Highland Resurrection (Blades of Honor Book 2) (13 page)

Chapter 16

Lazarus groaned when he heard voices outside his cell. Had the bastards returned to interrogate him again or was his muddled mind playing tricks on him? He sucked in a ragged breath, holding it until his head stopped spinning and the excruciating pain ravaging his body subsided to an almost tolerable level.

“Well, I see you are finally awake. After our last visit, I had my doubts that you would ever open your eyes again.” Louis nudged Lazarus with the toe of his boot.

“What, and miss seeing your ugly face?” Lazarus wrapped his fingers around Louis’s ankle, then glared up at him.

“Get your hands off me,” Louis demanded, then kicked Lazarus in the side.

“He’s a tough bugger,” one of the others said. “Most men would have told everything they knew after the first beating. Are you going to question him again? I’m not sure how much more he can take.”

“Nay, we have finished questioning the obstinate bugger. Get him up,” Louis ordered. “He is going on a little trip.”

Two of the men hauled Lazarus to his feet. Unable to stand on his injured legs, he was forced to lean on the guards for support.

“Since he refuses to tell us the location of the Templar treasure,” Louis said, “he will be sent back to France for further interrogation. I’m certain they have ways of getting a man to talk.”

“It canna be any worse than I have endured the last time I was there,” Lazarus replied, inwardly shuddering at the thought of what fate had in store for him.

“None of this would have been necessary had you not been so stubborn. If you had complied when Father Marquis ordered you to do so, you could have saved yourself countless beatings and the agony you’ve suffered. Not to mention the uncertainty of what lies ahead. There is still time to tell me what I need to know and this will all be over.”

Lazarus raised his chin, the action causing his head to throb. He peered at Louis through the one eye he could still partially open, while the other remained swollen shut. “I know what awaits me in France. And I still have naught to say.”

Louis turned to one of his men. “A ship leaving for France awaits us at Berwick. Ready the mounts, Morris. If we hurry, once he’s aboard and in irons, we can go in to town for some ale and women. Maybe his little chit will be lonely and looking for some companionship.” He elbowed his friend in the side and laughed. “I’d have had her already if Father Marquis hadn’t interrupted us.”

Lazarus chewed on the inside of his cheek and balled his fists to keep from lashing out at Louis. He knew the bugger was trying to goad him by taunting him with Sheena, but he’d not give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his comments angered him.

Louis grabbed a fistful of Lazarus’s hair and forced him to look at him. “What’s the matter, did you suddenly lose your ability to speak?”

Lazarus met his glare, but said nothing.

“I’ve never met such a
bolshie
monk,” Morris said. “After what he’s endured here at the abbey, it’s a wonder he is still breathing, let alone able to sit a horse or survive the voyage.”

“He’s a damned fool if you ask me. But he’ll have plenty time to rest up and regain some of his strength on the journey.” Louis laughed. “Providing they see fit to feed and water the bastard, and he doesna die aboard ship. Bring him outside at once. We must be on our way if we wish to meet the vessel before it sets sail.”

“He canna walk,” one of the guards pointed out.

Louis shrugged. “Then carry or drag him, it matters not. As long you have him outside and atop a mount when I come back from speaking with Father Marquis one last time,” he said, then stomped out of the cell.

“You heard the man.” The guard secured his hold on Lazarus’s upper arm and waited for his companion to do the same before they tugged. “Let’s haul the poor bugger out of here.”

The moment Lazarus moved, gut-wrenching pain stole his breath. Then, mercifully, everything went black.

When he next opened his eyes, he found himself perched atop an old destrier, his hands bound to the saddle and his legs secured to the cinch with strips of leather. He groaned, then lowered his head, resting it on the horse’s neck as wave after wave of nausea crashed over him, every inch of his body crying out for relief.

Louis strode toward the group of men, which included ten well-armed soldiers on heavy horse. “Time we were on our way.” He paused for a moment and studied Lazarus. “He doesn’t look good. I just hope he lives long enough to reach the ship. Once on board, he is their responsibility. Tying him to the horse was a good idea. This way he canna fall off during the ride to Berwick.”

“Is Father Marquis accompanying us?” Morris asked.

“Nay.” Louis climbed upon his mount. “He has some important matters to tie up here and will return to France in a fortnight. By then, the prisoner will be back in King Philip the Tall’s custody.” Louis urged his steed forward and slapped Lazarus’s horse on the arse, and the beast lunged forward.

