The Firebrand (22 page)

Wyntoun’s steed was thundering up behind them, but the way he was barking her name at her back made her wonder for an instant if he’d had other plans. She closed her ears to his calls, spurring her horse on. In a moment they would be clear of this forest, and the black waters of Duart Bay would lead directly to the castle.

They would have time to talk once Gillie was safe and warm.

“I was touched by the Treasure of Tiberius.”

The lie came across as the absolute truth. The statement sounded as sincere and as authentic as any sentence Benedict had ever spoken in his life. And he could see the words work their desired magic. Every face gazing so intently on him turned from guarded suspicion to surprise and overt interest in what he had to tell them. A complete hush fell over the room.

Benedict knew why he had been summoned here. In the presence of the two Percy sisters whom he had tutored as children, the earl of Athol and William of Blackfearn intended to interrogate him about the dead fool, Jacob. Well, he had not so long ago suffered torture at the hands of true masters of pain, men who relished the cries of tormented souls as they plied their hellish trade.

Somehow, Benedict thought sneeringly, somehow he doubted that he would suffer quite so much here at Balvenie Castle.

He thought of Jacob. Listening to the man’s whining, seeing the weakness and the fear that had overtaken the monk’s soul, there had been no choice left for Benedict but to kill the chattering, squint-eyed fool. It had only taken a moment. A rope looped around his scrawny neck, a bit of a struggle, a twitch or two at the end, and ‘twas over. Hauling his dead weight up so that it looked like a hanging…a suicide…had been the only difficult part, but Benedict had managed.

And now he had every intention of using Jacob’s ‘treachery’ and death as a means of gaining a secure place in the trust of the Percy daughters.

He’d stepped into the earl’s study prepared for what was to come. He’d known exactly what to say and how to explain his "discovery" of the dead monk’s disloyalty. Of Jacob’s drunken mention of Tiberius the night he had hung himself. Aye, he’d told them, he had known then what Jacob was after…and had watched him carefully…dutifully.

And it hadn’t taken long before they directed the question at him. What did Benedict himself know of this…this Tiberius?

The question had been uttered almost casually by William of Blackfearn. The Highlander was shrewder than one would suspect, Benedict realized. The Ross chieftain would bear close watching.

But as his interrogators had cast quick looks at one another, he had known that this was his moment to turn the tide. This was the answer that would convince them, assure his place in their confidence, as it had won him the confidence of the many clerics who had done his bidding over this past year. He would use their beliefs, their superstitions, to his advantage.

“Aye,” he repeated. “I know the power of Tiberius. It holds the power of miracles within it, and it touched me.”

“What do you mean by that?” Athol frowned.

The monk threaded his gnarled fingers together and met Catherine Percy’s gaze. Of the two sisters present, Benedict knew his best chance to conquer lay with her—the dreamer of the family. It was she who always had been the most trusting.

“My presence here—the mere fact that I have been able to dedicate myself to a life of contemplation and study—is evidence of Tiberius’s power.”

“Are you speaking of your own spiritual well-being? Is this how Tiberius has affected your life? Please be clear, Benedict.”

The monk nodded and bowed slightly toward Laura, acknowledging her words, but then directed his attention back at Catherine.

“I am speaking of a direct blessing…of a miracle as real and as physical as our ability to see and hear and touch.”

“What do you mean? Have you ever seen the Treasure of Tiberius?” John Stewart asked bluntly. He turned to his wife and his new sister-in-law. “Has anyone?”

“Aye.” Benedict spoke quietly. “I have seen it!”

“At last,” Catherine said, relief evident in her voice. “Someone who has!”

Benedict’s face showed none of the satisfaction he was feeling at that moment. This confirmed his suspicion that the sisters had not moved it after all. It was still waiting for him to claim it.

“Sit down, Benedict.” William Ross’s order was spoken sharply, hinting at the man’s impatience. “Sit here and tell us everything you know about the Treasure of Tiberius.”

Bowing slightly to the group, Benedict shuffled slowly across the chamber and took the chair offered to him near the hearth. “There is so much of my past that you already know.” His words again were directed at Catherine. “But I do not know if ‘tis my place to speak of the Percys’ sacred trust with…with outsiders.”

