Irish Moon

by Amber Scott

  Comfortably full and satisfied that the food would stay down, Ashlon evaluated his surroundings and plotted. The cave was no taller than he at its highest point and much shorter at its mouth. Rich earth scented the air. The light above filtered through a gap in the stone where the earth fell away. Or perhaps the hole was manmade, a primitive dwelling. The idea fascinated him and he looked for other signs of inhabitation. The floor was mostly earth, even and a table-like stone sat at the far end.

  He’d seen a similar stone slab before, during one of many initiation rites of the brotherhood. The stone symbolized the power of the brotherhood’s bond, unity. In his own rite of passage into the Templar, he’d placed his hand on stone and sworn his oath of duty, honor. He had believed the words to his core.

  He still did, though they mattered not now. The brotherhood’s name was so besmirched, so shamed that even its brethren, the weaker of it, had disavowed themselves. It came down to cost, Ashlon reasoned. He had no price to pay for continuing to believe, even now, on his own.

  Ashlon removed the covers. His skin prickled in the chill and he moved slowly to the mouth of the cave. The movement offered two things: he tested his strength after having eaten and he judged his outer surroundings. What he saw, sent him back in, retreating to the depths to hide in shadow. The rustling of footsteps in brush got closer. Ashlon snaked the strap of the satchel with his foot to drag it back from the stream of sunlight.

  Just outside, a twig snapped. Ashlon’s hand involuntarily went to the place where his sword should be. He felt foolish upon finding it empty. He saw only one defense. In a quick movement he grabbed the pile of blankets and swept them over his crouched figure. Enveloped in darkness, the sound of his labored breathing flooded his ears. He strained to hear above it for a sign of danger approaching.

  “MacSweeney,” he heard faint and muffled. “Over here.”

  “What have ye found?” The man’s voice was so close and low that Ashlon envisioned him bent, ready to enter the cave.

  * * * *

  “Leaving the explanation aside of why you were out, on your own, without a single other person knowing of it, at such an hour, answer me this: did you go inside?” Niall stopped his slow methodical pace to stand in front of her, bent at the hips with his arms crossed.

  Breanne forced her gaze up to meet his eyes while mentally rifling through what she could and could not tell him. “Yes.” She decided to be brief and obtuse in order to barter more time to figure out the details of her forming falsehoods.

  “Before or after?”

  “Before or after what?” she hedged. The hard wood seat creaked under her when she shifted as though to announce her nervousness.

  Niall’s eyes squinted, assessing her. “Before or after you found Heremon on the ledge some twenty feet below. Before or after you happened to see a man, lying prone and surmised him already dead and gone to the Otherworld.”

  A throat cleared behind him and Niall said, “to meet his maker,” in correction.

  “Before. I knocked, peered in the window. It was cold.” Breanne filtered out details about Finn, about the groan she heard. “I tried the knob.”

  “And?” Niall’s face reddened.

  “It wasn’t locked, my lord.”

  He resumed his pacing of the room. The three men behind him wore stoic expressions and almost appeared to be guarding the door. Against intruders, of course.

  “What did you find there?” he said in rhythm with his pace.

  “I found it dark, empty.” Did they already know of the stranger Heremon had took in?

  “Did you notice anything amiss?” Niall asked.

  “Amiss?” She wasn’t stalling. She wanted clarification.

  “Embers still burned in his fire when we arrived. Furniture had been moved.”

  Breanne’s heart picked up speed. Had they located the closet? “I lit the fire, my lord. I thought it best to wait for him, that he must be out and would return.”

  “And the furniture?”

  “I can’t say I would notice any different. It was my first time inside the man’s home, you see.” She felt better speaking as much truth as possible.

  Niall nodded contemplatively upon hearing the last. “How did you find him?” His voice was soft.

  Breanne’s chest panged. “I thought I heard something outside. I looked about, began to worry. When I peered over the cliff’s edge, it was more to assure myself than anything.” Her stomach turned over remembering the stark edge and Finn braving it. But, omitting Finn’s presence was imperative, for both their sake.

