Son of the Morning

The realization made Robert’s mouth curl wryly. After years of battle with the English, he too had learned to protect his night vision, but here in this safe place he had allowed himself to relax. Not so Niall. He never relaxed; he was eternally vigilant.

"Have any of the Knights sought other refuge?" "Nay. They remain here, for there is no other certain refuge. Yet they know they must go, soon, or by their very number they could bring to Creag Dhu the attention they wish to avoid." Niall’s black gaze was piercing as he stared at his brother. "I have not asked for myself, for I have no wish to add to your troubles, but for them I must know: do you intend to enforce Clement’s edict against us?"

Stung, Robert drew back. "Ye ask that!" he growled, angered enough to speak in Gaelic, but Niall’s gaze didn’t waver and after a moment he reined in his temper.

"You need the alliance withFrance ," Niall said calmly. "Should Philip discover my identity, he would stop at nothing to capture me, including joining his forces to Edward’s. You cannot risk that." What he didn’t say was,Scotland needed the alliance; the distinction wasn’t needed, for his brotherwasScotland , all her hopes and dreams personified.

Robert drew in a deep, calming breath. "Aye," he admitted, returning to French. "It would be a crippling blow. But already I’ve lost three brothers toEngland ‘s butchery; my wife and daughter, and our sisters, have been captives for three years already and I know not if I’ll ever see them alive again. I’ll not lose you, too."

"You scarcely know me." " ‘Tis true that we were not much in each other’s company, but Ido know you," Robert disagreed. Know him, and love him. It was that simple. None of his other brothers could have challenged him for the crown, but he and his father had known from the time Niall had been a tall, sturdy lad of ten that this illegitimate half-brother had the stuff of kings, uncommonly gifted with the boldness and intelligence that were Robert’s own characteristics. ForScotland ‘s sake, they could not risk an internal struggle between the brothers, and even had Niall grown up to prove loyal, such was his personality that folk would have flocked to him anyway. The circumstances of his birth had been kept secret, but secrets had a way of outing, as Niall himself had proven at that time by boldly approaching Robert and asking if ’twas true they were brothers.

It wasn’t unusual for aspirants to the throne to clear the way by killing those who might challenge them, but neither Robert nor his father, the Earl of Carrick, had been able to tolerate the thought. It would have been like extinguishing a bright flame, leaving them in darkness. Niall burned with life’s force, full of joy and deviltry, drawing people to him like a lodestone. He had always been the leader among the younger lads, fearlessly taking his followers into mischief and then just as fearlessly taking the blame onto his own shoulders whenever they were caught.

By the time he was fourteen, the lasses had begun following him, too, with their bright eyes and lissome bodies. Already his voice had deepened, his shoulders widened, his chest broadened as manhood settled easily on his tall frame. He had proven himself unusually adept at arms, and the constant practice with heavy swords had further strengthened him. Robert doubted the lad had spent many nights alone, for it wasn’t just the young lasses who had pursued him, but the older ones as well, including some who were wed.

He had changed, though. Robert wasn’t surprised, given the treachery that had befallen the Templars. His magnetism hadn’t lessened, but it was harsher now, his black eyes remaining grim even if his lips smiled. As a lad he had been restless with inexhaustible energy, but now he was a man grown, and a fearsome warrior. He had learned the art of patience, and his stillness was like that predator waiting for its next meal.

Now Robert said deliberately, "Scotlandwill not join in the persecution of the Templars." Again Niall’s gaze bored into him, like a black sword in its sharpness. "You have my gratitude… and more, should you care to use it."

What Niall had left unspoken hung heavily in the shadowed room. The watchful black gaze never wavered, and Robert lifted his eyebrows. "More?" he asked, sipping again at the wine. He was curious about what "more" would entail. He scarcely dared to hope… perhaps Niall was offeringgold. More than anything,Scotland needed gold to finance its battle to resist English domination.

"The Brethren are the best soldiers in the world. They must not gather here, yet I see no need for their skills to go unused."

"Ah." Thoughtfully, Robert stared into the fire again. Now he knew Niall’s goal, and it was tempting indeed. Not gold, but something almost as valuable: training, and experience. The arrogant, excommunicated Knights no longer wore their red crosses, but essentially they were still exactly what they had been before the Pope and the King of France had conspired to destroy them: the best military men in the world. This endless war withEngland was stretchingScotland ‘s poor resources so thin that they were, at times, literally fighting with their bare hands. As gallant as his people were, especially the wild Highlanders, Robert knew they indeed needed more: more funds, more weapons, more training.

"Blend them in with your armies," Niall murmured. "Give them the responsibility of training your men. Consult with them in strategy. Use them. In repayment, they will become Scots. They will fight to the death for you, and forScotland ."

The Templars! The very idea was dizzying. Robert’s fighting blood sang through his veins at the idea of having such soldiers under his command. Still, how much could a handful of men do, no matter how well trained? "How many are there?" he asked doubtfully. "Five?"