Tales of the Knights Templar (17 page)

“You don’t understand.” One finger lightly touched the crystal. “But you will.”

As crazy as it sounded, he seemed to believe it.

“Did the dream give you my name?”

“No. Mr. MacClery had your license plate traced.”

Her eyes narrowed. Lawyers! “So, why do you want this thing returned? I mean, if it was supposed to protect MacGillivray and Clan Chattan at Culloden, giving it back isn’t going to change the fact that the Duke of Cumberland kicked butt.”

“I don’t want to change things, Ms. Tarrill. I want to do what’s right.” His chin lifted, and she saw the effort that small movement needed. “I have been dying for a long time; time enough to develop a conscience, if you will. I want the Cross of Christ back where it belongs, and I want you to take it there.” His shoulders slumped. “I would rather go myself, but I left it too long.”

Pat glanced toward the door and wondered if lawyers listened through keyholes. “Is Mr. MacClery going with me?”

“No. You’ll go alone.”

“Well, what proof do you want that I actually put it in the grave?”

“Your word will be sufficient.”

“My word? That’s it?”

“Yes.”

She could tell from his expression that he truly believed her word would be enough. Wondering how anyone so gullible had gotten so rich, she gave it.

Pat had never been up in a plane before and, as much as she’d intended to be cool about it, she kept her face pressed against the window until the lights of St. John’s were replaced by the featureless black of the North Atlantic. In her purse, safe under her left arm, she carried the boxed medallion and a hefty packet of money MacClery had given her just before she boarded.

Although it was an overnight flight, Pat didn’t expect to sleep; she was too excited. But the food was awful and she’d seen the movie, and soon staying awake became more trouble than it was worth.

A few moments later, wondering grumpily who’d play the bagpipes on an airplane, she opened her eyes.

Instead of the blue tweed of the seat in front of her, she was looking down at an attractive young man—tall and muscular, red-gold hair above delicate dark brows and long, thick lashes. At the moment he needed a shave and a bath, but she still wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers.

A hand, with rather a great quantity of black hair growing across the back of it, reached down and shook the young man’s shoulder. With a bit of a shock, she realized the hand was hers.

Well, this dream obviously isn’t heading where I’d like it to.
…

“Alex! Get your great lazy carcass on its feet. There’s a battle to be fought.” Her mouth formed the words, but she had no control over either content or delivery. It appeared she was merely a passenger.

Gray eyes snapped open. “Davie? I must’ve dozed off.”

“You fell asleep, but there’s no crime in that. Lord John is with His Highness in Culloden House, and Cumberland’s men are up and about.”

“Aye, then so should I be.” Shaking his head to clear the sleep from it, Alexander MacGillivray, lieutenant colonel of Clan Chattan, heaved himself up onto his feet, his right hand moving to touch his breast as he stood. His fair skin went paler still, and his eyes widened so far they must’ve hurt. He dug under his clothing then whirled about to search the place he’d lain.

“What is it, Alex? Have you lost something?” Pat felt Davie’s heart begin to race and over it, pressed hard against his skin, she felt a warm weight hanging. All at once, she knew it had to be the medallion.

That son of a bitch!

Stuffed into Davie Hardie’s head, she could access what it held; he’d known the medallion had been in the MacGillivray family for a very long time, but had only recently discovered what it was. More a scholar than a soldier, he’d found a reference to it in an old manuscript, had tracked it back to the Templar landing in Argyll where the MacGillivrays originated, had combed the scraps of Templar history that remained, and had discovered what it held and the power attributed to it. He hadn’t intended to take advantage of what he’d found—but then Charles Edward Stewart and war had come to Scotland.

Pat could feel Davie Hardie’s fear of facing Cumberland’s army, and touched the memory of how he’d stolen the medallion’s protection for himself—even though he’d known that if it were worn by one with the right, it could very well protect the entire clan.
That cowardly son of a bitch!

When Alexander MacGillivray straightened, Pat could read his thoughts off his face. By losing the medallion, he’d betrayed a sacred trust. There was only one thing he could do.

“Alex?”

The young commander squared his shoulders, faced his own death, and tugged on his bonnet. “Come along, Davie. I need to talk to the chiefs before we take our place in line.”

