True Highland Spirit (31 page)

“Pardon?”

“It is from the prophet Isaiah. It says that he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities, and by his wounds we are healed.”

“Healed o’ what?”

“Our sins. Christ took the punishment for our wrongdoing so we can be forgiven.”

“But why?”

“‘
Sic
enim
dilexit
Deus
mundum
ut
Filium
suum
unigenitum
daret
ut
omnis
qui
credit
in
eum
non
pereat
sed
habeat
vitam
aeternam.’”

“Ye do realize quoting Latin to me is no’ particularly helpful.”

“I beg your pardon. It is from the gospel of St. John. It says God loved the world so much he sent his son to save the world, that those who believe in him may have eternal life.”

“So because I did what was wrong, Jesus took my punishment, and now I can be right with God?”

“That is the essence of the Gospel.” Dragonet had studied hard and learned well. His theology was sound, even if his practice was weak.

“Do ye truly believe that?”

Did he? Dragonet stopped and thought a moment. He reviewed his life, the things he experienced, the mistakes he had made, the times he had prayed. He had taken his vows to be a monk because his father told him to, and because he had little other chance of getting fed.

No one had ever asked him what he believed. And yet… he did believe it. He believed. For one moment of crystal clarity he saw the lies his father had told him for what they were, and the power his father held over him began to crack.

“I do believe,” said Dragonet. He sat up taller; his shoulders felt lighter. “Do you?”

“I ne’er thought about it. I always figured I was damned, so what was the point. I ne’er thought someone else would take my place in the punishment. Ye truly believe I could be forgiven?”

“Yes. I know you can.”

“I have been a liar and a thief, and I even tried to take the life of a bishop.”

“God can forgive all. Even the greatest of sinners. Even you.”

“Ye are charity itself.” Morrigan said with an arch of one eyebrow. “Maybe. I dinna ken. I must think on it.”

They both stared at the velvet bag, but it simply lay there. “What shall we do wi’ it?” asked Morrigan. “And why do yer father and Abbot Barrick want it so badly?”

“This shroud, if deemed authentic, it would be an important relic, perhaps greater than any other. Whoever controls it would become powerful. Pilgrims would come see it. Wealthy patrons would pay to see it displayed. The Church might even build a cathedral to house it.”

“So that is why Barrick petitioned the Church for a cathedral to be built.”

“He must not get control of it.”

“Aye, and yer father neither.”

Dragonet paused. He held the one thing that could prove his worth to his father. Could he really let it slip away? “Then what is to be done? I have devoted years to this quest.”

“Ye could make a living as a minstrel.”

Dragonet shook his head. “My instrument I gave to a girl of my fancy.”

“That was a mite shortsighted,” said Morrigan, trying to hide a smile.

A
man
in
love
does
foolish
things.
Dragonet smiled in return. There were still so many things he knew he should not say.

Silence permeated the cave, the velvet bag and its mysterious contents lying on a rock between them, small, and yet an impenetrable wall.

“The cloaks must be dry enough to travel,” said Morrigan, staring straight ahead, the light from the fire casting a warm glow on her face. She was beautiful. “Shall we fight for the cloth now or later?” And deadly.

“Later. Let us see if we can get the medicine for Andrew without resorting to doing each other bodily harm. Besides, Barrick said he wanted the box, not the cloth.”

“True. Ye agree to come wi’ me? Until we get this matter resolved, I dinna wish to have that bag out o’ my sight.”

“Agreed,” said Dragonet. He did not wish to let either the bag or the girl sitting next to him out of his sight. But of course keeping both of them would never be possible. Eventually he would have to choose.

“I will come back for you.” Dragonet turned toward the cave to give a final farewell.

“Ye do know ye are talking to books.” Morrigan raised an eyebrow at him.

“They have always spoken to me.”

“That’s more than I wanted to know.” Morrigan continued to struggle through the deep snow.

The blizzard had mostly passed, though the sky remained gray and the hour was difficult to determine. Dragonet had put the books and scrolls back into the secret cave. Though the hole to the secret cave remained, it would be difficult to find unless one knew where to look.

Dragonet hid the purple velvet pouch holding the Templar relic in an interior pocket of his cloak. Morrigan did not wish to touch it, for she swore the cloth had burned her fingers once she realized what it was, or could be. She did not know what to make of it.

Her stomach growled with determined menace. She had ignored it too long. Maybe after a good meal they could determine what to do next.

The small village of Kimlet was an energetic hike from the cave. They arrived in time for the midday meal, and both Morrigan and Dragonet ate until their stomachs groaned for quite the opposite reason.

“I have eaten myself sick. Feels great,” said Morrigan. “Now what?”

“Ask around. See what we can discover of our friend Mal. We must find the silver box.”

“Aye,” said Morrigan, though in truth she would have been quite content with a warm bath and a nap. Or even better, a warm bath, gingerbread, and a nap. Dragonet stood up from the table and stretched lazily. Morrigan’s mind went rogue. Best of all would be a warm bath with Dragonet, slow sex all afternoon, and then a good, long sleep.

Morrigan stood and shook her head to dispel the fantasy. That man had ruined her. He had made her forget the gingerbread.

“Morrigan?” asked Dragonet. He was looking at her oddly. She guessed that was not the first time he had said her name.

“Aye? What? Let’s move!” She bustled ahead, leaving him in her inarticulate wake.