Lazarus fisted his mount’s mane with his injured hands, miraculously managing to hold on as they sped over rough terrain. With his fractured ribs and other array of injuries, a tumble from atop the destrier could be the final blow that put an end to his life and misery. But he’d never been a man to take the easy way out. Gripping the animal’s sides with his knees to maintain his seat was its own form of torture, agony shooting across his lower spine and down both legs. Yet he persevered.

As they neared the sea, the smell of salt air filled his nostrils. Lazarus heard the ship bells tolling in the distance and the cry of seagulls as they circled overhead. It would not be much longer before they’d arrive at the shipyard.

A modicum of relief washed over him when the horses slowed to a walk. Lazarus forced himself to partially open his swollen eye, catching a final glance of the Scottish countryside. When he spied Berwick on the horizon, he heaved a pain-laden sigh. The place held the secrets to his past. The truth about who he was and where he’d come from. Answers he would never know. His stomach knotted with dread when he thought about returning to the French prison and he selfishly prayed the Lord would take him before he arrived.

Sheena’s face flashed before him. The vision of her sweet smile and lovely green eyes lifted his heart. Meeting her was one good thing that had happened in his tormented life. And for that brief glimpse of happiness, he thanked the Almighty. “Please, Lord, bless and keep them both safe.” Lazarus raised his head when his horse came to an abrupt stop.

“What is it, Louis?” one of the men asked.

“I’m not certain, François, but the horses are restless, and I thought I heard something up ahead.” Louis craned his neck, his gaze darting in all directions.

“Maybe the Devil has come to claim your soul,” Lazarus said.

“Quiet, monk! I do not need you yammering when I’m trying to listen,” Louis snapped. “Open your mouth again and I’ll close it for you permanently.”

“I didn’t hear anything. Maybe you’re imagining things,” François said. “We’ve only a short distance to go and we’ll soon be at the ship. Once we’ve seen this poor sot secured in the hold, I’m looking forward to that visit to the village pub you promised us.”

“Halt!” someone shouted from a copse of trees, then rode into plain sight, blocking the trail ahead of them.

“Who the hell are you, and what do you want?” Louis shouted. “Get out of our way. We have a ship to catch and a prisoner to deliver.”

Lazarus squinted in an attempt to focus as a mountain of a man slowly approached on horseback with his claymore drawn.

“It matters not who I am,” the stranger declared. “You have something I want, and I’ll not clear the path until I get it.”

“If you’re a thief, you’re wasting your time,
monsieur
. Aside from our prisoner, we carry nothing of value,” Louis replied.

“Turn the prisoner over to me and you can be on your way without incident,” the stranger bellowed. “Choose to fight and you will wish you hadna awakened this morn.”

Lazarus could tell by the man’s thick Highland brogue, he was not a French agent. His mind raced. What did he have to gain by stopping them? While he could be a fellow knight, Lazarus doubted he’d be foolish enough to show his face or challenge a formidable group of French soldiers alone. Perhaps he’d heard the rumors about the famed treasure and sought information for his own selfish gains. Regardless of his reason, a niggling in the pit of his stomach warned there was about to be trouble.

Louis urged his mount forward. “How dare you interfere with agents working on behalf of the King of France?”

“In case you hadna noticed, this isna France, and you have no business here.” The stranger pointed at Lazarus. “Turn this man over to me and you can be on your way.”

Louis drew his sword. “That is where you’re wrong. The prisoner is wanted for crimes he committed in France and the Holy Land. He is being taken back to stand trial for treason and heresy. Move aside.”

The stranger shifted in his saddle, but refused to budge. He glared back at Louis. “Perhaps you dinna hear me. I said turn your prisoner over to me. And once you do, you can leave. This is Scottish soil and you have no jurisdiction here.”

“Are you a bloody fool, or do you have a death wish,
monsieur?
There is but one of you and twelve of us.” Louis scoffed. “If I were you, I would move on.”

“Well, I’m not you,” the stranger growled. “And I’ll take great pleasure in flaying you first. Besides, I’d say the odds just got even,” the stranger said when he was joined by at least a dozen heavily armed warriors dressed in Highland garb.

“Spread out, men, and prepare to fight. Whatever happens, do not surrender the prisoner,” Louis shouted, then charged with his blade drawn. “
Viva King Philip! Viva la France
!”

