Part 33 (2/2)
”However ill-advised this meeting may be,” he said to Arnault, ”I become more and more convinced that Wishart and Lamberton were correct to enlist our support for this man. Now that he has grasped the nettle, he is clearly determined to see things through to the end.”
”Whatever that end may be,” Arnault replied. ”But we'd best take up our positions.”
Retreating into the cloister yard, the two Templars hid themselves in vantage points chosen earlier, from which they could observe what went on both in forecourt and church. Arnault took up a post very near the sacristy door, which gave access to the nave. Even though they were out of earshot, the demeanor of Bruce's companions suggested that they, too, were harboring misgivings; but Bruce's own confidence seemed to allay their fears. As he exchanged bantering remarks with them on the steps of the abbey church, his followers' bearing brightened appreciably.
It was not long thereafter that Neil Bruce appeared at the gate, heading up a party of hors.e.m.e.n. At Neil's side rode Red John Comyn of Badenoch, easily distinguished from his companions by the somber richness of his clothing and the Comyn bardings on his fine horse. Accompanying him were an older man with graying russet hair-the predicted uncle-and four others who, from their looks, were surely cousins of some degree. All but Comyn himself wore fighting harness, swords at their sides, but Comyn, like Bruce, was armed with only a dirk.
Directed by their Bruce escort, the Comyns dismounted and strode across the forecourt with studied disdain, keeping shoulder to shoulder like the ranks of a schiltron. In contrast to his supporters, who never ceased scanning for possible ambush, Comyn carried himself with the confidence of a man entering his own great hall. He had never lacked for arrogance, but now that pride of bearing had about it a cold imperiousness.
His manner displayed no hint of conciliation as he and Bruce exchanged formal greetings. His men hung back glowering, their hands hovering close to the hilts of their swords. If Bruce's temper was aroused by his counterpart's demeanor, however, he gave no outward sign of it as he invited Comyn to enter the church with him.
”This is neutral ground, which should be acceptable to us both,” he observed. ”Its very sanct.i.ty ought to serve as a guarantee of peaceful behavior and Christian restraint.”
”We have come here in peace, and in the interests of our nation,” Comyn stated loudly enough for everyone to hear. ”I hope that you can say the same, Robert Bruce.”
Bruce forbore from responding to the implied insult and led the way into the church's dim interior. Arnault had slipped in through the sacristy door, and ghosted to a hiding place inside the great pulpit, peering through a c.h.i.n.k between two boards to watch as the two Scottish leaders came down the nave, speaking as they walked. Torquil remained outside, to keep an eye on their restless followers.
The two were not yet close enough for Arnault to hear what they were saying, but he was relieved to see that Scotland's king-in-waiting was taking his advice to bring Comyn to the protection of the sanctuary for their meeting. They stopped beneath the Rood screen, where Bruce paused to cross himself as he glanced toward the altar and its Presence lamp. Comyn only clenched his jaws, silently regarding his rival with open insolence.
Arnault strained to hear, for the two were that bit too far away to make out everything they said, but Comyn's monosyllabic responses soon elicited greater volume on Bruce's part. In bits and s.n.a.t.c.hes Bruce's words became audible, and Arnault could hear the appeal in the other man's tone.
”It has been our downfall, Comyn,” Bruce was saying. ”Too often in the past, we Scots have turned upon each other, leaving ourselves easy prey to those who see us as a subject for conquest. We must unite now, if the flame of our freedom is not to fade away entirely-while we can yet remember what it was to be a free nation.”
Comyn's lip curled. ”You speak of freedom, but it is a freedom under King Robert,” he sneered. ”You would make yourself king while John Balliol not only lives, but has an heir to follow him.”
Arnault saw Bruce's jaw tighten, and knew he was checking his temper only with an effort.
”You are no fool, Comyn. You know as well as I that Balliol is no king. He lies in France, under the pope's house arrest, and has sworn he shall never return to Scotland. Support me in this labor, and you shall have all of my lands of Annandale and Carrick to add to your own. You will be the foremost lord of the kingdom.”
