He Said, Sidhe Said

by Tanya Huff

  "We'll all be killed!"

  MacGillivray's eyes narrowed. "Then we'll die with honour."

  Pat felt Hardie tremble and wonder how much his colonel suspected. "But the prince!"

  "This isn't his doing, it's that damned Irishman, O'Sullivan." Spinning on one heel, he scrugged his bonnet down over his brow and made his way back to the centre of the line.

  A moment later, Clan Chattan charged forward into the smoke hoarsely yelling "Loch Moy!" and "Dunmaglass!" The pipes screamed the rant until they were handed to a boy and the Piper pulled his sword and charged forward with the rest.

  Davie Hardie charged because he had no choice. Pat caught only glimpses of the faces that ran by, faces that wore rage and despair equally mixed. Then she realized that there seemed to be a great many running by as Hardie stumbled and slowed and made a show of advancing without moving forward.

  Cumberland's artillery had switched to grape shot. Faintly, over the roar of the big guns, Pat heard the drum roll firing of muskets. Men fell all around him, whole families died, but nothing touched Davie Hardie.

  Then through a break in the smoke and the dying, Pat saw a red-gold head reach the front line of English infantry. Swinging his broadsword, MacGillivray plunged through, leapt over the bodies he'd cut down, and was lost in the scarlet coats.

  With his cry of "Dunmaglass!" ringing in her ears, Pat woke. She was clutching her purse so tightly that the edges of the box cut into her hands through the vinyl.

  "Death before dishonour, my butt," she muttered as she pushed up the window's stiff plastic shade and blinked in the sudden glare of morning sun. That philosophy had got Alexander MacGillivray dead and buried. Davie Hardie had turned dishonour into a long life in the new world. So he'd had to live knowing that his theft had been responsible for the death of his friend; at least he was alive.

  Chill out, Pat. It was only a dream. She accepted a cup of coffee from the stewardess and stirred in double sugar, the spoon rattling against the side of the cup. Dreams don't mean shit.

  But she could still feel Hardie's willingness to do anything rather than die and it left a bad taste in her mouth.

  * * * *

  Customs at Glasgow airport passed her through with a cheery good morning and instructions on where to wait for her connecting flight north to Inverness. The tiny commuter plane was a whole new experience.

  At Inverness airport, she was met by a ruddy young man who introduced himself as Gordon Ritchie, Mr. Hardie's driver. After a few moments of exhausted confusion while they settled which Mr. Hardie, he tugged her suitcase from her hand and bundled her into a discrete black sedan.

  "It was all arranged over the phone," Gordon explained as he drove toward the A96 and Inverness. "Here I am, at your beck and call until you head back across the pond."

  Pat smiled sleepily. "I love the way you talk."

  "Beg your pardon, Ms. Tarrill?"

  "Never mind, it's a Canadian thing, you wouldn't understand." A large truck passed the car on the wrong side of the road. Heart in her throat, Pat closed her eyes. Although she hadn't intended to sleep, she remembered nothing more until Gordon called out, "We're here, Ms. Tarrill."

  Yawning, she peered out the window. "Call me Pat, and where's here?"

  "Station Hotel, Academy Street. Mr. Hardie – Mr. Chalmer Hardie, that is, booked you a room here. It's pretty much the best hotel in town..."

  He sounded so tentative that she laughed. "Trust me, you're not the only one wondering if Mr. Hardie knows what he's doing." She could just see herself in some swanky Scottish hotel. Likely get tossed out for not rolling my r's.

  Her room held a double bed, an overstuffed chair, a small desk spread with tourist brochures, and a chest of drawers. There was a kettle, a china tea pot and two cups on a tray next to a colour TV and a bathroom with both a tub and shower.

  "Looks like Mr. Hardie blew the wad." Pat dragged herself as far as the bed and collapsed. After a moment, she pulled the box out of her purse, flipped it open, and stared down at the medallion. It looked the same as it had on the other side of the Atlantic.

  "Well, why wouldn't it?" Setting the open box on the bedside table, she stripped and crawled between the sheets. Although it was still early, she'd been travelling for twenty-four hours and was ready to call it a night.

