Morrigan returned Dragonet’s embrace. “Will ye leave now?”
“I must.”
“I canna do this. I canna let ye go.”
“I know.”
“Please dinna go.” Despite years of pushing aside her emotions, Morrigan McNab began to cry.
“My body may go, but my heart remains with you.”
“Aye, that’s verra sweet, but I rather like yer body too.”
Dragonet laughed and sniffed. He looked down at her, the tears falling unchecked down his cheeks. “The monastic life will never be the same for me, now that I know all I am missing. Though I shall not miss the penance you caused me. I am still working through my rosaries.”
Morrigan nodded. “Me too!”
“Want to go for more? Mayhap the time, it is right to say our proper farewells.” Dragonet kissed her gently, and moved to deepen the kiss, but Morrigan broke away.
“I’m sorry, but I canna kiss ye when ye are going to leave me. It hurts too much.” Morrigan, who feared neither death nor pain, wiped more tears from her eyes. Getting stabbed by a spear was nothing compared to that. A shoulder could heal. Her heart never would.
“I could stay a few weeks before returning?” suggested Dragonet.
“Nay, prolonging it only makes it worse.”
“I will love you always.”
“Please leave. I ne’er wish to see ye again.”
Dragonet winced and looked away. He took a deep breath and gently took the velvet pouch from the table. He stood there for a moment not speaking, not moving. Morrigan waited for him to say something, but he shook his head and walked slowly to the door, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
“Dragonet,” she called when he reached the door. He stopped but did not turn around. “I will love ye forever.” He paused for a moment, nodded, and continued to walk out the door.
Pain and grief racked through her, and Morrigan clung to the table to keep from falling to the floor. She brushed away the tears, but they kept coming. She tried cursing him to blazes, but her heart was not in it. Finally she gathered her strength and stumbled from the room, leaving behind the shattered shards of her heart.
Thirty-Three
Dragonet walked up the dark stairs to his father’s comfortable chamber at a nearby inn. It was late, but he knew his father would be waiting for him. He slipped in the door without knocking.
“Leave us,” commanded his father, and a serving wench darted past Dragonet into the hall.
“Am I disturbing you?” asked Dragonet.
“I am finished with her,” said his father, readjusting his robes.
Dragonet looked away, recognizing with displeasure the hypocrisy with which he mentally judged his sire for breaking his vow of celibacy as Dragonet had done too. The difference was he loved Morrigan. But did that truly matter?
“Where is it?” asked his father. “The linen sheets Father Luke and Father Pierre brought were nothing but bed sheets. Barrick swears he had the real shroud, so where is it?”
“What will you do with it?” asked Dragonet, surreptitiously feeling the velvet pouch hidden within the interior pocket of his cloak.
The bishop gave him a cunning look. “Have you seen the cloth, boy?”
Dragonet nodded.
“Is it convincing?”
Dragonet tilted his head. Odd question. His father was not concerned about its authenticity but rather if it appeared to be real. “I am no expert, but it could be the true shroud. I have been looking for this relic for many years. Now that it is found, I want to know why you want it, and what you will do with it.”
“You want your share of the reward.” His father’s eyes narrowed. “It was not enough that I saved you from starvation, saw to your care, ensured your advancement in the knighthood. No, now you want more. So tell me what you want, my lad. What is it you want from me?” His father’s icy blue eyes cut through him.
“I want…” Dragonet paused. What did he want from him? For many years his father protected him and saw to his training and advancement, even as he criticized and used him. Dragonet had wished to find the shroud to prove his worth to his father. And yet his father’s approval did not hold the power over him it once had. “I want to know what you will do with the shroud.”
“You want to share in the glory the shroud will bring. You are no fool. You understand what this could do for the man who holds it.”
Dragonet took a deep breath. It was not what he meant. “The shroud, what will it do for you?”
His father’s eyes gleamed. “First I will demand a new castle and more land. The shroud must be housed in a grand palace. I will offer monthly viewings to generate the steady revenue pilgrims would bring, and allow more wealthy patrons closer access to the cloth for a greater price. Having the shroud under my control will do great things for me.” He rubbed his hands together.
“Your control? So you do not intend to give it to the Church?”
The bishop shrugged. “I am the Church. And with that relic I could be the head of it.”
Dragonet pushed his hair out of his eyes in a nervous gesture. “The head of the Church?”
“Why not? This find is extraordinary. Even the Holy Grail cannot compare. With it I should be moved up to the college of cardinals and from there…”
“Pope?”
His father smiled a cheerless grin. “Yes, I will be pope. When I am elevated, I can make you a bishop somewhere nice.”
It was an offer he would have taken six months ago, but now the thought turned his stomach. He could not use a relic for selfish gain. Dragonet took a deep breath. He needed to find courage. “I only wanted to be acknowledged as your son.”
The bishop of Troyes’s blue eyes grew ice cold. “You are not my son. You are a mistake. An itch I needed to scratch.”
“The girl who just left, she was an itch to scratch?”
“Who are you to judge me? I have heard the rumors of you and some lad.”
“She is a girl dressed in the boys’ clothing!” Dragonet felt heat rise.
