Jacques (The Sword and the Spirit Book 3), page 10
Ruaidri regarded her. “Why?”
“Because everything is dying,” she replied. “I find little joy in it. I prefer the spring, when everything is coming back to life.”
“But you cannae have one without the other.”
She gave a wistful sigh. “Aye, I suppose that’s true.”
Prompted by a sudden wave of compassion, Ruaidri leaned over and gave one of her curls a gentle tug. “Come on, wee lass. We’d best no’ linger too long. It feels like rain.”
She shifted in the saddle. “Do you think Jacques will ever come back to Scotland, Ruaidri? And dinnae lie to me.”
Ruaidri considered his response. Over two months had passed since Jacques’ departure. Under casual scrutiny, most would say Morag had borne his absence quite well. She’d kept herself busy, never once shirking her responsibilities, and constantly doted on her young nephew, who had turned out to be a blessing in so many ways. But those close to her recognized her ongoing struggle, saw past the smiles, and noticed the occasional dark shadows beneath her eyes. Ruaidri had no doubt she grieved at night in the privacy of her chamber.
Morag had fallen in love with a Templar. A noble Basque knight who’d answered a questionable summons and taken himself off to a country fraught with danger. Ruaidri recalled Gabriel’s words, knowing Jacques’ decision to leave had not been made lightly. Quite the contrary. But to ignore the summons would have gnawed mercilessly at his conscience. Ruaidri completely understood the man’s reasoning. In his place, he’d have done exactly the same.
But would Jacques Aznar ever return?
“I believe he will, aye,” Ruaidri replied, with total honesty. “And when he does, it’ll be because of you, Morag. Only because of you.”
A cautious smile appeared. “Thank you. I needed to hear that.” Heaving another sigh, she glanced skyward. “Aye, you’re right. It feels like rain. We’d best get going.”
A short while later, they halted outside the church. Frowning, Ruaidri dismounted and went to help Morag down. “Odd that Father Iain isnae here to greet us,” he muttered, as much to himself as to Morag. “It’s no’ like him.”
“He’ll be napping, no doubt. ’Twas the same last week, when I came with Ewan.” Morag slid from the saddle, smoothed her skirts, and tightened her cloak about her shoulders. “His age is catching up to him, though ’tis sad to say it.”
“He’s been here a good while, right enough,” Ruaidri said, tethering the horses at the rail.
“He was here before the church was built.” Morag lifted her hood. “I’ll be back in a wee while. I want to see if any of the white heather is still blooming. I’d like some for our father’s and grandfather’s tombs.”
Ruaidri responded with a smile and watched her leave, noting a vitality in her stride that had not been there earlier. His smile turned to a grimace. “Just dinnae get yourself killed, Jacques,” he murmured as he turned toward the church. “Dinnae dare do that.”
The hefty door groaned as Ruaidri opened and closed it. He paused a moment and looked about, seeing no one. Then, as always, he dipped his fingers in the holy-water font, crossed himself, and moved into the silent belly of the church.
A faint smell of incense teased his nostrils as he approached the altar, where a lonely candle flickered. Nothing appeared to be out of place—except for Father Iain’s absence. Perhaps, as Morag had mentioned, the old man was simply taking a nap. Even so, a prickle brushed across Ruaidri’s nape.
Slowing his stride, he approached the small wooden door to the left of the altar, which led to Father Iain’s cell. There, he cocked an ear and gave the door a couple of soft raps. “Father Iain?”
Not a sound came from within. Ruaidri drew a steadying breath, lifted the latch, and pushed the door open. “Father Iain?”
He stood on the threshold and regarded the empty room. The bed had been neatly made and everything else appeared to be in order. No indication of anything untoward. Perhaps the old man was busy in the stable. Or maybe he’d simply gone for a walk.
Somewhat placated, Ruaidri turned to leave, but halted as his gaze fell upon the familiar woollen cloak hanging from a peg on the wall. The hairs on his nape bristled once more. If Father Iain had gone out on such a brisk day, he’d surely have taken the cloak with him.
