Part 17 (1/2)
And for whose glory do you seek him, Knight of Cra-gheal? the saint asked.
”For the glory of the Threefold One, He Who is Chief of Chiefs,” Arnault said boldly, employing the Celtic imagery he had absorbed in the past weeks, in the company of Ninian and the other Columbans.
”And my Order's motto-the motto of Cra-gheal's Order-likewise declares our service to G.o.d's glory.
Non n.o.bis, Domine.
”However worldly that Order's external purpose,” he went on, ”its inner duty is to erect the Fifth Temple, to the glory of G.o.d's holy name-for which the Stone of Destiny is to become the cornerstone, and Scotland its foundation. I am given to understand that the success of this mission stands or falls by Scotland's freedom, which is bound up with the waning power of the Stone-and neither can be restored save by the ransom of the Uncrowned King. I seek some sign by which to find him.”
Caught up in the pa.s.sion of his appeal, it was not until he had finished speaking that he became aware of a sensation of warmth radiating from the Breastplate. A rainbow aura emanated from the jewels, not crackling with energy as it had at Scone, but gently s.h.i.+mmering as it mingled with the silent moonlight.
Amid the silence, Abbot Fingon softly spoke, not in pleading but in observation.
”The Magi were given the sign of the star to show them the way to Bethlehem,” he said. ”Were they not also looking for an Uncrowned King?”
The stern face in the mirrored rainwater smiled faintly.
My sons are wise-both my sons of Iona and those by adoption.
His luminous gaze returned to Arnault. Know that he who is to be sacrificed in imitation of our Lord shares these traits in common with his Master: He will be a man of sorrows, obscure in his origins and rejected of other men.
The saint's image was beginning to dissolve into the moonlight. Arnault leaned forward, the better to hear Columba's parting words.
Where the Stone is, there also will he be found. He shall accompany the Stone into darkness, and by him shall it be restored, to be that cornerstone upon which depend both an earthly kingdom and the New Jerusalem. Soon he shall make himself known-and you shall instruct him in his destiny.
Chapter Twenty.
I HAD NOT THOUGHT IT POSSIBLE THAT EVEN A PUPPET KING could be so spineless,” the younger John Comyn muttered to his father, the Lord of Badenoch. ”Nor can I decide which canker gnaws worse in my belly: the arrogance of the English dogs, or Balliol's inability to stand and fight like a man.”
The two were standing on the heights above the watch fires that marked the encampment of the Scottish feudal host, which lay sprawled before them among the forested hills and glens of the Grampian countryside. It was well past midnight. Behind them, ghostly dim under the light of a waning moon, lay a circle of standing stones known locally as Sunhoney-a name of benign a.s.sociation that did not at all reflect its ancient and dark affinities. It was for this, rather than for any strategic advantage, that the army had been led here at the elder Comyn's urging.
Following the rout at Dunbar, King John Balliol had abandoned his base at Haddington and withdrawn his forces to the central Highlands. They had been on the move now for weeks. Caught between vanity and fear, the king vacillated daily between the two extremes, one moment bl.u.s.tering, the next moment quaking. So far, he had shown no gift for strategy and even less for leaders.h.i.+p, with no apparent intention other than to keep as much distance as possible between his army and the English.
Now he was preparing to sue for peace, and to throw himself and his kingdom on the mercy of Edward of England. King Edward, for his part, seemed content to lurk in mid-Lothian, consolidating his hold over the east coast burghs in a leisurely fas.h.i.+on.
”John Balliol is as worthless as an empty sheep's bladder flapping in the wind,” Comyn agreed, contempt edging his voice. ”If he will not play the part of a king, then he deserves nothing better than to be stripped naked and flung onto a dung heap. If he fails us, I will give the G.o.ddess his bones to pick beside those of the Templars.” His voice cracked suddenly, flaring into flint-edged anger.
”Treacherous, foreign-born knaves! They will pay, and pay heavily for this latest outrage!”
John Comyn glanced sharply at his father, but the vehemence of the other's outburst warned that comment would be ill-advised.
”The Master of England has taken Briochan's relics into England,” the Lord of Badenoch announced in a flat, gray voice. ”The ambitious Frre Brian de Jay is far more devious than we dreamed.”
The younger Comyn gaped at this revelation. ”He has taken them to England-are you sure?”
”Would that I were not!” came the clipped reply. ”The G.o.ddess showed me in a vision-for which favor I paid dearly! I suspected from the start that the disruption of Briochan's resting place was no mere coincidence. I am given to believe that his relics now lie hidden in a secret place within the English Temple-which means that they could not be further from our grasp if Jay had sunk them in the sea-or in a tarn by Balantrodoch, as was claimed when I first had inquiries made, regarding the disposition of the grave.”
”What will you do now?” John asked.
His father's craggy face was haggard and drawn, his eyes red-rimmed with sleeplessness. Each night for the past three, he had sought communion with his dark patrons, withdrawing to the secret shelter of the ancient stones to invoke the power of the waning moon, each night offering increasingly costly sacrifice of blood and seed and soul. Only tonight had he received an answer.
”The obstacle is not insurmountable,” Comyn said coldly. ”We have, in our favor, the fact that the Templars very likely are not aware of our particular interests. Jay himself, however, is a most ambitious man-as evidenced by his fawning attendance on Edward at Berwick. While he may have some inkling that possession of Briochan's relics confers a potential for power, I would be willing to wager that he sees it largely as a means to further his own ambitions.”
”By using pagan magic?” John asked, startled. ”Surely a Christian would be profaned by dabbling in such things.”
Comyn contained a disdainful smirk. ”Some believe that at least a portion of the Order has been tainted by exposure to Saracen heresies-but I am less concerned with the state of Jay's soul than I am with recovering Briochan's relics. You have seen the use we make of Christian holy things; in like manner, he could profane the things we hold as sacred.