“France, be damned,” the stranger said, then met Louis’s challenge, running him through on his first pass, the head of the French soldiers topping to the ground. “
Bawheid
, it dinna have to be this way.” The stranger spat, then glared at the other French soldiers. “Who wishes to die next?”

The remainder of the French troops answered the challenge and in the commotion, Lazarus’s horse bolted forward, fleeing from the battle at full speed. With his hands and feet still bound to the saddle, all he could do was hold on and hope the animal would settle once it felt safe. But as the clash of metal against metal faded and the got further away from the conflict, the animal continued to run.

Lazarus called upon his last dregs of strength, gritted his teeth, and squeezed his knees against the saddle. But the animal relentlessly raced over the moor, gaining speed with each stride until the old nag collapsed from exhaustion and tumbled to the ground. Paralyzed by pain, the wind knocked from his lungs, and his injured leg pinned beneath the beast, Lazarus stared at the sky. He felt life draining from his body, yet found solace in the idea that if this was the end, he’d die on Scottish soil and a free man.

Chapter 17

“Dinna move him,” someone nearby said. “His injuries look bad.”

“We have to get the damned horse off his leg,” another man said.

Lazarus struggled to open his eyes, uncertain if the men who had come to his aid were friend or foe. He lay on the ground as helpless as a new babe, and at their mercy. The voices he heard were not familiar, but he once again caught a distinct Scottish brogue, leaving him to conclude they were not his French captors come to retrieve him. However, why they’d gone to so much trouble to rescue him remained to be seen.

Nausea twisted his stomach and his throbbing head began to spin, his mind succumbing to a thick haze that squelched his ability to think and reason. He suddenly felt as if he was encased in ice and could no longer feel his right leg. Was this what it felt like to die?

“He’s tied to the saddle. Let me cut the bonds before I rouse the horse,” the second man said, his voiced laced with desperation.

“He’s free. Now let’s get the damned beast off him,” the first man shouted. “But cut the cinch and remove the saddle too, then see if you can coax the nag to stand, Bryce.”

As he drifted in and out, Lazarus heard the conversation going on around him, but he had no idea how much time had passed since he’d fallen, the moments when he lost consciousness a blessing. As the horse stood, taking the pressure off of his leg, every joint and muscle in his body screamed in agony. Even his skin and hair felt like it was on fire.

“His leg is in a bad way, but he’s damned fortunate the ground beneath him was marshy and soft, otherwise the weight of the beast would have crushed it, crippling him for life,” one of them said.

“Fortunate? There is no guarantee he’ll ever be able to walk again, Bryce. It is a miracle he’s alive,” the other fellow remarked.

“We’ll worry about that later. Grab a plaid so we can cover him, Alasdair. And fetch my wineskin from my saddle. Make haste,” Bryce ordered.

“There is no use in trying to get him to drink, Bryce. He isna lucid enough. Hell, given his sorry state, he may never wake up.”

Bryce and Alasdair. The names meant nothing to Lazarus.

“Dinna say that, Alasdair. We’ve just gotten him back after more than twenty summers and I’m going to do everything I can to see he lives. I’ll not find him after all this time, only to lose him again,” Bryce said, then wiped something wet across Lazarus’s brow.

Lazarus sighed. The coolness against his heated flesh offered a few seconds of comfort amidst the agony. But it dinna last long.

“No one wants him to recover, or owes him more than I do,” Alasdair said. “When I was a sickly lad, confined abed, he stayed by my side. He read to me, taught me to carve animals out of scraps of wood, and kept me company when he could have been off playing with the other lads or training in the lists with Father’s men.”

Their voices faded in and out, and while Lazarus only caught pieces of their conversation, he’d heard enough to know these two men knew him, or thought they did.

“Maybe it is a blessing if he remains unconscious,” Alasdair said. “He has obviously been severely beaten, his face so bruised and swollen, he scarcely resembles a man. Look at the angle of his right leg. It was definitely broken in the fall, if not before. Judging by the shallow uneven way he’s breathing, I’d wager he as some broken ribs too. And there is no telling what other injuries we canna see.”

“All he needs some rest and a good healer. I wish Fallon were here,” Bryce said. “He’s burning with fever, and she’d know how to tame it.”

Lazarus had two names to put to the voices, but he still had no idea who they might be. He’d caught a glimpse of a few of the men prior to the battle, and while he thought one of them looked vaguely familiar, he couldn’t put a name to the face. Given the timber of his voice and the way he’d challenged Louis, he guessed the one named Alasdair was a leader, a gruff man who feared nothing. The one he called Bryce sounded a bit younger and had a gentle touch.

