Part 7 (1/2)

This oath was to be reinforced by a ban on all weaponry within the boundaries of the abbey. Earls and clan chiefs were to be made responsible for keeping their own followers in order, and a punitive list of fines was drawn up to be imposed on offenders. While these measures could not guarantee the peace outside the abbey grounds, the Templars hoped that they would discourage the most hotheaded elements from acting on rash impulse.

Abbot Henry was quick to approve these suggestions, and delegated the four Templar knights to begin putting them into effect. One of their first tasks was to liaise with the abbey's guest master and the comptroller of the royal household, to make certain that all rival factions were housed separately from one another. When John Balliol arrived, as befitted his status as king-elect, he was given exclusive use of the abbey guest house for himself and his following, which included the Comyns of Badenoch and Bishop William Fraser of St. Andrews. Less fiercely partisan magnates like Earl Malise of Strathearn and Lord Soules of Liddesdale were allocated places in the monks' residence, with those of lesser eminence being billeted wherever s.p.a.ce could be found for them elsewhere on the abbey grounds.

The Bruce delegation was among those who chose voluntarily to take lodgings in the nearby burgh of Perth. This choice was seconded by Bishop Wishart of Glasgow, who likewise seemed inclined to keep clear of the abbey, with its incursion of English clergy.

By the time Brian de Jay arrived with his escort and the contingent of English Templars-a total of eight, including three serjeants-most of the hard work was already done. Finding no fault with his subordinates'

arrangements, Jay left them to finish what they had begun while he and Robert de Sautre set off to mingle with the other abbey guests in a spirit of conviviality. The serjeants set about securing the sleeping arrangements for the new arrivals, in the larger of the cottage's two rooms, and the English Templars went to report to King Edward's representatives. Since the cottage was intended only to provide billeting s.p.a.ce, the arrangement did not look likely to cause undue friction.

Preparations continued apace. Arnault made it his personal business to secure the agreement of the Bruce contingent regarding the oath of good conduct. Two days before the scheduled inaugural ceremony, in the company of a Templar serjeant, he sought them out in the town house they had hired on the banks of the Tay. He was received courteously, if not warmly, by the newly designated Earl of Carrick and his son, who listened without comment while Arnault explained the purpose of the visit.

”I am prepared to believe that this request is being made in good faith,” the earl told Arnault, after studied reflection. ”Show me the writ, and let me read in so many words what is to be required of me.”

The doc.u.ment Arnault had helped draft already bore a number of seals and signatures. The Earl of Carrick took note of these, as well as the text itself, and lifted it for his son's perusal as he returned his attention to his visitor.

”I will take this oath, for the sake of expediency,” he declared, ”but if anyone else breaks faith with this agreement, be advised that I also will no longer consider myself bound by it.”

When the earl had added his seal and signature to those already in place, Arnault took leave of him with thanks. The youngest Robert Bruce accompanied him from the room. Taking note of the young man's taut, hawklike profile, Arnault sensed that he had something more to add to what his father had already said. As they approached the outer door, young Bruce stepped ahead to lay his hand on the latch, turning to regard Arnault appraisingly.

”Make no mistake about us, Templar,” he warned, in a voice of implacable calm. ”Oaths notwithstanding, my family's loyalty is pledged to Scotland and our own house, not to that puppet Balliol or any other p.a.w.n it pleases Edward of England to settle on the Scottish throne.”

This stark declaration was backed by a force of personality that Arnault had rarely encountered in anyone so young, but that strength had yet to be tempered by either hards.h.i.+p or self-discipline. Both might come in time, but in this present moment there was only raw energy, yet unbridled by maturity of judgment.

”What makes you so sure that Balliol is not his own man?” he asked.

Young Bruce's lip curled. ”Because he was dancing to John Comyn's piping long before he ever lent his ear to an English jig,” he said bitterly. ”Now Edward Plantagenet plays the tune, our new king will have to learn to step lively, else we shall have English soldiers marching north over the border to teach us all how to keep in time!”

Startled, Arnault wondered if this was speculation or insight. Aloud, he said, ”You sound as if you were already at war.”

”We are,” young Bruce said grimly. ”Only, Balliol doesn't know it yet.”