Mal’s location was surprisingly easy to ascertain. According to the innkeeper, he had checked in yesterday and had been feeling poorly. He paid to have a dispatch sent to the abbey. That morning a monk arrived and spent a short time with Mal. When the monk left, he told the host that the man was sick and needed to be left alone to rest, which the good innkeeper had done, not disturbing the man.

“Was this monk an elderly man, but sturdy built with square shoulders and a mean look?” asked Morrigan.

The innkeeper was slightly taken aback. “I dinna wish to speak unkindly about a monk, but… yes, he was as ye described.”

“Which room is he in?” asked Dragonet. “Do not fear; we shall not disturb him.”

“I warrant no one can disturb him now,” muttered Morrigan to Dragonet, who nodded in agreement.

They went up to Mal’s room and Dragonet paused outside the door. “Best let me go in first.”

“Nonsense!”

They entered the room and found what they both expected, Mal dead on the bed.

“Is he?” asked Morrigan.

Dragonet briefly inspected the body. “Yes, quite. I can still smell the poison on his lips.”

“You think it was Barrick?”

“Very likely. I would suppose Mal found he could not go on, sent to Barrick for help, and got this instead.”

Morrigan nodded. “I dinna suppose there would be any point in looking for the silver box.”

“Barrick, he must have it now,” said Dragonet, but they made a search of the room for the sake of completeness. It was a small room, serviceable, but not many places for an injured man to hide a silver box, which was indeed gone.

“What now?” asked Morrigan. “I still need to get the medicine for Andrew.”

“Let us go to the abbey. Maybe we could find a way to steal the medicine. No matter what we gave Barrick, I would not trust him to give us the right bottle, as our friend Mal discovered too late.”

“Agreed.” Morrigan worried for a moment that Barrick sent poison to Andrew instead of medicine, if he sent anything at all. Morrigan sighed and forced herself to follow Dragonet back downstairs. She could do nothing about it now. The best she could do was to find the medicine and return to Andrew as soon as possible.

Dragonet calmly explained to the Innkeeper that Mal was doing quite poorly indeed and an undertaker might best serve him. Before they left Kimlet, Dragonet collected a few personal effects he had left at the inn, paid the innkeeper, and retrieved his horse. Morrigan also found her mount in the stables, and they were quickly on their way.

They were allies, but how long could it last?

***

Dragonet drew his cloaks closer against the biting wind. It was cold, but the snow had stopped, making travel slightly easier. They should reach St. Margaret’s before nightfall, but then what? They must get the medicine for Andrew, and Morrigan would need to race back home to save her brother. Once he helped her find the medicine, there was nothing else to keep him in Scotland. He was still a monk. He was still on a mission. It was time to go home.

He had the relic his father had desired for years. He would finally prove to the old man he was not useless, unworthy of his notice. He would earn his father’s respect, perhaps even make the old man proud. He would… Dragonet paused in his familiar rendition of how he could finally prove his worthiness to his father. What would his father really do?

“What are ye going to do wi’ the shroud?” asked Morrigan, as if she could read his thoughts.

Dragonet considered the question for a moment, rocking gently in the saddle as his horse plodded through the snow. “Give it to my father, unless… in truth I do not know.”

“I still need to get the medicine for Andrew.”

“Even if you gave the abbot this relic, he may not give to you the medicine.”

“So ye’re going to give it to yer bastard father?”

“I am the bastard, I fear.”

“Not in anything that counts.”

Dragonet smiled. “Thank you.

“Ye canna give him this relic!”

“Many years have I sought to prove my worthiness to my father. This relic, it would redeem me in his eyes.”

“I thought ’twas God who did the redeeming.” Morrigan gave him a hard look.

She was right. He had fought so long against his father’s disdain, trying to prove his worth, he had never stopped to consider why he struggled so hard to win the respect of a man he could not like. So what to do with the relic? Dare he give the shroud to another? Dragonet shuddered from more than the freezing wind. His father’s rage would know no bounds.

“Hold there!” Four large, mounted men in black cloaks rode into view, their hoods and mufflers disguising much of their faces. Dragonet stopped short and scanned for weapons or signs of threat. He found none visible, but experience had made him cautious. “Who are you? Identify yourself!” called Dragonet.

“Are ye Sir Dragonet and Morrigan McNab?” asked a cloaked rider who blocked their path.

Dragonet glanced at Morrigan, but she gave a barely perceivable shrug. These were not friends of hers.

“Who wants to know?” demanded Morrigan, her hand on the hilt of her sword.

“We are friends. Mother Enid sent us to find ye and give ye the medicine ye requested.”

“Mother Enid found more medicine? Where is she?” asked Morrigan.

“Follow me,” said the cloaked man.

He turned his horse, and they followed him down the road and off onto a side path, and wound uphill through snow-covered trees and shrubs. The path narrowed so they could only ride single file; two cloaked men went first, followed by Morrigan and Dragonet, followed by two more cloaked men.

The men stopped at a cozy cottage, built on the side of the forested hill. Dragonet guessed it was a hunting box of some sort, but why Mother Enid, who did not appear to him to be the traveling sort, would be in a hunting box, he could not say. Four more cloaked men were outside the cottage.

Dragonet was suspicious. He dismounted with the others and drew close to Morrigan. “Be wary.”

“Always,” she whispered in return.

One of the men pointed at the hunting box. It was a snug little cottage, smoke rising from the stone chimney with the promise of warmth. The sun shone brightly on the pristine snow, giving the landscape a shimmering glow. His fingered the hilt of his sword. It might be a trap, but if there was any chance the medicine they needed to save Andrew was inside, Morrigan would be going in. And so he would too.