Betrayed. Christopher Dinsdale
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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.
Five
The rugged shore at the base of Kirkwall Castle was a beehive of activity. The dreary, cool weather did not dampen the spirits of the motivated work parties that swarmed over two large ships that were beached on the smooth pebbles of the harbour’s shore. Like a colony of ants swarming their queens, some workers replaced rotted hull planking while others repaired minor damage to the bow and masts. Both vessels were larger than the ship that had brought