Which explained how she’d gained expertise rivaled by only a few, all knights within the Order. “You were fortunate to make an acquaintance of a man with such skill.”
“I was. Though we never did see him again.”
Only one reason made sense for a Templar to travel through the Highlands all those years ago, to meet with King Robert, a man few knew was of the Brotherhood.
From the knight’s urgency, Thomas suspected his journey entailed a secret plan agreed upon by the Bruce and Jacques de Molay if the Templars ever had to evacuate. A strategy the Order had used to ensure that treasures held within the Paris Temple, along with the Templar fleet, vanished before King Philip began the arrests.
As they rounded the next turn, down the snow covered, rut mottled road, the stand of trees on either side fell away. His chest tightened as he surveyed the glen framing the loch, and how at the opposite end, Dair Castle arched skyward in brilliant defiance.
“’Tis beautiful,” Alesone breathed.
“Aye.” He took in the rugged sweep of land, wished back the years, ones that would never come. A movement to his side had him glancing over.
His father cantered toward them, reined his mount in paces away. “I sent a runner ahead to let Donnchadh know of our approach.”
“I thank you.” Though astonished by his father’s forgiveness, little doubt remained that his eldest brother wouldna share the sentiment. After Léod’s death, he and Donnchadh had argued, his brother’s words laced with fury, and Thomas’s rebuttal incited by guilt.
With his brother’s blistering remarks scorching his mind and his guilt festering, he’d approached his father, explained that he wanted to become a monk. After a long discussion, and with his refusing to listen to any advice, though reluctant, his father had brought him to the monastery. And from that day, fueled by remorse, he’d vowed never to return home.
A promise he’d intended to keep.
“How do you fare?” his father asked.
Thomas shrugged. “Well enough.”
Concerned eyes shifted to his side. “Mistress Alesone?”
“I am fine, Your Grace.” She nodded toward the stronghold. “Dair Castle is magnificent.”
Pride beamed on the duke’s face. “’Twas handed down to me by my father, and through our family for hundreds of years. While here, you are free to go about as you wish. I will ensure that you are introduced to the healer. If you require herbs, she will have what you need.”
“I thank you. You are generous.”
“I am concerned for my son.”
Thomas grimaced. He wasna on his death bed.
A castle guard’s shout echoed in the distance.
Iron and wood grated, and the portcullis clanked upward.
Windcast snow swirled around them as they rode beneath the gatehouse. As the wagon rolled into the bailey, sunlight spilled through the clouds to shimmer across the daunting fortress.
Memories burned through Thomas as he took in the familiar surroundings. The smithy’s, where he’d watched his first sword being forged, the lists where he’d learned to spar, and the chapel where he’d sought guidance from Him throughout his youth.
Years had taken their toll on the mighty stronghold. The curtain wall showed signs of recent repairs and several new buildings stood where naught had existed before but dirt.
A tall, sandy-haired man strode from the keep, confidence in every step, and anger burning in his eyes.
Donnchadh.
The driver halted the wagon at the center of the baily.
After an order from his father, the knights in accompaniment cantered toward the stables. The duke dismounted, and a lad ran over and led the mount away.
On a deep breath, Thomas pushed himself up.
Alesone stood.
