Читать книгу Betrayed - Christopher Dinsdale - Страница 11

Connor’s room was tiny and dim, the only source of light coming through a narrow vertical slit in the stone wall. If the castle ever came under attack, his room would be transformed into an elevated archery station, designed to protect the narrow causeway that stretched over the deep canyon surrounding the castle. A quiver of arrows and a bow stood in the in the corner of the room, ready to be used at a moment’s notice.

The rest of the small room was occupied by four straw-covered cots, a stool and a rough table. On top of the table was a small candle that barely yielded enough light for Connor to complete his tasks. He had to share his sleeping quarters with three other aspiring squires. The others were busy tending to their duties, and he was glad to have a rare private moment. It would save him having to answer a flurry of questions from the other boys as he packed up his meagre belongings.

He pulled out two burlap sacks from under the mattress. After dumping the crumpled collection of clothing onto his cot, he threw the few decent pieces he owned back into the open sack. He left the most tattered pieces of cloth on his cot for the other squires to fight over when they returned to the empty room that evening.

Then, lifting the second bag, he paused. He closed his eyes and repeated his daily prayer, thanking God for continuing to watch over his mother in Heaven. He took a deep breath and carefully removed the items. He gingerly placed his mother’s shawl on the table. He then removed a blackened dagger and held it up to the flickering candlelight. Connor and his mother had returned to their farm several weeks after the English had destroyed their property. They had dug through the pile of ashes that had been their modest home in search of anything that might have survived the inferno. Amongst the charred wood, Connor had discovered his father’s ceremonial dagger. It had been severely damaged in the fire, and Connor would wait until the others had drifted to sleep then lovingly repair and polish the weapon. It had taken over a year before its darkened surface finally shone with a renewed glow. It was a weapon given to the family by a young Prince Henry for the dedication Connor’s father had demonstrated during an ill-fated Scottish pilgrimage to the Holy Lands.

Reaching deep into the bag, he pulled out one final item: the MacDonald plaid. He had worn the red and blue tartan cape on only two other occasions since arriving at Roslin; when the castle staff stood in full colour to welcome Prince Henry home to the castle after a long voyage overseas. Some voyages were talked about openly, such as his required trip to Copenhagen for the crowning of the young King of Denmark, and also his safe passage to the shipyards of London in order to purchase two vessels for his ever-growing fleet. But there were also mutterings of strange, exotic Templar missions as well. Connor would give anything to hear the true nature of those distant journeys.

He grabbed his packed items and ran down the stairs to the wash station. A large barrel of rain water sat in an open room with a hole in the floor. He stripped naked and scrubbed his entire body with a rough leather cloth and lye until most of the stench went down the drain hole with the water. Still wet, he threw on his good tunic, tightened his belt and covered his shoulders with the MacDonald cape.

Sir Rudyard was already waiting with two dozen men when Connor strode out into the darkened courtyard. Connor was mortified to find out that he was the last one to arrive.

“Leave it up to Connor to be last again,” muttered the familiar voice of his friend.

Connor inched closer to Angus and gave him a kick on the back of his shin. Angus had to muffle his curse in front of the surrounding soldiers.

“Connor, look around!” whispered Angus. “We are standing next to soldiers that my father has only mentioned to me through story. Some here are from as far away as Italy and Germany! Sir Claude du Maurier, just ahead of us, fought in the final stand at Acre in the Holy Lands! They’re all Templar Knights!”

“Unbelievable!” Connor whispered back. “It makes you wonder what we’re doing here!”

He could barely contain his excitement and awe. He could hear the older men conversing in a variety of different dialects from the continent. Knowing only Gaelic and a small amount of English, he hadn’t a clue as to what they were talking about.

Sir Rudyard strode up to the two young men. “Glad to see we’re all here now.”

Connor’s face flushed red in embarrassment. Sir Rudyard put his hands on Connor’s shoulders. He tensed for a lecturing, or possibly worse. He couldn’t believe he was about to be humiliated in front of all of these famous knights.

“Your MacDonald cape, Connor,” said Sir Rudyard, much to Connor’s surprise.

“My cape, sir?”

He nodded. “As much as we all would like to stand proudly in the colours of our clan, I’m afraid that tonight is not the night for such a display. You’ll have to put it away in your bag. Here. Take this one instead.”

He handed Connor a simple black cape. Connor then noticed everyone else in the gathering was wearing a cape of a dark shade.

“We are leaving under the cover of night for a reason,” Angus’ father explained. “Secrecy is paramount. A dark cape will help hide our departure.”

“Yes, sir.”

Connor put on the cape and quickly stuffed his family colours away.

“Now, gentlemen,” Sir Rudyard said, striding to the front of the group, “if you would all follow me.”

Instead of gesturing for the main gate to be opened, Sir Rudyard led the band of men to the north wall. Behind a thick patch of ivy was a well-hidden door. They entered inky darkness, lit torches then descended a spiralling damp staircase that seemed so long, Connor feared it might lead them down into Hell itself. Finally, the clank of a key into a heavy lock signalled the end of the staircase.