“Well, Fallon isna here, Bryce. We’ll have to tend to him the best we can.”

“We canna stay here,” Bryce said. “It willna be long before news of the battle reaches Berwick, and someone comes looking for him. And we dare not take him to town in search of a healer for fear of being arrested. Until Connor can square things with Robert the Bruce, we need to lay low.”

“Aye,” Alasdair said, “but he canna ride in his condition, so we’ll have to make something to carry him on.”

“Best we hurry. A couple of the French warriors managed to escape the skirmish. They ran off like frightened rabbits, but I have no doubt, they will be back with reinforcements,” a third man said. “The rest of the brigands are dead, so they pose us no threat. But I dinna wish to tarry any longer than we have to. How’s he doing, Bryce?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose. Where have you been, Connor?” Bryce asked. “You disappeared after the skirmish and Alasdair and I were starting to worry about you, brother.”

The voice of the third man, the one they called Connor, echoed in Lazarus’s head. But he didn’t recognize it either. He wanted to call out, to ask these men who they were and what they planned to do with him, but he couldn’t muster the strength. Despite the fog clouding his mind and the constant waves of excruciating pain, he listened intently to every word they said.

“I took Ian, Garrett, and some of the men back to the spot where the battle took place,” Connor said. “We buried the French soldiers. Given they are on foreign soil, there was nowhere fitting to lay them to rest.”

“The sadistic bastards got what they deserved. They dinna warrant a proper burial,” Bryce said. “I’d have left them for the wolves to feast upon their ballocks.”

“Trust me, the thought crossed my mind,” Connor said. “But we figured leaving their carcasses strewn about was not a good idea. They may be foreigners, but we dinna need to draw attention to ourselves or the fact there has been a skirmish until we were far and away.”

“The
bampots
dinna have to die,” Alasdair grumbled. “If the fools had just let James go, they could have been on their way. I gave them every opportunity to surrender him and leave, but their leader insisted on a confrontation.”

James? Another meaningless name rattled around in Lazarus’s head. Perhaps they’d mistaken him for someone else and hadn’t meant to rescue him after all. If it was planned, he wished he could thank them. But there was no way to know if they had an ulterior motive. Regardless, once Father Marquis learned of his escape, the priest would not rest until he was recaptured.

“If you recall our conversation with Brother Simon,” Connor said, “he told us they were following orders from a higher authority.”

“And a rogue priest, no less,” Alasdair added.

“The bastard obviously wanted something very badly to do this much damage to a man,” Bryce replied. “Perhaps James can tell us more when he wakes up. But until then, we need to find a safer place to tend to his injuries.”

At hearing Simon’s name mentioned, a sigh of relief escaped Lazarus’s lips. He could rest a little easier knowing he had been the target of their rescue. But why?

“What about the abandoned convent Brother Simon mentioned?” Alasdair asked. “He said if the rescue attempt was successful, he’d meet us there. Monks are trained in the healing arts, so he might be better suited to care for him than we are. Once James is able to travel, we can take him home to Fraser Castle. No one will dare come for him there.”

“You’re right,” Connor said. “I recall passing the priory a mile or so back. We’ll take him there and I’ll send Ian on to fetch Brother Simon. I just hope we willna worsen his condition by moving him again. What say you, Bryce?”

“To move him in this weakened state is risky at best,” Bryce replied. “But if we dinna do something soon, he’s going to die. We have no choice but to take him to the convent, and pray he survives the trip.”

“Ian,” Connor shouted.

“Aye,” a man replied.

“Ride to Ayton Abbey and fetch Bother Simon. Tell him what has transpired and have him bring his healing supplies,” Connor said. “Make haste.”

Ian Fraser
. Lazarus suddenly put a name to the face he thought he’d recognized before the battle began. The same man who’d aided him and Sheena the day she was attacked. But what was he doing here? He said he lived in the Highlands and was only passing through Berwick on clan business. He should be long gone by now.

However, if this was the same man, the reason he was here really didn’t matter. Lazarus had trusted him with Sheena’s life and would trust him again with his own. His rescuers knew Brother Simon and Ian was going to fetch him. But as a sense of calmness washed over him, Lazarus thought about Sheena and Quinn. Were they safe? Or would they bear the brunt of Marquis’s ire?

