Chapter Twenty Seven
Acrescent moon climbed the blackening sky, casting beams of cool light upon the sloping moors. Stars, myriad and wondrous, dotted the sky and pointed their way north while Jo listened with rapture to Ian’s tales about the Saints and Scotland’s secret network of Scottish rebels.
“My brothers and I were first asked to join the cause by Bishop Lamberton. After the Berwick massacre, we were exiles, living in the woods. Like ye, we needed a purpose, and so he gave us swords and horses and called us the Saints. At his command, we robbed English nobles on the road north into Scotland.”
“Why did he call ye the Saints?”
“He wanted to protect our identities. During a heist we couldn’t use our Christian names.
And so, the bishop gave us saints’ names.
Mine was a simple choice for the bishop.
Ian is the Gaelic form of John, and so he called me Saint John.
As the eldest brother, Jack was the leader of our gang, and so rightfully called Saint Peter.
Quinn, being the educated MacVie, was named for the philosopher, Saint Augustine.
Now, before I tell ye about Alec, do ye know the story of Saint Paul? ”
Jo nodded. “His birth name was Saul, and he was a Pharisee.”
“Do ye remember how he came to believe in Christ?”
She thought back to her studies with Father Daniel in the loft above the chapel. “He experienced a powerful vision on the road to Damascus.”
“Indeed, and that is why the bishop called Alec, Saint Paul. He has visions.”
Jo’s eyes flashed wide. “Alec’s been gifted with the Sight?”
“Aye, although he may consider it more of a curse.”
“This is fascinating. I never had any siblings.”
Ian laughed. “Ye do now, and there is still one more, Rory.”
“What did the bishop call him?”
“Saint Thomas.”
Jo gasped. “As in Doubting Thomas? But why?”
Ian smiled. “Rory’s loyalty and his character have never been questioned by the bishop, but in those days, Rory was, shall we say, a wee bit reckless. The bishop was just giving him a gentle reminder to heed Jack and to think before he acted.”
She glanced sidelong at her husband. “What name would he have given me?”
A slow, sensual smile upturned his lips. “I could think of many names for ye, none of which should be repeated in church...lover, goddess, vixen—”
She swatted his shoulder playfully. “I see that look in yer eye, husband, but we cannot be waylaid.” She cleared her throat. “Back to the subject at hand. Answer me this—even if yer names were protected, what about yer faces. Couldn’t those ye robbed have told the magistrate what ye looked like?”
“They never saw our faces. The bishop gave us each black masks and shirts of gleaming black mail and around our necks hung large wooden crosses.”
Jo shivered. “Ye must have been a wicked sight!”
Ian smiled. “That we were. We sent terror into the hearts of those English nobles, who were unlucky enough to meet the Saints on the road. Not that their terror was reasonably grounded.”
“What do ye mean? Ye attacked, did ye not?”
“Aye, but we always adhered to a simple code; we were thieves not murderers.” He lifted his shoulders. “Not that we were even truly thieves. Every coin, jewel, or trinket we stole fed the cause. English nobles have bled our countrymen dry. We were only taking back what was rightfully ours.”
“Will yer brothers be at Ramsay’s tavern?”
“Nay, they’ve all been unmasked, their identities revealed, and so they’ve gone into hiding to protect the other agents and the leaders of our cause.”
Frowning, she asked, “Will I ever meet them?”
Ian reached across the space between their horses and squeezed her hand. “That I do not doubt, but for now we’re riding to meet Ramsay, and with any luck, he’s already assembled the other agents.”
Jo chewed her lip. “There’s just one thing I don’t understand. I thought Ramsay was a blacksmith by trade, not a tavern owner.”
“The Iron Shoe isn’t an ordinary tavern. ‘Tis underground, beneath Ramsay’s shop and is only known to Scotland’s agents. ‘Tis a place to meet in secret. Many plans have been made over a tankard of Ramsay’s finest brew.”
“And ye’re certain he’ll be there?”
“Nay, but ‘tis the first place we’ll look.”
She shot him a look of mock disapproval. “And here I thought I was the one keeping secrets. Ye’ve led me to believe ye’re this decent man, a simple fisherman, a heroic warrior, a good Samaritan, rescuing women and dogs in distress, and all the while yer a thief, a spy, an outlaw—”
“Not quite,” he chimed in. “My brothers are all wanted men; whereas, my identity has never been revealed. Ye won’t see my likeness on the wall of a drinking house. So, yer only partly correct. I’m not actually an outlaw.”
