most disgusting calf she has ever smelled in her entire life.”
“Who was the monster in armour that followed her out of the castle?” asked Connor.
Angus grimaced. “That’s Sir Jonathon Douglas, but everyone calls him Black Douglas because of the black armour he wears into battle. Oh, he’s jovial enough when he has an ale in his hand, but on the battlefield, he’s as ruthless as they come. I hear that Prince Henry has given him high rank within the Templar Order for the good of our homeland. The Douglases are the most powerful clan in Scotland. Through The Templar Order, Prince Henry, for the first time in generations, has brought all of the warring Scottish clans together to help defend our homeland against the English invaders.”
“I’m glad it’s Prince Henry leading us and not our jovial friend, Black Douglas,” grumbled Connor. “What a horses’ arse.”
“Forget about Black Douglas,” said Angus, changing the subject and grabbing Connor’s arm. “Father is waiting. We don’t have much time.”
The two ecstatic boys slapped each other on the back and ran through the doorway.
Four
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