Visitors continued to arrive at Scone and its environs over the next two days. While Luc, Flannan, and Arnault were being kept busy elsewhere, Torquil, as junior of the knights, found himself cast in the role of general factotum for the Templar delegation. Though all the menial household ch.o.r.es remained the province of the Templar serjeants, Brian de Jay seemed to take pleasure in finding duties that warranted the particular attention of a knight-brother.

The result was that Torquil spent the next few days relaying requisition orders, supervising the delivery of supplies, and carrying endless streams of messages back and forth between the Master of Scotland and his fellow dignitaries. His encounters with Luc and Arnault were limited to mealtimes and those periods of the day set aside for devotions, neither of which permitted conversation-an arrangement Torquil began to suspect was Jay's way of ensuring the three did not exchange any news of which he was not also aware.

King Edward had retired from Berwick to Newcastle, leaving Bishop Anthony Bek of Durham to attend the enthronement in his stead. On the evening of November the twenty-ninth, the Templars received an invitation from Bek, asking them to come and dine with him at the abbot's house, in the company of all the other senior clerics who had come to Scone for the ceremony. In continued demonstration of the dislike Jay appeared to have conceived for Torquil since his return with Arnault, the Scottish Master accepted the invitation on behalf of himself and selected members of his entourage. Of the knights, Torquil alone was excluded, on the stated grounds that someone of knightly rank needed to maintain an ongoing patrol of the abbey grounds to be sure that all was secure for the events of the following day.

Far from resenting the slight, Torquil was relieved to be excused. Aside from his own growing antipathy for Jay, his instinct as a Scot was to regard the very English Bek as an enemy, and he was by no means sure that he could have concealed this animosity from the gimlet gaze of the English prelate. Once Jay and the others had departed for their evening's engagement, he took two of the three serjeants with him on the required inspection round. Satisfied to find everything in order, he instructed his auxiliaries to continue their patrol, rotating off with the third of their number, who was taking his s.h.i.+ft of sleep, then headed off for a visit to the abbey church, there to say a last prayer for the future wellbeing of his homeland and to steal a brief close-up look at the fabled Stone of Destiny.

The church was empty, lit only by the red-s.h.i.+elded Presence lamp within the sanctuary and a spill of golden candlelight illuminating the arch of the north transept. Feeling more than a little self-conscious, Torquil made his way diffidently up the nave to the crossing and paused briefly to genuflect before the Presence on the altar. Then he moved into the doorway of the side chapel where he had caught his first glimpse of the Stone several days before. In the morning, it would be moved outside for the inauguration.

The Stone was standing uncovered in the middle of the floor, directly under the chapel vault, flickeringly lit by an array of vigil lights lined up across the front of the chapel's altar. Seen by candlelight, it was a large block of dense black rock the size and shape of a low chair, its contours rounded rather than angular. Its surface had the grainy finish of roughly forged iron, rather than the vitreous sheen of polished stone, and parts of it seemed to be carved, though he could make out no shapes in the dim light.

Set far apart into the Stone's front surface was a pair of down-turned, crook-shaped hooks apparently meant for taking a carrying pole; Torquil a.s.sumed there would be a second set of hooks on the back.

The suggestion that it was meant to be a seat was enhanced by the presence of a shallow depression in its uppermost face.

Torquil ventured a step closer, a part of him half expecting that simply to be in the Stone's presence would impart some frisson of mystical kins.h.i.+p with his beloved Scotland-but the Stone registered inert as a lump of brick. Scowling slightly, he put out a tentative hand to touch the Stone's dark surface, bracing himself to s.n.a.t.c.h it back, but his fingertips met only the leaden roughness of dead rock.

He withdrew his hand and retreated a pace. Only then did it occur to him that he had been hoping for something like what he had experienced back in Cyprus-some flicker of numinosity to make truth out of all the old legends that spoke of this Stone as something marvelous and unearthly. To have felt nothing at all was profoundly disappointing. If the so-called Stone of Destiny was nothing more than a lifeless rock, then the ritual of enthronement was nothing more than empty ceremony.

”I used to think the Stone had merely fallen asleep,” said a voice from the shadows at his back. ”But lately I've begun to wonder if it might be dead.”

Torquil controlled a start and turned around. Standing a few paces off was the old monk, Brother Mungo, who had greeted them upon their arrival at Scone and shown them to their lodgings. His lined face, so jovial at that first meeting, was overcast now with regret as he gazed at the Stone with faded blue eyes.

