A Templar's Gifts (4 page)

T
he morning dawned in far less time than I deemed possible. I slept fitfully and on waking was nearly more tired than when I bedded down. Every few hours I roused from sleep with a cramp in my gut and the remembered dream of soldiers hunting me, yet the smell of hot bannocks and
the sight of a porridge pot did much to hearten me. The old priest stooped by the fire, stirring and turning our meal. His hand was braced on his lower back and his legs shook beneath him.

“Here, let me do that,” I said, moving quickly to assist him. I stoked the fire and stirred the pot.

“Aye. There's a good lad. These old bones are not as spry as they once were.” He rested in one of the chairs as I flipped the oatcakes. Berries dotted the thick batter and the smell was reassuringly like home.

“The ferry will be off within a candle mark. It's on the far side o' the beach through the wood. Shouldn't take ye long to get there. Tell Corbin, the ferryman, Father Angus sent ye an' he'll take care o' ye right and well.”

I served him the porridge and one of the bannocks in some ancient tin bowls he had by the fire. His fare was scarce, so I parceled out just enough to take the edge off my hunger and joined him at the table.

“Eat, lad. Take as much as ye can handle. I will be fed here. My people are good. They share what they can an' we all make do.” Was he reading my mind? It would not surprise me at this point.

“Where will the ferry take me?” I asked. The bannock was good, the berries tart and juicy. As it turned out, I was hungry and glad that the old priest had urged more on me than I had been willing to take. I'd been
fighting nausea since leaving home. It remained in the bottom of my gut, but the hearty fare made it less.

“Stay on till ye reach the shores o' Aberdeen. Then take the road up past Kintore into the high country. Bertrand has gone to the Bruce. The war is gaining momentum, and I fear the need for healers will soon be great.”

I turned to ask him if he thought the weather might hold, when suddenly it was as if a spark from the fire had skittered up my inners.

A sail billowed in the breeze. Four squares. Black and white. A white mantle sharp and bright against the dark of day. The hilt of a sword in a sheath that was achingly familiar.

I gasped.

“Lad?” The priest's voice echoed in my ears but my mind was frozen on that single moment in time. The sword … What did it mean? I knew that blade. The hilt was distinctive. Who carried the sword of my mentor?

I was surprised and bothered to think that the Order had just passed it to another. Somehow the sword should have stayed with the man or — and how could I ever insist on it — been given to me. I was to be his apprentice.

Surprise gave way to anger. Anger to rage. It washed through me before I knew it was there. My bearings were lost.

I was no longer in the rooms of the kirk, but deep in the midst of a battle. The clang of steel rang in my ears and fury raced in my blood. Men surrounded me on all sides. I reached for my sword, but the scabbard was empty. A man bore down on me and I struck out.

The solid feel of my fist meeting flesh snapped me back to the present. I stared, horrified, at the prone figure of the old priest. He lay amid the rushes, unmoving. The room wavered before my eyes.

What had I done?

“Lord, please allow me the power.” The request was purely my heart's cry. Though I didn't deserve it — I had struck an innocent — the lifeblood of the land came to me. Power surged to my fingertips. It was strong, strangely so. My hands were hot and tingling. I dropped at his side, held his head, and closed my eyes. Then with a deep breath, I moved inside.

Beyond bone, blood had begun to pool. I could see it in my mind's eye, and I focused there, feeling the shape and weight of the fine fibers that were his mind.

Though I was unsure of what I was seeing, I did my best to heal the injury. There was, I noticed, an odd pressure in the space behind his eyes, a fluid I was almost sure did not belong. Just to focus the healing there made my insides churn. Unsure, I turned away to try elsewhere,
but the power arced from my touch, snaking away, back toward the spot.

Panic rushed through me. I was not skilled in this. The mind was too delicate. I was no healer! Why had I tried?

Then, to my shock, the fluid began to disappear. I came to my senses nearly lying on the man. “Father, forgive me.” I scrambled off and helped him to sit. “It comes on sometimes. Truly, I meant ye no harm.” I was horrified by what had happened, both before and during my healing. I felt raw and exhausted. My arms felt like weights and there was tightness to my chest. The whole of my world was getting away from me.

“I'm all right, lad. It's no' the worst …” His voice dropped off, and suddenly his body grew still. “Lord in Heaven, I can see!” His words were loud in my ears and the room seemed to pulse before me.

