Jacques (The Sword and the Spirit Book 3), page 15
Jacques turned. “Who?”
“Alastair MacAulay.”
Jacques’ gut clenched. “Nay, surely not. He’s long dead.”
“Is he the one you told me about?” Pierre asked. “The one who imprisoned Laird MacKellar?”
“The same.” Not quite sure where to put himself, Jacques wandered back to his chair and dropped into it. “How is all this meant to work? What’s the arrangement?”
“There’ll be an exchange. The gold for information about Morag’s whereabouts,” Gabriel said, and then went on to explain the rest. “So, assuming all goes to plan, Morag should be returned to us later today.”
“Assuming all goes to plan.” Jacques gave a bitter laugh. “What’s preventing this bastard from taking the gold and disappearing?”
“Nothing.” Gabriel released a sigh. “There are no guarantees, Jacques. We can only pray the agreement will be upheld by those who have her.”
“That’s a lot to pray for,” Jacques replied. “Especially if Ruaidri’s suspicions are correct.”
Gabriel regarded Pierre. “I regret this has not been the welcome you might have expected, Father. Please forgive my lack of hospitality. You must be hungry. You too, Jacques.”
Jacques suppressed a sigh. “I couldn’t eat a thing.”
“Nor I,” Pierre said. “And my only expectation was that I’d be able to make myself useful here. There must be something I can do to alleviate the burden of stress on this family. Give me a purpose. I can turn my hand to many things.”
Gabriel looked thoughtful. “There is, actually, something you could do for us, Father.”
“Tell me.”
“While Father Iain is here recovering, his church is being watched over, reluctantly, by a man-at-arms. I wonder if you might consider assuming that responsibility? For now, at least.”
Jacques looked up from his mulling. If Pierre Sabatier had ever needed a reason to remain in Scotland, Gabriel had just given it to him. The priest’s reply was instant and as expected.
“It would be an honour.”
Jacques grabbed the opportunity it presented. “I’ll escort you there, Father.”
“You don’t have to go today,” Gabriel said, frowning. “You should probably rest.”
“I won’t rest till I know Morag is safe,” Jacques replied, “and I need something to do in the meantime.”
Jacques gazed down at the imprint in the heather, the crushed plants telling the violent tale of where Morag had fallen. He bent and picked up a damaged sprig, most of the flowers torn off, the few that remained, brown and withered. Something deep inside him, already twisted, coiled even tighter. Hate, perhaps. Or the sheer bitterness of regret. For had he arrived just one day earlier, Morag would likely not have accompanied her brother. There might still have been an altercation, but it would have been between two armed men. Not a furtive attack on a defenceless woman.
Jacques felt for his sword, curling his fingers around the hilt till his knuckles whitened. His anger felt like a single entity seething within, barely controlled. His fear, however, was being fueled by several unthinkable scenarios. He feared Morag had been gravely injured. Or that she’d been violated. Worst of all, that those who had her would not adhere to the agreement, but would simply take the gold and disappear, leaving Morag to her fate. Finding her would be close to impossible.
Uttering a string of curses, he tossed the damaged sprig aside and lifted his gaze to the surrounding mountains, his tears blurring the landscape.
“A prayer would be preferable, Brother,” Pierre said, from behind him. “Though your reaction has some merit.”
Jacques answered without turning. “Are you settled in?”
“I feel as though I belong here.” There followed a sigh. “I confess, when I first set foot on this land, and the wind all but tore the flesh from my bones, I questioned the wisdom of my decision. I did not sense a welcome so much as a challenge.”
Jacques huffed. “And when has Pierre Sabatier ever walked away from a challenge?”
There followed a pause. Then, “Only once.”
Jacques turned, but said nothing.
Pierre cocked his head. “You have never asked me why.”
Jacques knew to what he referred. “I’m sure you had your reasons, Pierre. None of which are my business.”
