Chapter One
Scotland, March 1309
The late afternoon sun provided little warmth as a frigid blast of wind hurled past Sir Rónán O’Connor. He glanced toward Stephan MacQuistan, Earl of Dunsmore, a friend and a fellow Knight Templar, then nodded to the guard holding open the intricately carved arched door of St Andrew’s Cathedral as they strode past.
The rich scents of frankincense and myrrh filled the air as he halted inside, then dusted off the thin layer of falling snow from his cape. However thankful to be out of the cold, unease rumbled through him at King Robert’s request for his presence, more so that it involved the Earl of Sionn, a powerfulIrish nobleman.
A soft groan sounded as the guard pulled the entry door shut, then the man glanced to the earl. “My lord.” Then he turned to Rónán. “Sir Rónán, King Robert is meeting with the Bishop of Dunblane. He bids you to wait in the solar until I bring word that he will receive you.”
Rónán nodded.
The guard stepped back. “If you would follow me.”
“’Tis unnecessary,” Stephan said. “My wife is there. I will show him the way.”
“I thank you, my lord.” The steady pad of steps faded as the guard departed the massive entry and headed toward a nearby corridor.
Waning rays of golden sunlight streaming through an ornate arched window entwined with torchlight illuminated the grand interior. In awe, Rónán studied the massive columns lining each side of the cathedral. He glanced toward the nave, framed within the rows of highly polished pews leading to the chancel adorned with carvings of Christ and other well-crafted tributes honoring the Lord surrounding the grand altar.
“’Tis beautiful,” he breathed, “and incredible craftsmanship. Nay doubt Templars were involved in theconstruction.”
“Aye, ’twas my thought the first time I came here.” Stephan headed in the opposite direction the guard had taken. “This way.”
They passed a fresco mural of Christ. “With the significant number of clergy and nobles arriving for King Robert’s first parliament,” Rónán said, “I should have expected tofind you here.”
“I arrived two days ago with the Bishop of Dunblane. We are to listen to the Bruce’s strategy for quelling the English and Lord Comyn’s resistance, and tooffer insight.”
“With Lord Comyn believing he is the rightful claimant to the Scottish throne, ’tis a fight he will never abandon. Unlike King Edward II, who hasna the taste for power like his father.”
“Indeed,” Stephan agreed. “’Tis the blasted lords who have the young sovereign’s ear and press him to continue the battle to conquer Scotland.”
Rónán shot him a wry smile. “Nay doubt they are furious that King Philip of France has recognized the Bruce as theKing of Scots.”
A satisfied look settled on Stephan’s face. “’Tis certain that news put a burr in their arse.” He nodded respectfully to a monk garbed in a brown robe as he passed, then glanced at Rónán. “I didna expect to see you here. Did you travel with one of the representatives in support of King Robert?”
“Nay. ’Tis an unexpected trip. I was at Tiran Castle, attending Sir Cailin’s wedding—”
“Wedding?”
“Aye.” In brief,Rónán explainedhaving been sent to aid Cailin in reclaiming his birthright, Tiran Castle, and discovering Cailin’s father hadn’t been murdered in Cailin’s youth as he’d been told by his treacherous uncle, but was alive and locked within the dungeon. Then, Rónán told Stephan the unusual circumstances of their friend meeting and falling in love with Elspet McReynolds.
Stephan shook his head in disbelief. “’Tis remarkable.”
“Indeed. I was there, and I am still stunned by the extraordinary chain of events.” Thoughts of their friend—also a Knight Templar—made Rónán smile, more so due to the happiness Cailin had found in his lovely and spirited bride. “’Twas after the wedding when the king’s runner delivered a missive that the Bruce requested my presence in matters concerning theEarl of Sionn.”
The faint murmur of voices echoed from down a corridor, and the scent of venison, onions, and herbs sifted through the air.
Rónán’s stomach rumbled, a reminder he hadn’t eaten since dawn. But that would have to wait until after he’d met withhis sovereign.
His friend guided him down another hallway, this one smaller but as grand. From the ornately framed paintings, the discreet carvings straddling the walls, ’twas clearly the king’s private area.
“Have you ever met the Earl of Sionn?” his friend asked.
“Nay, only heard that he is a man well respected by his warriors.” Learned during a time in his brutal youth he’d rather forget, a place filled with naught but pain and fear. Nor did he ever intend to return to Ireland, a promise he’d kept after his adventures had brought him to join the galloglass, where a year later he’d met and given his vow to the Brotherhood in France. He’d sailed away with a Templar crew and never looked back.
Cold fury lanced his gut as he thought of the Knights Templar, who’d been betrayed by King Philip, of the false charges leveled upon an elite Christian force who’d displayed naught but the highest ideals and principles for nearlytwo centuries.
Yet, for all the French king’s conniving to replenish his coffers with Templar wealth, in the end he’d claimed naught but a pittanceof their gold.
