Part 1 (1/2)

Katherine Kurtz.

Knights Templar.

Temple and the Stone.

For Richard Bruce McMillan, ”Mr. History,” whose name recalls one of Scotland's most ill.u.s.trious kings.

Without doubt, teaching our young about their past is one of the most n.o.ble of human occupations.

PROLOGUE.

ON A STORMY, SNOW-DRIVEN NIGHT IN MARCH OF 1286, fulfilling a prophecy of Thomas the Rhymer, Alexander III of Scotland met his death untimely when his horse plunged over a cliff near Kinghorn, across the firth from Edinburgh, as he hurried to rejoin his young bride of less than a year. No children had come of this union, and all three children of his previous marriage had predeceased him, both sons dying without issue. His daughter, married to King Eric Magnusson of Norway, had died giving birth to her only child: a princess called Margaret like herself, to be known as the Maid of Norway.

Upon this solitary grandchild of Alexander III now devolved all the hopes of the n.o.ble house of Canmore, whose royal line had ruled Scotland for more than two centuries.

But de jure succession to the Scottish throne and de facto accession to it might be entirely different propositions, for the new Queen of Scots was a child of less than three years, and King Edward of England had been casting acquisitive eyes at northern neighbor for nearly two decades. Knowing that Edward must be appeased, Margaret's father and selected representatives of the Scottish n.o.bility declared a regency in her name and began immediately to explore ways and means by which the child might take up her birthright. Four years of careful negotiation concluded in an agreement whereby Margaret would be wed to Edward's eldest son, Edward of Caernarvon, their issue eventually to rule Scotland and England under one crown, thereby achieving by diplomacy what the English king had feared he must win by force-though that specter remained a veiled threat that was never far from the minds of the Scots n.o.bility.

So confident was Edward in his aspirations that, even before the marriage treaty was drawn up at Birgham in July of 1290, he had dispatched an English s.h.i.+p to fetch his son's child-bride home, its hold laden with gingerbread, sugar loaves, and toys for the little Maid.

But Margaret's father returned it empty and without her, preferring to entrust his daughter to a s.h.i.+p of his own choosing.

Part I

Chapter One.

IN MID-SEPTEMBER OF 1290, UNDER CLEAR SKIES AND WITH a brisk following breeze, a stout Norse-built cog set sail from the Norwegian port of Bergen, carrying to her wedding with England the seven-year-old Margaret Queen of Scots, known as the Maid of Norway.

The marriage had been arranged, in part, through the offices of the bearded, white-cloaked man standing at the taffrail of the Maid's s.h.i.+p. Frre Arnault de Saint Clair, Knight of the Temple of Jerusalem, had been among a number of outside negotiators whose a.s.sistance had facilitated the Treaty of Birgham; for the Temple's reputation for impartial arbitration was recognized universally, and the fortunes both of Scotland and of England were of great interest to all of Europe.

A singular array of qualifications commended Frre Arnault to his present a.s.signment. Though a veteran of nearly twenty years' service as a Knight Templar, much of it in and around the Holy Land, he had been based for most of the past decade at the Order's Paris Temple, where he was regularly entrusted with sensitive financial and diplomatic missions on behalf of the Visitor of France, who was second only to the Grand Master, and the highest ranking Templar in Europe.

Landless youngest son of a prosperous Breton knight, facile in a handful of languages besides his native French, Arnault moved with equal ease among courtiers and churchmen as on the battlefield, as glib of tongue as he was quick of wit and fleet of sword. Coupled with the fortunes of his birth, an accompanying spiritual inclination might have led him to a rich sinecure as clerkly chancellor of some great house or even an eventual mitre; but a parallel excellence in the knightly pursuits at which his elder brothers excelled had directed him instead to a vocation as a Knight Templar.

These circ.u.mstances, along with an awareness of Scottish affairs-by dint of collateral cousins in Scotland-had earned him an appointment to the Birgham delegation beside Frre Brian de Jay, the English-born Preceptor of Scotland, who had knowledge of both English and Scottish law. The two had not met prior to their present a.s.signment, and Arnault could not say that he had warmed to Jay in the months they had spent at the negotiating table; but the English knight did seem to know his business where the law was concerned. Having seen the treaty signed and sealed, the two men were now accompanying the little princess to Scotland, where she would be met by a suitable escort of her Scottish n.o.bles. From there, she would travel south to London, where a new life and a new home awaited her.

