Go screw yourself, Deorsa!”
“All I’m saying is I expected a little more comfort. It is a fortress, after all. From the time of its great era…”
“I already hate the idea of you staying here,” Sören cut him off, “so don’t even dream about being treated like a prince. This room will be perfect for you.”
The spy had arrived at the end of the afternoon, an hour earlier. This had plunged the Norwegian into a terrible mood. Fillan was the only one who’d agreed to accompany them through the corridors of the castle, the rest of the band having fled at the first blows of their verbal fights.
“Something just brushed against me! Just there! Come see with your torches! Sören, if it’s a rat and it bites me in my sleep…”
“You might wake up a little less stupid.”
Deorsa’s mouth froze in a pout, his eyes narrowed.
“And it’s not a rat, it’s a bit of your frozen cape. Such a moron. You’ll be no worse than anyone else. Stop complaining or I’ll put you in the dungeon. There’s a whole bunch of rodents down there, as well as an icy cold that will make them want to snuggle up against your body!”
“You wouldn’t dare…”
Sören raised his eyebrows slightly, ready to accept the challenge, but the spy groaned, intertwining his fingers.
“Here will do fine,” he said, passing the alcove to sit on the bed, which released a cloud of dust.
“I imagine that with a log in the hearth and a curtain or two, it will be more… bearable. And a mirror, maybe.”
Sören gave an exasperated sigh, and Fillan restrained himself from bursting out in laughter. He had just seen a rat, about the size of an otter with shiny eyes, slipping discreetly under the bed just behind the feet of the spy.
“Because you plan to stay long?” grumbled Sören with his rocky voice.
“Don’t you like having visitors?”
“I don’t like having parasites. When you’re around, I feel itchy all over. And I get rid of whatever itches me.”
“You have some very curious thoughts, Sören. I imagine we’ll never be able to get along, given your attitude. Me, so helpful, gracious, well-meaning—and you, a thick bully and—Ah! Let go of my jacket, you’ll wrinkle it!”
“You didn’t answer my question. How long are you planning to stay here?”
“That’s going to be up to you, really.”
“Who invited you, again?”
“I had barely crossed the threshold of Beinn Eallair when you jumped down my throat without letting me explain what I was doing here. What possessed you to welcome me with a bucket of urine, anyway?”
“It had to be emptied somewhere!”
“You’re lucky it only got on my boots! In short, Thomas asked me to come to make sure Fillan’s training was going well.”
“I find that hard to believe,” said Sören, wrinkling his nose. “Thomas knows there’s no love lost between us, but my word is unbreakable. I would never mess up the job. I know you, and I bet it was more your idea. You still can’t get over that it was entrusted to me rather than to you, and you’ve worn down the dear abbot, who gave in as one does with a child.”
“What a poor image of me you have. When will you understand that I am not your enemy?”
“You’re not my friend either, damn it!”
“Clearly. In any case, judging from the stature and the attitude of the boy since I arrived, I get the feeling that everything is going well. He’s gained muscle and he has a keen eye for details. We will have the opportunity to talk about it more later.”
Fillan was dying to speak, so he could show Deorsa, who tried to treat him like a child who was not in the room, how much he had changed. He clenched his teeth and his fists, just watching and listening. Now that he was part of the Brotherhood, he had to show the spy respect.
“Thomas wasn’t the only one who wanted me to come here,” continued Deorsa. “Wallace asked me, too. There’s no need to look at me like that, Sören; unlike you, your former protégé likes me.”
Fillan remembered the few words he and the Highlander had shared in Scone and doubted that very much.
“He wanted me to give you the news and a favor from him, but… you see, I haven’t eaten since yesterday and I bet I’d feel much more talkative over a bowl of something tasty, with a piece of bread in one hand and a beer in the other.”
“As if you need that to rant for hours,” the Norwegian blurted, rolling his eyes.
* * *
It was not late, barely eight o’clock, when they gathered in the great hall with beers, a little bread, and cheese while they waited for dinner to be served. The huge hearth chased away the evening frosts and gave off a sweet warmth with the smell of burnt wood.
Deorsa had had time to change and make himself comfortable in his new quarters. Before that, he passed on a message to Fillan from James de Crannach, who hoped that his training was going well. The other apprentice of the Brotherhood told him he was looking forward to comparing their techniques and hopefully participating in missions together soon.
Deorsa, Sören and Fillan were gathered around the same table while the rest of the gang shunned them like the plague. Kyle, who hated the spy more than anyone, led the group in trying to make as much noise as possible. A beer in each hand, she had even started a burping contest that kept provoking exasperated looks from the representative of the Brotherhood.
“I’m surprised that Edward didn’t try to push farther north during the autumn,” Sören said before taking a sip. “Given how well they’ve established themselves in the south.”
“I didn’t say that,” Deorsa said. “He has definitely tried, but his influence is not worth much, north of the Tay and the Clyde. Some clans conducted a few shows of force, to make him understand that he couldn’t venture so easily into the Highlands. In any case, strongholds in strategic places were more interesting to him: Berwick, Edinburgh, Dunbar, Glasgow, and so on. When winter came, he was forced to break up his army and distribute it through several garrisons throughout the south.”
Fillan swirled his beer in his wooden tankard, splashing the foam. He listened attentively to the discussion. During his training, his mentor had explained the importance of remembering every word. This was also what being an Assassin was: knowing how to be content to listen and have a memory that retained everything that was said.
“And the Order?”
“It’s mainly the Lann Fala who are still active. The Templars didn’t take long to figure out that the Stone of Destiny they had brought back from Scone to Westminster was a fake.”
“I suspected you’d been up to something with it,” Sören said, staring at his apprentice with a meaningful look.