You need to talk to your pal Davie, that’s what you need to do!
Then the dream twisted sideways and Pat winced as a gust of sleet and rain whipped into her face. The duke of Cumberland’s army was a red blot on the moor no more than five hundred yards away. When Hardie turned, she saw MacGillivray. When he turned a little farther, she could see the companies in line.

Then the first gun boomed across the moor and Hardie whirled in time to see the smoke. A heartbeat later, there was nothing to see but smoke and nothing to hear but screaming.

I don’t want to be here!
Pat struggled to free herself from the dream. Her terror and Hardie’s became one terror. Dream or not, she wanted to die no less than he did.

The cannonade went on. And on.

Through it all, she saw MacGillivray, striding up and down the ranks of his men, giving them courage to stand. Sons were blown to bits beside their fathers, brothers beside brothers. The shot killed chief and humblie indiscriminately, but the line held.

And the cannonade went on.

The clansmen were yelling for the order to charge so they could bring their broadswords into play. The order never came.

And the cannonade went on.

“Sword out, Davie. We’ve taken as much of this as we’re going to.”

Hardie grabbed his colonel’s arm. “Are you mad?” he yelled over the roar of the guns and shrieks of the dying. “It’s not your place to give the order!”

“It’s not my place to stand here and watch my people slaughtered!”

“Then why fight at all? Even Lord Murray says we’re likely to lose!”

All at once, Pat realized why a man only twenty-five had been chosen to lead the clan in the absence of its chief. Something in his expression spoke quietly of strength and courage and responsibility. “We took an oath to fight for the prince.”

“We’ll all be killed!”

MacGillivray’s eyes narrowed. “Then we’ll die with honor.”

Pat felt Hardie tremble and wonder how much his colonel suspected. “But the prince!”

“This isn’t his doing, it’s that damned Irishman, O’Sullivan.” Spinning on one heel, he scrugged his bonnet down over his brow and made his way back to the center of the line.

A moment later, Clan Chattan charged forward into the smoke hoarsely yelling “Loch Moy!” and “Dunmaglass!” The pipes screamed the rant until they were handed to a boy and the piper pulled his sword and charged forward with the rest.

Davie Hardie charged because he had no choice. Pat caught only glimpses of the faces that ran by, faces that wore rage and despair equally mixed. Then she realized that there seemed to be a great many running by as Hardie stumbled and slowed and made a show of advancing without moving forward.

Cumberland’s artillery had switched to grape shot. Faintly, over the roar of the big guns, Pat heard the drum roll firing of muskets. Men fell all around him, whole families died, but nothing touched Davie Hardie.

Then, through a break in the smoke and the dying, Pat saw a red-gold head reach the front line of English infantry. Swinging his broadsword, MacGillivray plunged through, leapt over the bodies he’d cut down, and was lost in the scarlet coats.

With his cry of “Dunmaglass” ringing in her ears, Pat woke. She was clutching her purse so tightly that the edges of the box cut into her hands through the vinyl.

“Death before dishonor, my butt,” she muttered as she pushed up the window’s stiff plastic shade and blinked in the sudden glare of morning sun. That philosophy had got Alexander MacGillivray dead and buried. Davie Hardie had turned dishonor into a long life in the New World. So he’d had to live knowing that his theft had been responsible for the death of his friend; at least he was alive.

Chill out, Pat. It was only a dream.

She accepted a cup of coffee from the stewardess and stirred in double sugar, the spoon rattling against the side of the cup.

Dreams don’t mean shit.

But she could still feel Hardie’s willingness to do anything rather than die, and it left a bad taste in her mouth.

Customs at Glasgow airport passed her through with a cheery good morning and instructions on where to wait for her connecting flight north to Inverness. At Inverness airport, she was met by a ruddy young man who introduced himself as Gordon Ritchie, Mr. Hardie’s driver. After a few moments of exhausted confusion while they settled
which
Mr. Hardie, he retrieved her suitcase and bundled her into a discreet black sedan.

“It was all arranged over the phone,” Gordon explained as he drove toward A96 and Inverness. “Here I am, at your beck and call until you head back across the pond.”

Pat smiled sleepily. “I love the way you talk.”

“Beg your pardon, Ms. Tarrill?”

