Part 31 (2/2)
Holding the opening of the stone before his gaze, he let a series of slow, deep breaths serve to center his thoughts as his spirit slipped across the threshold of awareness into trance, and breathed a prayer learned amid the kindred of Saint Columba.
”The Son of the King of Life be my strong s.h.i.+eld behind me, to give me eyes to see all my quest.”
A moment's s.h.i.+ft in perspective sufficed to anchor his physical aspect to the ground beneath him. Using the hole in the stone as a window to another dimension, fixing his focus on a bright point of moonlight glinting from the cross-hilt of his sword, he sent his spirit from his physical body and set off in search of Wallace.
That other's soul-signature, imprinted in blood on the stone in his hand, drew him toward its source like steel drawn to a magnet. The intervening distances melted away as Arnault sped southward across moor and mountain and meadow in his soul-flight, no longer seeing with merely mortal eyes. Towns and villages whisked past him, blurs in the deepening twilight, until finally the silver serpentine of the Thames led him to the turrets of the Tower of London.
Walls and ramparts of mere stone posed no barrier to one seeking access in spirit-form. The presence he sought grew ever stronger as Arnault plunged downward through the many levels of the citadel until he reached a cramped cell, deep in the bowels of the Tower complex. Shackled by heavy chains to an iron staple set in the wall, the rebel Scots leader lay on a heap of moldy straw in one corner of the chamber.
He was filthy and battered, his face scarcely recognizable beneath a mask of grime and bruises, but to Arnault, his very presence blazed forth like a beacon s.h.i.+ning in the midst of darkness.
There was an English gaoler attending to Wallace's chains. The man stooped to make sure the locks were secure at wrists and ankles, then stood back and gave the prisoner a spiteful kick in the side.
”That's for all the schoolboys you burned alive!” he said vehemently.
Wallace contained a grimace as he turned his face toward his tormentor. ”Is that what's charged against me?”
”Aye, and more than that,” came the sneering retort. ”You'd best make your peace with the devil tonight, because tomorrow you go to Westminster Hall, to answer for your crimes.”
He spat on Wallace and shuffled out, clanging the door fast behind him. Left alone, Wallace settled back on the straw and closed his eyes in resignation-but not before Arnault had glimpsed the grim turmoil in his soul.
Moving closer in spirit, he willed the other to sense his presence as a touch of hand to hand, as he had done at that last meeting, not a month before. At once Wallace's eyes flew open, the initial surge of his doubt and despair like the blast of a hurricane; but Arnault held steady and kept his focus set on pressing through it until that instant when Wallace realized that it was he.
Grateful recognition brought a flood of renewed hope and relief as the bond between them tightened, like a handclasp between friends who know they are soon to be parted. Eschewing words, Arnault projected his promise and a.s.surance that Wallace would not be alone in that final hour-that he and others were prepared to play their parts in renewing the power of the Stone. As he did so, an image came to him of a great Temple spanning heaven and earth, whose cornerstone was the Stone of Destiny.
Therein was enthroned the holy Lamb of G.o.d, Whose resplendence filled the Temple with a supernal Light that spilled from its manifold windows in a dazzling tide. Enfolded by that tide, his soul cradled in its healing balm, Wallace surrendered gratefully to the joy of that vision and was content to set aside his fears, at last giving body and mind to the exhausted release of blessed sleep.
Less contented, Arnault withdrew to his own body, drained and wearied from his long spiritual journey, articulating a final prayer for Wallace.
Thou King of the blood of truth, forget not Thy servant in Thy dwelling place, do not omit him from Thy treasure-house.
When he shortly roused from trance, he felt light-headed and almost sick. s.h.i.+vering despite the balmy summer night, he wrapped his mantle more tightly around him before putting away the keekstane and going to rejoin his companions, all too aware that food would only replenish his body, could do nothing for the fact that he was sick at heart.
”At least the wait will not be long, for us or for him,” he said quietly, as Torquil offered him a chunk of bread and Luc unstoppered a wineskin. ”Tomorrow they bring him to trial. The verdict is of little doubt-or the sentence.”
Chapter Thirty-three.
THEY POSTED WATCHES FOR THE NIGHT: TWO KNIGHTS ALways on guard before the outer entrance of the cave while the others rolled up in their blankets in the outer chamber, to take what rest they could. Arnault withdrew to sleep in the Presence of the Sacrament, before the Stone, laying the packet of the High Priest's Breastplate upon the Stone to serve as a further protection and s.h.i.+eld. Father Bertrand and the two Columbans kept a rotating vigil, maintaining a bulwark of prayer around the Stone.
Even within the protection of Sacrament and Stone, Arnault found it difficult to sleep. Food had dispelled the worst of the chill residual from his scrying exercise, but when at last he finally dozed off, his slumber was haunted by shadows and whispers. He drifted uneasily in and out of a series of formless dreams until he was abruptly roused by a shrill whinny from one of the horses tethered out beyond the cavern.
He came instantly awake, instinctively reaching for his sword as he sat up. Ninian had been praying, the other two clerics were rousing. Gaspar had been lying down across the doorway from the outer chamber, but was already on his feet, sword in hand. With an emphatic staying gesture toward Arnault and the three clerics, he disappeared into the outer chamber.
