by Scott, B. J.
Determined to keep his mind on the reasons for this journey and for choosing Scotland as his destination, he refocused on the task at hand. He thought back upon the day when with the aid of a disgruntled guard, he and several other condemned Templars escaped from Philip’s prison, and how he had helped to find an injured fellow knight a safe place to hide. Where others may have left Brother Lazarus behind to fend for himself, Francois couldn’t turn his back on him. After sharing a cell with the man for several months, they’d become as close as real brothers, perhaps closer, and he believed that if in a reversed situation, his comrade in arms would do the same for him.
The recipient of a brutal beating just prior to their escape, and too weak to travel far, Francois knew that without time to rest and heal, Lazarus, if not recaptured, would surely die. After seeing him settled in the home of a local crofter, and with no regard for his own safety, he set out, intent on drawing the guards away from the sanctuary. Afraid he might not live to honor his pledge to deliver the chalice, Francois gave it to his friend before he left, and bade him guard it with his life until he could come for it.
More than three years had passed since they parted ways, and he prayed that in addition to returning to his home in Scotland, Lazarus had honored his vow to protect the treasured artifact. An orphan raised by an order of monks in a monastery near the village of Berwick upon Tweed and with no memory of his birth family, Franc only knew his friend’s first name, so locating him after all this time could prove difficult. He hoped to find him at the friary, and once he had retrieved the chalice, he would see it delivered to its destination in the Highlands.
The storm finally easing, Francois staggered on wobbly legs to the porthole and peered out into the darkness. From what he’d overheard one of the sailors say, they were due to arrive in Edinburgh before noon. Once he managed to sneak off the ship, he would find Claude Monnet—a local merchant and a valued Templar contact recommended by Jean Rideau. After he’d spoken to Monnet, he’d begin his search for Lazarus.
Chapter 2
Francois waited for what he believed was more than enough time to unload the cargo, then left his hiding spot in the hull and made his way to the above deck. He hesitated at the top of the stairs, looking for stragglers, or perhaps a man or two left behind to guard the vessel, but his search came up empty. Relieved to be alone, he exhaled sharply. With any luck, the captain, his officers, and the crew were all in the local tavern downing a tankard or two, and he was free to leave the ship unnoticed. But he wasn’t a betting man, and he knew better than to take anything for granted.
Before going ashore, he surveyed the dock. The cargo remained piled beside the gangplank, along with several large wagons that he suspected were waiting to carry it to its final destination. But as he continued his search, his breath caught, and his heart began to hammer. In addition to two Portuguese sailors standing watch over the crates and kegs, his gaze locked on three heavily armed men, wearing the unmistakable colors of the French Guard.
“The bastards are everywhere,” he grumbled and ducked back into the shadows. The threat of capture remained a real possibility, so he needed to proceed with caution. While the Scottish king, Robert the Bruce, welcomed Templar fugitives and offered them sanctuary, Jean Rideau warned him that Philip’s henchmen still posed a threat, and that they roamed the Scottish countryside under the guise they had the authority to arrest fugitives of the French crown.
Clearly in harm’s way, and in serious jeopardy of apprehension before his feet hit dry land, Francois took a moment to reassess the situation. He had but two choices. If he walked down the ramp, he did so in plain sight, and into the waiting arms of the French guards. While far from desirable, his other choice was to disembark from the far side of the ship by climbing over the side, dropping into the water, then swimming until he deemed it safe to emerge on shore.
Opting for choice two, he slinked across the deck, doing his utmost to remain unseen. Once he reached the port side of the ship, he peered over the siderail and into the choppy, dark depths below. Waves slapped against the hull, making the ship rock, and causing his stomach to do a quick flip. “It is this way, or taking your chances with the French soldiers,” he reminded himself, then searched the deck until he spotted a length of rope.
When he figured it was safe to do so, he secured one end to the rail, and tossed the loose end over the side. After sucking in a deep breath for courage and mumbling a quick prayer, he grasped the rope with both hands and lowered himself into the sea.
He sucked in a sharp gasp of air, then began to shiver, his teeth chattering when his body hit the icy water. He could not remember being so cold, and it didn’t take long to lose the feeling in his legs and feet. “It is sink or swim,” he grumbled, then released the rope, and began to move away from the vessel.
Convinced his best chance of going unnoticed was to stay as close to the dock as possible, he swam toward it, then along the moorings until he put some distance between him and the Portuguese carrack.
His body numb, and his arms so tired he wasn’t sure he could swim another stroke, Francois glanced back at the ship. Unable to see the men on the dock, and confident he was no longer in their line of sight, he dragged himself from the water and up the rocky embankment, before everything went black and he collapsed behind a row of wooden buildings.
