Betrayed (4 page)

His dark, calm eyes examined Prince Henry as he caught his breath. The prince looked to his men, and not sensing any danger, simply shrugged and waited to see what would happen next. The young man reached toward Prince Henry's head with his hands and touched the helmet. Then, with surprising quickness, he lifted the helmet right off the prince's head! The move surprised the soldiers beside the prince, and they began to draw their swords.

Prince Henry raised his hand, ordering them to stand down. The crowd rippled in apprehension as the raised helmet released the prince's golden locks. Even Na'gu'set stepped back in surprise.

“Glooscap was not to have hair as golden as maize,” he muttered.

It was Prince Henry's turn to be surprised. He stared at the young stranger in awe. “Did you just speak in the Celtic tongue? How is that possible?”

Na'gu'set was still staring at his golden hair, the helmet now secure under his arm. “You do not know about the Village of The Teachers? How is that possible when you speak The Teachers' tongue?”

Prince Henry tried to make sense of it all. “Why did you call me Glooscap?”

“The Ancient Teachers predicted your return. You are Glooscap, the Pale One. Your people taught us the ways of the Great Manitou. They said to always be prepared for this day. It is an honour for me to be the one to welcome you back to our land. My name is Na'gu'set. I am your humble servant.”

Na'gu'set lowered his head submissively. From around
his neck, a stone pendant dangled and gleamed in the bright sunlight. Prince Henry's blue eyes crinkled in joyous amazement as he reached forth and examined it. He then grabbed hold of Na'gu'set's shoulders and straightened him back up.

“Na'gu'set, my name is not Glooscap. My name is Prince Henry of Orkney, and although I am a prince, I consider everyone of my faith a brother or sister. You are a servant to no one but God Almighty Himself. And by the love of St. Mary, boys . . . look at this!”

The men gathered round and were stunned by the intricate Celtic stone cross that Prince Henry displayed in his palm.

“So those old legends were true!” blurted one.

“How can this be? We are an ocean away from Eire!”

Prince Henry smiled. “I have been to see the Irish monks on Iona, and they have written records of those early voyages to the far western island they called the Land of Promise.”

“But those were just tales of legend, were they not?” questioned another sailor. “Are you saying that the ancient Irish crossed the Atlantic in skin-covered boats only the size of a horse's cart?”

Prince Henry laughed. “Remember, those Irish monks survived to see Iceland and Greenland in skin-covered boats. Why couldn't they come all the way west to these new lands as well? St. Brendan and his men of the cloth beat us here by over seven hundred years! Just look at this beautiful cross and Na'gu'set's knowledge of our sister language. 'Tis the only possible explanation!”

“But what does it all mean?”

Prince Henry grasped Na'gu'set by the shoulders. “It means that our almost impossible quest may now have a much better chance at success, thanks to old St. Brendan and his miraculous voyage. Na'gu'set, are you the only one in the village who can speak in the tongue of the Teachers?”

He nodded. “I grew up in the Village of The Teachers, a three-day paddle from here. My distant ancestor, a woman named Kiera, came from the Land of the Teachers, and this cross has been passed on from one generation to the next. We were taught the lessons of the Great Manitou. Many men from the village are sent to all the different nations of the lands to teach our beliefs.”

Prince Henry thought for a minute. He looked around at the surrounding silent crowd. It took a moment for the stunning revelations to sink in, but a smile slowly crept across his face. “Na'gu'set, if it is acceptable to your people, my crew and I would like to stay here for a while.”

Na'gu'set nodded. “I will ask the elders.” He turned to the crowd and conversed with a small group of older men. “Our elders would like to know what brings you back to the land of the Mi'kmaq.”

“Na'gu'set,” grinned Prince Henry, “you will soon be in the presence of a treasure that the Ancient Teachers would have sacrificed their very lives to see, if only for just a moment.”

“Treasure?” he asked, puzzled. “I do not know this word.”

“The word
treasure
means items of great importance. Some are beautiful works of art made to glorify God, or the Great Manitou, as you call him. Others are important pieces that have been created by hand to partake in worshipping the greatest of all Teachers. And one piece,
the most important one of all, was created by the Hand of God himself.”

