Part 12 (1/2)
It was not a bright picture at present. Edward of England and Philip IV of France had gone to war over possession of the Duchy of Gascony. The merchant states of Italy and the provinces of Germany were likewise mired in conflicts over influence and sovereignty. The papacy had been flung into turmoil by the abdication of Celestine V-a condition not improved by the election of Boniface VIII. Only the nations on the outer fringes of Europe could claim any degree of tranquillity, and now even they were being pulled into the net of conflicting alliances that threatened to ensnare and strangle the Frankish West.
This dark tapestry of recent events, however, was threaded here and there with strands of light: threads that shone out all the brighter in contrast to their setting. One such triumph, in Arnault's view, was Torquil Lennox's continuing achievements as a working member of le Cercle. The three years since his initiation had seen him stretched and tempered by the finest instruction that the Temple had to offer, both in the conventional work of the Order and on levels not dreamed of by the Order at large.
The physical signs of Torquil's maturity were readily apparent to anyone who had known him before.
Outwardly, he was more powerful and less restless, the result of having learned to harness his energies to support the work of his inner faculties. More subtle were the signs by which his spirit evinced its acquired strength. But to Arnault they were clearly visible, the proofs that vindicated his initial belief in Torquil's promise.
Realizing that promise had been no simple matter. Following his initiation, while Arnault carried out diplomatic missions of increasing complexity on behalf of the Order and le Cercle, the young Scottish knight had been sent away to a remote preceptory in the mountains of Tuscany, where he had spent six months in prayer and meditation to fortify himself for further instruction.
Thereafter he had gone to Rome in the entourage of the Grand Master, amid the turmoil of Celestine's abdication and the long delay in electing a new pope, there remaining for another six months to broaden his knowledge of arts and languages from the master scholars gathered about the papal court. Upon his subsequent return to Paris, interspersed with occasional forays into the world of financial services and merchant banking-for which Gaspar des Macquelines declared him also to possess a marked apt.i.tude-he had received careful, graded instruction in the esoteric disciplines practiced by those elite few who guarded the Temple's greatest treasures, with Arnault as but one of his teachers.
But having nurtured his pupil's strengths, Arnault still was unable to predict what, in the greater work of the Order, Torquil's ultimate purpose and test was likely to be. All he and the others of le Cercle knew for certain was that Torquil's role seemed intrinsically bound up with the mysterious direction handed down in Cyprus: that the Fifth Temple, whether physical or spiritual or both, was to be established in Scotland as a permanent reliquarium for the secret treasures of ages past, a bridge between the Seen and the Unseen.
Unfortunately, the prevailing turmoil of Scottish affairs since John Balliol's inauguration had precluded le Cercle laying any groundwork, physical or otherwise, for that intention. This latest insurrection by the Scottish barons seemed headed for doom, and Balliol with it. With conditions in Scotland deteriorating by the day, Arnault and Torquil had been authorized by their superiors of le Cercle to take whatever action was necessary to resolve the situation in favor of le Cercle's greater mission-and had routine dispatches to deliver, as cover for their presence back in Scotland. But much would depend upon what they could accomplish in the days and months to come, with Edward apparently once more poised to crush the Scots.
A warning outcry from the watch up in the fighting castle drew the attention of both Templars astern and to starboard, where a broad-beamed carrack was bearing down on them from the north. As the crew hurriedly manned their stations, and the vessel drew gradually close enough for her colors to be read, Torquil eased slowly to his feet and hissed, ”Sa.s.senach,” almost unheard, though few other s.h.i.+ps would have been bold enough to venture into these waters.
Closer scrutiny of the lines of her hull and the set of her rigging only reinforced his a.s.sertion that the s.h.i.+p was English; and her machicolated castle decks fore and aft proclaimed her to be a wars.h.i.+p, without doubt. This declaration of English belligerence was confirmed a moment later when a shout from the other vessel ordered them to heave to, on the authority of Edward, King of England.
While unlikely to be more than a mere formality-for a vessel belonging to the Order of the Temple could justifiably claim neutrality, as could Templars traveling aboard her- the challenge came as no surprise to anyone on board. Following the outbreak of hostilities between England and France, Edward Plantagenet had taken steps to impose controls on all maritime activity in the Channel and the North Sea. The number of English naval vessels patrolling Scottish waters, especially along the eastern coast, had further multiplied when it became known that Scotland's ruling Council of Twelve had entered into a formal alliance with France.