  “And you found him there.” Niall’s shoulders drooped, his head lowered.

  Breanne had a hundred questions she hungered to ask of him. But she bit her tongue, seeing they would have to wait until the suddenness of Heremon’s death faded. One, however, she couldn’t suppress. “How did he die, my lord?”

  When he didn’t answer or perceptibly react Breanne thought she spoke too quietly. She hated to repeat the grim inquiry.

  “Interesting that you ask, Breanne.” He straightened and confronted her. “I was hoping you might be the person to tell us that very terrible thing.”

  Breanne’s breath whooshed out of her like a felled animals. His stare met hers resolutely. “My lord?” Her voice squeaked.

  “Before I attend to announcements, or burials proceedings, I need to be certain that no foul play arrived at Heremon’s door. I have men searching the area, as we speak, for any signs of conflict or malicious intent. Their information combined with your intimate knowledge will offer the insight I need to rest the concern.”

  Relief came slow but steady, plumping Breanne’s limbs back to life as she realized his meaning. He needed her to examine Heremon. For a bewildering moment, she’d concluded that he suspected her of far more than hiding a man in a cave or protecting an enchanted cat. For being mistaken, Breanne silently thanked the Virgin Mary in all her blessed wisdom.

  “When shall I see him, my lord?” Breanne said, bowing her head respectfully.

  “Straight away,” Niall answered and motioned for her to rise and follow.

  Breanne prepared for the worst. Heremon’s body would not be the first she’d examined but was the first she knew. If Niall had no guess of cause of death then perchance he had died of natural, albeit tragic, causes. She recognized the idea as a desperate hope, knew deep down in her flesh and bones that it was not the case. But, it helped her face the chore, prodded her reluctant feet forward when the door opened in front of her. Access granted.

  She nodded formerly to Niall and the three men. Only Niall remained with her. The silence between them hung ominously like a storm cloud on the horizon. There would be no rainbow at this dismal storm’s end.

  Heremon’s blue lips were parted. His eyes were wide-open, surprised looking, disturbingly similar to the expression she last saw on his face. Crazed. His body was still wooden stiff and the faintest trace of death assaulted Breanne’s nostrils. She began with his hands as taught. The iciness of his skin when she touched it broke through her wariness and instantly Breanne no longer thought of the body before her as Heremon.

  The whites of his eyes were slightly yellowed. Liver. His palms were pale, unmarked. No wounds, scratches. If he’d been attacked, he hadn’t resisted. If he fell, he had not gripped rock on his way down. She probed his neck, rolled him to feel his spine. No breaks. She examined his feet. Calloused, scraped.

  Breanne tried to recall ever having seen shoes on the man but for all her days and nights couldn’t conjure a single image. Sitting, kneeling, walking, all of her memories contained the long blue cloak and no more.

  “When did you last see him well, Breanne?” Niall asked.

  She guessed he needed to keep his mind busy. She understood the inclination. “In the grove, early afternoon.” How much detail should she offer? Guilt pressed down on her as she remembered Heremon’s strange behavior and her lack of action upon seeing it.

  She forced the mouth open and
put her nose above it. She inhaled. The stink of death masked it somewhat, but she identified the barely discernable scent of poison. She took another whiff, ignoring the growing putridity and searched her mind for what the third scent’s identity. Its sweetness was familiar, like a comfort smell. Roses? Roses.

  “My lord, in truth, I had not seen Heremon well since the week prior, our last tutelage together.” She did turn around when she spoke, not yet ready to brazen further inquiry or the guilt beneath her answers.

  “Explain yourself,” he said in a gruff tone.

  Breanne faced Niall, certain of her conclusions regarding both Heremon’s cause of death and what she should reveal.

  “When I met with Heremon, he rescheduled our lesson within moments of my arrival. He appeared more disheveled than normal and out of sorts.” She took a steadying breath, aware of her shaky voice. “I should have followed him then, rather than returning at night. My lord,” she said and met his eyes. “He died of poisoning.”

