The Princess and the Templar (17 page)

Her gaze lingered on the sharp line of his jaw. His eyes were hooded, and he’d turned his face from hers. Her heart sank. Nay, there would be no respite from the Templar’s sworn duty. ’Twas her own fanciful dreams that had quickened her hope, not any change in him.

****

The priest held out his hand, palm up, a rosary draped between his fingers. “God’s blessing on you. Go in peace, my son, you have your penance.”

Raul got to his feet and bowed his head, making the sign of the cross. The penance was heavy indeed, but his sins were heavier still.

He’d vowed to confess as soon as he found a proper priest. But the task had been harder than he’d imagined, for it had taken all his courage to admit he’d lusted after his lord’s betrothed, an Irish princess far above his station. He’d not even attempted to confess the disobedience he contemplated; his wish to find Cahira a noble husband other than the Sinclair. For to admit that, even to a priest, might mean a death warrant—for both himself and Cahira.

He quit the sanctity of the church and strode into the bright sunlight. Stopping beside one of the masonry columns supporting the front portico, he watched as a covey of doves took wing. Gazing at the abbey’s quiet courtyard, he willed his guilty heart to slow while he absorbed the peaceful surroundings. The cobblestone yard, unlike the streets of Dornoch, was well kept. With walks swept clean and bright-faced flowers nodding from neat garden beds, the central square made for an enticing oasis.

A plain-faced monk wearing a much-patched brown habit ambled toward him. When the monk reached him, he asked, “Brother Templar, have you need of aught?”

Raul shook his head.

The monk placed his hand on Raul's shoulder. “I can see your heart is heavy.” The look on the monk’s face was gentle and kind. “Mayhap I can help, if you will but tell me your troubles.”

“Thank you, but I’ve already taken confession.”

The monk inclined his head. “I’m Brother Simon, and you must be Raul de Porcelos.” He clasped his hands, as if in prayer. “They say confession is good for the soul, but oft’ times, the heart doesn’t follow. I think that is your trouble.”

Raul stared at the holy man, amazed this stranger could see into his heart so easily. Forcing a smile, he replied, “Yes, I’m Raul de Porcelos.” He offered his hand. “It’s my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Brother Simon.”

He returned Raul’s smile. “Nay, ’tis my pleasure, Sir Raul, to meet a brave knight of the Templar Order. I welcome you to St. Andrew’s. I’m the chamberlain of sorts, the brother who takes care of weary travelers. I’ve seen to your ladies and knights. They are resting.”

“My thanks, Brother Simon. I fear I was remiss in my duties.”

He had been remiss, rushing off to confess his sins, hoping to find peace. Needing a sign the disobedience he contemplated was the right thing to do. But he’d received no sign because life was never that simple; he would need to rely upon his own conscience and judgment.

Brother Simon folded his hands and bowed. “My pleasure is to be of service. Supper will be served after vespers in the refectory.”

“Thank you.”

“If you need aught, there’s a bell in your bedchamber. Ring it thrice, and I’ll come.”

“That’s most generous of you.”

The monk’s mouth curved again into that enigmatic smile of his, and he turned to go. It was then Raul had a sudden thought. As the chamberlain, Brother Simon might be of help.

“Wait,” Raul said, “I would like to ask you something.”

The brother turned back. “Aye, Sir Raul?”

“I saw Robert the Bruce’s cortege pass in the streets. I’d thought he and his men were in hiding.”

Nodding, the brother agreed, “Aye, they’ve been hiding for many months past. The Earl of Ross, who supports Balliol, has taken the Bruce’s wife from her sanctuary at St. Duthac and demanded a ransom. The Bruce shows himself to raise monies to reclaim his wife.”

“How will he do that?”

“Go to the noblemen who support him. But he needs to stir the people to his side as well. Thus, he marches through the towns.”

One of those nobles would be the Sinclair. Still, the earl’s stronghold was a long way off. If Raul could but reach the Bruce before he went to the Sinclair, the Scottish King might help him.

“So the Bruce openly opposes Baillol who the English support, in spite of his defeat last summer?”

Brother Simon glanced around the quiet courtyard and then leaned close. “How can he do less? They’ve taken his wife.” Raising one hand, he laid a bony finger aside his nose. “’Tis treason to speak aloud of this.”

“But you’re a Scot?”