“Damn it!” squeaked the spy, biting into his bread before hitting it on the table. “This loaf is harder than a brick! Anyway, the Order…”
He was interrupted by the old governess of the fortress, who placed a steaming pot between them.
“Oh, good evening, Mairead! Long time, no see! How are…?”
The old woman spat at his feet and glared at him through eyes milky with cataracts.
“What could you possibly have been telling that serving woman?” Deorsa asked after she was gone. “She used to love me in the old days!”
“Me?” said Sören, displaying an innocent face and the hint of a smile. “It’s not my fault. You’re the ungrateful pig that just criticized her bread. She may be old, but she has good hearing and doesn’t tolerate fools with no manners.”
“Damned old age,” the spy cursed. “One of the few things that make a person so touchy. Or is it senility?”
“Be careful that she doesn’t hear you again, or the next time she might spit in your soup.”
The spy glanced around furtively, then dunked his entire piece of bread into the hot liquid they’d just been served to soften it before biting into it.
“What is this favor that Wallace wanted you to ask me?”
“He gave me a letter for you,” Deorsa said, pulling a piece of parchment from the folds of his clothes.
“Knowing you, you are already aware of what it says.”
“He would like you to join him not far from Lanark in three weeks, when spring begins. First, to bring him Fillan, who’ll be able to cut his teeth during the raid he’s preparing, but also for you to support him. I believe he has already forgotten the promise he made to you at Scone to no longer involve you in Brotherhood matters.”
“And you haven’t?”
“The way you treat me, the less I see you, the better. I look after myself. I finally realized that we don’t need you, even if Thomas can’t see that.”
The Norwegian remained impassive. He swallowed his mouthful of stew noisily.
“A raid on Lanark? Why there?” he asked.
“William moved often during the winter to ensure that no one would follow the Stone’s trail. The Lann Fala didn’t make it easy for him. Fortunately, the cold and the frost helped him, but they also hindered us from getting the artifact to its destination. That’s what we’re going to have to undertake with the first thaws.”
“Let me guess: knowing William’s character, he wants to get ahead of the English and bring the first attack to them.”
“You know him well, that’s for sure. He’s heading for Lanark because there’s a garrison there and there’s already a lot of tension. He wants—and here, I quote him, ‘to kindle the fire of revolt throughout Scotland’, from the southern English borders to the remotest clans of the Northern Hebrides. Once he wins his raid, he hopes the clans of the region will rally together and the rebellion will grow.”
“I sense you’re skeptical,” Sören said.
“Perhaps your former apprentice is a little too optimistic. Certainly, such a revolt would serve the interests of the Brotherhood. It would occupy Edward for a while, and thereby slow down the Templars while we move the Stone. Wallace’s action in Lanark is sensible and welcome. On the other hand, for it to keep going, that’s another matter. Some clans have been at war for years and will not come together so easily, not even to face the English.”
Sören listened to him while biting into a huge slice of bread, from which juice and meat fat dripped.
“And if I decline the invitation?” he asked, glancing in Fillan’s direction.
“Then I’ll be the one to take Fillan over there, and you can do whatever you want.”
Fillan stared at his bowl thoughtfully. He felt divided between his desire to prove himself within the Brotherhood and wanting to stay with the group. He felt like he still had things to learn from his mentor, but above all, there was Kyle. Watching her perched on a bench, mocking Deorsa’s gait and making Edan and Fergus laugh out loud, he realized how difficult it would be for him to be apart from her.
For a few moments, only the sounds of the spy chewing and scraping his bowl mingled with the festive din of mercenaries. Fillan felt the Norwegian’s eyes on him, and then he stirred with a grunt.
“You guys come over here a minute,” Sören said to the gang.
Kyle eyed them suspiciously. Fillan was amused to see her dragging her feet and grumbling as she joined them. Once they were all seated, Sören explained the situation.
“You know how I work,” he said once he’d finished his explanation. “I am in favor of debate and communal decisions. I plan to accompany Fillan and I can go alone, but I want you to have your say.”
“I’m in,” Kyle said, staring at Fillan. “Last time I saw those fuckers, they almost killed me. I’ve been looking forward to returning the favor.”
“If this event is to be a great moment in Scotland’s history,” added Fergus, “the bard in me can’t miss such a legend.”
“Well said!” Edan exclaimed. “You can tell of how I killed them all by myself and forged my legend. Why don’t you ever sing about my exploits, anyway?”
“Your last feat was burping for ten seconds,” teased the warrior. “What song do you want to compose about that?”
“Uh…”
“And you, Moira?”
“It’s not even a question. Where you go, I go. If something happened to you and I wasn’t there to treat you—or end your suffering if it was too serious—I’d regret it all my life!”
Fillan thought she was being funny, but she was extremely serious. Druids had a strange relationship with death.
“Well, that’s wonderful!” rejoiced Deorsa, who had just stolen the bread from the Norwegian’s plate and begun dipping it right into the pot. “We will all leave together in a week!”
The leader of the mercenaries fixed him with an icy and penetrating glare.
“I mean…” stammered the spy. “We’ll leave… whenever you want.”
They then spent a good part of the evening drinking and laughing. Fillan was slightly drunk when he headed back to his room. Sören’s voice stopped him in the hallway.
“Fillan? Do you have a minute? I just wanted to remind you: don’t forget what I told you in the tower. Wallace has summoned you, but remember that you are free to choose.”
“Why are you repeating that to me?”
“Because he didn’t invite you to Lanark for no reason. I know the methods of the Brotherhood, and he has a plan for you.”
“What?”
“Your first assassination. You have to be perfectly sure of yourself so you don’t fail the Brotherhood in its plans.”
He searched his heart.
The embers of rage that were born on Bealltainn were strong and nourished a flawless determination.
He was no longer afraid.