The sweet fresh smell of the night air greeted the group as they stepped through a secret exit in the base of the rocky precipice that so formidably guarded Roslin Castle. Awaiting them on the nearby banks of the River Esk were four shallow-draft skiffs. The men climbed onto the boats. Connor managed to stay beside Angus and his father as they found their places in the lead skiff.

Sir Rudyard turned to the rudderman and nodded. A pole pushed the skiff away from the water’s edge. The current grabbed hold of the skiff’s keel and began to push the craft and its passengers on a silent journey toward the awaiting sea.

As the bow of the open, single-mast ship roared up the frothing face of a North Sea wave, tipped and slid down the back side of the swell, Connor felt his burning stomach begin to slam once again into the underside of his ribs. He gagged, and leaving his post by the main sheet of the sail, he made a dash for the railing. He threw his head over the side of the ship and heaved out the two sips of water he had ingested only minutes earlier. His head pounded. He felt as if he were going to die.

Someone patted his back. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Connor, pale and shivering, turned to face the concerned gaze of Sir Rudyard.

Angus’s father had to shout over the power of the roaring ocean to make his voice heard. “Getting your sea legs for the first time is the hardest yet most rewarding initiation there is, Connor. Soon you will be a sea rat just like the rest of us, loving the open ocean.”

“Yes, sir,” groaned Connor, as another wave of nausea hit him and he dry-heaved into the sea.

“Don’t worry, lad. This will be a short voyage. Believe it or not, you will live to see another day. In fact, we should have your feet back on solid ground before dinner.”

Sir Rudyard walked away without a single wobble as the rolling deck pitched downwards once again. Angus, not quite as steady on his feet as his father, managed to stagger across the heaving deck to his friend.

“Short?” muttered Connor as Sir Rudyard returned to his post next to the captain. “How can three days of torture be called a short voyage?”

“Cheer up,” said Angus, grabbing Connor by the shoulder. “Your salvation is near.”

Green-faced and gaunt, Connor managed a glance in the direction of his friend’s pointed finger. Under the blanket of the slate-grey sky appeared to be a fierce serpent patrolling the murky horizon. The gaping, fanged mouth of the beast was, upon closer inspection, a wide, sheltered harbour. Behind the jagged outcrops of upper teeth, the high defensive wall of a massive castle formed the monster’s nose. The serpent’s angry forehead was composed of a majestic rectangular keep that dominated the approaching landscape. Two glowing eyes high on the keep’s wall watched the tiny vessel approach. Connor realized that the orange lights were actually fiery signals for their approaching ship in order to help it navigate safely into the awaiting harbour.

Connor did not think that there could be a more imposing castle than Roslin, but this desolate fortification in the middle of the angry ocean was menacingly huge. Positioned to the side of the harbour entrance, it struck immediate fear into those who dared entered its waters. For the first time since stepping onto the sailboat, Connor stopped worrying about his heaving stomach.

“What is that place?” he asked, awed by the approaching stone monstrosity.

“My father has spoken of it,” answered Angus excitedly. “This is the Sinclair sea fortress, Kirkwall Castle! It is Prince Henry’s base for controlling the Orkney and Shetland Islands.”

“Prince Henry controls islands this far north?” asked Connor.

“They were given to him by the King of Norway,” explained Angus, “as part of a settlement between our two countries. The deal narrowly averted a war with our northern neighbour.”

“Unbelievable,” whispered Connor as the castle loomed ever closer. “How could anyone build a structure so huge out in the middle of nowhere?”

Angus smiled. “Remember, the Templars have always considered themselves builders first and fighters second. Father told me in private that their dream has always been to build a new city of Jerusalem. They want to build a city where people can live and worship God freely, above and beyond the reach of crooked popes and vengeful kings.”

“Is this the New Jerusalem?” asked Connor, absorbing the dark, imposing structure through the numbingly cold rain. “It’s not exactly how I had pictured the Holiest of Cities.”

The ship rounded the southern point of the harbour and finally entered its protected waters. Connor gave a sigh of relief as the giant swells of the North Sea gave way to a gentle rocking of calm water. The boys manned their stations and helped the crew tie down the sail. Others prepared to greet the small landing crafts that had been sent out to meet them.

Connor looked over his shoulder toward the frothing grey ocean that separated him from the rolling hills of his Scottish homeland. He had a sudden pang of homesickness. He longed to gaze upon the colourful heather of the Scottish highlands and walk the fields of his father’s farm. Then a flash of anger tore through him. Was he a soft boy who clung to the comforts of home, or was he now a hardened squire, ready for battle? The prince had called him to duty, considered to be an honour above all others. At that very moment, Connor swore an oath that he would never look back towards Scotland again.

Connor climbed down the rope ladder onto the last skiff, and with Angus by his side, departed for shore and whatever might await him.