  Niall’s stern expression crumbled into one of sad confusion. He shook his head over and over, opened his mouth and closed it wordlessly. Breanne’s heart ached for him, for her murdered teacher, for herself.

  His death was real now, material. Incontrovertible. She couldn’t think of an appropriate consolation and so, sat next to her chieftain, stepfather, in silence.

  * * * *

  The man passed, his attention on whatever his companions had found. Ashlon used the opportunity to bury the satchel and skin, adjust the coverings, and hug the cold cave floor as close as his body would allow. He picked up bits of conversation so long as he remained motionless and breathed shallowly.

  “He wasna stabbed, daft mule,” one said, a smacking thud followed.

  “The king said anything odd, anything at all… marks unusual,” another answered derisively. “What have you found, you stinking old boar?”

  Thumps and tumbles. Then a clear, young voice resonated. “Enough! You waste valuable time here… report… my responsibility. If I left such an item in either of your hands….”

  The voices left earshot and Ashlon tore his head free of the smothering wool and fur. He sat up and breathed in the cool air in deep gulps to calm his pounding pulse. They were gone. He’d wait some time to be certain of it, but couldn’t deny relief coursed through him. Five steps into this stone hole and he’d be found.

  Friend or foe, he couldn’t know, but had learned long ago to trust his instincts and when that man had threatened his discovery, instinct said hide. They now said be calm. In a short while, he would be free to leave this place. In the meantime, the men where gone.

  Ashlon rested his head and closed his eyes. Twenty or thirty minutes should do it, he estimated, but within ten fell soundly back to sleep. The world outside blurred and dreams stole his senses.

  * * * *

  “I ask for your word, Breanne, that no one, not a single other living soul in the whole of the tuath, hear those words.”

  Breanne nodded quickly, though confusion made her frown. She heard the gravity in his tone, but she still wanted to question such a decision. Heremon had been murdered. Had she not made that clear? Would Niall not wish to find the killer of his most esteemed and sage advisor?

  She opened her mouth to speak but he cut her intention to the quick. “Not another soul, Breanne. Do you understand?” His eyes glittered as he gritted each word out.

  She snapped her lips together, stepped back and nodded again. “Yes, my lord. No one save you and I shall know unless you wish it so.”

  He seemed satisfied. “It will be announced as a tragedy, which I believe we can agree, it is.”

  She nodded and suppressed the swirl of ifs and howevers in her brain. His decision must be trusted, respected, she remembered.

  “I will make the announcement. He will be buried tomorrow morn. The abbot, your uncle has made the arrangement. If any inquire to you, you will answer directly that you were not, in fact, the person who discovered Heremon. You were called at an early hour for your services which proved not to be needed.” Niall paced. His voice restored to the even and authoritative level she was used to. “He died from the fall. A broken neck.”

  He wanted her to lie? She should be used to lying by now, be comfortable with it, schooled at it. But she was not. “As you wish, my lord.” She meant what she said, for the most part.

  They left the corpse to be readied for burial. “That will be all, Breanne,” Niall said to dismiss her.

  Ten steps and one very deep breath later, the words she thought she’d escaped called to her. “And do not leave the grounds again, Breanne. Not without escort.”

  She exhaled loudly but didn’t turn around to acknowledge him. His footsteps and those of the men already rounded the corner and hit the stairs as Breanne closed her bedroom door, the last in the long corridor.

  Finn slept soundly, unmoved from where she had left him. Breanne flopped down next to him and stared up. How would she get to the man? Not going back to the cave was not an option. He would wake, need more food, more ministerings. She glanced the cat’s way. His eyes were open and looked straight through her.

  “Ale,” he said, his voice thick. “I require a bowl of ale straight away, Breanne.”

  “Not now, Finn, I have plans to make that take precedence over yours.” She would need a distraction of some sort. If only an accomplice were available, aside from Finn, whom she still didn’t trust.

  “Breanne, you may not yet realize that with Heremon’s death, my own life is now over. I am stuck in this miserable hairy form for the remainder of my days. Since I count you at fault for my sealed fate, the least you might do is help me return to a drunk oblivion.”