“I’ll go to Ayton Abbey as quickly as my steed will carry me and return with the monk. He will know what to do,” Ian said. “And in the meantime, try not to
fash
. The Lord would not let you find James after all these years, only to take him from you again.”

Was James his real name? Like the other names he’d heard mentioned, aside from Ian’s, it still meant nothing to him. Lazarus swallowed hard, waging his own private battle against the excruciating pain, while doing his best to remain conscious and aware of what was going on around him. But when hands grasped his shoulders and hips, then lifted his body from the ground, he was grateful when he was consumed by darkness.

“What is taking so long?” Connor asked. “Ian has been gone the better part of the day and should have been back with Brother Simon by now.”

Lazarus moaned as the haze clouding his mind slowly lifted and he once again became painfully aware of his predicament. But try as he might, he could not find the strength to speak or open his eyes. Why the Almighty chose a slow agonizing death was beyond his comprehension, but he wished the Lord would show mercy soon and free him from this torture.

“Patience, brother. It was at least a three-hour hard ride to the abbey and back,” Alasdair said. “I’m certain they’ll be here soon. If not, I’ll personally go and find them.”

“I hope they werena intercepted by Marquis or his men,” Bryce interjected. “His fever is worse and I’m not sure how much longer he can hold on.”

“I’m back and I’ve brought the monk,” Ian announced. “Sorry it took me so long, but we had to make sure we werena followed.”

“Dear Lord. What have those fiends done to you, my son?” Simon said.

Lazarus immediately recognized his friend’s voice and the gentle brush of his hand across his brow.

“He’s on fire. How long has he been like this?” Simon asked, the urgency in his voice unmistakable.

“Since we found him,” Bryce replied. “Can you save him?”

“I’m going to try,” Simon replied. “Fetch my bag of herbs and some water. I’ll also need any clean cloth you can find, and several long, straight, sturdy branches. And hurry. I must set his leg and try to get this fever down.”

Drawing on every ounce of strength he could muster, Lazarus managed to partially open one of his eyes. “Simon,” he rasped.

Simon placed a finger against Lazarus’s lip. “Shhh, dinna try to speak. You must save your strength.” He gently lifted Lazarus’s head before bringing a wineskin to his mouth. “Can you try and take a sip?”

With a shaky hand, he pushed the flagon away. “Sheena . . . Quinn . . .” Lazarus paused to draw in a ragged breath. “Are they . . .”

“They’re fine. Dinna fash about them right now. It is you we must be concerned about.” Simon offered Lazarus another drink and this time he accepted.

“I brought what you asked for, Brother Simon,” Alasdair said. The man who had challenged Louis on the trail hovered over them holding a canvas bag, his expression grim.

Simon eased Lazarus’s head to the ground, then accepted a canvas satchel. “Thank you, Alasdair, and none too soon.”

“Bryce is fetching some water, and Connor is searching for branches you can use to make splints,” Alasdair informed them. “How is he doing?” He leaned closer and frowned. “At least he has one eye opened. Poor bugger couldn’t open the other if he tried.”

“Aye, they gave him a brutal beating,” Simon said. “When your brother returns with the water, have him boil some, then bring it to me in this mug.” He took a clay vessel from the sack and handed it to Alasdair. “I need to make an herbal potion that will hopefully bring down the fever.” He crossed himself. “God willing.”

Alasdair nodded, took the cup, then trotted off before Lazarus could find the strength to ask why these men saved him from the French guard. He glanced up at Simon. “Who . . .?”

“Dinna speak. You must rest.” Simon offered Lazarus more to drink, but he swept his hand away.

“There are things I must know.” Lazarus sucked in an agonizing breath then continued. “Who are those men and why . . . why did they help me?”

Simon met his gaze. “Do you really think it necessary to discuss that now? I believe it would be better to concentrate on getting you well, then answer questions.”

“I may not get the chance to ask again.” Lazarus inhaled slowly, his lungs and chest feeling like an anvil was sitting upon them and growing heavier with each breath. “Or a chance to thank them.”

“There will be plenty of time once you’re well,” Simon said with conviction. “You’ve stayed alive this long and must continue to fight.”

“You never answered my other question, Simon.”

“What question?”

“Sheena and Quinn? Are they together and safe?”

Simon lowered his gaze. “The lad is still being held at Coldingham Abbey. And Sheena is sequestered with the sisters at St. Agatha’s convent until my return. Our return,” he quickly added. “I felt she would be safer there.”