Most fortuitously, English Templars were known to be advising King Edward in the present hostilities, and Arnault had been provided with doc.u.ments that gave him and Torquil legitimate cause to be entering these Scottish waters. As the galley's crew turned into the wind and gathered in the sail, the pair made their way onto the main deck, silently watching the English s.h.i.+p come alongside, her war ramparts bristling with archers.
Grappling lines secured the two vessels, flank to flank, and English sailors laid a bridge of planks across the gap to accommodate a boarding party of the captain and two men-at-arms. Already, the sight of two men in the full habit of Knights Templar had caused a stir on the English vessel. Under the eyes of the English archers, Arnault came purposefully forward, saying nothing, Torquil at his side and the galley's captain following respectfully behind them. The captain of the English vessel was waiting a little nervously just beside the side railing, and accorded the knights a guardedly civil greeting before giving his attention to the parchment that Arnault held out to him.
”I see you are bound for Berwick,” he noted grimly, as he began to scan the doc.u.ment.
”We are,” Arnault agreed.
”Indeed. And your purpose?”
”Diplomatic,” Arnault replied. ”We come on orders of the Visitor of France, as you can see.”
”We already have Templars with King Edward's army,” the man replied. ”No diplomacy is required. The king means to crush the Scottish rebellion.”
”The Temple would prefer to see a lasting peace,” Arnault said. ”No one wants Scotland to be drawn into the net of hostilities which already threatens the people of France. My brother and I are charged to arrange a truce between the English and the Scots, as a prelude to negotiating a more lasting peace.”
The English captain's jaw tightened as he refolded the doc.u.ment and handed it back.
”If you were hoping to stop a war before it starts,” he said, ”you're already too late. Three days ago, a Scottish army crossed over the border and attacked Carlisle.”
”Indeed,” Arnault said, with a glance at Torquil, whose eyes had narrowed. ”Have you any news of the engagement?”
”Little of substance,” came the response. ”At last report, the folk of Carlisle were holding their own. King Edward, for his part, has sent his forces to besiege Berwick.”
This new intelligence produced a queasy pang in the pit of Arnault's stomach as he recalled his vision of three years previous. Though Berwick Castle was well fortified, the town itself was defended by nothing more substantial than a ditch and a timber palisade-hardly enough to turn back a determined English a.s.sault. Recalling the Lindsay family, he could only hope that his writ of protection would serve its purpose, if events came to pa.s.s as he had envisioned them.
”But, these stubborn Scots will not stand long against King Edward's might,” he heard the English captain saying. ”Meanwhile, you are free to go. You may count yourselves fortunate that the Master of your Order in England has earned the king's favor by the service he has rendered in this present venture.”
Replacing the travel doc.u.ment back in his scrip, Arnault p.r.i.c.ked up his ears at this oblique mention of Brian de Jay, who had recently succeeded Guy de Foresta as Master of England, and also of Scotland and Ireland.
”Am I to understand that the Master of England is here in Scotland?” he asked.
”Where else?” the man countered. ”He is the king's princ.i.p.al advisor on Scottish military affairs, having previously served your Order in Scotland. He came north with the army, as a member of the king's retinue.”
The news had not been entirely unexpected, but Arnault could sense Torquil restraining bitter comment as the English captain and his men made their way back to their own s.h.i.+p. But once the English crew had cast off the grappling lines, and the galley's captain had gone to relay orders to proceed to Berwick, the younger man could contain himself no longer.
”What does that strutting bag of foul wind think he's doing?” he muttered in an explosive undertone. ”Jay has no business favoring Edward's cause on the strength of his own authority.”
”Ah, but he follows the example of his predecessor in that,” Arnault replied. ”Guy de Foresta was also friendly with Edward of England. In any case, you yourself have observed that Jay cares far more for prestige than he does for justice. Whatever the conflict, he will always curry favor with the side he perceives as most likely to advance his own importance.”