His father smirked. “Yes, I know. I also know you may well leave her in the same condition that I leave that tavern wench. And neither one of us will ever look back. I took you in when you came to me starving. It is more than most in my position would have done. I deserve your gratitude and devotion.”
“I do thank you, my father. But I cannot be your slave any longer.”
His father’s eyes flashed and he pressed his lips together until they were a thin white line. Silence filled the room, broken only by the steady drip of the rain. His father gave a forced smile that did not meet his eyes. “Let us not argue. Show me the shroud you found. I am anxious to see it for myself.”
“I am sorry. I do not have it here for you.”
“Then go retrieve it and bring it back.”
Dragonet stood still, meeting his father’s gaze.
“Dragonet… my son. Go bring your father the shroud.” His forced smile turned to a snarl.
Dragonet shook his head. His father only acknowledged him when he wanted something. “No, Father.”
The bishop rose from his chair, the smiling mask falling from his face. “What did you say to me?”
“I will not give you the shroud. It is holy. It should be treated with reverence, not used as a pawn in your bid for power.”
“If you try to deny me the shroud, I will deny you!” The vein in his father’s head bulged. “I have the power to build you up, and I can destroy you! Think carefully about the words you will say next. I will get the shroud, one way or another, but you need to decide whether you will continue to have a home. You were starving when I first met you, I can put you back there!”
“I wish to do right by this relic.”
“I have told you what is right,” roared the bishop. “Give me the shroud now, or you are no longer worthy to be called my son.”
“You have never been worthy to be called my father.”
“You leave me no choice. Fat
her Luke! Father Pierre!” The two priests entered the room and stood on either side of Dragonet. He was trapped.
“You know who these men are?” asked the bishop of Troyes, his face hard.
Dragonet nodded. The Inquisition. To fall into their hands was an unspeakable fate.
“Tell me the truth. Where is the shroud?”
Dragonet paused. “I do not have it.”
“Search him!” ordered the bishop.
Dragonet made no attempt to resist and Father Luke found the velvet pouch, hidden in his cloak.
“Open it!” demanded the bishop, his face flushed, his beady eyes wide.
Father Luke gently opened the pouch and paused. “It is empty.”
***
Earlier that day, Dragonet met with Chaumont before the sun rose above the tree tops. Dragonet handed over the shroud, wrapped in parchment and placed in a plain linen pouch. “For the people,” said Dragonet, his breath visible in the cool gray of dawn.
“For the people,” said Chaumont, accepting the precious package. “There is a knight I know in France who is incorruptible. He will see this cloth is given to those who will share it, not use it for their own gain.”
“Who is this knight?”
“He is Geoffroi de Charny, founder of the Order of the Star and the standard bearer for France.”
“I have heard of him; in truth what knight has not? He is known for his piety and honor, I am sure he will do what is right.” Dragonet leaned closer. “The bishop of Troyes will be determined to get it. I would leave soon and move fast.”
Chaumont nodded. “Gavin and I will leave for France at once. You are a good man, Sir Dragonet.”
“Few people think so at this point.”
Chaumont smiled. “I imagine the bishop will ensure you no longer have a home with the Hospitallers. Will you continue to serve Argitaine?”
“No, he returns to France, and that country can no longer be my home.”
“So what will you do now?”
“Now that I have nothing?” Dragonet shook his head. “I do not yet know.”
“Bon chance, mon ami.”
Dragonet had no money, no home, and no current means to support himself. He was going to need more than luck.
Thirty-Four
Morrigan sat in the window seat of the solar, the cold stones freezing her rear. Outside the rain started to fall lightly; gray on black, a colorless landscape. The smell of warm gingerbread wafted through the room. She was not hungry. She was not anything anymore.
She had changed from the angry lass who first began her journey many months ago. She knew she could no longer work as a raider, but more than that, something deep within her had shifted. She used to be confident in who she was, a damned sinner. Life was hellish, but easy.
Her old self might have never returned to McNab Hall, choosing instead to go fight somewhere else until someone finally put her out of her misery. But her old self was gone. Something in her was lighter and it refused to give up. She had… hope. And hope is the most dangerous of all emotions.
Unsure who she was, Morrigan retreated into herself and grieved for what could never be. Yet somewhere deep within, a spark of hope burned.
“Gingerbread!” Andrew entered the room and pounced on the plate like a hungry puppy. The medicine had revived him, as had the presence of his wife Cait who had arrived most unexpectedly.
“Dinna eat it all, ye mongrel. Leave a little for me!” demanded Archie, grabbing a handful.
“I’m taking some for Cait,” Andrew mumbled, his mouth full.
“Ye best hand it over before ye forget,” said Cait, entering the room. Andrew gave her a piece, if somewhat reluctantly. The men settled comfortably in the chairs by the fire, and Cait sat on Andrew’s lap in a manner that turned Morrigan’s stomach.
“How long is she going to be like that?” hissed Cait in a whisper Morrigan could still hear.
“’Till her heart heals, I suppose. Sir Dragonet was a good man,” said Andrew.
“I dinna ken she had a heart,” whispered Cait.
Morrigan wished Cait was right. Without a heart it could not have been broken.