Uncertain how long he laid on the shore in his unconscious state, Francois groaned aloud, then struggled to open his eyes. Grateful no one had yet spotted him, he scrubbed a shaky hand across his mouth, wiping away the sand and gravel from his parched lips, then rolled to his back. He stared up at the azure sky, welcoming the warmth of the sun upon his cheeks—the only part of his body that wasn’t as frigid as a solid block of ice. His hair and clothing drenched, his entire body trembled uncontrollably. If he didn’t want to catch his death of a cold, he needed to find somewhere safe and warm to dry while he planned his next move. He summoned the strength to flip to his stomach, then raised himself up onto his hands and knees. Afraid someone might spot him, he kept low to the ground, crawling like a wounded animal until he reached the back of what he assumed was a storage building, then rose and reached for the doorlatch.
Once inside, he immediately searched for something he could use to dry himself and a place to rest. His assumption correct, the building appeared to be an empty storage barn, which greatly lessened the likelihood of anyone finding him. At least for the time being. It wasn’t ideal to remain here, but to venture into the streets in sopping clothes would draw immediate attention. He guessed it was mid to late afternoon, so following some careful consideration, he decided to spend the night here and find Monnet in the morning.
Exhausted from the swim, cold, hungry, and thirsty—despite having swallowed a copious amount of seawater—he staggered forward. His head pounded and relentless waves of dizziness and nausea washed over him, making it difficult to remain upright. Upon spotting an old blanket draped over a rail beside a pile of straw, he retrieved it, peeled off his sodden tunic, trews, and boots, then hung the clothes on a hook to dry. After wrapping himself in the length of plaid, he settled on the floor behind the haystack, and released a slow, shuddered breath. He was inside, warmer than he had been since his plunge into the water, and about to get some much-needed rest. In the morning, he would set out to find Claude Monnet.
~ ~ ~
Francois woke with a start. He scrubbed his hand across his eyes, then stretched, trying to work out the kinks in his back and neck. His empty stomach rumbled, but finding something to eat would have to wait until after he’d located Monnet. Uncertain of the time, and aware someone could come into the storage barn at any moment, he dressed quickly and headed for the door that led onto the dock, and opened it a crack. Satisfied there were no members of the French Guard in the immediate area, he exited the building and strode toward the center of Edinburgh.
Having no idea whe
re to start his search in a city this large, he approached an old woman selling sundries from a wooden vendor cart, situated on the corner of two narrow streets. “Excuse me,” Franc began, but she cut him off before he could finish.
“Do you wish to buy some candles, laddie?” The woman curled her gnarled fingers around a tallow stick and held it in the air. “I make the best in all of Edinburgh, and guarantee they will light your world for many hours.”
Franc shook his head. “I currently have no need for candles, but would like to ask you a question.”
The vendor eyed him warily. “That all depends on what you wish to ask me.”
“I am looking for a man named Claude Monnet. I was told he is a vendor here in Edinburgh, and wondered if you might know of him, or where I might find his shop?”
After ogling him for a moment, then fixing her gaze on his Templar ring, the old woman leaned in closer and lowered her voice to a raspy whisper. “You are na from around here, are you?” She quickly glanced over her shoulder and in all directions before she continued. “Are they looking for you?”
“Who?” Francois asked.
“Those bloody Frenchmen prowling the docks,” she whispered. “They are evil men and if you know what is good for you, you will stay clear of them.”
“I will give your advice due consideration, madam,” Franc said. “But I must find Monnet. Do you know him?”
“You will find his shop beside the village smithy. But I would stay clear of him as well,” she warned. “Those who enter his establishment, oft never come out.”
“Thank you for your wise advice and for your assistance.” He removed the ring from his finger and handed it to the woman. “For your help, madam. Just do not tell anyone where you acquired it.” He decided that wearing the symbol of his affiliation with the sacred order of knights was a blatant invitation for trouble, and the unkempt old woman looked like she could use the coin it would fetch if she opted to sell the bauble.
The woman stared at the ring, then closed her fist around it, grinning. “Your secret is safe with me, laddie. God speed.”
“And may the Lord watch over you as well, madam.” Franc bowed, then strode with purpose toward the rhythmic din of the blacksmith hammer. Convinced that the sooner he met with Monnet, the sooner he could commence his search for Lazarus, he quickened his pace.
While anxious to speak with Monnet, Franc slowed his pace as he approached the man’s shop, trepidation niggling at his gut. Jean Rideau may have suggested he see the former Templar for answers and sanctuary, but many summers had passed since the two men last spoke, and a lot could change over time. He feared things may not be as they once were, but he would not know if he didn’t go inside. Without the man’s help, he might never find his friend, or the chalice. He had come this far, and believing it was too late to turn back now, Franc entered the shop.
Rather than approach the man he assumed was the proprietor, Franc mingled with the other patrons, picking up items and examining them as if prepared to purchase something.
“Do you have this fabric in any other color, Lord Monnet?” a woman asked as she approached the shop owner with a folded length of cloth in hand. “I wish to make a new gown for an upcoming ceilidh my uncle is planning.”
“I will look in back, Lady Ellen. Let me see what I can find,” Monnet said, then disappeared through a door at the rear of the room.
The front door to the shop opened, then slammed against the wall with a loud thud. “Where is Monsieur Monnet?”
A shiver ran up his spine, and dread twisted Franc’s gut when he heard the man’s harsh tone and French accent. But rather than turn around, he kept his back to the door and continued to examine the merchandise.