Arnault had conveyed his suspicions regarding Jay and his motives several years before, but neither Gaspar nor MaArtre Jean nor any other member of le Cercle had been able to prevent Jay from being elevated to his present eminence. Arnault was driven to wonder if the same chaotic influences that had proved so disruptive to his own talents were likewise starting to undermine the function of le Cercle as a whole. The thought that there might be dark forces at work within the Templar Order itself was not one that made for comfortable reflection.
In the meantime, however, the situation in Berwick demanded immediate consideration. If the city fell, there would be little to stop the English forces from marching north on a mission of conquest. Even if the Scottish army were to offer pursuit, Edward would always have the advantage of being able to choose his own ground on which to meet them. And once the English king gained the upper hand, Arnault did not hold out much hope for the Scots salvaging their independence.
His worst immediate fears were confirmed when the s.h.i.+p drew within sight of the Scottish coast. The sea haze hanging over Berwick town was mingled with billows of greasy gray smoke. Torquil joined him at the railing, and together they watched in growing dismay as the galley approached the entrance to the harbor. Both of them had seen enough siege action in the Holy Land to recognize the signs of a disaster in the making.
The scene at the waterfront was one of panic and pandemonium, with scores of townsfolk clambering for s.p.a.ce aboard the handful of fis.h.i.+ng boats tied up at the quay, recalling similar hysteria attending the fall of Acre. The captain of the galley, likewise a veteran of the wars of Outremer, prudently ordered his crew to drop anchor at some distance from the quay, and posted armed guards on the upper decks to repel any attempt to take possession of the s.h.i.+p.
”Are you certain it's wise to try landing in the midst of all that?” he asked Arnault.
”I'm afraid we have no choice,” Arnault replied. ”Have a boat lowered-but I'll risk only one of your men to row us ash.o.r.e.”
The boat landed them well clear of the harbor front, nosing into a sandy spit for just long enough to disembark them. Helmeted and lightly armored in mail hauberks and coifs, with mantles bunched up to keep them dry, they splashed through the shallows and quickly navigated a short, rocky incline, clambering then through patches of gorse to head toward the row of fishermen's cottages that marked the seaward boundary of the town. After vaulting over a stone wall festooned with fis.h.i.+ng nets, they made their way along a narrow alleyway that ran westward between two rows of houses. The streets beyond were teeming with citizens of Berwick town, aimlessly milling like sheep without a shepherd.
One hand on the hilt of his sword, Arnault stepped into the path of a grim-looking man towing his wife and two young sons behind him, holding up his other hand in a halting gesture.
”What has happened?” he asked urgently.
The man recoiled, wild-eyed, his family scurrying fearfully behind him.
”Don't you know?” he gasped. ”The English have broken through the town's defenses. There's still some fighting going on along the perimeter, but it won't be long before they'll be running riot in the streets.”
His glance flicked timorously to the broadswords the two knights were wearing, and Torquil said, ”You have nothing to fear from us. No one but a craven makes war on innocent civilians.”
”That's not what we've heard,” the woman said from over her man's shoulder, somewhat emboldened by the sound of Torquil's Scottish voice. ”They say that King Edward has ordered his men to slaughter anyone they meet. Please let us go, good sirs! We must get away before the English soldiers come and murder our children before our eyes!”
Both men wordlessly stood aside, and the family fled off down the street.
”Dear G.o.d, your vision was true!” Torquil murmured.
Arnault only nodded, heartsick. Through and above the surrounding hubbub of babbling voices and hurrying feet, he could make out more distant sounds that chilled his blood: screams and wails and the harsh clangor of weaponry- sounds that both of them had heard too many times before.
”We've got to find Jay,” he told Torquil grimly. ”Maybe he can persuade King Edward that mercy is the better part of conquest.”
The pair set off at a lope, hands on sword hilts, making for the line of the River Tweed, which marked the battlefront. The din grew louder as they drew nearer the town's center. The smoke they had seen from the harbor was growing thicker. Here and there among the housetops could be seen the lurid glare of burning timbers.
Torquil was in the lead when they came to the cobbled crossing of two thoroughfares. The sight of a painted sign above the door of one of the nearby buildings made him stumble to a halt.
”The Lindsays!” he exclaimed to Arnault. ”Dear G.o.d, their house is just along there!”