“What?” I gasped.

I could do nothing but stare as he hopped about, covering one eye and then the other, shouting out the names of things in the room. He reminded me of the plovers, the tiny birds on the shore that bolted to and fro.

“It's as clear as the day I was born. I've seen naught but shadow for twenty years.” His eyes met mine. They were a crystal clear blue. “Ye must have knocked something loose,” he said, laughing. “Good for ye, lad. Ye can hit me whenever ye like.” The power had healed him.

I smiled, desperately relieved but ill with the way I felt. The power had come to me and I'd used it well. In truth, I could take no credit and I'd most definitely not be hitting him again anytime soon if I had anything to say about it. I said a prayer of thanks to the Lord for granting me this gift and watching over my efforts.

T
he path was pitted and puddled by rain. I walked along with the feel of his eyes on my back. At the crest of the hill I turned and waved a final farewell, but I was already far away, lost in the memory of the strange visions that had befallen me before I hit the old priest. The hilt of the Templar's sword gleamed before my mind's eye. I had never thought to see it again. The Templar and I had been through much, and that sword had been a part from the very beginning. And what of the other images? This was the second time I'd seen a battle, once in a dream and now in a vision. The same battle? I was not sure. Both the dreams and visions were growing in strength. Before, they had appeared singly, with much
time in between. Now they were coming nearly every day and with each my exhaustion deepened. Sleep did nothing to replenish my body. Even now my breath came harshly and I had to stop often to rest.

As I topped the rise, a battered sail flapped in the morning breeze and seabirds circled the ferry swaying in the wash. I hoped the priest would not be charged much for my passage. The barge was ancient, not much more than a flat with rails, a sail, a rudder, and oars.

I moved slowly down the hill, feeling as though I'd walked for leagues, and stood in the wet grass, waiting as the ferryman prepared to push off. Midges swarmed my head and I slapped at them impatiently.

“Father Angus said you would take me where I need,” I said. He looked me over sharply and I began to sweat. Did he know I was hunted?

“Aye, then, very well. Come along. I owe the good Father much.”

The ferryman was near on the age of my da and his body was just as strong. His skin held many leathered creases and was deeply brown from the sun. I hefted my pack and gingerly climbed aboard.

“Don't get many single travelers hereabout. Where are ye bound?” he asked, shoving off with a pole.

“Aberdeen,” I said. Father Angus gave me directions by land to Kintore. Bertrand had been headed there.

“Got family thereabouts, d'ye?” he asked, adjusting the oars.

“Mmm,” I mumbled, nodding. I didn't encourage more conversation between us. I could feel the man's curiosity, and it was playing havoc with my ability to control myself from blurting out the answers he sought. Looking for relief, I focused on a twist of clouds that swirled against the darkening sky.

I shivered in my plaid. The temperature had dropped overnight, and it was still not quite dry all the way through. The ferryman set to rowing and left me to my thoughts.
Where were the men seeking me? If soldiers had been through here weeks ago, were they the same ones that had boarded Da's boat? Or were there more? And where had they gone?
I had no faith that I had turned them permanently away. My push had been weak.

My body was tight and my mouth, inordinately dry. As we moved slowly up the coast, I eyed the rough water with a strong sense of unease. Each pull of the oars brought the sea rushing over the outer frame of the boat. “What's happening?” I asked.

“Bit o' a squall blowin' up. Odd, though. I didn't see it coming.” As he spoke, waves crashed our edges. A wind off the port side cut and whipped the sail. “I've got to take us beyond the next inlet. It's closer to the land
and sheltered from the wind. Grab hold o' the mast. This is a devil.” He cursed and struggled with the oars.

Twisted and anxious, I watched for the shore.
Odd, though. I didn't see it coming.
The man's words reverberated in my mind. And then I knew.

This was not a normal storm. The water was too violent, the wind biting too hard. I had something to do with it. My worry had brought the storm.

Beneath my breath I began the prayer of Our Lord, begging Him to still the wind. The waves became deeper, and the boat rocked perilously. “Please,” I said aloud.

“I'm doin' all I can.” The ferryman was white. He dug in hard and moved us slowly.