  "Bernard? Is that you?"

  Who the hell is Bernard? Yanked back to consciousness, Pat opened her eyes and found herself peering down into the bearded face of a burly man standing in the centre of a small boat. The combination of dead fish, salt water, and rotting sewage smelled a lot like Halifax harbour.

  "Quiet, Robert," she heard herself say. "Do you want to wake all of Harfleur?"

  I guess I'm Bernard. She felt the familiar weight resting on his chest. Oh no, what now? She searched through the young man's memories and found enough references to hear Chalmer Hardie's voice say, "In 1307 King Philip of France decided to destroy the Templars."

  Pat tried unsuccessfully to wake up. First Culloden, now this! Why can't I dream about sex, like a normal person?

  The wooden rungs damp and punky under calloused palms, Bernard scrambled down a rickety ladder and joined the man in the boat. Both wore the red Templar cross on a dark brown mantle. They were sergeants, men-at-arms, Pat discovered delving into Bernard's memories again, permitted to serve the order though they weren't nobly born. Bernard had served for only a few short months and his oaths still burned brightly behind every conscious thought.

  "I will suffer all that is pleasing to God."

  How do I come up with this stuff? She looked over Robert's shoulder and saw, in the grey light of pre-dawn, the eighteen galleys of the Templar Fleet riding at anchor in the harbour.

  Covered in road dirt and breathing heavily, Bernard grabbed for support as the boat rocked beneath the two men. "I've come from the Grand Master himself. He said to tell the Preceptor of France that it is time and that he gives this holy relic into his charge."

  The crystal orb in the centre of the medallion seemed to gather up what little light there was and Pat could feel the young man's astonished pride at being chosen to bear it.

  Over the soft slap, slap of the water against the pilings came the heavy tread of armed men.

  Scrambling back up the ladder, Bernard peered over the edge of the dock and muttered, "The seneschal!" in such a tone that Pat heard, "The cops!"

  Right, let's get out of here.

  Chalmer Hardie's voice murmured, "...burned alive as heretics."

  To her surprise, Bernard raised the medallion to his lips, kissed it devoutly, turned, and dropped the heavy chain over Robert's head.

  Pat's point of view shifted radically and her stomach shifted with it.

  "Row like you've never rowed before," Bernard told his companion. "I'll delay them as long as I can."

  If they close the harbour, the fleet will be trapped. It was Robert's thought, not hers. Hers went more like: He's going to get himself killed! There's five guys on that wharf! Bernard, get in the damned boat!

  Deftly sliding the oars into the locks, Robert echoed her cry. "Get in the boat. We can both..."

  "No." Bernard's gaze measured the distance from the dock to the fleet and the fleet to the harbour mouth. "Wait until I engage before moving clear. They'll have crossbows."

  Then Pat remembered Davie Hardie. Put the medallion back on, you idiot. It'll protect you!

  But this time Robert said only, "Go with God, Brother."

  A calm smile flashed in the depths of the young Templar's beard.

  You know what the medallion can do! she screamed at him. So the fleet leaves without it; so what? Is getting it on that boat more important than your life?

  Apparently it was.

  When the shouting began, followed quickly by the clash of steel against steel, Robert pulled away from the dock with long, silent strokes. As he rowed, he prayed and tried not to envy the other man's opportunity to prove his devotion to the Lord in battle.

&nb
sp; The sun had risen and there was light enough to see Bernard keep all five at bay. Every blow he struck, every blow he took, moved the boat and the holy relic that much closer to the Templar flagship. With his blood, with his life, Bernard bought the safety of the fleet.

  A ray of sunlight touched his sword and the entire dockside disappeared in a brilliant flash of white-gold light.

  Pat threw up an arm to protect her eyes. When the after images faded, she discovered that the sun had indeed risen and that she'd forgotten to close the blinds before she went to bed.

  "Shit."

  Something cold slithered across her cheek. Her reaction flung her halfway across the room before she realized it was the chain of the medallion. During the night, she'd taken it from its box and returned to sleep with it cupped in her hand.

