True Highland Spirit (30 page)

Morrigan found that squeezing through the small space backward was not particularly helpful for keeping her blanket covering what it ought. A cold wind across her backside was evidence of it. She sincerely hoped no one was on the other side watching her inelegant egress.

She dangled for a moment, then with Dragonet’s help lowered herself down until her feet found purchase and she was able to scramble down. She landed in some sort of cave or passage, which she could barely see, the orange glow from the cave she just left the only light.

“I dinna ken where I am, but it is safe,” called Morrigan.

She peered into the inky darkness trying to see where she was, a process made easier when Dragonet slipped down, somehow managing to carry the lit torch with him. It was clear they were in a tunnel.

“We go this way,” said Dragonet, pointing in one direction.

“How do ye know?” asked Morrigan.

“Look at the torch flicker. Wind is coming from this direction.”

They both headed down the passage until the wind blew harder and colder. In the distance Morrigan saw white. She walked faster, and then ran.

“Snow!” She ran to it, grabbing it with both hands. Their clothes were still laid out on the boulders. “We found the entrance to the cave!” She jumped on him in her excitement. She was free. She was out of the cave! He wrapped his free arm around her and pulled her close. They stood there for a moment, holding each other tight. They had escaped.

“Hey!” cried Morrigan, breaking free and looking around the mouth of the cave. “My horse is gone!”

“Mal made his way out. Look, fresh blood in the snow.” Dragonet held up the torch, and she could see it was true.

“Bastard stole my horse.” She neglected to mention that the horse in question had been procured through less than righteous means.

“More blood on the floor of the cave,” said Dragonet, inspecting with his torch.

“Fool will bleed to death if he doesna wrap his wound. Doubt anyone will miss him.”

“We need that silver chest,” said Dragonet.

“And I still need medicine for Andrew.”

Dragonet nodded. “About the things I told you when I thought we were trapped forever.” Dragonet brushed the hair back from his face and stared out the mouth of the cave. “I ask for your discretion.”

“Mayhap it would be best if we never speak o’ what happened in this cave.”

“Agreed.”

They struggled around a large boulder partially blocking the entrance of the cave and through some frozen bushes to the outside. Blizzard-force wind struck them hard with ice pellets and snow. Morrigan raised her arm to shield her face and struggled a few steps into the deep drifts of snow, the icy wind freezing her bare skin.

Dragonet tugged at her arm and shook his head. They both went back into the relative protection of the cave.

“We canna make it in that blizzard,” said Morrigan. “No’ dressed like this. We’ll freeze. Damn him for taking my horse.”

“Even with the horse it would be difficult,” said Dragonet. “We need to dry our clothes and let the storm pass before we can make it out.”

“I have an idea!” Morrigan grabbed her war ax from the frozen floor and tramped back into the darkness of the cave. “Come, I will need yer help for this! If we move some rocks and a few o’ these boulders…” her voice trailed off into the quiet of the stone cave.

Confused, Dragonet followed her.

A little while later Morrigan and Dragonet sat on rocks beside a crackling fire, holding their garments in front of the flames to dry. Morrigan’s idea indeed had been brilliant. The lid of the cedar chest had been broken apart to make an excellent fire.

“Now if only we had something to eat. I had food in the saddlebags,” Morrigan grumbled.

“More hot brew?” asked Dragonet. He had found a ceramic cup in the pocket of his cloak, and they packed it with snow and melted it over the fire to form a hot drink. Hot water, actually, but “brew” sounded less like deprivation.

“Nay. I’ll get more wood for the fire.”

Morrigan returned a short time later, her arms filled with scrolls.

“Do not even think it,” said Dragonet, standing up, his eyes narrowed into glittering slits.

“We need to dry our clothes and be gone from here.”

“No!” Dragonet stepped toward her with murder in his eye.

Morrigan took a step back before she remembered she never backed down. “We need to stay warm,” she said, but with less confidence.

Dragonet wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her to him, the scrolls forming an uncomfortable barrier between them. “If you need warming, I will see it done.”

“I… I…” Morrigan’s mouth went dry, and her breath came fast. Heat flushed through her and settled in her core.

He took the scrolls from her limp arms. “You cold now?”

She shook her head. She was many things, but cold? No, not cold in the least.

“Go get something else to burn.”

“Aye,” answered Morrigan. She was prying off one of the wooden sides to the cedar chest before she remembered no one ordered her about. What was she thinking?

When she returned to the fire, it was with the determination to give him a good dose of her mind. He was standing in front of the fire wearing naught but a pair of breeches. The scars on his back were clearly visible, which made her ache with sympathy. His muscles glowed in the orange light of the fire, which made her ache with something else.

“I believe your breeches and linen tunic they are dry enough to wear,” he said, holding them out to her.

“Thank ye. I brought more wood for the fire.”

“Thank you. More brew?”

“Yes, please.”

Dragonet averted his eyes, and Morrigan slipped into warm clothes, then sat on a rock near the fire and sipped her tea. She was vaguely aware she was going to say something to him, but she could not recall what it was, so it must not have been important.

She smiled. He smiled back. If only her brother’s life was not on the line, she would be happy to stay.

She drank her “brew” and knew the magic could not last.

***

Dragonet stacked the books neatly on the flat boulder in the gutting light of the torch, his hand lingering on them in a loving manner. The books were the real treasure, though he doubted his father would have sent him to Scotland to retrieve books and scrolls. He had examined them all, but other than the wonderful writings of Plato, Socrates, St. Augustine, and a beautiful, illuminated Bible in four volumes, along with other magnificent works, there was nothing about the books or scrolls that would be particularly significant to his father. No, his father spoke of a silver box, but that held nothing but gold and jewels. As much as his father wanted riches, going to Scotland was hardly the most convenient way to collect them. So why was Dragonet sent on his quest?

