Part 8 (1/2)
Above the chimney breast hung the silken banner but lately given over to John Balliol. The Scottish lion seemed almost to take life in the s.h.i.+mmer of firelight and warmth-born drafts. With a certainty borne only of such psychic visitations, Torquil knew without question that the man before the hearth was none other than Alexander III, grandfather of the little Maid of Norway and last reigning monarch of the house of Canmore.
The open and closing of a distant door briefly bracketed the sound of a wintry gale blowing outside the hall, and Torquil could feel icy drafts flitting like ghosts around the outer corners of the room. Instinct bade him closer to the fireside, but he could not seem to move.
A door to his left swung open, admitting a bonneted man wrapped in heavy, sleet-sparkled tweeds. At the king's gesture to approach, the man offered him a scroll of parchment, tightly rolled. The king accepted it, dismissing the man with a wave of thanks, and broke the wax lozenge sealing the scroll.
Torquil found himself drifting closer as the king unfurled it to read the message inside-close enough to see that the two lines of text were written not in the crabbed court hand of Latin or French or even the uncials of Gaelic, but angular characters he somehow knew were runes. The runes were accompanied by a single sigil, carefully executed in a substance the color of dried blood. The device was that of a bull.
The king's features went slack as he gazed at it. The parchment slipped from his lax fingers and burst into flame.
In the same instant, Torquil's frame of vision was once again wrenched askew.
An icy blast swept him off his feet and plunged him into a dark maelstrom, spilling him onto a sleet-scoured stretch of frozen ground, where a howling storm wrenched at hair and garments. Pulling himself up, he recoiled with a gasp to find himself at the very brink of a sheer cliff.
White-capped waves pounded the rocks below, sending sheets of icy rime exploding upward to mingle with snow and hail. Instinct drove him scuttling back from the edge, one arm s.h.i.+elding his eyes from the driving wind as he sought shelter in the lee of a nest of boulders. Only belatedly did he glimpse the distant cl.u.s.ter of torches bobbing toward him like will-o'-the-wisps along the path that hugged the cliff's edge.
Through the fury of the storm, he could just make out four hors.e.m.e.n in the party. The one in front had dismounted and was leading his steed by the bridle rein, holding his guttering torch aloft in a futile attempt to light the way ahead. The rider following immediately behind was lean and dark-haired-the king he had seen in the hall.
In the same heartbeat, something even colder and darker than the storm surged out from the rocks at Torquil's back. Borne skyward on the beat of dark-pinioned wings, it peaked, then plummeted directly toward king and steed. Its downward plunge killed the torches. Out of the darkness, in quick succession, came a frantic scrambling of hooves on stone, a hoa.r.s.e outcry, and then a panicked equine squeal, abruptly cut short.
Alarmed, dismayed, Torquil staggered upright and made for the sound-and recoiled, appalled, at the sight of the king's stricken horse on its knees, the king himself struggling in the grip of a monstrous hag-creature with hair like streaming kelp.
It was clinging to the horse's crupper with bare, leprous thighs, its sinewy arms twined tight around the king's chest in a throttling embrace. As its lambent eyes flared green in the darkness, an agonized scream burst from the king's lips-just before the creature dragged horse and rider over the edge of the cliff, in a surging peal of demonic laughter. Torquil, too, tried to cry out, but the storm itself seemed to seize him by the throat, so that the sound that burst from his lips was little more than a strangled cough.
Even so, it drew Arnault's attention-and even more, he saw the younger man's face go suddenly white and blank as the face of a corpse, just before his knees started to buckle. He caught Torquil under one elbow, hissing for Luc to a.s.sist him, and together they managed to keep the Scottish knight on his feet and begin easing him back from the crowd. The incident drew little notice, for the clearing was reverberating with cheers for the newly crowned king, but the movement of three white mantles was enough to make Jay look their way and glare at them. a.s.sessing the situation at a glance, he curtly signaled them to withdraw.
Taking Torquil's weight between them, half carrying and half dragging their charge, Arnault and Luc together managed to manhandle him into the shelter of the trees without arousing much further notice.
Finding there a dry upcropping of rock, they eased him to a sitting position and urged his head between his knees.
By then, Torquil had started regaining control of his legs, and was taking urgent, gasping breaths, shaking his head as if to clear it. After a few minutes, with Arnault murmuring, ”Easy, easy, just give yourself a moment, and keep your head down for a bit,” he raised his head experimentally, bleary eyes reflecting bewilderment and a lingering ache behind his eyes.
”What the devil happened?” he muttered hoa.r.s.ely.
Arnault traded swift glances with Luc, who moved to support Torquil from behind. ”Suppose you tell me.”
A painful frown furrowed Torquil's brow. ”I-don't know. Some kind of. vision?”
”Close your eyes and relax for another minute or two,” Arnault advised quietly, glancing again at Luc.
”There's no one about just now. They're all still back at the Moot Hill.”
Torquil obediently closed his eyes, breathing in and out gustily at Arnault's further direction. Signing for Luc to keep a lookout, Arnault sank down on his hunkers and flexed his right hand, readying himself to draw on his inner faculties. Focusing on the stillness that formed at the center of his being, he then lightly closed his hand around Torquil's nearest wrist.
”Take another deep breath-now another. Are things getting clearer now?” he asked, nodding at Torquil's nod. ”That's good. Now tell us about this vision of yours. Keep your eyes closed.”
Haltingly at first, then with greater fluency, Torquil described what he had seen. It soon became clear to both his listeners that the experience had shaken the younger man far worse than any of the physical dangers he had ever faced in battle. His face had regained its normal color by the time he finished his narrative, but he still looked more than a little unnerved.