He moved back into the main church and looked toward the arched entrance leading to the side chapel, which housed the tombs of his father and grandfather. And something unusual caught his eye. An object, laying on the floor beneath the arch. It looked like a lump of stone, at least big enough to fill a man’s hand. An oddity that had no purpose being there.
Gripping his sword hilt, Ruaidri crept forward, casting a wary glance around before stooping to pick up the piece. Frowning, he ran his thumb over the stone’s single smooth edge. A carved edge, obviously hewn by a human hand. Not a natural stone, then, but a fragment of masonry. He looked up, wondering if it had fallen from the ceiling, but saw no sign of any damage.
His attention then turned to the chapel. Still holding the piece of masonry, he stepped through the archway and halted, his breath stalling in his lungs as he regarded the scene before him.
“Mother of God,” he muttered, dropping the fragment as he pulled his sword. Senses alert, he gazed around the empty chamber. Empty now, but someone had obviously been there, and with evil intent.
The stone fragment’s origin was no longer a mystery. It was one of many that lay scattered all over the floor, some large, some small, some smashed to dust. They were all that remained of the effigy on his grandfather’s tomb. The face, the hands, the feet—all had been defiled, damaged beyond recognition. A corner of the sarcophagus had also been hacked off, exposing the dark interior of the tomb. It was a sickening display of destruction that made no sense.
And where was Father Iain?
The answer came a heartbeat later, when Ruaidri noticed a pair of bare feet protruding from the other side of the tomb. Uttering a cry, he stumbled over the debris and dropped to his knees beside the felled priest, who lay on his back, eyes closed, flesh pale.
Why? Why would anyone do this?
Tears of rage blurred his vision as he set down his sword and felt beneath the old man’s chin for a pulse. To his infinite relief, a faint rhythm tapped against his fingers.
Thank God. “Father Iain, it’s Ruaidri. Can you hear me?”
The priest’s lids flickered and a slight frown settled between his eyes.
“Father Iain?” Ruaidri took the man’s gnarled hand between his. It felt cold and lifeless, like clay. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”
The lids flickered again. “Ruaidri?”
“Thank Christ! Aye, it’s all right. Easy now. Dinnae try to move just yet.” He searched for signs of injury or bleeding, but found none. “Who did this, Father?”
The priest swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I dinnae ken who he was,” he said, his voice scraping from his throat. “A servant of Satan, for sure.”
“What did he want?”
“He… he demanded to know where the Templar treasure was hidden.” The man swallowed and drew breath. “We struggled and I fell. I… I must have knocked myself out.”
Templar treasure? “When did this happen?”
“I dinnae…” The man blinked several times. “What day is it?”
“It’s Wednesday, Father.”
“This morning then.” He squeezed Ruaidri’s hand. “It only happened this morning. What is the hour now?”
Ruaidri threw a cursory glance at the stained-glass window. “A little before midday, perhaps.”
“Then I havenae been out very…” Eyes widening, Father Iain made a strangled sound and grabbed Ruaidri’s arm. “Did you come here alone, laddie?”
“Nay, Father, I came with Morag.”
“Where is she?”
“She went to get some—” Ruaidri gasped and looked toward the doorway, fear squeezing his heart. She should have been here by now. “Ah, shite! Are you saying this servant of Satan might still be here?” He grabbed his sword and fled the chapel, Father Iain’s pained words following him.
“God help her if he is.”
The rain had made good on its threat. It swept down from the sky like a grey veil, obscuring much of the surrounding glen. Ruaidri barely noticed it. Fists clenched, he stood ankle-deep in a patch of faded white heather, gazing down at the ominous depression of broken stems and crushed flowers. The violent imprint marred an otherwise unblemished array, obviously the result of someone who had lain there. Fallen there. He lifted his face to the rain and released a howl of grief and fury, barely recognizing the sound as his own. It echoed around the glen before falling away into silence.
It was too late. Morag had been taken, and Ruaidri knew why. And in that first, devastating thrust of comprehension, he cursed the Templar legacy and all the risks that came with it. A heartbeat later, he regretted his curse and begged a silent apology from those who had passed before. This was not their doing. Blame, in its entirety, rested on his shoulders, and his alone. He’d been negligent, and a terrible price had been exacted. With no small effort, he staved off a mind-numbing surge of emotion. He needed to calm himself. He needed to…
Think, Ruaidri. Think.