“Please tell us everything,” Laura replied. “‘Tis time our husbands learned what we know. We all need to know everything, so that we can carry out that trust.”

“Benedict, we only know you as our tutor,” Catherine said. “But you have known our father for much longer than that, haven’t you?”

Benedict raised his eyebrows, feigning his surprise. “Countess, your father never told you the circumstances of how I happened to come and stay? Where do I begin?”

The monk considered for a moment. In all of his previous musing and plotting, he had never thought for an instant that the three girls would not know exactly what the Treasure of Tiberius was. Pondering it all now, he realized that—despite all their mischief and their secrecy—it was quite reasonable that Edmund Percy had never had the chance to advise his wife of the true nature of Tiberius. His arrest had been sudden and unexpected. And she, in turn, would never have revealed it to the daughters.

He peered thoughtfully at the women. On their faces he could see the thirst to know more about this treasure that they were given the maps to—and yet obviously knew so little about. This indeed had been the chance that he’d been waiting for. An opportunity to move once again inside the circle.

“I was once blind.” Benedict paused and looked about him to study the reaction of his words in his audience’s expression. He’d seen the same reaction before, among the monks and nobles he’d gulled in the past. The four simply stared, believing, intently awaiting his next words. “As a lad, my world was darkness for as long as I remember. And I grew up in that darkness...until a most unbelievable event occurred.

“I was born a nobleman’s son, but without sight I had no hope of becoming his heir. So I was sent as a young lad to the Cistercians at Jervaulx Abbey—only a half day’s ride from your family’s home. You two are quite familiar with that abbey, I know. Blind though I was, I was assigned to the monks who lived their lives among the books in Jervaulx’s great library. They knew I would be of no help to the brothers who worked the farms and the kitchens. I had found a place where I might spend the rest of my life in the service of the Lord.”

All of the monks who had known him during those early years were dead now. There was no one left to challenge his story. No one alive who could call him a liar.

“I come from strong stock—my father and one of my brothers fought and died with King Richard that day when that upstart Henry Tudor stole his bloodied crown at Bosworth Field. Aye, very good stock. My body grew straight and strong in spite of my lack of sight.” Hiding his loathing, he glanced at Athol and William. “The broken old man you see before you is the work of this King Henry…and his henchmen. But as a lad and later as a young man, all the time that I might have wasted in training my body for the battlefield, I used in training my mind. I used my lack of sight to my advantage by being everywhere and hearing everything. I had the others read to me from the volumes in that wondrous library. I came to know the work of the ancients and others so well. I can recite to you today the wisdom of Plato and Xenophon, Aristotle and Dio Chrysotom, Augustine and Aquinas. I know the histories of Herodotus, the poetry of Virgil and Horace and Homer, the treatises of Galen—aye, especially Galen. And in spite of my blindness—nay, because of it—I learned the Sacred Scriptures by heart. All of them, I thought then.”

Benedict watched carefully for any response to his words. Nothing changed in their expressions of interest and sympathy.

“But even as I slowly and steadily became learned in the arts and sciences and Scripture, I became more and more frustrated, more filled with sorrow and—aye, I can admit it now—fury that I would never be able to put that learning to use. More and more I seethed to think that I would never leave the familiar walls of Jervaulx Abbey. Never would I be of any service to others. There was no hope.”

So much of this was true. Though teaching a few privileged nobles had never been a driving ambition for Benedict, the frustration and the fury that he had felt—that he felt now—were real. Very real. It was power that he wanted. Power he craved. Power he would have. And from early on, he had seen that religion was the way. There was nothing like the authority of the “divine.” Nothing gave more mastery, more control over the two-legged sheep of this world. With religion, you could control them all, body and soul.

Benedict knew it was true, and he looked at his audience—as captivated as when he’d first begun to speak.