Na'gu'set stared into the smiling blue eyes of the prince, trying to comprehend what he had just been told. “The treasure, The Great Manitou's treasure . . . is it out there, on your whale?”

Confused, Prince Henry followed the young man's eyes out into the bay. “Whale? Ah . . . no, 'tis not on the ships. It is back in the Land of the Teachers. You must understand, the reason we are here, and surely the reason God brought us to you, is to help us find a safe resting place for our treasure. There are many people in other lands who desire our treasure, and because of their greed, the holy relics will soon be in grave danger. We need to find a place where the treasure can rest until the divided, sinful world we left behind is once again worthy enough to possess such holy objects.”

Na'gu'set looked out to the ships. “I will do whatever I can to help you. I am honoured to be in your service, Teacher.”

“No, not Teacher. Brother.” Prince Henry grabbed him by the shoulders. “I am your brother, Na'gu'set.”

Na'gu'set smiled and locked his gaze upon the blue-eyed stranger. “I am honoured to be of service, my brother.”

Roslin Castle, July, 1399

Connor spun and ducked as the weapon sizzled through the air, brushing his long wavy hair as it arched past his skull. He stepped to his right, taking his eye off of his attacker for just a second. That was a mistake.

He didn't see the reverse thrust of the weapon as it now came towards him from a new direction. As Connor straightened to counter-attack, his shoulder exploded in pain. Instinctively, he rolled with the blow, somehow managing to hold on to his only weapon, a long thin pole, with the injured arm. Despite the slippery hay beneath him, he managed to once again spring to his feet like a cat. He deftly switched the pole to his other, uninjured hand. The corner of his eye caught the next approaching blow. He twisted and parried the assault, causing the attacker to send his weapon high.

Connor would not waste the split-second advantage he had created, and ignoring the white-hot fire erupting from his shoulder, smacked the side of his pole into the attacker's exposed ribs. His attacker grunted and lowered his arm slightly to protect his damaged ribs. Connor swung around again, and raising the trajectory, glanced his weapon off the
back of the attacker's skull. The attacker keeled over in pain. Connor took full advantage. Spinning into a crouch, he swung his weapon low and cracked it against his attacker's calves. Feet flew up in the air, and his attacker landed hard on his back. Connor sprung forward, placed a foot on the attacker's chest and raised the weapon up, dagger-like, above his chest for a final blow. The cold stare in Connor's eyes showed no emotion. This would end quickly.

“Och, aye, Connor,” confessed the attacker. “I give up. You bettered me again.”

Connor's face transformed from stony concentration to a broad smile. He lowered the long wooden pole hovering above his head, brought it to his side and extended a hand. Angus Gunn, sprawled on the straw, lay defeated. He grabbed hold of Connor's offered hand and heaved himself up, shaking the straw out of his thick, red hair.

“Actually, you had me, Angus,” Connor replied, brushing the straw off his back while avoiding the soft glob of horse dung that clung to his left shoulder. “If you had connected with your reverse strike, you would have finished me off.”

“Nae. You ducked it well,” a deep, firm voice interjected. “But Angus should have compensated for your defensive move by adjusting his attacking strike downwards.”

Surprised by the voice, the boys turned to the stable gate.

A giant of a man stood silhouetted against a background of brilliant, blue sky. His formal white tunic, emblazoned with the even-sided black cross of the St. Clair family, fluttered in the afternoon breeze as he shook his head in amusement. “Father!” Angus called and bolted to the doorway, where the two warmly embraced.

Connor smiled and stood his ground, politely giving them a moment as he cleaned up the improvised sparring ring. Although the Gunn family had virtually adopted him as a second son, it was a time like this that demonstrated to Connor the thickness of blood. Even though Connor had lost his own father many years ago, shows of affection such as this didn't bother him any more. In fact, every night he thanked God for blessing him so richly with close friends. He knew only too well what could have happened to his family that fateful night on the bridge if Prince Henry had not come to their rescue. Connor walked up to the stable entrance and joined his friends.