The wind freshened, s.h.i.+fting a few degrees to the north, and Arnault breathed deeply of the brisk sea air, always welcome after the years spent in the deserts of Outremer. Unarmored here at sea, though his sword was girt always at his side, he wore beneath his mantle the formal white habit of Templar monastic profession, emblazoned on the breast with the splayed, eight-pointed red cross of the Order. His dark hair was barbered close to his head, as required by the Rule, but he had leave to keep his beard neatly trimmed, out of deference to the more fastidious circles in which his diplomatic duties obliged him to move.

He allowed himself a contented sigh as he swept his gaze around him. The royal s.h.i.+p was threading her way along the last of the deep fjords leading out to sea. The rigging was bright with pennons in the colors of Norway and Scotland, lifting gaily on the wind, and the princess's half-dozen Norwegian attendants made a colorful gathering around her on the deck below.

Margaret herself was almost lost in the midst of them: a diminutive, flaxen-haired doll m.u.f.fled in furs, sheltering in the grandfatherly embrace of Bishop Narve of Bergen. To Arnault's discerning gaze, watching from the machicolated platform of the s.h.i.+p's stern castle, she appeared somewhat frail and not entirely well, her small face pinched and white under its rich coif of silk and gold netting.

Less than rea.s.sured at the sight, Arnault found himself uneasily aware how the welfare of the entire Scottish nation was now dependent on the indifferent health of this one small girl. Even as that thought crossed his mind, he was joined at the rail by his Templar companion, who nodded somewhat distractedly.

Somewhat older than Arnault, Brian de Jay was a big, muscled man with short-cropped blond hair, a white-toothed grin within his curly blond beard, and eyes of a glacial blue. Leaning indolently on the railing, he cast a sour glance upward toward the s.h.i.+p's rigging, where the freshening wind was fretting at the reefs in the s.h.i.+p's great square sail.

”I would have preferred the English s.h.i.+p that King Edward sent,” he remarked. ”Even more, I would have preferred to sail six weeks ago. I like not these fickle seas in the north.”

Arnault shrugged. ”No doubt King Eric preferred to entrust his daughter to a s.h.i.+p of Norse crafting.”

”The king will have been affronted at the snub,” Jay replied. ”It makes for a less than auspicious beginning to the alliance.”

”The Norse s.h.i.+pwrights take great pride in their work,” Arnault said neutrally, surprised at this somewhat partisan statement regarding the English king. ”King Eric evidently felt that a Norwegian-built vessel would prove the more seaworthy in the event of a storm.”

”Well, the delay makes storms more likely,” Jay said with a grimace. ”I hope he doesn't have cause to regret his decision. Aside from the political repercussions, I'd hate to see all our efforts wasted-especially when we could have been putting our energies to better effect in defense of our domains.”

He was referring, Arnault knew, to the Templar strongholds of the East: Acre and Tripoli, Tyre and Sidon, Athlit and Haifa-all that now remained of the former crusader Kingdom of Outremer. Since the fall of Jerusalem, over a century before, the great crusading Orders of the Temple and the Hospital had managed-just-to retain those strongholds, bolstered by sporadic infusions of aid from the West; but their position in recent years had become increasingly perilous.

”Look at us,” Jay continued disparagingly. ”We are meant to be men of war. Surely our place is in the Holy Land, where the danger is-not trailing like lapdogs about the skirts of these diplomats! Our proper vocation is fighting- not matchmaking on behalf of young children.”

Arnault gazed out to sea, reflecting that these militant sentiments might have carried more weight if Jay had been speaking from previous experience in the East. As it was, the Preceptor of Scotland owed his present position of eminence to the favor of the Master of England, who had groomed him for administrative function and then sent him north to oversee the Scottish houses of the Order. Unlike Arnault, who had seen active service in the Holy Land and carried the scars to prove it, Jay had yet to match words with deeds on the field of battle.