Glancing over his head at Luc, who was well aware of his previous misgivings regarding the extinction of the Canmore royal line, Arnault wondered whether Torquil understood the implication of what he had told them-that Alexander Canmore had met his ”accidental” death by means of sorcery.
”May I-open my eyes now?” Torquil asked, when Arnault said nothing immediately.
”Of course.” Arnault released Torquil's wrist and eased down on the rock beside him, considering the more immediate implications for Torquil himself. Both he and Luc had been antic.i.p.ating and hoping that the younger man would prove to have talents such as they themselves wielded on behalf of le Cercle and the greater Temple, but the time and place of manifestation were hardly what either would have wished-and far overshadowed by the import of what the younger knight apparently had seen.
”You may have provided us with very valuable information,” he said quietly, aware that they must return to their duties before they aroused unwelcome interest in what, for now, could probably be explained as a momentary lightheadedness on Torquil's part, perhaps brought on by too little sleep and food. ”But this is not a good time to discuss it-and do not mention it to Jay or any of the others, even if they should ask.”
”But-I would never-”
”I'm sure you wouldn't, son,” Luc cut in quietly. ”You neglected to break your fast sufficiently this morning, and watching your Scottish king crowned was a very emotional moment,” he went on, only nodding deliberately as Torquil looked at him askance. ”You started to feel faint, and we took you aside until you could recover, so you wouldn't disgrace the Order by keeling over. That's all you need to say.”
”Well, I certainly wouldn't tell anyone else what I really saw,” Torquil muttered, then pulled a sour grimace. ”But Jay will certainly make as much of this as he can. He's constantly looking for ways to belittle me, make me look the fool.”
”Humilit, my young friend,” Arnault said with a faint smile, clapping him on the shoulder and urging him to his feet. ”We'll discuss this at a more appropriate time and place. You and I have skirted around such subjects before, but I think perhaps you're ready for some solid answers.”
”I need some solid answers,” Torquil muttered. ”There's more I need to tell you: something about the Stone, that Brother Mungo told me last night, and something I saw at Ma.s.s earlier-”
”Later,” Arnault warned, with a speaking glance at Luc. ”We haven't time right now. Your new king will have started receiving the homage of his magnates-and the ever diligent Master of Scotland has ordered me to take note of all those present who swear fealty.”
And up on the hill, awaiting his turn to pledge his fealty, the Lord of Badenoch surrept.i.tiously retrieved what he had secreted in his sleeve and, as he briefly crouched-ostensibly to free the hem of his robe from one roweled spur-at the same time deposited a whitish, coin-sized object amid a scattering of manure.
This he trod purposefully under the heel of one steel-shod boot as he rose, befouling and obliterating what had been offered as a visible manifestation of purity and profound faith, before moving forward to offer his sword to the new king.
Chapter Eleven.
THE INAUGURATION OF THE NEW KING OF SCOTS WAS TO BE followed by a celebratory feast, lasting well into the night. Given the expected consumption of wine, the Knights Templar were requested to maintain a quiet but visible presence. Accordingly, it was not until much later that evening that Arnault and Luc could withdraw to confer privately regarding the day's developments.
By then, the implications of those developments had been rendered even more disturbing by additional information that Torquil pa.s.sed on to Arnault later in the afternoon, while ostensibly reporting a minor breach of the peace. For, though obliged to be both brief and somewhat cryptic, Torquil had contrived not only to summarize his previous night's conversation with Brother Mungo regarding fears about the Stone, but also to convey some of his shock at what he thought he had seen the Black Comyn do.
This startling new information, coupled with the earlier intimations of Torquil's vision, forced Arnault to reexamine his a.s.sumptions on several levels, and made it imperative that he seek out Luc's counsel.
Though unable to arrange a meeting until later that night, and only able to mention, in pa.s.sing, that Torquil had supplied several additional items of information having possible bearing on recent developments, he knew that Luc took his meaning.
Accordingly, while the magnates of Scotland were toasting the health of their new king-and were unlikely to notice that the number of Templars in and about the hall had been reduced by two-first Luc and then Arnault slipped out of the dining hall and made their way across the dark cloister yard to the now-silent precincts of the abbey church.
The opening creak of the door seemed preternaturally loud as Arnault entered, but the church was deserted, as he had hoped. Compline was long past, and the monks had retired to their beds, unlikely to return until time for the office of Matins, still several hours away. The glow of the Presence lamp before the high altar was seconded by the many votive candles that had been set burning throughout the church in honor of the day.
With this light to guide him, Arnault skirted quietly along the north aisle and into the side chapel of the north transept, where the Stone had been restored to its accustomed place. At once Luc stepped into the light of its attendant vigil lamps, beckoning Arnault to join him.
”Now, what's all this about Torquil?” Luc asked, as they took position against a far wall, where they would see anyone entering the church long before being seen themselves. They spoke in whispers, ever mindful lest someone overhear.
”Our young friend has given me two more rather intriguing pieces of our growing puzzle,” Arnault replied.
”In light of what he claims to have seen earlier this afternoon, we have a number of new and startling permutations possibly pertinent to what has been happening.”
Briefly he reviewed Torquil's observations regarding the Stone, and also the senior Comyn's startling action. Luc listened in growing incredulity, his unfocused gaze fixed on the squat, dark silhouette of Scotland's palladium-now, it appeared, perhaps but an empty sh.e.l.l.
”Let's put aside the question of Comyn, for the moment,” Luc said, when Arnault finally wound down. ”If he does intend some improper use of a consecrated Host, I see no immediate connection to anything else presently concerning us-and he might simply have wanted it as a protective talisman. Poor theology, but it could be put to far worse use.”