Part 4 (2/2)

”And then again, we might not,” Arnault said. ”You can hardly blame yourself for not antic.i.p.ating that Jay might have the artifacts removed.”

Stooping down, he ran a hand lightly over the stones where Luc had indicated. A faint but repugnant sensation registered in his fingertips, like a residue of slug slime. He straightened up with a grimace of distaste, rubbing his thumb against his fingertips.

”Did you try touching the floor here?” he asked.

”Yes, but that isn't my talent,” Luc replied with a wry smile.

”At times like this, I wish it weren't mine, either. Something has left its mark here, right enough. I would guess that it might have been the rune-staves-and I think it's safe to speculate that they referred to something more sinister than tallies of hides or cattle.”

”I just wish I knew for certain what's become of them,” Luc muttered.

”Have you any proof that the chest isn't at the bottom of the lake where Jay's men are supposed to have put it?” Arnault asked.

”No. That is to say, I've tried more than once to visualize its whereabouts, but the results have all been inconclusive. For all the success I've had, the chest might as well have been magically translated awa' wi'

the faeries.”

Arnault restrained a flicker of a smile at the fastidious Luc's adoption of imagery from local folklore, for the implications were all too sobering.

”I doubt that the wee folk had anything to do with it,” he said, ”but there are many veils, both dark and light, which divide the Seen from the Unseen. It would seem to be a darker veil that obscures what has happened here. I wonder, though. Perhaps, together, we can discover some glimpse of what we're really dealing with.”

”I was hoping you would say that,” Luc replied. ”That's why I wanted you to look around the vault. I do have the Roman coins I took off the body,” he said, displaying them on his palm. ”I thought we might try to use them as a link. Shall we give it a try?”

”I don't see why not,” Arnault said, with a glance at the closed door. ”Are we likely to be interrupted?”

”Not at this hour. This part of the undercroft is all devoted to stores-and treasury vaults, of course. Most of the brothers are well aware that I'm apt to have them s.h.i.+fting heavy chests and sacks, if they're around when I'm doing inventories-which I've made a point of doing a lot of, since this all began.”

”Let's have a look, then,” Arnault said, taking one of the coins to examine it in the torchlight. ”The worst that can happen is that nothing will happen.”

After dragging another chest nearer the corner where the artifacts had previously been stored, the two men sat shoulder to shoulder on it, each with one of the coins closed in his hand.

”Now tell me, very particularly, what it is we're looking for,” Arnault said. ”You mentioned the ivory casket with the rune-staves. What about the bones and other grave goods?”

”Everything but the casket was put into a leather sack to bring them here,” Luc replied. ”Then, that's what we're looking for-the remains of the man whose eyes were covered by these coins. Let's begin.”

Closing their eyes, both men took a moment to steady themselves, measuring their breathing as each sought the tabernacle of stillness at the core of his being. As minds and bodies came to rest, Arnault prefaced their entry into the realms of the spirit by softly whispering the motto of their Order as a prayer of invocation, Luc's voice quietly joining his: ”Non n.o.bis, Domine, non n.o.bis sed Nomini Tuo da gloriam.”

The murmur of their combined voices dwindled into the profound hush of interior silence. Casting forth with the vision of soul, not of body, aware of Luc's shadow-shape beside him, Arnault turned his focus to the coin in his hand and found himself drifting amid a ghosting whisper of silvery fog, not limited by time or s.p.a.ce. The visionary ground that stretched away beneath them was pale and smooth, as featureless as sand. As he sought some sign by which to orient himself, the mists before them curdled and swirled, affording a fleeting glimpse of something moving away from them in the gloom.

He could accord it very little shape, but it seemed roughly the height of a man. He knew that Luc saw it, too. They set off after it with purpose, only to have it melt into the fog before they could catch a better look. Baffled, renewing his focus through the coin, Arnault scanned above and below, to left and right, wondering which way it might have gone- and was drawn by another ghostly flit of movement off to his left.

Again he started forward, this time sending Luc off to the right with a flick of shadow-thought. A glimpse of something again melted away before him, dematerializing into the fog whence it had come. A moment later he sighted it again, this time a short distance away and to his left. When he altered course to keep pace with it, it faded from view, as elusive as a shade.

There commenced a game of hide and seek. To Arnault, the suggestion of shapes that lured him on seemed to alter form with each new manifestation. At first it seemed that he was chasing a naked youth with streaming golden hair, then a white-robed and white-bearded shaman, then again a wolf running on all fours, tongue lolling amid savage-looking jaws. The fog itself seemed part of the game, now opening to offer a clear path, then closing in again to baffle his pursuit.

But always, the beckoning images remained tantalizingly out of focus. The longer the game went on, the more convinced Arnault became that he was being deliberately baited. After repeated failures, he signed for Luc to give it up. This tacit acknowledgment of defeat was greeted by a faraway screech of derision, like the echo of a raven's caw.

Or a specter's malignant laughter. Abandoning the hunt, and suppressing a sudden s.h.i.+ver of premonition that penetrated to the bone, Arnault set about withdrawing from his trance. Luc roused a heartbeat behind him, and the two men turned to look at one another uneasily.

”Did you hear anything?” Arnault asked.

Luc nodded. His lined face was very pale beneath his silvery beard.

”Have you ever heard anything like it before?” Arnault persisted.