”What makes you think it was ever alive in the first place?” Torquil asked.

His words rang sharper than he intended, but the old monk seemed to take no notice. He said softly, ”Had you been present beside me, lad, to see the enthronement of Alexander III, you would find no need to ask that question.”

Something in the old monk's tone of voice caused Torquil's heart to give a sudden queer lurch. ”What was it like?” he murmured.

A wistful smile touched Brother Mungo's wrinkled lips as he came and laid a hand on the Stone. It was a moment before he spoke, and Torquil sensed that he was groping for words to convey an experience that did not readily lend itself to description.

”It was like-magic,” he said at last. ”Magic of the most wonderful kind. It was as if the Stone was a great drum, ready to vibrate at the stroke of a hammer. When the king took his seat, the drum began to beat of its own accord, throbbing and booming like the tide against the seash.o.r.e. There was nothing you could see, or even hear with mortal ears, but you could feel the power emanating from it in great pounding waves, like the heartbeat of the land.”

He paused, s.h.i.+fting his gaze to meet Torquil's.

”Saint Columba himself initiated this ceremony at the enthronement of King Aidan. The angel of the Lord decreed that when the rightful king should sit upon the Stone, he would receive power to serve the land, according to his measure. In the old days, the power was always there, always making its presence felt in the way that a hidden spring constantly sends ripples to the surface of a pool. Now, it is as if the spring has dried up, and the pool with it.”

He lapsed into silence. Torquil scarcely knew how to take the old monk's testimony, though it was evident that he believed it himself.

”What do you suppose could have happened to change things?” he wondered aloud.

Brother Mungo heaved a heavy sigh. ”Who knows? Perhaps our people have tried the patience of G.o.d once too often. Perhaps we have lost faith in the miracles of Saint Columba. Perhaps too many of the great men of this kingdom now see the Stone of Destiny not as a strong support to Scotland's sovereignty, but as an obstacle standing in the way of their own ambitions.”

Torquil's thoughts reverted to Berwick. Many of the magnates there, not least the Comyns of Badenoch, had been less interested in upholding the commonweal of Scotland than they had been in securing their own lands and privileges. Still, it seemed to him unfair that the self-interest of a few should outweigh the welfare of the many.

”The throne has been vacant for nearly six years,” he noted thoughtfully. ”Small wonder that the power of the Stone should have waned in that time. Perhaps all that is necessary to revive it is the return of a Scottish monarchy.”

The old monk nodded. ”I pray that this may be so. Tomorrow will tell; I certainly cannot. G.o.d grant you sleep's blessing, my young friend.”

The conversation troubled Torquil as he continued on his rounds, checking in with the serjeants on patrol and then heading back to the cottage for the brief spell of sleep his duties would permit before the crucial ceremonies of the morrow. On his way, he was moved to wonder whether Abbot Henry had observed any changes in the Stone since the death of Alexander III.

He would have liked to discuss Brother Mungo's remarks with Arnault and Luc upon their return; but once again the intrusive presence of Brian de Jay and Robert de Sautre made him shy away from mentioning such a subject. The report that he tendered to Jay was limited to purely routine matters.

Bottling up his more speculative observations until a more propitious moment, he sought permission to retire.

His rest, however, was far from peaceful. The darkness that surrounded him was like an unwanted blanket, hampering his limbs and interfering with his breathing. For a long time, he tossed and turned, trying vainly to find a comfortable position. When he finally did fall asleep, his dreams were even darker than the room.

The darkness was full of noise-a tempestuous rus.h.i.+ng like the bl.u.s.ter of gale-force winds, paired with a roar like the cras.h.i.+ng of sea waves against a rocky cliff. The sounds of storm and thunder were shot through with shrieks of wind that, at times, seemed to verge into demented laughter. The sound of it was so unnerving that he clapped his hands to his ears and turned blindly to flee.

With his first stride, he slammed into something unyielding. He recoiled with a blink and discovered that he was thras.h.i.+ng on his side in a tangle of bedding, his back against one of the walls of the cottage. The log on the nearby hearth had burned down to mere embers, telling him that it must be nearly morning.

Only belatedly did it register that he must have rudely awakened from a dream-or nightmare.

The room was cold. He s.h.i.+vered and moved to retrieve his blankets. As he did so, a familiar figure materialized noiselessly beside his pallet and dropped to one knee beside him.