Katherine Kurtz.

Knights Templar.

Temple and the Crown.

To Ken Fraser, recently retired as Head Research Librarian at St. Andrews University, with profound thanks for putting your encyclopedic knowledge of Scottish history, culture, and folklore at our disposal.

We couldn't have managed without you!

1306: A Historical Foreword

IN THE SPRING OF 1306, THE CROWN OF SCOTLAND HAD but recently been vested-precariously, to be sure-in Robert Bruce. He was the survivor in a dynastic wrangle among no less than thirteen contenders for the crown brie?y intended for a child called Margaret, commonly known as the Maid of Norway, granddaughter and only direct heir of the last Canmore King of Scots.

On the strength of a childhood betrothal agreed in treaty but never consummated by even a casual meeting of the two princ.i.p.als-the Maid and the Lord Edward of Caernarvon, son and heir of England's Edward Plantagenet- King Edward had used the premature death of the little Maid as license to adjudicate the Scottish succession, with an eye toward at last absorbing young Margaret's kingdom into the realm of England. A client king, John Balliol, had been chosen from among the contending thirteen-deposed but three years later, when he dared to a.s.sert Scotland's independence.

Then had come Sir William Wallace, hailed by some as an Uncrowned King-of common blood, but one whose life and death had given new hope to the Scottish nation and enabled the present king to come forth: Robert Bruce, in whose veins, by way of distaff, also ran the ancient blood of the Canmore kings.

Not only had Bruce at last risen up against King Edward, but against inhuman forces that might have charted an altogether different course for Scotland.

Behind and at the bedrock of this struggle had been an ancient and powerfull artifact called the Stone of Destiny, or sometimes the Stone of Scone, for the place where it was kept: mystical palladium, sacred altar-stone, relic of Jacob and of the saintly Columba-the high seat of Scotland's high kings since the time of Kenneth MacAlpin, nearly five hundred years before. Earmarked for seizure by King Edward's men, its power waning, the true Stone had been spirited away and a lesser copy left in its place, saved through the agencies of men who wore white robes: tonsured servants of the gentle Saint Columba, who followed a form of Christianity predating the supremacy of Roman pontiffs and practices, and crusader Knights of the Temple of Jerusalem, whose Inner Circle guarded secrets harking back to the wisdom of King Solomon himself, who had built that Temple in the land where Christ later walked.

Upheld by these seemingly disparate allies, the Uncrowned King had laid down his life and so reempowered the Stone-the Stone upon which Robert Bruce subsequently had undergone a mystical enthronement that had wedded him to the Land by ancient Celtic rite, bracketed between two public inaugurations upon a lesser throne.*

*Related in the novel The Temple and the Stone.

But being crowned king and actually being king were not necessarily one and the same, as Robert Bruce would soon learn. And not only Edward of England would be seeking to destroy him, as the deed became known. Enemies of the Temple had long been searching for ways to bring it down. Discovery of the Knights' involvement in Scotland's struggle for freedom was likely to place both the Temple and Scotland in grave danger. and also Scotland's new king.

Chapter One.

Late April, 1306.

"G.o.d SAVE KING ROBERT! HAIL, THE BRUCE, KING OF Scots!" The roof beams of the smoky great hall in Castle Cupar reverberated with the cheers, and shadows leapt on the lime-washed walls, as men rose from their benches and lifted their tankards in honor of their liege lord, who occupied the seat of honor at the high table.

Robert Bruce, lately lord of Annandale and only a month ago acclaimed as King of Scots, returned the salutes of his followers with a ?ourish of his wine cup. As the cheering subsided to good-natured banter, he rose and turned to his host, seated at his right hand: the venerable and ever-faithful Robert Wishart, Bishop of Glasgow. Gradually, a semblance of order settled on the hall.

"My lord Bishop," Bruce declared, bowing slightly to Wishart and pitching his volume so that all could hear him. "I present my compliments again on your newly discovered skills as a man of war. In wresting this keep from English hands, you once again have proved yourself one of Scotland's staunchest champions."