“I was a young man of twenty and he eighteen when Edmund Percy and I first crossed paths. ‘Tis hard for you to believe that we were so close in age, but ‘tis true. The years have gone hard for me, in some ways. Be that as it may, I had heard of the young knight. Then one day, word came that Edmund and an entourage were at the abbey gates, having undertaken some grave mission and traveling to the north. There were words that were whispered—secretive words like ‘treasure’! The rumors told that Edmund Percy and his men were in possession of the most powerful and holy treasure in all the world! And they would be taking shelter at our monastery for one night before continuing their journey.

“‘Twas true. Edmund Percy, swearing all to secrecy, would even allow the monks to see this divine treasure. For centuries, this treasure had been protected…from the day the holy crusaders had found it in the town of Tiberius, on the Sea of Galilee.” Benedict wrapped his bony fingers around the cross at his belt and forced a note of sorrow into his voice. “But such a gift would not be wasted on a blind monk.”

“Was this truly the Treasure of Tiberius?”

The ever-impatient one, Benedict thought, casting a hasty glance at William Ross.

“Aye, ‘twas Tiberius indeed! They laid it in the chapel in the great library for the night, with a coterie of knights around the door. Only because of Edmund Percy’s kindness—aye, he heard of the blind monk Benedict who had been kept away—I was allowed to visit the chapel. I could not touch the ancient treasure, but I was at least allowed into the chapel, and given a chance to speak with the good knight into whose hands it had been given.”

William Ross moved from the window to the hearth, and the earl of Athol was momentarily distracted, but Catherine and Laura did not take their eyes off of Benedict. The monk continued. He would not allow anyone to steal this moment of glory.

“Somehow, a fire started in the chamber beneath the great library.” Benedict’s body seemed to come alive at the memory of the blaze he himself had set. “‘Twas late, many were sleeping. I myself had retired to my cell to pray. Suddenly, the cries of the knights and my brothers could be heard. I never remember experiencing greater confusion than I found when I reached the library doors. The smoke was thick, burning my lungs, and the air was filled with the shouts of men running to and fro, battering me about in my blindness. Everything I knew of the place, every doorway and every stair, every sharp edge on the floor, was thrown over in the frenzy of the moment. I was pushed ahead and turned round and round until I was dizzy.”

Benedict’s voice rose in the quiet of the room. “And then, suddenly, I was alone. I could feel the sweep of cold fresh air to my left…and hear the crackling sound of fire to my right. I turned, found the wall, a corner that I recognized. I started back. I could hear men coughing, crying out, trying desperately to get back inside. One voice called out to me, but I continued on. In a moment I was through the doors to the library. I did not try to breathe, for I could feel the inferno of heat and smoke on my face. I moved toward the tiny chapel. The heat was intense when I reached the door, but I pushed through it. I could feel the power of the treasure drawing me on, hear that heavenly voice calling me, leading me through the flames. Aye, there was a voice calling me on.

Benedict gazed down at his own hands. He’d meant to take the treasure that night…to make it his own.

“There was a power there far greater than anything I will ever experience again on this earth.”

The monk’s eyes snapped up to the group.

“I had no fear of death when I walked through the heat of those hellish flames. I had no regrets about my life, only joy in going toward that voice that could only have come from heaven itself. And then, suddenly, I felt no fiery heat. Cool air—sweeter than any I had ever breathed—swept into my lungs. I reached out my hand.”

Benedict didn’t wipe away the tears that ran along the deep furrows of his face. The excitement continued to build in his voice.

“I reached out and found the charred wooden casket. It was not even warm. Opening the top, my fingers touched the thick velvet wrap that protected it. Touching it…just touching it, I felt the power vibrate through my body, touching my soul. I closed the top once again, clutched the casket to my chest, and stepped back into the flames.”

He’d had his hands around it. The most glorious chance of his life. How close he’d been to succeeding that night! How close! He could almost feel the heat around him again. He took a deep breath and continued.

“I walked through the burning library and out into the corridor. Though I could hear the wailing and shouting of voices in the distance, the corridor was empty now…but for one man—Edmund Percy.

“‘You’ve saved Tiberius!’ he cried out. ‘By the Virgin. You’ve saved the Treasure of Tiberius!’”