“Dinna fret. She will be back to her cheerful self soon enough,” said Archie.
“I have ne’er seen her cheerful,” said Cait.
“It’s that slight smile she gets when causing someone pain.”
Cait nodded. “That I’ve seen.”
“I can hear ye!” shouted Morrigan.
“Morrigan!” Alys bustled in the room with a bundle of silk in her arms. “Yer best gown, hurry!”
“I winna put on a gown for naught.” Morrigan turned back to the window. More rain. Gray fog. Heavy sigh. Her life was so full.
“But ye must! Archie?” Alys looked to her husband in vain.
“Leave her be. She’ll do what she wants anyway.”
“Nay. A gown it must be,” insisted Alys. “Dragonet is here.”
Morrigan’s head whipped around so fast she fell off the window seat and stumbled to her feet. “Dragonet? Are ye sure? He is here?”
“Aye he is waiting in the hall.”
Morrigan ran for the door, but Alys blocked it with determination, both hands on her hips.
“Ye will put on this gown, Morrigan McNab, or so help me ye’ll wish ye were ne’er born.”
Archie, Andrew, and Cait all stared with open mouths. Alys had never spoken to anyone in such a manner. Even Morrigan stopped short.
“I am familiar wi’ that wish,” Morrigan said quietly.
Alys turned to Archie. “Go downstairs if ye will. Sir Dragonet has come to speak to ye.”
“To Archie? Why?” demanded Morrigan.
“Ye will put on this gown if I have to wrestle it on ye myself!”
Archie, Andrew, and Cait slipped out the door.
“Ye told me to put on a gown before and it all came to naught,” grumbled Morrigan.
“Please, Morrigan.”
“Be quick about it!”
Alys worked fast and laced her into her blue silk gown with great speed. Morrigan’s hair was let down and covered by a lace veil. All the while anxiety and questions bubbled within Morrigan. Why was Dragonet here? Why did he wish to see Archie? Had the shroud been stolen again? Did he need her help?
By the time she raced down the spiral stairs, she was so tense her stomach hurt. What was she going to say to him? Why did he come here? How could she be expected to say good-bye again?
Dragonet stood by the central hearth in the great hall speaking quietly with Archie. When she approached, Archie gave a signal and everyone left the great hall. Morrigan was immediately suspicious. Dragonet was dressed in a fine tunic, hose, and surcoat, with polished black leather boots. The clothes appeared to be new, and she had never seen him so handsomely attired. Her heart beat faster, as it did every time she saw him. This time, it hurt.
“What is wrong? Why did ye come?” she asked.
“I have something for you,” he spoke in a soft, low voice.
“What?”
He held out a scroll, which she took. Opening it, she found writing in Latin.
“What is it?” she asked. “Explain yerself. Why are ye here and no’ in France?”
“It is a decree from the bishop of Troyes. I have been excommunicated from the brotherhood.”
“Excommunicated! But why? Did ye no’ give him everything he asked?”
“I did not give him the shroud. I gave it to Chaumont to take to France to give it to a noble knight who will allow everyone to look upon it, not keep it as a secret relic or use it to gain power like my father.”
“So he was angry at ye.”
“Quite.”
“But excommunicated! Can he do that?”
“I have been expelled from the brotherhood, not the Church.”
“I dinna ken…”
“I am no longer a monk.” A slow smile crept onto Dragonet’s face.
Morrigan sucked in a great gasp of air. Not a mo
nk? Not a monk!
“I took the books and scrolls we found in the cave and sold them to the abbey,” he continued. “I used some of them to purchase back from the Church a certain section of land purchased by the Templars, whose deed was inherited by Barrick and then given to the Church.”
“Our farmland,” Morrigan’s voice wavered as a tremor of raw emotion coursed through her.
“In exchange for the illuminated Bible I was also given this.” He reached down to a bag by the hearth and pulled out the silver box.
Morrigan gasped again. “The box we found?”
Dragonet nodded.
“Is it still full of treasure?”
Dragonet nodded again.
“For me?”
“Given certain conditions.”
“Which are?”
Dragonet set the box down and took her hands in his. “I love you, Morrigan McNab. I have not much, but what I have, I give to you. If you would consent to be my wife, I shall be happy for the rest of my days.”
Morrigan began to shake with emotion. “I thought ye were lost to me. I thought we could ne’er be together. I thought…” Her words were choked silent by a half sob.
He drew her close and wrapped his arms around her. Morrigan held tight as her knees gave way. She was where she belonged. She was finally home.
“Do you… do you mean to say yes or no?” asked Dragonet, his voice constrained.
“Aye! Yes! I will marry ye.”
“Yes!” Dragonet hugged her close and lifted her off the ground, spinning her around once. “I feared you would say no.”
“Why would I do a fool thing like that?”
“The last time you saw me, you said you never wished to see me again.”
“Because I loved ye so terrible bad, it hurt.”
“I love you too, Morrigan. But sometimes… often you do not do as I wish. I wanted to make a proposal you could not resist.”
“Shame on ye for thinking ye could buy my affection. Ye can bring me no better gift than yerself. All I need is ye.”
True Highland Spirit Page 29