Bertrand and Fingon came to kneel on either side of the Stone, their hands upon it; Brother Ninian kept his place before the Sacrament, laying his hands upon the pyx as his head bowed in more fervent invocation. Unsheathing his sword, Arnault came as far as the doorway to the outer chamber and rammed the weapon into the sand. Beyond, Gaspar had taken up a defensive stance in the opening to the outside, flanked by Luc and Flannan. Torquil and Christoph were not to be seen.
”Where are the others?” Gaspar said to Luc.
”Gone to check the horses.”
”Could it just be a wild animal of some kind?” Flannan asked.
Luc shook his head. ”I don't think so. There's something very wrong about the feel of-”
Before he could complete his sentence, the air beyond them lit up with a sizzling crackle of energy.
On their way down to the horses, Torquil and Christoph pulled up short at the warning tingle of pure evil very near, swords instinctively lifting in warding. For a split instant, Torquil thought he glimpsed the ghostly flicker of a misshapen human form skulking against the trees far ahead. Around them, other flash points flared in the darkness, strung out like fireflies along the ward-line of their personal protection. A stink like burning seaweed briefly wafted past them, acrid enough to halt them, choking, in their tracks.
The horses went wild. The picket line snapped and they scattered like sheep, plunging off into the surrounding trees. A few stampeded past Torquil and Christoph, and a host of shadows broke from the surrounding trees in swooping pursuit. Farther off, a horse screamed.
It was no time for heroics. As one, Torquil and Christoph bolted for the safety of the cave mouth. As they fled, something caught viciously at Christoph's arm, but he twisted away with a cry, opening a shallow gash along the wrist, and pelted after Torquil until they gained the safety of the guardian boundary. There they added their swords to the three already holding the protective line, joining hands then in a human bulwark to reinforce the line just behind its boundary.
Their pursuers were hard behind them-and vaguely visible now, but only in side vision: six or seven of them, vaguely humanoid, but twisted and deformed, with grasping talons that raked the air in mortal threat, and eyes glowing an eerie green at the level of a tall man's head. Hydra hair streamed from their misshapen heads like trailers of decaying moss, and their gnarled, angular bodies were rough and gray as weathered rocks, the gaping mouths lined with a double row of razor-sharp fangs.
In a concerted rush, they flung themselves at the defense barrier, the force of their impact reverberating in showers of silvery sparks, but the barrier held. As a second onslaught again jarred the barrier, Father Bertrand came from within with an armful of unlit torches. He thrust one into the watch-fire, crying, ”Per ignem Dominum Nostrum Jesum Christum Filium Deum, te consecro!”
As the fire flared, he pa.s.sed the torch to Gaspar, who brandished it before the barrier.
”By the power of the Most High, I abjure you to depart, or perish in these flames which the Almighty has sanctified!”
The wraiths fell back, hissing, and Bertrand continued lighting torches, pa.s.sing them to the others, who struck them in the ground between the swords to fortify the line.
The wraiths recoiled before them, then broke and fled, disappearing into the shadows of the wood with piercing yowls of rage and frustration. Behind the barrier, hearts still pounding, the Templar party drew cautious breaths of relief, trying to peer beyond the wall of fire. Blood was dripping from Christoph's injury, and he let Bertrand ease him to a sitting position as Gaspar summoned the Columbans. They came at once, tsking over the wound.
”What manner of fiends were these?” Christoph gasped, as Abbot Fingon bathed the hurt with holy water, murmuring in Gaelic. The wound smoked as the water made contact, eliciting an indrawn hiss of obvious discomfort; but it melted away under the cleansing stream, and Christoph flexed the arm gratefully.
Torquil watched, waiting until Fingon had signed a cross over the site of the former injury, then gave the other Templar a wan attempt at a smile.
”From blessedly limited prior contact with such things, I would have to guess that this confirms that the Red Comyn has, indeed, learned to use the relics of Briochan, Saint Columba's ancient adversary.”
”Do you think he's physically present in the vicinity?” Gaspar asked.
Torquil shook his head. ”I have no idea how close he has to be-and I don't think I particularly want to go out there to find out. I think we and the Stone are best served if we make our stand here. The cave itself will offer some protection to the Stone-and this is the only way in.”
He swept an arm before their bulwark guarding the cave mouth, and Gaspar nodded.
”If he's fathomed our intention regarding the Stone, I expect he'll attack again.”
”I would think it almost certain that he found the Stone because of the very protections we've erected around it,” Torquil replied. ”And if the Comyns were responsible for eradicating the Canmore kings, they'd not want the Stone to be reempowered, since that was the foundation of Canmore power. That means this is only the beginning.”
They set new torches beside the ones still burning between the swords, ready to be relit at the first sign of renewed attack. Arnault came out briefly to inspect the line of their defense, but he knew he must husband his strength for the defense of the Stone itself-and for that more awe-ful work of the morrow, when he must serve as channel to reempower the Stone. Peering out beyond the boundary line, he could catch occasional furtive hints of movement darting through the inky blackness under the trees. Every now and then, something would brush against the edges of their mystical rampart, touching off a brief crackle of hostile sparks.
He retreated to the Stone's sanctuary at the first signs of the second attack, just after midnight. The barrier withstood the a.s.sault, but the fabric of its defenses was left weakened by the strain. Restoring the mystical barrier to full strength was costly in terms of vital energy.
”If we can hold until dawn,” Gaspar said grimly, ”the power of the attacks should diminish. Fortunately, it is an axiom of the Unseen, that the powers of darkness gain strength during the hours of darkness.
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