He studied the long scar that sliced diagonally across the forehead and cheek of Angus's father, Sir Rudyard Gunn. He wondered in what battle the wound had been inflicted. Most knights spent countless hours bragging about their various war wounds, especially after downing several rounds of the castle's finest ale. Sir Rudyard, however, was a member of the Order of the Knights Templar.

After being banished by the Pope from most of continental Europe, many of the Templar Knights had travelled across the English Channel to the safe haven of Scotland. Robert the Bruce, the King of Scotland, had given the Order sanctuary and allowed them to secretly reorganize within his homeland. During that time, it had been decided by the highest ranking knights that the head of the Sinclair clan should be the hereditary leader of the Templar Order.

One of the few complete Templar stories Connor had managed to piece together told how the recently-arrived Templar Knights had helped the pitifully undermanned Scottish forces defeat the mighty English army in the
Battle of Bannockburn in the summer of 1314. The Scottish fighters were outnumbered three to one, yet they managed to destroy over half of the English army in only two days of fighting. King Edward of England fled for his life on a boat, leaving the foot soldiers behind to try to make their way back to England by land. With the victorious Scottish army hotly pursuing them, most didn't ever set foot on English soil again. The carnage was huge and the incredible Scottish victory complete. Ever since that legendary day, the humiliated English forces had plotted revenge against the Scots. Connor and his family had already paid a heavy price in the ongoing war with the southerners. Now, Connor was willing to die for Prince Henry if it meant keeping his homeland free.

Connor glanced at the scar that crossed Sir Rudyard's face. The scar was as mysterious as the Order itself. Sir Rudyard had never told the story of the scar to anyone, not even to his only son. Connor could only dream that someday he too might be allowed to join their noble ranks and learn of their secrets. Sir Rudyard gave Angus an extra squeeze then stepped back with a grin as big as his scar.

“It's good to see you, my son.” He looked to Connor. “And what about you, young stable boy . . . besting the son of a knight? How should I punish such insolence?”

Connor smiled and knelt. “Please forgive me, Sir Rudyard. I promise to go lightly on him next time.”

“What?” snapped Angus.

Angus put a foot on Connor's shoulder and pushed the boy sideways, flipping him into the soiled straw. Sir Rudyard laughed, held out a hand to Connor and brought him back up onto his feet.

“You'll do nae such thing, young Connor. You keep givin' it to him. I'm glad to see that the two of you have taken to the lessons I gave you in the art of Eastern Bo Fighting. I learned that technique from a master fighter in Damascus.”

Connor sighed. “I would love to see such distant lands myself.”

Sir Rudyard cleared his throat, then looked from one boy to the other. “An interesting choice of words, Connor. There is something that I need to ask of the two of you.”

Connor stepped up next to Angus.

“Yes, father?” queried Angus.

“As you know, I have often been away from Roslin, sometimes for months at a time.”

Angus's face fell. “Are you going away again?”

Sir Rudyard nodded. “Prince Henry has sent orders to the men. I have to leave tonight.”

Connor felt for his best friend. The heartache etched across Angus's face brought him back to the time on a drizzly autumn day when they'd buried his father at the family farm. Sometimes it felt as if it had happened just yesterday. Connor couldn't help but wonder what was really worse; saying goodbye to a father only once at his gravesite, or having to continually say goodbye, as often as Angus did with his own father. Angus suppressed his emotions as best he could and put on a brave face.

“I understand, father. I know that if you had a choice, you would stay with me, at least for a little while.”

Sir Rudyard smiled and tousled his hair. “You are a good lad, Angus. I have talked to Sir Stephen, and he has told me of your training as a squire. He said that both you and young
Connor are showing exceptional promise in your practice, and soon the two of you will be ready for knighthood.”

Their eyes lit up.

“Then we can join the Templar Order and go with you on your travels!” blurted Angus.

Sir Rudyard's face hardened. “The Templar Order doesn't exist any more. Do you understand that? Don't mention that name again.”