Gathering his wits, he crouched to better study the damage, as if doing so might give him clues as to who had taken her. She had not cried out—he would have heard her—which surely meant she’d been taken by surprise. Felled with a blow to the head, probably. That thought brought bile to his throat and tears to his eyes. What if the bastard had hit her too hard? There was no trace of blood, but the rain might already have washed any traces away.
Sick with despair, he staggered to his feet and looked along the path that led out of the glen, the extended view shrouded by rain. He saw no sign of life. None at all. The man must have had a horse. But why hadn’t they seen it when they first arrived? It must have been hidden somewhere.
The woods?
Ruaidri switched his gaze to the woodlands on the far side of the loch, squinting as he searched the trees. But there was no sign of movement. No distant figure riding away. Besides, that direction offered nothing in the way of an easy escape out of the glen. A man, and especially one with an incapacitated captive, would have to be mad to even attempt such a route. Then again, it seemed they were dealing with a madman.
Which way to go?
“God help me,” he muttered, wiping the rain from his eyes.
He turned and moved back toward the church, head down as he searched for signs. Footprints. Hoofprints. Anything that might indicate what direction this ‘servant of Satan’ had taken. Apart from his and Morag’s footprints, he found only one other. Recent, too. It obviously belonged to a man who’d been heading toward the heather. Toward Morag. But whoever it was had been careful not to leave anymore. Ruaidri cursed the surrounding outcroppings of granite, which offered a path to those who did not wish to be followed. Otherwise, the stony path gave nothing away. How could he pursue with certainty without knowing the direction?
In answer, his conscience mercilessly pointed out another dilemma. To go after Morag would mean leaving an injured and helpless priest behind. Ruaidri uttered another curse. No matter his decision, he couldn’t do this alone. He needed help. With a final desperate glance around the glen, he went back to the church and returned to Father Iain’s side.
“Did you find her?” Father Iain asked, his eyes bright with anguish.
“Nay, but I will.” Ruaidri crouched beside him. “What injuries do you have, Father? Can you tell me? Is it just the bump on the head?”
The priest’s face contorted. “What are you doing, Ruaidri?” His breath rattled in his throat. “Dinnae waste time on me. You must get after this Devil. You must find the wee lass.”
“I will, Father, but I cannae leave you like this.” Ruaidri slid an arm beneath the old man’s shoulders. “Can you sit up?”
“Please, laddie.” A tear leached from the priest’s eye as he sat up. “I’ll be fine. Go find your sister.”
“Not till you’re settled.”
“But you’re wasting time. You have to go now.”
“The whoreson is already long gone, I fear.” Ruaidri hoisted the priest to his feet. “Come on, now. Easy.”
Father Iain gasped as he eyed the damaged tomb. “Och, dear God in Heaven, I didnae realize he’d done all that. For what purpose? ’Tis a sacrilege, and may the Devil take him.”
“I assume he was looking for the gold,” Ruaidri replied. “Watch your step, now.”
“Aye, you may be right.” Father Iain clung onto Ruaidri’s arm. “’Twas as if he knew of its existence somehow, though I cannae think where he’d have acquired the notion.”
A sudden and alarming suspicion brushed the edge of Ruaidri’s brain. Nay, it cannae be him. Not after all this time. “Do you remember the man’s face? Can you describe him?”
“Nay, he was hooded and had a dark cloth over his nose and mouth. I saw only his eyes.” Father Iain crossed himself. “And they were empty of feeling, like he had no soul. Och, Ruaidri, I cannae bear to think of our wee lass in the clutches of such a man.”
Ruaidri pondered the priest’s words. That the assailant had hidden his identity was hardly surprising. But was the face behind the mask that of a stranger? Or, Heaven forbid, someone known to us?
“I dinnae think Morag will be harmed, Father,” he said, settling the priest onto the bed.