“Aye, I’m Scottish born, but my bishop is English.” His hazel eyes twinkled. “Alas, what the bishop doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” He winked.

Raul took the hint, lowering his voice. “Are you saying the Bruce and his men sheltered here?”

Brother Simon’s smile faded. “Your lord is William the Sinclair?”

He knew where the monk was leading. The earl supported the Bruce. If the Sinclair was his lord, then Raul must be a secret supporter of the disposed Scottish monarch as well.

“Yes, I’m bound to William the Sinclair.” He swallowed and closed his eyes. Duty bound him to the earl, but his heart led him on another more treacherous path. How could he reconcile the two?

“My bishop has been in London,” the brother explained, “hobnobbing with the Ecclesiastical Council these four months past. The Bruce and his men stayed but a fortnight with us, gathering their strength.” He tucked his hands in his sleeves. “Why do you want to know?”

“My lord, the Sinclair, will desire news of the Bruce if I can give it.”

“And your meaning?”

“Where goes the Bruce and his men now? Do you know?”

The kindly Brother Simon’s features hardened into a mask, and he looked him up and down. Raul held his breath, realizing the simple monk possessed an uncanny skill to glean a man’s true motives.

“Your lord, the Sinclair, supports the Bruce now…” He shook his head. “But who can say what he will do anon. The earl changes sides as it pleases him.”

Raul recoiled, surprised at the monk’s blunt yet accurate assessment of the Sinclair’s shifting loyalties. It was obvious Brother Simon didn’t want the Sinclair to know of the king’s movements.

“What if I told you I wanted to know where the Bruce went for my own reasons, not my lord’s?” Raul asked.

The monk’s features relaxed, and the corners of his mouth twitched. “You should have said so before.” Brother Simon’s brown-green eyes glowed with mischief. “The Bruce rides to Dunrobin Castle, where he’ll stay with the Sutherlands and ask for their support.”

“Thank you, kind brother, for the news.”

Simon nodded, making the sign of the cross. “God’s blessing on you.” He walked away, moving across the cobblestone courtyard in his slow, loose gait.

Even with the information he needed, it would be a tricky business at best, approaching the Bruce in the Earl of Sutherland’s domain. Sutherland was a close friend of the Sinclair, and he would be solicitous and protective of the earl’s betrothed.

Fortunately, the Bruce outranked both Sutherland and Sinclair and could do as he pleased—if Raul could persuade him to go against his supporters. Raul shook his head, not wanting to think about the challenge or the consequences, for he could be dismissed from the Templars, imprisoned or even flogged by the Sinclair.

It was a heavy price to pay. But for Cahira’s sake, he would risk all.

Chapter Ten

Raul reined in his mount and gazed at the looming Sutherland stronghold, Dunrobin Castle, perched on a hill overlooking Dornoch Firth. Above the turreted towers, the Sutherland’s scarlet banner fluttered in the breeze, confirming the earl was in residence.

He scanned the horizon for the Bruce’s gold and blue pennant, but what he sought wasn’t to be found. Either the Bruce had already departed Dunrobin, or he didn’t want his banner flown announcing his presence to all that would pass. Why would the Bruce hide at Dunrobin when he’d already shown himself in town? Most likely, the Bruce had already quit the place or hadn’t gone to Dunrobin as planned.

An odd sense of relief collided with the clenched fist of frustration in Raul’s gut. On the one hand, he’d dreaded to speak of his plan while the Bruce took shelter with the Sinclair’s ally. On the other, if the Bruce had already gone, they might not find him. At best it was a risky plan to secure Cahira’s future, based on the hope the Scottish monarch would have a noble relation or supporter who desired a wife. And the noble must be willing to face the Sinclair’s wrath for usurping the earl’s bride-to-be.

Raul shook his head. If he started thinking of the difficulties, he’d never go through with it, and he had few alternatives.

Nudging his horse with his spurs, he turned the beast around. A few yards off, Cahira rode beside Mildread, reining in her steed to match the short stride of the serving woman’s nag. Sean and Evan trailed behind, leading the packhorse laden with their supplies and Cahira’s trunks. Watching his party’s slow progress, he shook his head again.

For a servant, Mildread had proven to be more trouble than she was worth. They’d tarried four days at the abbey so she could gather strength. When he’d gone to purchase mounts for the women and a packhorse, Mildread had begged to ride in a cart, saying she’d never ridden a horse.