”To prevent that, I have been shown a way to force the return of Briochan's relics.” Glancing behind them, Comyn drew his son closer, lowering his voice. ”Jay's deputy, the Templar called John de Sautre, remains in Scotland. His brother, Robert, however, has gone south in Jay's following-and Jay has gone to Cyprus. The blood link between brothers is a powerful bond, as you know. If we can capture John de Sautre, we can work through him to get at Robert- and he, in turn, can be compelled to steal back Briochan's relics and bring them to us.”
The younger Comyn nodded, but his expression was doubtful. ”I understand, in general, what you are proposing,” he agreed, ”but I would a.s.sume that this John de Sautre either rides with King Edward's advisors or has withdrawn to the main Templar preceptory at Balantrodoch-which, in addition to being strongly fortified, lies in an area now under English control.”
His father raised a peremptory hand. ”I do not propose to attack them in their lair, or even to penetrate the English lines. Our own position will be precarious enough in the coming weeks, if Balliol does, indeed, surrender. Edward will not fail to note our family's part in this rebellion.
”Nonetheless, the Templars present an increasingly vexing obstacle to our plans. I have learned by various means that the Temple itself apparently harbors factions in contention with one another. Some weeks ago, shortly after Berwick, two knight-brothers departed Balantrodoch for Scone, where they spent several days before departing in the company of a monk of the kindred of the cursed Columba.
”That they rode north from Scone, and in that company, leads me to believe that they may have been headed for Columba's Isle of Iona, in the west-possibly without the permission or foreknowledge of their superiors, for they left Scone in secret, having put aside Templar habit in favor of pilgrim attire. And not long after, the Master of Scotland rode out precipitously from Balantrodoch with an armed following, searching along the route they had traveled, making inquiries.”
”Why should Templars go to Iona?” John said suspiciously. ”And is it not a serious breach of their Rule, to put aside their Templar livery?”
”Breaches of their military discipline do not concern me!” Comyn said sharply. ”And it is premature to worry that the visit of Templars to Iona could bespeak an alliance with those wielding the power of Columba. My more immediate concern is the very useful Master of Scotland, who is no longer safe in the fastness of his preceptory of Balantrodoch. Whatever the internal differences within the Templar Order, he holds the key to gaining access to Brian de Jay and the hiding place of Briochan's relics.
”I therefore intend to take advantage of de Sautre's foray into the west to send a contingent of our own in pursuit, to follow and ambush him and his men. Once we have taken them, we shall sacrifice those of lesser account to the G.o.ddess, and wreak such torment on de Sautre himself that he soon will be begging to do whatever we ask of him.”
Sullen pa.s.sion kindled in John Comyn's dark eyes.
”Let me lead them, Father!” he whispered. ”I know what to do. I swear to you that I will make these Templars howl for the mercy of death!”
The elder Comyn shook his head. ”Would that I could give you that satisfaction. But we both are needed here, to prop up our faltering puppet king and to try to hold together some semblance of an army. If Balliol is supplanted only to be replaced by Edward, our goal is no nearer than it was. My lieutenant Seward shall pursue the ambush, and Torgon shall go with him. He is the true servant of the G.o.ddess, and knows how to draw upon her power at need. Together they will obtain what we want, or die themselves in the attempt.”
John de Sautre had nothing but jaundiced contempt for Scotland and its people. As far as he was concerned, the whole country was little more than a barbarous wilderness, a wasteland of gloomy forests, sullen lochs, and midge-infested bogs. Even the purple heather that covered the hilltops in the summertime seemed garish and unnatural to his eye, like a perennial infestation of plague.
His dislike was particularly virulent as he watched his men break up their encampment on the marge of Loch Tay. The morning air was dank and cold, and a mist lay heavy on the water. Since leaving Balantrodoch, every step of the way had been hampered by bad roads and foul weather. After too many nights sleeping rough under drizzling skies, de Sautre's loathing for his surroundings had reached the point where he could no longer find words venomous enough to express it.
He wished, not for the first time, that he was back among the green and pleasant fields of his native Huntingdons.h.i.+re, where those of common birth knew their place. The folk of this benighted land were unbecomingly independent. Only yesterday, the Templar party had come across a handful of crofters who sullenly refused to respond to any questions put to them in English, French, or Latin. Another time John de Sautre would have ordered them soundly beaten to teach them respect for their betters, but just now he had more pressing business to attend to.
Harcourt, de Sautre's second-in-command, approached him on foot, beating aside a swarm of midges as he came.
”The men are ready, sir,” he said. ”They're awaiting your orders.”
De Sautre greeted this news with a sour grunt. ”Tell them to mount up,” he said. ”Send d'Urberville ahead to scout the way. Tell him to keep silent on the move. If he catches any glimpse of our quarry, he's to report back immediately for further instructions.”
He scarcely knew who was more deserving of his wrath: Arnault de Saint Clair, or the incompetent fools who had let Saint Clair and the equally infuriating Lennox slip through their fingers. Brian de Jay had left parting orders that the pair were to be kept under careful surveillance. De Sautre had entrusted the matter to three supposedly seasoned men, but Saint Clair and Lennox had proven too slippery for them.
When Lamballe, Quincy, and Rutherford lost their quarry at Scone, de Sautre had been compelled to pick up the trail himself.
It had not been entirely easy to arrange his departure. King Edward had ordered all fighting men loyal to his cause to muster at Castletown in preparation for a march on Edinburgh. Though Templars were not obliged to answer to any secular authority, deferring only to the pope and their own superiors within the Order, Brian de Jay and his predecessor as Master of England had established ample precedent for Templar advisors to ride at Edward's side.