Father Iain parted with a soft groan as he lay back. “What makes you think that?”
“Because she has value to him,” Ruaidri replied. “He’ll be demanding a ransom, mark my words. And he’ll expect it to be paid in Templar gold.”
Chapter Thirteen
Sometimes, he thought, fortune smiled upon the wicked. Granted, the day had not started out very well. The priest had proven to be more obstinate than anticipated, refusing to give up the secrets of the Templar church. The old fool had put up a fair fight before falling and knocking himself out on the tiled floor.
Damn him.
The gold was there, somewhere, though its whereabouts remained elusive. The tomb of the MacKellar grandsire seemed to be a likely hiding place. A good place to start, anyway. Calum MacKellar had been a Templar back when the Order still had some power in the world. So, that’s where the search began, and when the Devil’s luck took over.
He scratched his beard as he reflected.
If he hadn’t broken his axe hacking away at the tomb, he’d not have gone outside looking for something to replace it. He wouldn’t have been in the stable when he’d heard horses and voices, and watched from the shadows as Ruaidri MacKellar went into the church while Morag wandered off toward the loch.
Alone.
By Odin’s hairy arse, he could hardly believe his good fortune. Only a fool would hesitate when offered such a timely opportunity. He’d not hesitated for a moment, but snatched it from destiny’s open palm with relish.
It had almost been too easy.
With time being of the essence, he made his move moments after Ruaidri entered the church. The lass had heard him coming up behind her, but hadn’t turned. Knee-deep in the heather, she assumed to know who approached. She assumed wrongly.
“Did you find him?” she’d asked, bending to pluck a sprig of heather and then straightening to study it. “Was he nap—?”
The hilt of the sword struck the back of her head. A calculated blow; not enough to kill, just enough to immobilize. The lass had crumpled like a piece of discarded clothing.
He hoisted her over his shoulder and scurried off to the woods where he’d left his horse. She was skinnier than he remembered. Still, by the time he’d draped her inert body over the saddle, his lungs were on fire and his muscles cramping.
He’d resisted a panicked urge to mount up behind her and spur his horse into a frenzied gallop. That had not been easy. Every instinct he possessed told him to flee with his prize, to put as much space between himself and the clan laird as rapidly possible. Time was rationed. The bastard would be exiting the church at any moment.
But to go crashing through the woods at a full gallop would surely draw attention and would certainly leave a clear trail. So, he ignored the euphoric tremble in his body and calmly led his horse back the way he’d come, winding through the woods on the far side of the loch, avoiding any and all paths. He might leave a bit of a trail, aye, but not one nearly as evident. Their gentle plod through the thick bed of pine needles and other forest debris made little, if any, disturbance.
Besides, Ruaidri MacKellar would not look there first. Nay, he’d assume the kidnapper had taken the known path out of the glen. Another wrong assumption. There was an alternative way out. Perilous, but not impassable. At least, not until the snows came. This year, so far, they’d been slow in capping the mountains.
No sooner had that thought passed through his mind than the rain began to play a drum-roll on the surrounding trees. He cursed and then hiccupped, wincing as he tasted bile from a sour stomach. On his way out of the church, he’d grabbed the jug of communion wine off the altar and finished off the contents. Not that there’d been much. The stuff had been harsh on the palate, too, but it had been days since he’d touched any drink and he was desperate for it. It had already subdued the bone-deep craving that near drove him to madness, though his hands still trembled. Or perhaps the latter was merely excitement.
He dared to halt his horse and look back, relieved to see that the forest had closed in behind him, impeding his view of the church. Which meant, of course, he could not be seen from the church, either. Continuing on, he smiled and breathed deep through his nose, his chest swelling with air and exaltation. He could still hardly believe his devilish good fortune.
Not long after, a shout drifted across the loch and into the trees. A distressful sound. A primal howl of pain. Ruaidri MacKellar, no doubt, had just discovered his beloved sister had gone missing.
“Shame on you, MacKellar.” He tut-tutted and then grinned in pure delight. “Leaving a poor wee lass unprotected like that, with arseholes like me wandering around. How careless of you.”
