those Irish monks survived to see Iceland and Greenland in skin-covered boats. Why couldn’t they come all the way west to these new lands as well? St. Brendan and his men of the cloth beat us here by over seven hundred years! Just look at this beautiful cross and Na’gu’set’s knowledge of our sister language. ’Tis the only possible explanation!”
“But what does it all mean?”
Prince Henry grasped Na’gu’set by the shoulders. “It means that our almost impossible quest may now have a much better chance at success, thanks to old St. Brendan and his miraculous voyage. Na’gu’set, are you the only one in the village who can speak in the tongue of the Teachers?”
He nodded. “I grew up in the Village of The Teachers, a three-day paddle from here. My distant ancestor, a woman named Kiera, came from the Land of the Teachers, and this cross has been passed on from one generation to the next. We were taught the lessons of the Great Manitou. Many men from the village are sent to all the different nations of the lands to teach our beliefs.”
Prince Henry thought for a minute. He looked around at the surrounding silent crowd. It took a moment for the stunning revelations to sink in, but a smile slowly crept across his face. “Na’gu’set, if it is acceptable to your people, my crew and I would like to stay here for a while.”
Na’gu’set nodded. “I will ask the elders.” He turned to the crowd and conversed with a small group of older men. “Our elders would like to know what brings you back to the land of the Mi’kmaq.”
“Na’gu’set,” grinned Prince Henry, “you will soon be in the presence of a treasure that the Ancient Teachers would have sacrificed their very lives to see, if only for just a moment.”
“Treasure?” he asked, puzzled. “I do not know this word.”
“The word treasure means items of great importance. Some are beautiful works of art made to glorify God, or the Great Manitou, as you call him. Others are important pieces that have been created by hand to partake in worshipping the greatest of all Teachers. And one piece, the most important one of all, was created by the Hand of God himself.”
Na’gu’set stared into the smiling blue eyes of the prince, trying to comprehend what he had just been told. “The treasure, The Great Manitou’s treasure . . . is it out there, on your whale?”
Confused, Prince Henry followed the young man’s eyes out into the bay. “Whale? Ah . . . no, ’tis not on the ships. It is back in the Land of the Teachers. You must understand, the reason we are here, and surely the reason God brought us to you, is to help us find a safe resting place for our treasure. There are many people in other lands who desire our treasure, and because of their greed, the holy relics will soon be in grave danger. We need to find a place where the treasure can rest until the divided, sinful world we left behind is once again worthy enough to possess such holy objects.”
Na’gu’set looked out to the ships. “I will do whatever I can to help you. I am honoured to be in your service, Teacher.”
“No, not Teacher. Brother.” Prince Henry grabbed him by the shoulders. “I am your brother, Na’gu’set.”
Na’gu’set smiled and locked his gaze upon the blue-eyed stranger. “I am honoured to be of service, my brother.”
Three
Roslin Castle, July, 1399
Connor spun and ducked as the weapon sizzled through the air, brushing his long wavy hair as it arched past his skull. He stepped to his right, taking his eye off of his attacker for just a second. That was a mistake.
He didn’t see the reverse thrust of the weapon as it now came towards him from a new direction. As Connor straightened to counter-attack, his shoulder exploded in pain. Instinctively, he rolled with the blow, somehow managing to hold on to his only weapon, a long thin pole, with the injured arm. Despite the slippery hay beneath him, he managed to once again spring to his feet like a cat. He deftly switched the pole to his other, uninjured hand. The corner of his eye caught the next approaching blow. He twisted and parried the assault, causing the attacker to send his weapon high.
Connor would not waste the split-second advantage he had created, and ignoring the white-hot fire erupting from his shoulder, smacked the side of his pole into the attacker’s exposed ribs. His attacker grunted and lowered his arm slightly to protect his damaged ribs. Connor swung around again, and raising the trajectory, glanced his weapon off the back of the attacker’s skull. The attacker keeled over in pain. Connor took full advantage. Spinning into a crouch, he swung his weapon low and cracked it against his attacker’s calves. Feet flew up in the air, and his attacker landed hard on his back. Connor sprung forward, placed a foot on the attacker’s chest and raised the weapon up, dagger-like, above his chest for a final blow. The cold stare in Connor’s eyes showed no emotion. This would end quickly.
“Och, aye, Connor,” confessed the attacker. “I give up. You bettered me again.”
Connor’s face transformed from stony concentration to a broad smile. He lowered the long wooden pole hovering above his head, brought it to his side and extended a hand. Angus Gunn, sprawled on the straw, lay defeated. He grabbed hold of Connor’s offered hand and heaved himself up, shaking the straw out of his thick, red hair.
“Actually, you had me, Angus,” Connor replied, brushing the straw off his back while avoiding the soft glob of horse dung that clung to his left shoulder. “If you had connected with your reverse strike, you would have finished me off.”
“Nae. You ducked it well,” a deep, firm voice interjected. “But Angus should have compensated for your defensive move by adjusting his attacking strike downwards.”
Surprised by the voice, the boys turned to the stable gate.
A giant of a man stood silhouetted against a background of brilliant, blue sky. His formal white tunic, emblazoned with the even-sided black cross of the St. Clair family, fluttered in the afternoon breeze as he shook his head in amusement. “Father!” Angus called and bolted to the doorway, where the two warmly embraced.
Connor smiled and stood his ground, politely giving them a moment as he cleaned up the improvised sparring ring. Although the Gunn family had virtually adopted him as a second son, it was a time like this that demonstrated to Connor the thickness of blood. Even though Connor had lost his own father many years ago, shows of affection such as this didn’t bother him any more. In fact, every night he thanked God for blessing him so richly with close friends. He knew only too well what could have happened to his family that fateful night on the bridge if Prince Henry had not come to their rescue. Connor walked up to the stable entrance and joined his friends.
He studied the long scar that sliced diagonally across the forehead and cheek of Angus’s father, Sir Rudyard Gunn. He wondered in what battle the wound had been inflicted. Most knights spent countless hours bragging about their various war wounds, especially after downing several rounds of the castle’s finest ale. Sir Rudyard, however, was a member of the Order of the Knights Templar.
After being banished by the Pope from most of continental Europe, many of the Templar Knights had travelled across the English Channel to the safe haven of Scotland. Robert the Bruce, the King of Scotland, had given the Order sanctuary and allowed them to secretly reorganize within his homeland. During that time, it had been decided by the highest ranking knights that the head of the Sinclair clan should be the hereditary leader of the Templar Order.
One of the