”No,” said Luc, and added soberly, ”I think we must have gotten close, though-either to the man buried with these coins or to some less than savory ent.i.ty a.s.sociated with him.”

He took the other coin from Arnault and examined it and his own yet again.

”Whatever he or it was, it was quick to get our measure,” Arnault agreed. ”Pictish, you said. It certainly had the feel of old power.” He thought a moment. ”I wonder if your farmer perhaps stumbled on the burial place of some pagan sorcerer.”

Luc slowly nodded. ”It's possible. Celtic legend abounds with accounts of magicians and priests of ancient times. Some of them had rather spectacular clashes with the early saints who came to Christianize these lands-and they do seem to have had access to real power.” He paused a beat. ”I hope you aren't suggesting that our fellow with the runestaves is one of those, and that his power somehow is still potent?”

”I don't know what I'm suggesting,” Arnault replied, casting another glance around the chamber. ”But I do think it might be a good idea not to do anything else with those coins until we've had a chance to consider the situation further-certainly not before Torquil and I return from Berwick.”

”Then perhaps it might be best to lock them away in a place where such an ent.i.ty cannot possibly use them as a link to this world-say, hidden in a back corner of the tabernacle of the Blessed Sacrament,”

Luc said grimly.

”An excellent precaution,” Arnault agreed. ”Meanwhile, there's still the question of what actually happened to the relics of the coin's owner-which may or may not have actually ended up at the bottom of a lake. I think you should keep your eyes and ears open, and see whether you can find out where, specifically, the de Sautre brothers might have dumped that chest.”

Chapter Seven.

THE TEMPLAR DELEGATION SET OFF FOR BERWICK THE NEXT morning under bleak October skies: the Master of Scotland, attended by Brothers Thomas of Helmsley and Robert de Sautre, and Arnault and Torquil, on behalf of the Visitor of France. Brother Thomas, though utterly correct in every aspect of military deportment and pious decorum, proved to be a man of little affability and fewer words, as were the three serjeants who accompanied them to care for their horses and equipment, each with a pack pony on a lead. Accordingly, Arnault and Torquil found themselves obliged to affect amus.e.m.e.nt at the ongoing byplay of sycophance and bl.u.s.ter between Robert de Sautre and Brian de Jay. The strain made the three-day ride to Berwick seem like a week.

The royal burgh of Berwick-upon-Tweed was perched on a jutting headland at the mouth of the River Tweed. The thriving center for Scotland's wool trade with the Low Countries, its prosperity was proclaimed by the size and quality of the houses that lined its busy thoroughfares. The market square at the head of the High Street commanded a view of the harbor, whose gray waters were dotted with fis.h.i.+ng boats. Two Flemish cogs were moored at the quayside, where bales of raw wool and stacks of hides were waiting to be loaded aboard in exchange for grain and fine-dyed cloth s.h.i.+pped in from Bruges.

Dominating the town itself was Berwick Castle, a strongly fortified sh.e.l.l-keep enclosed within a stout curtain wall. But as they rode beneath its gates, the Scots-born Torquil stifled a snort of indignation at the crimson flutter of England's three lions flying arrogantly above the keep's topmost tower, ostentatiously proclaiming to all comers that Edward Plantagenet, King of England, had taken possession of this and all other royal Scottish castles pending his judgment with regard to the Scottish crown. Nor, by this symbol, did Edward scruple to remind all concerned that his was the sole royal power in Scotland until such time as he chose to relinquish it on his own terms.

Not unexpectedly, Berwick's narrow cobbled streets were packed, bustling with courtiers and clerics, servants and serjeants, merchants and adventurers. Augmenting the town's resident population of nearly three thousand were several hundred visitors from both sides of the border, some of long standing, some but newly arrived, in antic.i.p.ation of Edward's forthcoming announcement, all competing fiercely with one another for hospitality and lodging. Among those fortunate enough to own property in the burgh itself were the hereditary officers of the Scottish crown-the constable, chamberlain, chancellor, and steward.

All other comers had to make the best of the available resources, according to their rank and means.

The castle, of course, had been taken over by Edward and his household and officers. In the town below, all the usual accommodations were long ago spoken for. The religious houses within the burgh itself were full to capacity. The local inns, likewise, had nary a bed or pallet to spare. Across the River Tweed, in the English settlement of Spittal, the town's hospital and almshouse had been converted into a hostel for the duration. Those unable to find shelter in one of the friaries, nunneries, public houses, or private homes on either side of the Tweed were obliged to live under canvas, encamped on the common lands that extended out into the surrounding countryside.

The more eminent members of the English clergy were quartered a few miles downriver at Norham Castle, the administrative seat of Anthony Bek, the Bishop of Durham, who was King Edward's princ.i.p.al advisor on matters of policy. More soldier than priest, Bishop Bek was more distinguished for his military expertise than for his pastoral achievements. The Scottish prelates, including William Fraser of St.

Andrews and Robert Wishart of Glasgow, had chosen to take up residence at Coldingham Abbey on the Scottish side of the border, a few hours away. On hearing of this arrangement, the night before their arrival in Berwick, Torquil had remarked to Arnault that it was probably native prudence, as much as a desire for civilized comfort, that had prompted the Scottish prelates to put some distance between themselves and Bek's well-armed following.

”Bek may be a bishop,” Torquil muttered, ”but he's English, and I dinna trust him.”

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