”I am that already,” Comyn retorted. ”It was I who made the peace with Edward, which saved the kingdom. It was I who persuaded him to restore all lands and properties to those who had fought against him. It was I who insisted that we Scots retain our own laws and customs and freedoms. There are many who know they owe all of those things to my prudence, and they will repay the debt they owe me.”
”What good is prudence, if the kingdom be lost?” Bruce said. ”King Edward is aging and unwell, and his days are numbered. We have weathered him like a violent tempest, but when the storm clears, we must be prepared.”
”I am amply prepared, both for Edward and for you,” Comyn retorted. ”I have resources at my disposal that would make you tremble.”
”Do you?” Anger darkened Bruce's brow. ”If you speak of the unholy rites and practices revived by your father, I know of these things, and they do not frighten me. It is you who should be fearful that your blasphemies be exposed.”
Comyn's jaw tightened, and a momentary flicker of surprise showed in his eyes, but he quickly recovered his composure.
”I make no apology for cleaving to the ways of my ancestors,” he replied. ”They made our people strong in the past, and can bring them unlimited victories in the years ahead.”
”If that is what you truly believe, you are merely deluding yourself,” Bruce said. ”If you are trafficking in such matters, you have put your very soul at risk, but it is not too late to disavow them. G.o.d can forgive all things. For the sake of your own salvation, forswear the dark deeds I have heard spoken of, and consign these practices to the darkness whence they came. Then we can put this behind us and still be allies.”
”Allies?” Comyn echoed derisively, his voice rising in pitch. ”There can be only one king in this realm, and why should it be you? I have as good a claim as you-better, for I have the power to defend it, which you lack. Who, more than I, has the right to sit upon the Stone of Destiny?
”Oh yes, I know the Stone is still in Scotland,” he continued, offering a feral smile in response to Bruce's startled expression. ”Restored, moreover, to the full extent of its mystical powers. Once it upheld the Canmore kings, but my patron saw it drained of power. Now it is powerful again, but the Canmores are no more. It is for a new royal line to take up the crown-and Scotland's sovereignty-and to remake the land. My father opened the path before me, and I will follow it to its end. I intend that the Comyns shall be the new royal line, not Bruce!”
As Arnault watched and listened, his deeper instincts had begun to sense a subtle change in the atmosphere of the church. All at once, Comyn raised his left hand and clenched it into a fist.
Bruce gave a gasp and staggered, knees threatening to buckle under him. Eyes wide with outraged astonishment, he struggled to keep himself upright, but his movements were ponderous, as if his limbs were weighed down with leaden chains-to Comyn's gloating satisfaction. His right hand had arrested in mid-reach toward his dirk, the fingers flexing, straining to gain it, but with no success.
”This is only a taste of my true resources,” Comyn murmured, his voice mocking. ”Did you think that the trappings of your infant religion could save you?”
Comyn's voice had changed, and Arnault sensed that it was no longer the Lord of Badenoch who was speaking. Instead, he had become merely the mouthpiece of whatever malevolent ent.i.ty to which he had submitted himself, host to a monstrous spirit that was now making its presence manifest.
So close to the source of the ensorcellment, Bruce could not seem to summon sufficient strength of will to break free of that magically induced torpor. By fractions of inches, he managed to curl his fingers around the hilt of his dirk, but he could not seem to free it from its sheath. Comyn, by contrast, calmly drew his own weapon and lifted its point toward Bruce in lazy menace, his left fist still clenching at the power that held Bruce helpless.
”Your spirit is strong,” said the sibilant voice that issued from Comyn's lips, ”but it will avail you nothing!”
Bruce tried to speak, but managed only a strangled croak. The fingers of his free hand dragged at his throat, as if trying to tear away an invisible noose.