He’d not been surprised. Most servants only ventured as far as their two good feet could carry them. But the Northern Highlands was a vast wasteland of treacherous mountains and too few cart roads. Despite Mildread’s protests, he’d insisted she ride, so he’d searched for the gentlest nag he could find. That had created another problem. They needed to adjust their speed to match Mildread’s mount. It had taken three days to travel to Dunrobin. A week’s time had passed since they’d seen the Bruce in town.

The two women finally drew alongside, their features shadowed by the flat-brimmed hats they wore as protection against the sun. Mildread reined in her horse and sat with her eyes downcast and her mouth soured in a frown.

Cahira pointed to the keep perched on the cliff. “That’s Dunrobin?”

“Yes, the Earl of Sutherland’s castle.”

She dropped her reins and clapped her hands. “That means a bath and a real bed.”

Her delight surprised him and threatened to upset his plans. If the Bruce wasn’t at Dunrobin, he wanted to press on. But it was obvious Cahira missed her womanly comforts. In the wilderness of the Northern Highlands, there were few roads and no public houses. They’d already spent two nights in rude farm cottages and had been glad enough for that.

Cahira glanced at Mildread. “Did you hear that—a bed and bath? Don’t look so glum.”

“No, milady,” Mildread replied but didn’t look up.

Turning her back on the maidservant, Cahira lifted her head and shot Raul a cross-eyed look, whilst a grin tugged at the corners of her mouth.

Taken unawares, he had to swallow the laughter that threatened to choke him. With glances and expressions, they’d formed what amounted to a wordless dialogue in the presence of their fellow travelers. Yet another bond between them—a bond he didn’t like to think about.

How would he ever let her go?

“We
will
have a bath and bed? Won’t we?” she asked.

“Of that I’m not certain.”

“But Dunrobin must be equipped for such. I thought we would shelter at the castle for at least one night.”

“Yes, that was my plan.” It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her he wanted to catch up to the Bruce’s retinue. But what reason would he give? Angling a sideways glance at Mildread, he replied instead, “We’ve lost several days’ time, and I thought to press ahead.”

Cahira frowned. “What could another day or two matter?”

While they’d spoken, their mounts had ambled forward, and they'd descended into a small valley. Beside a meandering stream, he spied a crofter’s cottage. Perhaps the tenant would know if the Bruce tarried at Sutherland.

He chose to ignore Cahira's question. “Let’s stop and water the horses.”

“But we’re so close to the keep, and I thought you wanted to press ahead.”

He didn’t reply, urging his mount forward. Upon entering the farmyard, he placed one hand on the hilt of his sword. It appeared to be a simple place, but wherever people were, caution was necessary, especially with two women to protect.

A lad of about seven years darted in front of his horse, frightening the skittish destrier. The horse whinnied and pawed the air, one hoof barely missing the lad’s head. The boy shrieked and threw up his arm. Alarmed, Raul sawed on his mount’s reins and leaned his weight forward, bringing the beast under control. “Lad, have a care,” Raul called out. “Stay away from the horses.”

The boy ducked his head and scampered off. He disappeared inside the thatch-roofed cottage.

Cahira galloped up and leapt from the back of her horse. She flung her reins at Evan and planted her fists on her hips. “Sir Raul, it’s
you
who should have a care. You almost trampled a child.” She rushed to the cottage door but hesitated on the stoop, obviously wanting to go inside and see that the boy was unharmed.

He couldn’t help but smile to himself, now the danger was past. Cahira possessed a motherly concern for children. First, Loghan and now a farmer’s lad. She might gainsay the need, not wanting to wed the Sinclair, but secretly, he believed she desired children.

How he wished he could be the one to give them to her.

Thinking thus, his heart twisted in his chest, and he glanced away. Mildread joined them, looking both confused and uncomfortable sitting atop her horse.

His gaze swung back to Cahira. After a few moments of indecision, she knocked on the lintel. A man dressed as a yeoman farmer, who was most likely the lad’s father, emerged from the hut. Seeing the well-dressed lady on his stoop, his features registered amazement, and he took a step back. Lowering his head, he tugged on his forelock and bowed to show the proper respect.

Wanting to ease the man’s confusion, Raul swung down from his horse and took Cahira’s elbow. She started to pull away, but he only tightened his grip. When she glanced at him, their gazes collided, locked and held.