“Let us try to keep it that way—I would rather ye not have to go into hiding like yer brothers. But know this, if ye must run—I go where ye go.”
He seized her off her horse and kissed her with all his love, all his passion. “The hour grows late, and our horses must rest.”
She scanned the woods, spying a towering oak with a massive canopy that kept the underbrush at bay. “We could rest there.”
But he shook his head. “I’ve another place in mind. I’m taking ye to the Harborage. ‘Tis not far from here.”
Jo scanned either side of the narrow path through which they rode. “Ian, I don’t think we’re going to find an inn out here.”
He laughed. “The Harborage is our haven, a place for Scotland’s rebels to rest without fear. There’s a clear pool, amidst a wide, open glade, surrounded by tall dense trees. We built platforms to sleep upon high up in the branches.”
“How do we get there?”
“Ye have to know where to go. There’s no road except that which we make ourselves.”
As they carried on, Jo asked, “What are the other agents like?”
“There are more agents than any of us know about. But Ramsay and I had a few agents in mind when the bishop charged us with canonizing new saints, David, Nick, and Paul. David is good man, quick to react, and given over to worrying. He’s also as cocky as they come but has an incredible mind for tactics.
Nick...” Ian blew out a long breath. “Nick is hard to describe. He’s a fierce swordsman and a passionate rebel, but... he has anger in his heart.”
“Why?”
A shadow passed over Ian’s face, replacing his usual bright countenance with a sorrowful frown. “He has suffered greatly. Nick also hailed from Berwick. When the great city was attacked, he was at sea. His wife and three children were burned alive in their home.”
Jo gasped, clasping her hand to her heart.
“He joined the cause, not because he sought justice. He wanted revenge. In recent years, however, my brother, Alec, helped him find some peace. He’s no longer guided by vengeance alone, which has made him a wee bit softer.
” Ian took a deep breath before he continued, “Lastly, there’s Paul.
He’s everything Nick is not. Despite the hardships he’s faced, he remains quick to laugh.
He is earnest and kind.” Ian pulled on his reins.
“Here we are,” he said, gesturing to a particularly thick wall of bramble.
Jo looked around her at the inhospitable tangle of branch and bracken. “Where exactly are we other than the middle of the forest?”
He chuckled. “What? Is this not everything ye imagined a haven to be?”
Jo trudged through the dark woods, pulling her horse behind her.
Dense underbrush obscured the ground, snagging at her tunic.
Silvery beams of moonlight slanted through the trees, alighting upon Ian’s broad shoulders as he led her deeper into the thicket.
Towering pines reached for the stars, and scattered in all directions were fat oaks, adding to the lush canopy overhead.
River song reached her ears. She listened to the briskly flowing waters and imagined what her eyes could not see: a wending current, impeded only by slick, jutting rocks and stubborn saplings at the water’s edge.
Soon, the towering pines and gnarled oaks gave way to slender birch trees, which beckoned the moonlight with their sparsely adorned branches.
Then, the river came out of hiding as the underbrush thinned and faded, leading them to the middle of an open glade, beautiful and strangely luminous beneath the summer moon.
“’Tis beautiful,” she said, her voice reverent.
They fed and watered their horses and brushed away the burs clinging to their soft coats. Then, it was their turn to wash away the dirt and dust from the road.
Jo slipped off her leather shoes and eased her feet and calves into the icy pool. “This is glorious.” She leaned back and gazed up at the velvety sky, broody and studded with diamonds.
“I never want to leave this place,” she drawled, but then jerked upright. “We cannot linger.”
Ian stiffened at her side, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword strapped to his back. “What’s wrong. I heard nothing.”
“Nothing’s the matter,” she said quickly.
She expelled a slow breath and eased her shoulders down.
“For a moment, I had forgotten our urgency.” She gazed at the sleepy mist hovering above the water, lulling and otherworldly.
“’Tis as though a spell has been cast over this place to make the weary traveler forget their worries. ”
“That’s the idea, but ye needn’t worry. As soon as our horses have rested enough, we will set out. I promise there are no sirens hiding among the trees, casting spells to make us slumber.”
She grabbed his arm. “Are ye certain, because I just saw shadows moving through the trees over there.”
Ian leapt to his feet, drawing his sword. “Get behind me,” he growled.
Jo sidestepped behind his broad back and peered around his arm at the suddenly menacing forest, alive with the sound of snapping branches.
She swallowed hard, gripping Ian’s tunic in clenched fists.
Then, a chilly silence claimed the night.
All movement had stopped. Even the river seemed mute, drowned-out by the sound of her pounding heart.