  Moving slowly, she set it carefully back against the red velvet and sank down on the edge of the bed. Wiping damp palms on the sheets, she sucked in a deep breath. "Look, I'm grateful that you seem to be translating these violent little highlights into modern English so that I understand what's going on, but...

  "But I'm losing my mind." Scowling, she stomped into the bathroom. "I'm talking to an ugly piece of jewelry. Obviously, Chalmer Hardie's history lesson made an impression. I'm not stupid," she reminded her reflection. "I could take what he told me and fill in the pieces. I mean, I could be making all that stuff up out of old movies, couldn't I?" She closed her eyes for a moment. "And now I'm talking to a mirror. What next, conversations with the toilet?"

  She went back into the bedroom and flicked the box shut. "You," she told it, "are more trouble than you're worth."

  Worth...

  In a country where the biggest tourist draw was history, there had to be a store that sold pieces of the past. Even back in Halifax there were places where a person could buy anything from old family silver to eighteenth century admiral's insignia.

  Gordon assumed jet-lag when she called to say she wouldn't need him and Pat didn't bother to correct his assumption. "Mr. Hardie said you might want to rest before you went off to do whatever it is you're doing for him."

  "You don't know?"

  He laughed. "I assumed you would."

  So Chalmer Hardie hadn't set up the driver to spy on her. Why settle for ten thousand and a job when she could have ten thousand, a job, and whatever the medallion would bring? No one would ever know and Mr. Hardie could die happy, believing she'd been fool enough to stuff it into MacGillivray's grave. With the medallion shoved into the bottom of her purse, Pat headed out into Inverness.

  She found what she was searching for on High Street, where shops ranged from authentic Highland to blatant kitsch, all determined to separate tourists from their money. The crowded window of Neal's Curios held several World War II medals, a tea set that was obviously regimental silver although Pat couldn't read the engraving under the raised crest, and an ornate chalice that she'd seen a twin of in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.

  An old ship's bell rang as she pushed open the door and stepped into the shop. The middle aged woman behind the counter put down her book and favoured her with a dazzling smile. "And how may we help you taday, lassie?"

  "Are you the owner?"

  "Aye. Mrs. Neal, that's me."

  "Do you buy old things?"

  The smile faded and most of the accent went with it. "Sometimes."

  "How much would you give me for this?" Pat dug the box out of her purse and opened it on the scratched glass counter.

  Mrs. Neal's pale eyes widened as she peered at the medallion.

  "There's a piece of the True Cross in the crystal."

  The older woman recovered her poise. "Dearie, if you laid all the so called pieces of the True Cross end to end you could circle the earth at the equator. Twice."

  "But this piece comes with a history..."

  "Have you any proof?" Mrs. Neal asked when Pat finished embroidering the story Chalmer Hardie had told her. Both her hands were flat on the counter and she leaned forward expectantly.

  "Trust me," the old man said. "I know."

  Pat sighed. "No. No, proof."

  It wasn't exactly a snort of disbelief. "Then I'll give you five hundred pounds for it, but that's mostly for the gold and the gem stones. I can't pay for the fairy tale."

  At the current exchange rate, five hundred pounds came to over a thousand dollars. Pat drummed her fingers lightly on the counter while she thought about it. It was less than what she'd expected to get, but she could use the money and Alexander MacGillivray certainly couldn't use the medallion. She opened her mouth to agree to the sale and closed it on air. In the glass cabinet, directly below her fingertips, was a red-enamelled cross about three inches long, all four ends slightly flared. Except for the size, it could have been the cross on the mantle of a Templar sergeant who fought and died to protect the medallion she was about to sell.

  Unable to stop her hand from shaking, she picked up the box and shoved it back into her purse. She managed to stammer out that she'd like to think about the offer then turned and nearly ran from the shop.

  Before the door had fully closed, Mrs. Neal half-turned and bellowed, "Andrew!"

  The scrawny young man who hurried in from the storeroom looked annoyed about the summons. "What is it, Gran? I was having a bit of a kip."

  "You can sleep later, I've a job for you." She grabbed his elbow and hustled him over to the door. "See that grey jacket scurrying away? Follow the young woman wearing it and, when you're sure you won't be caught, grab her purse."

  "What's in it?"