”We go where we're ordered, and do as we're told,” Arnault said mildly. ”And don't underestimate the value of what has been achieved by the Treaty of Birgham. If this marriage succeeds, it could bring us a step closer to redeeming the Kingdom of Outremer.”

Not that the auguries were good for such an outcome. Only a few months before, the delicate balance in Acre- most crucial of the Order's remaining holdings in the East- had nearly come unstuck when a band of peasant levies newly arrived from Tuscany went on a rampage and ma.s.sacred a number of Muslim merchants in an unprovoked attack. The Mameluke Sultan Qalawun had been justifiably incensed by the incident, and only some frantic last-minute negotiations on behalf of the Franks had averted an outbreak of full-scale reprisals. A fragile truce was holding thus far, but the threat of war remained ever present.

The Order's military strategists hoped that if hostilities could be kept at bay long enough, the sovereign powers of Christendom might be more readily persuaded to lend their aid to the defense and eventual reclamation of the Frankish Kingdom.

”I suppose the marriage might pry loose some support from King Edward,” Jay replied. His expression turned speculative at the prospect of a new crusade. ”He certainly knows the Holy Land from the pilgrim campaigns of his youth. Given the part we have played in securing this Scottish alliance, perhaps he will show his grat.i.tude by returning to Acre at the head of another army. I'll wager the Mamelukes would find him a formidable opponent.”

Arnault merely nodded his agreement. At his best, Edward Plantagenet was a strong leader, shrewd in his judgments and farsighted in his aspirations. But he was also capable of being unconscionably vindictive; and his appet.i.te for power, once roused, was insatiable. Having set his sights on Scotland, he would stop at nothing now to acquire it. If this marriage compact were to fail-for whatever reason- Edward's next recourse might well be invasion.

The weather held, despite Jay's uneasiness. Princess Margaret, her female attendants, and the bishop and his clerk were quartered beneath the stern castle, where part.i.tioning had been installed to create cramped shelter for sleeping. The princess's military escort, including the two Knights Templar, slept out on deck with most of the crew, under the sheltering lee of the forward castle.

Some time after midnight during their second night out from Bergen, Arnault awoke to an awareness that the s.h.i.+p's momentum had changed. Casting off his blanket, he rose quietly to investigate, bracing himself against the rail. They had emerged from the shelter of the Norwegian coast shortly before sunset. The stars had vanished behind a thick pall of cloud. Light from the s.h.i.+p's lanterns showed whitecaps building on top of the waves. The captain was up on the forecastle in close consultation with the s.h.i.+p's weatherman.

Making his way forward against the pitch and roll of the deck, Arnault clambered up the s.h.i.+p's ladder to join them. When he inquired about the s.h.i.+p's status, the captain's response was blunt.

”I don't like the signs. There's a storm moving in from the northwest. The currents in these waters prohibit trying to outrun it. We can only hold our course and hope to ride it out.”

”How bad is it likely to get?” Arnault asked.

”I can't say,” the weatherman replied. ”The signs might be worse. But we will see rough winds and high seas not long after first light.”

The weatherman's predictions were borne out within the next few hours. Darkness yielded to an uncertain dawn, under ominously lowering skies. The s.h.i.+p's crew went grimly to work, dousing the lanterns and las.h.i.+ng down everything on deck that was not already secure. When the sail had been trimmed and the hatches closed, the captain and the helmsmen took to their stations fore and aft and braced themselves for the coming gale.

With the arrival of the first squall, the little Princess Margaret succ.u.mbed to retching seasickness and had to be confined to her bed while the s.h.i.+p plunged and rolled. By midday, most of her personal attendants were similarly affected, as well as a few of the crew. Bishop Narve and the young canon who served as his secretary were among the few to be spared, and set themselves to caring for those who were not.

Meanwhile, the s.h.i.+p's helmsman fought to keep her headed into the waves, in the teeth of a bl.u.s.tering wind and a day that never really got light.

Arnault had been to sea often enough to be accustomed to stormy weather. When Brian de Jay proved equally resilient in keeping his sea legs and the contents of his stomach, the two Templars joined the crew in helping keep the s.h.i.+p battened down against the storm, which continued throughout that day and all through the night without any sign of abating.