  Breanne pursed her full lips into a sour pucker of censure. Finn appeared unaffected, rolling onto his back and stretching his limbs. Even if he could be trusted, he was useless. She wouldn’t let him get to her this time, though. Breanne left without a backward glance.

  Chapter Six

  When Ashlon woke for the third time since washing ashore, he felt beaten. His muscles ached so badly, he thought the pain came from his very bones. It was dark, nearly black inside the hole he lay in and whatever euphoria he’d earlier experienced, what could have been hours or days past, was gone.

  Ashlon sat upright, pushing himself past the all-encompassing pain. He couldn’t stay here, wherever here was. He knew that. Any man could have happened upon him since he last woke and easily slit his throat as he slept.

  “Christ’s blood,” he cursed through clenched teeth as another round of throbbing coursed through his body. He needed to move though, to a better sanctuary. He needed his sword and to figure out where he was exactly.

  The gaps of blackness in his memory bothered him almost as much as how difficult moving was. He wasn’t used to being powerless. He had long been on his own, answering to no person save Jacques de Molay. The Grand Master took him on to train personally and from the start had granted him a kind of immunity that both isolated and elevated him among his peerage. Though he had never entertained the headiness power gave some men, he did enjoy its autonomy.

  He moved to his knees and a sheen of sweat surfaced on his brow and lip. Both the exertion and cooling it gave felt a relief. He paused a breath then moved to all fours. He crawled toward the blue night framed by cave wall. If he could just make it to the mouth to view his surroundings, he would feel better, in control again.

  He remembered the sack of food he was leaving behind but turning back for it might waste the energy he needed to get to the entrance. He grunted. As he moved the pain throbbed less and less. His muscles strained and pushed as he willed his body forward.

  A deep sorrowful howl echoed in the night, reaching his ears. Wolves. And he lay in a cave. Ashlon reached the mouth and sat with a panting gasp. He propped his back against one side and threw a leg across the threshold as if the small exit would ring victory and convince his body to end its game of straining.

  Another howl answered th
e first, too loud for Ashlon’s temporary comfort to last. Using the outer wall for balance, he struggled to his feet. He regretted forgetting the sack but not as much as falling asleep. Foolish, he thought, to trust a bedraggled heathen. He should have left the place when he woke rather than trust he meant no harm.

  Where had the man gone to in all this time? One thing Ashlon did feel certain of, at the minimum hours were wasted in sleep if not days. Not just the obvious change of day to nightfall told him so, or his desperate hunger and weakness. He also could feel it, a strange panicking dread that he’d missed some vital window of opportunity.

  On his feet, Ashlon scanned his surroundings. To his left, the woods gave way to lush mossy grass and beyond lay the horizon. The sky was clear and the air was dewy but comfortable. To the right and front, the trees grew thicker and wound in clusters, creating patches of clearings. Grass and shrubbery of varying breeds filled gaps.

  The air smelled inviting. He’d wager the hour passed midnight recently and looking around, Ashlon fought back the urge to climb back into the hole, eat and wait for morning light. Wolves, he reminded himself, and galloglass. He’d heard enough about the fierce and fearless Scots soldiers to make certain he was armed when he met one. And he’d come too close to one’s notice already. By luck, the man had been distracted and not come upon him and batter his skull with a mace.

  Jacques would not have sent you here, were it not safe, a voice inside him argued. “And what better place to hide it than in the wild,” he said out loud for no one to hear.

  He took a gulp of air and a wobbly step. Instantly, he became more aware of his near nakedness. “Bloody heathen,” he said. “Drugged me and robbed me is what he did, then left me for dead.” Dead but fed, that voice argued again. He nearly told it to shut up, but remembered he’d be telling himself to and laughed.

  “You’re losing your mind, Ash. Stay focused. You need to find the man, get your clothes and sword and be on your way. If you don’t find what you’ve lost, there will be far uglier things to concern you.” As he muttered each word, he stepped, until the small stone house peeked into his view. With a circling glance around him, Ashlon pursued it.