“Never mind, it’s a Canadian thing, you wouldn’t understand.” A large truck passed the car on the wrong side of the road. Heart in her throat, Pat closed her eyes. Although she hadn’t intended to sleep, she remembered nothing more until Gordon called out, “We’re here, Ms. Tarrill.”

Yawning, she peered out the window. “Call me Pat, and where’s here?”

“Station Hotel, Academy Street. Mr. Hardie—Mr. Chalmer Hardie, that is—booked you a room here. It’s not the best hotel in town …”

He sounded so apologetic that she laughed. “Trust me, Mr. Hardie knows what he’s doing.” She could just see herself in some swanky Scottish hotel.
Likely get tossed out for not rolling my r’s.

Her room held a double bed, an overstuffed chair, a small desk spread with tourist brochures, and a chest of drawers. It had a color TV bolted to its stand and a bathroom with a tub and shower.

“Looks like Mr. Hardie blew the wad.” Pat dragged herself as far as the bed and collapsed. After a moment, she pulled the box out of her purse, flipped it open, and stared down at the medallion. It looked the same as it had on the other side of the Atlantic.

“Well, why wouldn’t it?” Setting the open box on the bedside table, she stripped and crawled between the sheets. Although it was still early, she’d been traveling for twenty-four hours and was ready to call it a night.

“Bernard? Is that you?”

Who the hell is Bernard?
Yanked back to consciousness, Pat opened her eyes and found herself peering down into the bearded face of a burly man standing in the center of a small boat. The combination of dead fish, salt water, and rotting sewage smelled a lot like Halifax harbor.

“Quiet, Robert,” she heard herself say. “Do you want to wake all of Harfleur?”

I guess
I’m
Bernard.
She felt the familiar weight resting on his chest.
Oh, no, what now?
She searched through the young man’s memories and found enough references to hear Chalmer Hardie’s voice say,
“In 1307 King Philip IV of France decided to destroy the Templars.”

Pat tried unsuccessfully to wake up.
First Culloden, now this! Why can’t I dream about sex, like a normal person?

The wooden rungs damp and punky under callused palms, Bernard scrambled down a rickety ladder and joined the man in the boat. Both wore the red Templar cross on a dark brown mantle. They were sergeants, men-at-arms, Pat discovered, delving into Bernard’s memories again, permitted to serve the Order though they weren’t nobly born. Bernard had served for only a few short months, and his oaths still burned brightly behind every conscious thought.

“I will suffer all that is pleasing to God.”

How do I come up with this stuff?
She looked over Robert’s shoulder and saw, in the gray light of predawn, the eighteen galleys of the Templar fleet riding at anchor in the harbor.

Covered in road dirt and breathing heavily, Bernard grabbed for support as the boat rocked beneath the two men. “I’ve come from the Grand Master himself. He said to tell the Preceptor of France that it is time and that he gives this holy relic into his charge.”

As he raised it, the crystal orb in the center of the medallion seemed to gather up what little light there was, and Pat could feel the young man’s astonished pride at being chosen to bear it.

Over the soft slap, slap of the water against the pilings came the heavy tread of armed men.

Scrambling back up the ladder, Bernard peered over the edge of the dock and muttered “The seneschal!” in such a tone that Pat heard,
“The cops!”

Right, let’s get out of here.

Chalmer Hardie’s voice murmured, “…
burned alive as heretics.”

To her surprise, Bernard raised the medallion to his lips, kissed it devoutly, turned, and dropped the heavy chain over Robert’s head.

Pat’s point of view shifted radically, and her stomach shifted with it.

“Row like you’ve never rowed before,” Bernard told Robert. “I’ll delay them as long as I can.”

If they close the harbor, the fleet will be trapped.
It was Robert’s thought, not hers. Hers went more like:
He’s going to get himself killed! There’s five guys on that wharf! Bernard, get in the damned boat!

Deftly sliding the oars into the locks, Robert echoed her cry. “Get in the boat. We can both—”

“No.” Bernard’s gaze measured the distance from the dock to the fleet and the fleet to the harbor mouth. “Wait until I engage before moving clear. They’ll have crossbows.”

Then Pat remembered Davie Hardie.
Put the medallion back on, you idiot. It’ll protect you!