  "A piece of very old jewelry your Gran took a liking to. Now go." She pushed him out onto the sidewalk and watched while he slouched up the street. When both her grandson and the young woman disappeared from sight, she returned to her place behind the counter and slid a box of papers off an overloaded shelf. After a moment's search, she smoothed a faint photocopy of a magazine article out on the counter. The article had speculated about the possibility of the Templar fleet having landed in Argyll and had then gone on to list some of the treasure it might have carried. One page held a sketch of a jewel encrusted, gold medallion that surrounded a marble sized piece of crystal that was reputed to contain a sliver of the True Cross.

  Mrs. Neal smiled happily. She knew any number of people who would pay a great deal of money for such a relic without asking uncomfortable questions about how she'd found it.

  * * * *

  "I don't believe in signs." Pat threw the box down onto the bed and the medallion spilled out. She paced across the room and back. "I don't believe in you either. You're a fairy tale, just like Mrs. Neal said. The delusions of a dying old man. I should have sold you. I will sell you."

  But she left both box and medallion on the bed and spent the afternoon staring at soccer on television. When the game ended, she ordered room service and spent the evening watching programs she didn't understand.

  At eleven, Pat put the medallion back in the box, wrapped the box in a shirt and stuffed the bundle into the deepest corner of her suitcase.

  "I'm going back there tomorrow," she announced defiantly as she turned off the light.

  "Tomorrow, his Majesty intends to arrest the entire Order."

  What's going on? I don't even remember going to sleep! Pat fought against opening her eyes but they opened anyway. Bernard?

  The young sergeant was on one knee at her feet, his expression anger, disbelief, and awe about equally mixed.

  I don't want any part of this! Pat could feel the weight of the medallion and knew the old man who wore it as Philip de Molay, the Grand Master of the Knights Templar. Last Grand Master, she corrected, but like all the others, he couldn't hear her. She could feel his anger as he told Bernard what would happen at dawn and gave him the message to pass on to the Preceptor of France – who with fifty knights had all but emptied the Paris Temple five days before. She touched de Molay's decision to stay behind lest the king be warned by his absence.

  "There will be horses
for you between Paris and Harfleur. You must arrive before dawn, do you understand?"

  "Yes, Worshipful Master."

  De Molay's hands went to the chain about his neck and he lifted the medallion over his head. He closed his eyes and raised it to his lips, much as Bernard had done. Would do, Pat amended. "Take this also to the Preceptor, tell him I give it into his charge." He gazed down into the young sergeant's eyes. "In the crystal is a sliver from the Cross of our Lord. I would not have it fall into the hands of that jackal..." Biting off what would have become an extensive tirade against the king, he held out the medallion. "It will protect you as you ride."

  Bernard leaned forward and pressed his lips against the gold. As the Grand Master settled the chain over his head, Pat – who settled into his head – thought he was going to pass out. "Worshipful Master, I am not worthy..."

  "I will say who is worthy," de Molay snapped.

  "Yes, Worshipful Master." Looking up into de Molay's face through Bernard's lowered lashes, Pat was reminded of her grandfather. He's a stubborn old man. Certain he's right, regardless of the evidence. And he was going to die. And there was nothing she could do about it. Because he died over six hundred years ago, she told herself. Get a grip.

  Given the way Bernard had died – would die – Pat expected to hear him declare that he would guard the medallion with his life, but then she realized there was no need, that it was understood. I don't believe these guys. One of them's staying behind to die, and one of them's riding off to die and neither of them has to!

  If de Molay had left Paris with the rest...

  If Bernard had got in the boat...

  If MacGillivray had refused to charge...

  She woke up furious at the world.

  A long, hot shower did little to help and breakfast sat like a rock in her stomach.

  "You're worth five hundred pounds to me," she snarled as she crammed shirt, box, and medallion into her purse. "That's all. Five hundred pounds. One thousand..."

  Her heart slammed up into her throat as the phone shattered the morning into little pieces. "What?"

  "It's Gordon Ritchie, Ms. Tarrill. Pat. I'm in the lobby. If you're feeling better, I thought I might show you around..." His voice trailed off. "Is this a bad time?"