“Actually, I’ve never spoken of it to anyone.” He fingered the wooden cross, resting against his chest. “My last assignment came from an anonymous source. Nothing strange about that. Many of my clients preferred to remain nameless. But he was obviously a noble of some renown. He wanted me to seek out and kill the man who’d defiled his daughter and got her with child. She’d refused to name the culprit and had, consequently, been locked away. It wasn’t the kind of assignment I particularly liked. Such things tend to have a tawdry flavour. I preferred the challenge of political games. Playing both sides. Making a crime look like an accident, or placing blame where it didn’t belong.” He pulled in a breath. “But, at the time, the offer seemed too good to refuse, so I took it.”
“And did you find the culprit?”
“Oh yes, I found him. But I didn’t kill him.”
“Why?’
“Because it was someone I knew, and I didn’t believe his actual death would solve anything. Instead, I made a deal with him. He swore he’d disappear, vowed that he’d never go near the girl again. I then sent word to the client that I’d dispatched the culprit and disposed of the body. Given my reputation, he had no reason to doubt me. I received my payment and that was that.” His jaw ticked. “I only found out later that his daughter hung herself that same night, after she was told that her lover was dead.”
Jacques frowned. “And you blame yourself for her death?”
“And that of her child. Yes, I blame myself entirely.”
“I’m not sure that’s merited. And you didn’t exactly back down from the challenge. You just lied about the outcome.”
“You don’t understand, my friend. I was her lover. I made a deal with myself.” A softness came to his eyes. “Her name was Marie-Claire. She had the face of an angel and the body of a goddess. Three weeks before she died, we met at our usual place. That’s when she told me she was with child and begged me to take her away. We can begin a new life elsewhere, she said. Just you and me and our child. That was the challenge I faced. To accept my responsibility, to take care of her and our child. And, may the Devil curse my bones, I walked away from it. I told her I needed time to think, to figure out how we could do this. I left, promising to find a solution before we met again. Then I learned her condition had been discovered and her father had locked her away.”
“And then you got the assignment.”
“To find and kill the man responsible, yes.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Can you believe that? And, to my eternal shame, I took it, because I saw it as a solution. A way out. I never thought for a moment Marie-Claire would take her life. I swear before God, if I’d known, I’d have taken her with me that night. After she died, I put down my sword and entered the priesthood. And not because I wanted absolution. I’m not doing this for me, Jacques, I’m doing it for them. For Marie-Claire and our child. That God may see fit to free them from purgatory and give them a place in Heaven.”
“He already has, my friend. I’m sure of it.”
“I hope so. The sin was not theirs. It was mine.” He gave a faint smile. “I confess I kept much of my wealth, but only because I wanted to control how it should be distributed to those who need it. And now, in the latter part of my life, I find myself here. In a place that, by the sheer magnificence of its landscape, challenges the spirit of any man. It is, I’m certain, exactly where I’m supposed to be. But enough! We can speak more of it another time. Go home, Aznar. By God’s good grace, your friends are now returned and your lady with them.”
Chapter Twenty
The castle stood in silence beneath a blanketed sky. In the great hall, a dozen candles flickered, and the crimson embers in the hearth pulsed like a listless heart. Of those who lingered in that quiet space, some slept. Most did not. They shared hushed whispers, speculative and fearful.
Jacques had spent much of the night atop the gatehouse, watching and waiting.
Praying. So far, there’d been no sign of Ruaidri or Ewan, yet he clung to hope, telling himself the exchange must have been successful. That they’d ridden off to find Morag, to free her from her confinement. Hence the delay.
His instinct cruelly hinted at something else. Something he refused to recognize.
He sat, now, on the rush-covered floor of the hall, leaning back against the wall, the stone cold and hard against his back. The physical discomfort, oddly, helped to counter his inner turmoil. From somewhere outside came a cockcrow, which surprised him, for it meant he must have dozed off at some point. He didn’t remember doing so. It also meant that Ruaidri and Ewan had now been gone a full day.
His fragile hope wavered.
Then a movement nearby drew his attention. “News?” he asked, seeing Gabriel approach.