“What do you want, Bateau?” Monnet growled as he returned to the room with two bundles of fabric in his arms. He slammed them down atop a nearby table, then approached the door.
“You know very well what we want,” Bateau replied and moved to the center of the room. “Perhaps your patrons should leave so we can talk privately.”
“I have naught to hide, and anything you wish to say to me, can be said now.” Monnet calmly addressed Lady Ellen. “In addition to green, I have the fabric in blue and yellow. Which one do you favor?”
“The yellow,” Lady Ellen stammered. “If you would send the bill to my uncle, I would appreciate it.”
“Not a problem. Would you like me to wrap it for you?” Monnet asked, his tone remaining smooth and even.
“Nay. I will take it the way it is,” she replied, then clutched the bundle of material to her chest as she scooted by Bateau and out the door, leaving only Franc and one other customer in the shop.
Beads of perspiration dampened Franc’s brow. His palms began to sweat, and his heart hammered so loudly, he was sure Bateau would hear it, but rather than try to run, he stood his ground. This obviously wasn’t the first time that Monnet and Bateau had a confrontation, but Franc found the shopkeeper’s tranquil, nonchalant response to his presence, and his attempt to continue conducting business as usual impressive.
“Rumor is that several Templar swine have recently entered Scotland,” Bateau began.
“I know of no such men, monsieur,” Monnet snapped before Bateau could finish. “I suggest you leave my shop at once and do not return.”
“Suggest all you like, but it is only a matter of time before I can prove your connection with the fugitive knights entering Scotland with stolen goods. I refuse to rest until we apprehend every single one and return them to France. I will also take immense pleasure in arresting you for treason against King Philip.”
“I told you that I do not know these men. Nor do I know anything about the stolen items of which you speak,” Monnet reiterated sharply. “A free man has the right to live where he chooses. And you appear to forget that I reside here under the protection of the Scottish King. If you do not wish me to summon the Bruce’s soldiers patrolling the area, I demand you leave. Now.”
Bateau grunted, then replied, “We will go, but will be watching you, Monnet. Eventually you will make a mistake and I personally will see you are punished.” He spun on his heel and headed for the door. “You cannot hide behind the Scottish king forever. Let us leave,” he growled at his men, then exited the shop, slamming the door behind them.
Franc released the breath he’d been holding, but didn’t turn around. Not even when the other patron raced out the door behind Bateau, leaving him alone with Monnet.
“That was close,” Monnet said as he approached Franc from behind. “Given you did not leave when they entered my shop, and still remain, I must assume we have something to discuss. Something Bateau would very much like to know.”
Franc faced Monnet. “Oui. Can you help me?”
“I will do what I can, but we canna talk here.”
“Then where can we speak?” Francois asked.
“I have a croft at the edge of town. Wait here while I lock the door.” Monnet moved to the front window, placed a closed sign on the sill, then barred the door, before returning to Franc. “My home is a wattle and daub hut at the end of the street running directly behind this building. The croft has a red door, so you canna miss it,” he explained. “Leave now, using the rear entrance to the shop, and do not speak to anyone. Go to my hut. I will wait an hour or so, and when I am certain Bateau will not return, I will join you there.”
Franc nodded and slipped into the storage room, then exited using the back door as instructed. Keeping his head down and doing his best to remain in the shadows, he headed toward Monnet’s croft.
Chapter 3
When the latch lifted, Francois’s breath lodged in his throat. He slid his hand over the hilt of the dirk at his side, pensively waiting for the door to open.
“I am glad you found my croft,” Monnet said as he entered and barred the d
oor behind him. He peered out the window, then closed the shutters before facing Francois.
“Do you think you were followed?”
“I doubt it, but one cannot be too cautious.” He gestured toward a table in the corner. “Have a seat.” After hanging his cloak on a hook by the door, Monnet joined Francois. “How long have you been in Scotland?”
Francois sat. “Since yesterday. I stowed away on a Portuguese merchant vessel.”
“You were fortunate to evade the scoundrels on the dock,” Monnet said. “You heard Bateau. He is like a mad dog that refuses to let go of a bone, and few men have managed to slip by him or his underlings.”
“It was not easy. When I emerged from the hold of the ship, I noticed three of his men patrolling the dock.”
Monnet scratched his head. “How on earth did you get by the buggers?”
“I swam,” Franc said, then went on to explain how he’d managed to evade capture, and why he didn’t contact him sooner.
“Are you daft? That seawater is like an ice bath.” Monnet closed his eyes and visibly shuddered. “You are lucky you did not freeze to death.”
“It was my only choice at the time.”
“You may be a fool, but you are obviously a quick thinker,” Monnet said. “Something that will come in handy when dealing with Bateau and his minions. Have you eaten since you arrived?”
Francois shook his head. “No.”
“We best rectify that before we discuss why you are here.” Monnet rose and ambled over to a shelf on the far side of the croft. He returned a few minutes later, toting a round of bannock, a block of cheese, two silver goblets, and a clay jug. He placed the repass on the table in front of Francois. “Eat,” he said as he filled the goblets with wine.