Dragonet was warmer, wearing several layers of tunics, his breeches, woolen hose, and his warm, leather boots. Their cloaks still needed to dry, but that was all that remained before venturing outside. They had been drying their clothes for hours, sometimes catching a bit of sleep. They had taken turns going back for more firewood, and Dragonet was to haul the last piece, the bottom of the wooden chest.

Dragonet lifted it, but it was heavier and thicker than he anticipated. He had always been relatively strong for his size, so he heaved and lifted the wood in his hands. It was quite thick for a bottom, and something was strange about the sides. Was the piece hollow?

Dragonet turned to look just as the torch died, casting him in utter darkness. He stumbled forward, groping with his hands and pulling along the bottom of the chest as he went. After some searching, he found the hole out of the cave and tried to ease the wooden piece out but lost hold, and it crashed to the cave floor below.

Dragonet hoisted himself down and felt for the broken pieces of the chest.

“Dragonet? Did ye fall?”

“Bring a light!” he called back. There was definitely a hidden compartment in the chest.

Morrigan arrived, torch in hand. “What happened? Are ye hurt?”

Even with his excitement over the chest he still looked up at her and smiled. She had been able to dress in her men’s clothing and was wearing several tunics, two pairs of breeches, woolen hose and her leather boots. It effectively hid her shape, but she was still beautiful in his eyes. Better yet, she was concerned for his welfare. It was wrong, no doubt, but very nice.

“The bottom of the chest, it had a false bottom. Something is inside.”

“What?” Morrigan’s eyes flew open wide. “Let me see.” She crouched down beside him with the torch.

Dragonet gently pried back the boards and revealed a purple velvet bag, tied with a braided gold rope. He swallowed hard. This was it. This must have been what his father had sought for all these years.

“What is inside?” asked Morrigan, impatient.

Dragonet opened the bag with trembling hands. He prayed silently to be worthy to receive the gift.

“Come on!” urged Morrigan. She was always one to leap and then look where she was going as she fell. She was a good match for his more cautious nature.

Dragonet reached in and touched something that felt like fabric. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and he pulled back his hand, unsure what had just happened.

“Go on then,” said Morrigan.

Dragonet took a breath. He must be letting his imagination get the better of him. He reached in once more and pulled out a square of folded linen. He unfolded it a few times, but nothing was inside it, so he folded it back. He reached into the bag again, but there was nothing else inside.

“Is that it?” Morrigan asked. “What is it? A linen sheet?”

Dragonet himself was confused. “Let us gather these pieces and inspect them by the fire.”

Morrigan stood up with her hands on her hips. “It doesna look like a holy grail to me,” she grumbled, but she helped him pick up the pieces and together they carried all the bits to the fire pit where they had set up rocks for sitting and drying clothes.

Dragonet inspected all the bits of wood from the false bottom of the chest, but there were no clues there. It must be something in the purple bag. Why else create a secret hiding place for it? The jewels in the silver case were meant as a distraction from the true treasure. But where was it?

“Maybe something was wrapped in that cloth that has been since removed,” suggested Morrigan.

Dragonet nodded. He had to admit it was a possibility. “Let’s take a look at the cloth.” He took it out from the velvet bag and again felt a tremor of excitement and fear. What was it? He started to unfold it and found it was quite large. He motioned to Morrigan to help, and she held one end while he held the other. Together they carefully held it out to its full length, about fourteen feet long and four feet wide.

“What is it?” asked Morrigan. “What is on it?”

The first thing he noted were some triangular markings that were repeated four times down the sheet, forming two lines on either side of the cloth. But there was something else, markings in between the patterns.

“Odd shape,” said Morrigan. “Like a winding sheet.”

“A burial cloth,” he murmured, trying to discern the markings. “Look, it is the image of a man, front and back, his arms crossed in front of him.” A tingling shock ran though him.

“I see it! But it is oddly painted; why the colors are all backwards. Whoever made it did a poor job.”

“Is that blood on the cloth?” asked Dragonet.

“Could be,” said Morrigan slowly. “Looks like this man has suffered. Is that blood on his head, his side, and his arms? Are those holes in his wrist and his feet?” She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “What is this?”

“I do not know,” said Dragonet. “But I think I know what the Templars thought it was. The burial cloth of—”

“Take it!” demanded Morrigan. “I should no’ be holding it. Take it away from me!”

They quickly but carefully folded it the way it was and placed it back into the velvet bag. Morrigan sat back on a rock. She was noticeably shaking.

“So ye truly believe…” Morrigan lowered her voice as if not to be overheard by the stones. “Do ye think that is the burial cloth of… of…
Jesus
?” she whispered the name.

“I do not know. But I think the Templars believed it was. Little wonder they went back to France to retrieve it.” He had done it. He had found the relic his father had wanted, but somehow he was more confused than ever. Should his father have possession of such a cloth?

“I never thought… that is, I have heard of Jesus dying on the cross, but I never thought of him as being a real man. It must have been horrible.”

Dragonet stared at the purple velvet bag. He had never thought that way either.

“How come God dinna like him? Why did he make him suffer?”

“Suffering is not a sign of God’s displeasure with you.”

“Truly? I always thought it explained the basic course of my life. Why then would he suffer like that?” Morrigan gestured toward the cloth.

“‘
Ipse
autem
vulneratus
est
propter
iniquitates
nostras
adtritus
est
propter
scelera
nostra
disciplina
pacis
nostrae
super
eum
et
livore
eius
sanati
sumus
,’” quoted Dragonet.