“Please,”
I whispered desperately, fighting not to lose my guts. I closed my eyes tightly and at once a brilliant glow filled the space behind my lids. Through the brightness came the image of the carving and bowl. A flare of power suddenly flooded my body, sliding along my skin, heating my blood and filling me with joy. I threw my arms wide and opened my eyes to the heavens and, all at once, the ocean calmed. The wind followed moments later and the air temperature rose.

“Lord have mercy,” I heard the ferryman exclaim. He dropped to his knees and crossed himself.

It was then I realized how strange I must have looked. Quickly, I lowered my arms and averted my eyes.
Moving to the far side of the platform, I hunched in my plaid, drawing it up over my head. I dropped down against the frame and covertly watched the ferryman, trying desperately not to feel his fear or hear the whisper of his thoughts. He took us back to open sea, but was not at all happy to do it. The sail filled as if there had never been a problem, and we pressed forward once again. I closed my eyes and thought longingly of the Holy Vessel.

The man did not speak to me again as we drifted up the coast, but I heard his thoughts and they were not comforting. Passengers joined us at stops along the way, and I thanked the Lord for sending them. The ferryman's fear pressed against me so strongly, I felt it as if it were my own. My senses became muddled, and I found myself jumping at every sound or sudden movement and having thoughts that made me quake with terror.
Soldiers are looking for Bertrand. They were at the preceptory. They knew about me. They could be anywhere. At any landing, they might lie in wait. Trapped. I would be trapped and all o' this would be over.

The air grew colder as the day wore on and the damp that hung over the ocean seeped into my skin. Even with a blanket atop my plaid, my body shook. Deep inside, my bones ached. I was hot, then cold, and my nose dripped no matter how many times I dried it with
my sleeve. I tried to sleep, but could only achieve fits and starts of dark dreaming. Men in shadows. The rustle of armor. Voices.
“Find him. Bring him to me.”

My body leapt, jolted awake by the sound of an argument. A family had gotten on, and two of the young ones were having a row. It was so like the bairns at home my eyes filled with tears. Cold, wet, tired, and ill, I wanted nothing more than to be with my family.

My thoughts raced as fragments of memories spilled across the surface of my mind. Past. Present. The old lives that the Holy Vessel had shown to me; flashes of the Protectors that had come before. My skin was slick with perspiration, and it felt as if a fever rushed through my veins. Emotions flit. Fear. Anger. Loneliness. Confusion.

The family with the feuding bairns was closer to me now. The da was trying to keep the lads from one another while their mam held a wee lass curled up in her lap. Her worry over their journey hit me at once and whispers of thought enveloped my mind.

I could not still my sudden shaking as the thoughts of not only her, but other passengers started slipping through my shielding. I had to shut them out, but I couldn't seem to rouse myself to it.

“Am I mistaken, or does that lad look a bit unwell?” said the mother.

“Should we move to the other side o' the platform?” asked the father. “He is white in the gills. Illness o' the sea, most like. Lad, what's wrong with ye? Ferryman, I don't like the look o' this.”

“Hush ye now, Luke. It's no' his fault if he's feeling poorly,” the woman's voice said. I felt burning hot, where moments ago I'd been cold. The ferryman put out the oars, grumbling, then crouched before me, barking out questions for which I had no answers.

I closed my eyes just for a moment, drifting, but woke as the ferry grounded ashore. Beneath my arms I felt the grip of hands, holding, lifting, and moving me. I wanted to push him away, to shout at him to put me down, but I couldn't make my body work. It was as if I was locked away behind a wall so thick it could not be breached. The man slung me over his back, and I felt a cold rush of water on my feet as he waded ashore, and then dropped me hard on the beach. I hurt all over.
Where is he going?
I heard the thud of my sack landing in the sand beside me.

“Here now! Ye canno' just leave him there,” the woman from the ferry exclaimed. “He's a lad, an' he's ill.”

“This is his stop, an' I'm no' his keeper. He'll make his way. People are waiting farther on,” said the ferryman.

No! Don't leave me here. There's something wrong. I canno' move.
Deep in my mind I was screaming, but
the words would not move past my lips. I heard the swish of his oars as they beat the waves.

“Ye're heartless. Ye leave him to die!” The mother's angry words floated across the sea.

“Feel free to get out with him, then,” the ferryman snapped without pausing in his pull of the oars.

“I canno'. We've got to make it to Banff tonight.” Her worry for me warred with her concern for her family.

And then they were gone.