Irish Moon (10 page)

“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 the 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.

He only had to stop once, a fact that struck
him with pride. As well, the pain had dulled considerably along his
short tenuous trek to the door he readied to knock on. He kept his
expectations low and prepared a reasonable story for his shocking
state to whoever answered.

He knocked hard several times, allowing time
for the resident to rise and decide to answer their door at such an
ungodly hour. A robbery, he decided would be the most plausible
excuse for his lack of dress and unkempt appearance. And it would
be—might be—true. Perfect.

When several moments, certainly enough for a
person to hear him and waken, passed, Ashlon felt the owner had
slunk low behind the door, and listened there, debating if he
should risk opening his home. “My sincerest apologies for the rude
interruption of your slumber, sir or madam. I am Ashlon Sinclair,
of the Remington Sinclairs, and have met the misfortune of
marauders. They’ve left me without a stitch of clothing and in need
of your charitable assistance,” he said in his most soothing and
approachable tone.

He was a gentleman, a knight schooled in
chivalry. He was no threat, yet the door did not open. At last he
supposed the home empty and tried the crude knob. It gave and
opened. Warm air enveloped him when he stepped inside. “Hello
there,” he called, hoping now that someone would be there.

His vision warbled and he turned to the door.
Before he could reach it, he vomited. The heaves racked him but
produced no results save a pithy amount of bile. Ashlon gasped,
lowered to a crouch and sat next to the liquid. He was in bad
shape. He hated admitting it but he needed help. Better than that,
he needed that help to come find him because he couldn’t be sure
he’d make it back to the cave. He’d pushed too far and his body
committed mutiny.

* * * *

Breanne’s heart beat hard and fast. Someone
was following her. She didn’t see them or hear them but she
couldn’t shake the feeling and walked as fast, as quietly fast as
humanly possible. It wasn’t Finn. She wished it were Finn with
another one of his sick pranks. Finn was passed out drunk when
she’d left him to steal into the night.

She prayed Niall hadn’t assigned a man to
watch her. He constantly scolded her headstrong nature behind
closed doors to her mother. Day upon day of eavesdropping outside
their chamber door gave her that insight as well as the one about
marrying.

Breanne stopped and tucked between two close
oak trees. She closed her eyes and spoke a prayer for concealment
and protection. Sorely, she missed her boline. She’d nearly brought
her athame as a temporary replacement but the casting blade was too
small to fit her thigh sheath and at the last minute she decided it
wouldn’t damage well enough to bother.

Now, she regretted the change of mind.
Listening for signs of footsteps, Breanne held her breath for
several counts in turns. It calmed her racing pulse and cleared
noise. The oak’s woody scent calmed her, too. Soon she breathed
regularly. Surely, she’d lost anyone who tried to track her?

With a chant of gratitude, Breanne sprinkled
breadcrumbs and stepped out of the shadows. The moon’s light hit
her path well and Breanne saw the coastline in the distance. She
hurried along, this time with anticipation. Would he be awake, she
wondered? Her belly trembled at the thought.

She approached the cave slowly after
lingering outside long enough to light a candle. She entered the
cave and found it empty. Absolutely empty. Turning and gasping, she
looked about, kicked the covers. Only the food sack lay beneath
them. Both annoyed and worried, Breanne rushed from the cave and
skimmed the area.

Nothing. She saw him nowhere and not a single
sign of him. Not even a strand of grass pressed into the earth.
Breanne threw her hands in the air and sprinted toward Heremon’s.
The men. What if the men had discovered the stranger, or worse?

Before fear took hold of her, she saw
Heremon’s door stood open and rushed to it. The candle’s light
almost extinguished, flickered and returned to life once inside the
house. She saw him before the room glowed, recognized his
silhouette. Immediately she went to her knees in front of him. His
closed eyes slammed open wide and pinned her with an accusatory
look.

She reached to touch his brow and his hand
snaked around her wrist. She winced. “I will not harm you,” she
said in English, shaking her head.

His eyes narrowed but he dropped her arm, his
falling to the floor. Accusation in his gaze gave way to entreaty.
She smiled to reassure him and held a finger up.

“Don’t move,” she said.

As though he could, Ashlon thought. His
vision blurred in and out as he watched her. As she moved, the room
grew lighter and just as he was about to ease the panic rotting his
gut by calling to her, she returned. She put a bowl to his mouth
and he recognized the bitter taste and scent. He drank it.