“I’m afraid not.” He held out a hand and helped Jacques to his feet. “Duncan is convinced something has gone wrong and wants to send out a couple of men. I thought you and I could go, if you’re willing.”
“Of course, but go where?” Jacques grabbed his sword and buckled it around his hips. “They could be anywhere.”
“To the rendezvous point, initially. Where we go after that will depend, I suppose, on what we find.” Gabriel gave him a critical look. “Did you eat anything since your arrival yesterday?”
“Nay.”
“Then I suggest you do so before we leave. Hammett will see to Balere. I’ll meet you at the stables?”
“All right. But I—”
Jacques halted, his attention drifting to the grey shape of someone who had just appeared in the doorway. The man stood motionless, his face pale in the gloom, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. One by one the whispers fell silent as all faces turned toward the figure.
“Ewan,” Jacques said, barely hearing the utterance over the thud of his heart. He moved forward, aware of his friend’s silence, fearful of it.
“Ewan,” he said again, and looked into a face that spoke of exhaustion and despair. “Please tell me you found her.”
“Jacques.” Ewan’s voice rasped. “I didnae believe Brody when he told me you’d returned. It both gladdens and breaks my heart to see you. Would that I could tell you what you want to hear.”
Jacques felt his chest constrict.
“What happened?” Gabriel moved to Jacques’ side. “Where’s Ruaidri?”
“Nothing happened.” Ewan rubbed a hand across his forehead. “The exchange didnae take place. Ruaidri’s in his chambers. He asked that we join him there.”
“We waited all day and all night,” Ruaidri said, slumping back in his chair. “I climbed that damned hill two dozen times. They never showed.”
“Are you certain you have the right place?” Jacques asked.
“Positive.” Ruaidri reached into his tunic, tugged the parchment free, and threw it on the table. “Everything is as it states in the instructions. The hill. The woods. The shelter in the northeast corner. We have the right place.”
Jacques drew breath and closed his eyes for a moment. “It makes no sense,” he muttered, as much to himself as those with him.
“Aye, I cannae fathom it,” Ewan said. “I was worried the deal would be one-sided, that this bastard would simply take the gold and leave. But to no’ show up at all? That, I didnae expect.”
“Did you leave the gold there?” Gabriel asked.
Ruaidri nodded. “I didnae dare bring it back in case whoever it is shows up to make the exchange. The place is desolate enough. I cannae think anyone else will find it.”
“So, you’re going back?” Gabriel asked.
“Aye, after we’ve rested.” Ruaidri gave a half shrug. “It could just be a delay. An injured horse, perhaps. Or, maybe he got his days wrong and the exchange is meant for today.”
The man was, Jacques knew, grasping at tenuous excuses. “You’re both exhausted,” he said. “Gabriel and I can go instead.”
“Nay.” Ruaidri shook his head. “I’ll no’ deviate from the instructions. I’m to make the exchange, no one else. I’ll be leaving in an hour or two. Better prepared, this time, to stay there longer if necessary. We’ll scout the area, too. See if we can pick up a trail.”
Ewan frowned and looked down at his hands, which were folded atop the table. Jacques was able to read his thoughts, though he wasn’t yet ready to agree with them. He recognized, however, that only a faint glimmer of hope remained. That Ruaidri was simply unwilling to face what appeared to be an unthinkable truth.
Still, a faint glimmer was better than no light at all.
A couple of hours later, Ruaidri and Ewan clambered back into their saddles in readiness to leave. Jacques sent up yet another silent prayer. Perhaps, by now, the exchange had at last been made, and a precious piece of parchment would indicate where to find Morag.
“No matter what, we’ll find her,” Ruaidri said, as he settled himself into the saddle. “We’ll no’ give up till we do.”
Ewan remained silent, not even bidding anyone farewell as he rode through the gates.
Chapter Twenty-One
The third day.
