His right hand, Dragonet noted, he kept hidden in his robes.

  “And how do I know if that bottle is Mother Enid’s medicine or the same poison ye used to kill Mal?” asked Morrigan.

  “Ah, you found our poor Mal. He was dying anyway… probably.” Barrick shrugged. “I merely hastened his death along. He was of no use to me as a cripple. Here, see for yourself. The bottle is sealed with Enid’s own stamp. It has not been touched.” Barrick held up the bottle, and Morrigan stepped closer to inspect the seal, remaining out of arm’s reach. She was still too close for Dragonet’s liking.

  “Now, Sir Dragonet. Give me the shroud. It is mine; I will have it,” demanded Barrick.

  “We told you, the silver box, it held coins and jewels, not a shroud as you say,” said Dragonet. He tried to get Morrigan’s attention. She was much too close to the bastard.

  “If it is yers, why no’ get it yerself?” asked Morrigan.

  “Because he does not know where it is,” answered Dragonet. “You told me about my life, now I will tell you about yours. You were a Templar when they fled to Scotland to escape persecution, but young then, merely a boy. Later, the Templars went back to France to retrieve certain items that had been given to the Hospitallers. The Templars hid them in the cave on McNab land, but they did not tell you where they hid them. Perhaps they thought you too young. More likely they did not trust you.”

  “My superiors in the order could not see the potential for the shroud. I always knew it was only a matter of time before I obtained it.”

  “You have long known the shroud was in the cave, but you feared if you revealed it too soon, the church would merely take it away from you, so you sought to gain power in the church. You requested permission to build a cathedral, but it was denied. You even tried to have the McNabs kill the bishop of Glasgow so you could take his position, but fortunately that failed too.” Dragonet stepped closer to Barrick. “Now you have learned that the bishop has gone to the pope. You are desperate. You must get the shroud now to try to hold on to your position. You are afraid.”

  Barrick narrowed his eyes and revealed his right hand, which held a loaded crossbow. “I can see you need some added incentive.” Barrick leveled his weapon at Morrigan. “Give me the shroud. Since you know me so well, you understand without me needing to make any vulgar threats that I will not hesitate to kill her, nor will I miss.”

  Dragonet’s heart pounded in his ears. He struggled to remain calm. He needed to do something quickly before Morrigan was dead. Barrick would think nothing of killing her.

  “I know where it is,” said Dragonet. “Let her go. I will take you there.”

  “Where. Tell me.”

  “I left the true treasure in the cave,” said Dragonet. “I can show you.”

  Barrick shook his head. “Why would you leave it in the cave?” He aimed at Morrigan. “Do not lie to me. You have it. You must. Guards! Have you searched their horses?” Barrick shouted.

  “Aye!” came the answer from outside. “’Tis naught here.”

  “I tire of this game.” Barrick stood with a menacing glare. “Perhaps you need to be shown the depth of my commitment to finding the shroud. Or perhaps you do not care for her overmuch. Either way, her time is gone.”

  “No!” shouted Dragonet. “I have it here. And I swear if you kill her you will shortly join her in death.”

  “Show me!” demanded Barrick, glancing between her and him.

  Dragonet needed to give Morrigan a chance. A minute of distraction would be all she would need, and hopefully she would seize the opportunity.

  “It is very fragile,” said Dragonet. “It must be done carefully.” He searched the interior pockets of his cloak.

  “I should not have to tell you, if you pull a weapon, she is dead,” commented Barrick.

  Dragonet moved slowly to the side of the room, away from Morrigan, making it more difficult for Barrick to look at both of them at the same time.

  “This is what you have been waiting to see,” said Dragonet, producing the velvet pouch and placing it on the table. He did not open it but let Barrick see it clearly.

  “Yes!” Barrick hissed, his eyes on the pouch.

  Morrigan charged forward, pushing the crossbow up. The shot fired into the ceiling.

  “Guards!” shouted Barrick.

  Dragonet drew his sword and rushed to Morrigan, who had a sword in one hand, her battle-ax in the other. Six guards streamed into the room, swords drawn. Dragonet ran to the far window and kicked out the shutters.

  “Go!” Dragonet pushed Morrigan to the window and she jumped through it. Dragonet engaged the first soldier, blocking his attack and knocking him back into his comrades, giving Dragonet time to escape out the window.

  Dragonet ran around the cottage to the horse and found Morrigan engaged with two guards. He helped decide the contest, and they mounted quickly and galloped down the path, the six remaining soldiers following behind.

  “Follow me!” shouted Morrigan and spurred her horse straight down the side of the hill, rejecting the safer trail.

  Dragonet inhaled sharply, his lungs burning with the cold. She was either going to save them or get them both killed. Dragonet urged his mount forward and went over the edge onto the steep hillside. He followed Morrigan’s descent, though he was certain his horse was slipping helplessly past the trees and rocks. Snow and ice pellets sprayed up at him, blinding him, branches of trees whipped him as he flew by. He sincerely hoped she knew what she was doing.

  “Turn! Turn right now!” screamed Morrigan from somewhere in the trees.

  Turn? S
he must be mad. Still Dragonet pulled up on the reins and leaned hard to the right. His horse struggled and slipped farther down.

  “Turn now or ye’ll fall!”

  Ahead Dragonet saw nothing but bright blue sky. He pulled back hard to the right and swung his body into the hillside. His mount scrambled and labored but found footing and turned right onto a small ledge. His horse stopped and Dragonet leaned forward, trying to catch his breath. Both horse and rider were breathing hard.

  “Oh, thank heaven ye’re not dead!” exclaimed Morrigan, appearing through the trees.

  “Are you trying to kill me?” The words slipped out before he could arrest them. Blind panic can do that to a man.

  “It was a shortcut.”

  “It was daft!”

  “We got away. I doubt they will follow us.”

  Dragonet took a deep breath, his lungs burning from the effort and the cold. Several retorts flitted through his mind, which he rejected. Before him was a spectacular vantage of the valley, sparkling white in the brilliant January sun. His mount shuddered and grunted, pawing the ground near the cliff from which they had nearly fallen to their deaths.

  “You are right. Thank you for helping us escape, but I fear my horse will never forgive you for the fright you gave us.”

  Morrigan’s face warmed with a half smile, the one she used when she did not wish to admit she found him amusing.

  “The shroud, did ye give it to him?” asked Morrigan.

  “Yes.”

  “Why did ye no’ toss a knife in him?”

  “I would have had to kill him instantly to prevent him from taking a shot at you. Even in death his hand may have twitched and the bolt would have flown. I had to distract him so you could attack.”

  “But the relic… we worked so hard to get it.”

  “You are to me more precious.” Until the words left his mouth, he did not know how much they were true. From the moment Barrick had a crossbow to Morrigan’s head, her life was all that mattered. The relic was nothing to him compared to her.

  Morrigan surveyed the crystalline landscape. “Thank ye.” Her cheeks were flushed red from the cold and the exertion. Her hair was completely wrapped in a long, brown stocking cap. It could be an attractive look for no one, but still… he only had eyes for her.