Irish Moon (9 page)

“I doubt such a story,” he said gruffly, his
eyebrows sharply raised. “What route were you takin’ that could
send you so far off to eat a good hour to get to be standing at the
very place you started from?”

Breanne struggled to maintain her smile and
add a look of innocence as her mind ran to find an acceptable fib.
“An hour. Why did you expect I’d be seeing you an hour ago?” She
choked out a weak laugh but maintained steady eye contact.

“My soon to be brother-in-law informed me not
five minutes ago of your plans. I’ll tell you I got him worried
when I told him I hadn’t seen you. Best we plan a visit another
day, Breanne. I believe you’d better check with Niall just now.”
His brow lifted higher in disapproval before he left her standing
in the yard.

Breanne nodded curtly, shut her mouth and
went back inside. She wouldn’t have believed a person’s brows could
reach that level had she not seen it for herself numerable times.
The look still impressed her not just by its contortion but by the
undeniable effect it had on her. She’d been reduced to a
seven-year-old miscreant caught in naughtiness, not the best way to
approach what would likely be an inquisition about more than her
morning’s activities.

* * * *

Noisy activity outside the cave woke Ashlon.
The angry chirping of birds first entered his dreams then
penetrated them and he sat up groggily. He tried rubbing the sleep
from his eyes but it clung to him like a spider’s web, dulling his
awareness.

Rock surrounded him and for a moment he
thought he’d dreamed the heathen man and missing chest. He jerked
his body around to view the small space and still saw no
familiarity, but recognized that he was in a cave. No water, no
skiff, a different cave than the one he’d taken shelter in when
he’d oared his skiff into the cove, his last memory before the
fever took hold.

To his left lay a satchel and wine skin. He
reached for both and his arms shook from the effort. Daylight
poured in from above and before him. He opened the satchel and
found food. He ate slowly, refusing to give in to the desire to
gorge himself. He surmised that his recollection of the kind-eyed
man was real and that for some reason, he’d brought him here.
Beyond that he couldn’t hope to understand the actions of an
Irishman but was thankful for the food and independence.

He was safe, although weak, and had found Tir
Conaill despite the storm, lack of a map, and cover of night. He
counted himself more than lucky. If luck continued to be on his
side, he’d find the chest where he took shelter, bring it to its
destination and be left to start anew.

He stuffed in another mouthful of bread and
chewed. It was the most delicious food he could recall having. The
chirping that woke him continued outside the small shrub shrouded
entrance and he guessed a mating season’s lover’s quarrel. He was
too weak yet to look and verify his conclusion but it amused him
nonetheless.

He felt surprisingly optimistic for having
woken in a strange place, obviously in poor health. No, that wasn’t
right. He didn’t feel poorly so much as weakened, hungry, and
foggy. Otherwise, life seemed to be gloriously going his way. And
why shouldn’t it after so many years of hardship, lies and caution,
he asked himself and tore off another piece of peppered
venison?

Finally, the end was in sight. The end of a
long journey he wished at times another man had been given. But,
Jacques had been clear that he was the only one who could
accomplish the undertaking, even indicating that he was meant to.
Sitting in the cave, covered in furs and wool, Ashlon still didn’t
see why another knight had not been given this fate. For the first
time in a long time, he was glad it was him.

Strange thing to feel happy about such
circumstance, but he did. At that moment he couldn’t fathom a
single other place he’d rather be. His future was nearing, he could
feel it and the knowledge brought with it a sense of
wonderment.

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.