Father Braveheart

Chapter I

Fate Has Other Plans

August was warmer than usual and the road into Crossborough* was not among the best kept, the sole passenger on the coach traveling in that direction hoped not all roads in Anglesey were the same. The long hours traveling on a bumpy dirt road did not help lessen father Jonathan's weary mood. Dust stirred by the hooves of the horses pulling the rickety carriage still made it inside it's confining space through the windows, and the smallness of it added to the stifling heat.

A few kilometers ahead three people walked along the road in the opposite direction, not too close to the pebbled road and under the shade of the trees to the side, avoiding the heat and also being seen.

It did not matter if the situation had been less dire. The new parish priest was used to life in the city, he'd had reach to everything he needed within a short distance, and long traveling was not much to his liking. But where he would live was not up to him, he'd been sent to this small town and Liverpool was far behind him now, London was even more so.

Distracted in his musings, thinking about addressing the issue of road upkeep –or lack thereof- to Crossborough's Mayor, he did not realize the coachman had been stopped by two men, even worse, as they were intent on robbery and both carrying revolvers. Upon being forced to step down from his seat and seeing what the situation was, his first reaction was trying to hide, but there was nowhere to go. Gathering his wits about him his thoughts went the wooden box among the luggage carrying the chalice his mentor, the Bishop of Liverpool had given him to deliver to the Mayor upon his arrival. Surely these men would want to take it. Did they know he had it? Should he try to hide it?

"I know you have the chalice! Give it to me now!" said the highway man pointing straight to his face.

Fear enveloped him as his sight quickly jumped from the men threatening him, to the man lying on the dirt by the side of the carriage. He certainly hoped the innocent was still alive, since he had not heard the blast the weapons in the crazed men's hands would have made. Holding his hands up he made to surrender. He also prayed.

His prayers must have been heard. Before his eyes, he saw a dagger fly right out of thin air and wedge itself in his assailant's arm. A scuffle began when three men dressed in monk robes, wearing deep cowls so no one could see their faces jumped in his defense. If asked who they were he would not have known. The men holding the revolvers however, if one was to judge by the fear on their faces, did know.

Listening to a fight or flight instinct, father Jonathan ran as fast as his legs carried him. Sadly for him, sometimes the answer to a prayer is answered in the negative, and a stray bullet found him, straight to the neck. Still, small mercies are given sometimes, as there was no time for him to suffer, his death was immediate.

The man not wounded by the dagger ran away at that moment, as a coward would, the three hooded men let him go.

By the time everyone realized the priest had died, his killer was cowering on the floor, subdued by the shorter hooded one, he did not dare move an inch, having a crossbow aimed at him. One of the other two cowl covered figures hovered over the body of the priest, and closed the lifeless eyelids of the latter. The third, the tallest of the three quietly approached the wounded one.

"Leave. You've done enough"His voice was commanding, yet calm.

As he said that, he and the other two turned their backs on the assailant, intending to bury the latter's victims; the priest and the coachman, who lie dead too, closer to the road.

"Will you kill me too" cried the man on the floor, "As you did with Alec Platt?"

Surprised by what he heard, he turned around. "What did you say? Where did you hear that?" Alarm and sadness accompanied those questions, as he knew who Alec Platt was. Staying often in the area for a short periods of time, the three of them were bound to know that name. This man was highly regarded by the locals.

"Everyone says so. All over the Isle of Anglesey people are saying that. Even farther, all over Wales" The man was adamant on it, apparently it was true.

"I do not kill" The tall figure replied.

"Will you shoot me in the back if I leave? The man asked again.

"I. Do Not. Kill." he signaled the one with the crossbow to stand down, then, the coward took his chance and ran away.

"If what he says is true then we need to leave, even more so now. We're close to Holyhead; we can still cross the sea and go into Dublin." But the tall figure shook his head in the negative. Fleeing was not in his nature, he would not run, would not disappear like a coward, admitting guilt that was not his. He had to clear his name, even if no one outside the three of them knew his face.

The first to lower the robe's cowl was the man who was leaning by the priest. He was dark haired, with an olive toned complexion; he appeared to be in his mid to late twenties and had dark brown, kind eyes and an open smile, though at that moment it didn't show. Instead, a deep concern for his younger friend darkened his mood.

Next was the shorter one, slighter than the other two but still tall. When the hood of the robe went down, one thing was clear; everyone who'd heard about them was mistaken, about there being three men in their group. It was not three men. It was two men and a woman. A woman of long dark brown hair and light brown eyes, also olive skinned. But aside from her physical appearance -and not to her two friends' surprise- she was more than a little bit short tempered.

Last was the tall man with the calm and steady voice. As he took out his robes a slender man was revealed. Wide of shoulders, narrow hips and lean but muscled body, but the features that stood out the most were his shoulder long blond hair, a scruff that gave him a rugged air and deep piercing blue eyes that could render anyone speechless. They were the kind of eyes that tell a story of hardship but still retain their softness and hope.

"No, we go to Crossborough. I will not run. 'Heart' does not kill, and we will prove that is a lie, and clear Heart's name." The blond man had already made up his mind. But when they went to argue his answer was swift.

"Platt's murderer was someone close to him, someone from his own town, maybe someone powerful and this person is trying to blame me. I will find out who that is!"

"How will you do that? It is not as if you can just walk into town and announce yourself to everyone and go about your day as if nothing was amiss!"

"No we will not just walk in. Now I ask the two of you, who is 'Heart'? Nobody knows him; no one knows who he is." The other two were stunned, when they didn't say anything else the blond man added.

"I'll have access to the real culprit and they won't even know it. "As he said this, the white collar that used to rest on father Jonathan's neck was now in his hand.

"I will go in as the new priest.

A.N.

*All town names are real but this one.

I chose this general location (in Wales) because it is close to an important port. A ferry more specifically, that connects England with Ireland. I figured this imaginary town had to be closer and have access to a predominantly Catholic population. For it to be more likely that migration % is also predominantly Catholic, so the crossed lovers' story could work out. Given the more usual branches of Christian churches in this Country let their leaders be married and have families, that would have not been possible.

If I got anything wrong I apologize, as I'm not familiar with those places. Google maps are a wonder in these cases...