By now, the sun was sitting above the horizon and most folks had long since broken their fast. A few of them still lingered in the great hall, speaking in hushed voices. Shrouded in shadow, Jacques sat alone with his thoughts in a quiet corner. Gabriel sat by the hearth with Breanna and Cristie, their conversation also muted. Jacques had been invited to join them, but had declined with a silent shake of his head. He hadn’t the heart for conversation with anyone. Not even God.
The day before, when Ruaidri had avowed to find Morag, Jacques had noticed an expression flit across Ewan’s face. It had been fleeting, like the shadow of a bird swooping past a window. But identifiable nonetheless. A look of abject sorrow, raw and soul-deep. The look of someone who was already mourning the death of a loved one. Ruaidri’s sedate expression gave nothing away, and his words had been said with conviction. But Ewan had already committed himself to the truth. He knew what they would find when they reached their destination. Or rather, what they would not.
Jacques knew they’d be returning that day, having long since exhausted the concept of futility. Sooner or later, they would ride through the gates with a bag full of Templar gold. And no more hope.
Jacques tucked his hands beneath the table and clenched them till his knuckles whitened. He would not begin to mourn. He refused to believe he would never see Morag again. While in France, the possibility had been something he’d considered. But not here. Not now.
Three days.
Too soon to give up hope.
Everyone had thought Ruaidri MacKellar to be dead and gone, and he’d proved them all wrong, returning weeks after his disappearance. His deliverance from hell had surely been a miracle, and not the first to have occurred at Castle Cathan. The place had a history of miracles.
Was it too much to ask for another?
Jacques unfastened the pouch on his belt, pulled out the piece of linen containing the sprig of heather, and opened it atop the table. If Morag had been there, she’d have proclaimed it to have played a part in his safe return. She’d have said it had brought him back to her, as it had once brought her grandfather back from the Holy Land. To mock her claim would have been misguided. Father Iain had witnessed the renewal of the white heather all those years ago and ascribed it as a miracle. A divine symbol of hope where none existed.
There had been no miracle of renewal this time. The sprig, though still intact, looked the same, each tiny flower rusted and brittle. Exactly as they had been when Jacques had last gazed upon them three days before, on the edge of the forest.
He blinked and shifted in his seat, baffled by a sudden and unexpected tingle of anticipation. He felt as though he’d stumbled upon something of importance. But what? He touched the sprig with a fingertip, as if doing so might supply an answer.
The events of that morning, three days earlier, played out in his mind. He recalled his bewilderment at finding the sprig of heather laying on the ground. The pouch had been buckled, yet somehow had come undone during the night, something that had never happened before.
Pierre had already been awake and preparing to leave. More than that, he’d been eager to leave, and had even voiced his unease. “There was something unsettling about that place.” An unusual admission from a man who rarely showed fear. Yet something about that woodland clearing had unnerved him.
Jacques had also thought the place unsettling, though it was an impression without any tangible foundation. His dreams that night had been strange. Disquieting. A hailstorm of indefinable images, culminating in a single, heart-wrenching scream. Though it had awoken him, Jacques knew the scream hadn’t actually been real. Neither, thinking back, could it have been the cry of a bird soaring overhead. He’d simply accepted that as an explanation at the time.
But why did any of that matter now? Had he missed something simply because he hadn’t been looking for it?
Strumming his fingers on the table, he continued to regard the sprig of heather, trying to identify the feeling that now possessed him. It wasn’t anticipation at all, he realized. It was compulsion, growing stronger with each breath. An irrational urge to go to the stable, saddle Balere, and return to the dismal clearing on the edge of the wood.
“Why?” he muttered to himself. “What do you think you’ll find?”
His gaze remained fixed on the sprig, willing it to explain the significance of such a mad quest. To tell him what it meant.
Morag would say it had brought me back to her.
Brought me back.
To her.
His hands shook. He’d had gut-feelings before, but nothing quite like this. This was surely nothing more than a delusion born of desperation. Something to aim for. A possibility to hold onto. Anything to avoid facing a devastating reality.