Flinging caution to the winds, Arnault rose up from his hiding place in the pulpit and thrust the first two fingers of his right hand toward Comyn like a blade, invoking the protection of the archangel Michael to repel the powers of darkness.
”Michael of the battles, s.h.i.+eld your servant!”
His voice made Comyn whirl to confront him, vague recognition flaring in his haunted eyes, and the face contorted in a grimace of hatred as eldritch power spat and sparked on the blade he turned toward Arnault.
In that brief instant of distraction, the spell that held Bruce wavered, and he wrenched his dirk free of its sheath to plunge it to the hilt in Comyn's breast. An unholy shriek burst from Comyn's throat, surely shrill enough to etch gla.s.s, but Bruce grabbed at a handful of tunic and held the weapon hard in place with all his strength. Comyn's spine arched at an acute, unnatural angle, blood bubbling from his gaping mouth.
Then, all at once, his legs gave way and he collapsed to the floor, leaving the dagger behind in Bruce's fist.
Blood was rapidly soaking the front of Comyn's tunic. His limbs twitched spasmodically, but other than that, he was not moving. Staggering back a pace, Bruce kicked Comyn's dirk out of reach and pressed his free hand to his brow, shuddering, evidently unharmed but still partially dazed by the sorcerous a.s.sault to which he had been subjected, apparently unaware how Arnault's intervention had given him the edge necessary to save himself.
”G.o.d, what have I done?” Arnault heard him whisper.
Staring at his own b.l.o.o.d.y weapon, just beginning to comprehend the sacrilege he had just committed-to slay Comyn before G.o.d's altar-Bruce turned and staggered back up the nave. As he burst from the church door, the b.l.o.o.d.y dirk still in his fist, out of the shocked babble of confusion rose a harsh cry of ”Murderer!”
The accusation came from Comyn's uncle Robert. Silhouetted in the doorway, he charged at Bruce with sword in hand and murderous intent. Still fighting to shake off the lingering effects of ensorcellment, Bruce parried clumsily and twisted enough for Robert Comyn's blade to glance off the links of his mail s.h.i.+rt.
With a strangled cry, Christopher Seton darted in to Bruce's defense, cutting down Comyn's uncle with a lethal sword stroke to the head.
”What has happened?” one of Bruce's brothers cried, as Comyn and Bruce supporters surged closer.
”I think me that I have killed the Red Comyn,” Bruce rasped, dazedly displaying his b.l.o.o.d.y weapon.
”You think?” said Roger de Kirkpatrick. ”Then, I make sure!” he cried, breaking for the altar steps where John Comyn lay sprawled.
The import of their exchange evoked a roar of outrage from the rest of the Comyns, who tried to stampede after Kirkpatrick. But Arnault was faster, darting between them to wrench Kirkpatrick around by an arm and wordlessly bellow as he swept his sword before the Comyns and they stumbled back from the arc of the blade.
”Hold!” he cried, in the voice he had used to command many a green recruit in the Holy Land. ”Can you not see that devilish spirits have been at work here? Will you add to their mischief by slaying each other in this holy place?” he demanded, thrusting Kirkpatrick from him, in the direction of Bruce.
The Comyns shrank back uncertainly, torn between the desire for revenge and the need to carry news of Bruce's deed back to their stronghold at Dalswinton, their initial bravado diminished less by Arnault's words than by the realization that they were clearly outnumbered. At a muttered word from the senior of the survivors, the Comyn party began edging cautiously toward the door. Torquil interposed to prevent the Bruces from following them.
From a nearby window, Neil Bruce and one of Seton's brothers watched the Comyns gather up the body of Comyn's uncle and retreat toward the gate, where their horses were waiting. As they began to mount up, the rest of Bruce's supporters cl.u.s.tered around him. Bruce was pale, but gave his friends a rea.s.suring nod, with a special word of grat.i.tude for Christopher Seton, whose swift response had saved him from Robert Comyn's vengeance.
<script>