Page 6 of Highlander’s Quest of Desire

“When was this?” he asked once the Bishop’s breathing had stabilized.

“This past year,” the Bishop said. “I would have come to ye with the map, but the English threat was growing worse, and I could nae risk the Honors falling into the wrong hands. They must nae fall into the wrong hands. Promise me, Bruce!”

“I promise,” Bruce had replied, still unsure if the Bishop weren’t hallucinating the map at Inchmurrin.

“’Tis in the bowls of the King,” the Bishop had said. “That’s where ye’ll find it. Once ye have the map, find the Honors.”

“I will.” Bruce humored him. “I will find them, and I will crown the rightful King of Scotland.”

The Bishop had smiled then, a smile full of admiration. “’Tis you, my lad. Yer the rightful King of Scotland.”

The wind was shocked out of Bruce’s lungs and for a moment he drew a complete blank. The Bishop’s words had entered his ears in one piece, but their meaning had completely garbled in his head. He couldn’t possibly mean what Bruce had heard; that was impossible.

“Nae,” Bruce had shook his head. “Ye cannae mean that. I will find someone worthy.”

“Yer worthy,” the Bishop insisted. “I made sure of that. Nae other Laird in Scotland is worth the dust on yer boots. I have trained ye to be the leader our people need to fight the English menace. Ye, Laird Bruce Grant, are our only hope.”

This declaration had taken the last strength out of him, and he lapsed into unconsciousness for a while. Bruce held his hand, his eyes steady on the Bishop’s chest which rose and fell in time to the beating of his heart.

Breathing shallow, the Bishop’s eyes fluttered as his hands searched for Bruce. “Today I have completed my duty to God and Scotland. Today I proclaim ye as the King to unite this land and wrest it from the English yolk.”

The man Bruce had looked up to after the demise of his father had left his earthly abode, leaving Bruce orphaned for a second time.

Now, in the dim prison, Bruce played John McLean’s last words to him over and over in his head. A part of him was convinced that the Bishop had been too sick to give his words any credence, but another knew that the Bishop would not talk of the Honors in vain. Was there a chance there was some truth in what he said? Had he found the location of the Honors of Scotland?

Not for a moment did Bruce give much thought to the Bishop’s proclamation that he was worthy of Scotland’s crown. That was not Bruce’s motivation in finding the Honors. But if the Bishop was right, and he had found their location, it would be their chance to oust the English and find their rightful sovereign. Scotland was ready. Bruce could feel it in his bones.

But it had come to naught.

As soon as he had landed on John o’ Groats after the funeral in Orkney the English had been waiting for him. Before he could start on the Bishop’s advised path he had been shackled and thrown in a damp cell.

How had they known? The thought tormented him constantly. How had they known that he would be in Orkney? The implications perturbed him. There was a spy in his house, and it made his skin crawl more than the rats brushing against his feet in the night.

But hope was on the horizon, hope kept him sane in the darkness. Leo Sinclair, his most trusted friend was out there. And Bruce knew for a fact that Leo would go to the ends of the Earth to set him free.

* * *

“Calm down, lad,” Domnhall said. He held Leo by the shoulders and helped him into a chair. “Now tell me, who has taken Bruce?”

“The English!” Leo spat. “They were waiting for him on John o’ Groats, the bastards.”

“Why was Bruce there?” Domnhall asked. “He sent me a letter excusing himself from the festival because the English were champing at the bit, trying to find any excuse to arrest him.”

“That’s true. The English have been sniffing around Dunnottar Castle like a bunch of swine rooting for mushrooms. Bruce wouldnae have gone if it were nae important. He’d gone to Orkney to see the Bishop,” Leo explained. “The man was on his deathbed; God rest his soul. It would have been heartless not to comply with his dying wish to see his favorite nephew one last time.”

The news came as a shock to Elspeth. The Bishop of Orkney, dead? She had fond memories of the man tending to her small cut while telling her stories. He had been kind to her, and certainly a second father figure to Bruce Grant. Of course he had left the safety of his Castle to meet the Bishop before he passed away.

“And where have they taken Bruce, do ye ken?” Domnhall asked.

“Bass Rock Castle,” Leo said. “But that’s nae all. They’ve taken over Dunnottar Castle. They’ve taken over our home. English soldiers eating on our tables, sleeping in the Laird’s bed; it turns my stomach to think of it.”

“Christ Almighty,” Domnhall rubbed his chin. He looked just as shocked as Elspeth felt. “Yer welcome to stay here with us, Sinclair. Any member of the Grant Clan is welcome to stay with us.”

“I truly appreciate yer generosity, but I seek more than shelter for our people.” Leo stood up, unable to contain himself. “We must take arms and release all the innocent Scottish prisoners from Bass Rock Castle. A few men from Clan Grant managed to escape the raid and await yer assistance. If we leave now, we can get there within three days before they inflict much damage to Bruce’s spirit.”

The request seemed to take Domnhall by surprise. Elspeth could see that Domnhall wasn’t expecting a call to arms. Elspeth recognized the reluctance; it was the same blind-eye, the same avoidance of any confrontation which had given Adamina the confidence to treat Elspeth the way she had. This same reluctance to mount an attack on Bass Rock Castle gave the English the confidence to push and shove them out of their castles with impunity.

“Surely there’s a way we can resolve this without taking up arms,” Domnhall suggested. “We will leave tomorrow to commission a pardon from General Foster. I’m sure Laird Labert will want to help. He has clout with General Foster.”