The men signi?ed their endors.e.m.e.nt of this declaration by thumping cups and beefy hands against tabletops, and Wishart's gray head bowed in grat.i.tude. For two tumultuous decades and more, since well before the time of John Balliol, he had spearheaded the legal and political battle to secure Scotland's independence. Now owning more than seventy years, he had only lately taken to arms in the ?eld, with a degree of daring and initiative that would have done credit to a man half his age.

He gave a droll grin to the Bruce. "While you're handing out commendations, Sire, let us not neglect Edward of England, who so thoughtfully provided us with the means to breach the castle's defenses."

A roar of laughter rose from the hall, for the bishop's statement was precisely the truth. Having received a grant of English timber to repair the bell tower of his cathedral, Wishart had ordered the wood converted into siege engines, which he then had turned to less pastoral employment than the ringing of bells.

Following a successful a.s.sault on the fortress at Kirkintilloch, the bishop had marched next on Castle Cupar, in the ancient kingdom of Fife, whose English garrison had offered only token resistance before surrendering, utterly daunted by the prospect of heavy bombardment.

"Well said, Bishop," said Christopher Seton, Bruce's close friend and brother-in-law. "But it doesnae hurt to have a pair of engineering experts on hand, either." He cast an admiring glance at the two white-clad men seated beyond Bruce and Wishart. "It seems to me that the good Sir Arnault and Sir Torquil also merit no small vote of thanks for their parts in our recent success."

A murmur of approbation rippled through the hall as all eyes shifted toward the two men named, both of them bearded and white-clad in a room full of mostly clean-shaven men dressed in the harness of war.

The elder of the pair merely smiled and inclined his head in acknowledgment, but the younger, a Scot called Torquil Lennox, grinned self-consciously as he raked a big-boned hand through short-cropped red hair going gray. Though the two customarily went about in well-worn leathers and mail like those around them, tonight they had donned the distinctive white livery of their true vocations as Knights of the Temple of Jerusalem, in honor of the day's success. The crusader crosses splayed across the left shoulders of their white mantles much resembled splashes of blood.

"Och, anybody can build a catapult," Torquil said with a self-deprecating shrug. "Besides, Brother Arnault and I have been doing it for a long time."

"That's as may be," Bruce allowed, "but we haven't. Once you've built a siege engine, the trick is getting it to hit what you aim for. For that, we are much indebted to your crusading expertise-both of you."

Arnault de Saint Clair, the second Templar, chuckled good-naturedly. He also made light of their contribution, his manner much at variance with the pride and hauteur displayed by some of his more worldly Templar brethren.

"If the truth be known, my own experience lies more with trebuchets," he said easily. Though ?uent in Scots and English and half a dozen other languages less useful on this island, he had never lost the accent of his native Brittany. "Fortunately, the principles of range-?nding are pretty much the same. Consider any debt handsomely offset by Bishop Wishart's hospitality-and by the luxury of having a roof over our heads for tonight!"

"I thought you Templars made a virtue of sleeping rough under the sky," said Thomas Bruce, one of the king's younger brothers.

"Aye, but it doesn't rain much in Palestine," Torquil pointed out, "and never the way it rains here." He grinned. "Why do you think I joined the Temple?"

Hearty laughter greeted this rejoinder, followed by another round of toasts in honor of the king's Templar allies, and then more toasts to the future they all were seeking for an independent Scotland.

At least a start had been made in the four weeks since Bruce's inauguration as King of Scots, duly af?rmed by a Ponti?cal high Ma.s.s on Palm Sunday. Immediately thereafter, he had dispatched messengers throughout Scotland, proclaiming his kingship and calling upon all loyal Scots to pledge fealty to their new liege. He and a fast-mounted escort had followed in their wake, defying the rough weather of uncertain spring to make a royal progress through the northerly reaches of his kingdom.

With so much ground to cover, and the speed of an English response uncertain, the company had been obliged to press forward at a grueling pace, rarely halting anywhere for more than one night. But the hardships of the journey had been well repaid by the loyalty of the townsmen and villagers who ?ocked to greet their new king. Now, after a brief sojourn in Aberdeen, Bruce was on his way south again, to rendezvous with friends and allies and make preparations for the inevitable reaction from the south, once Edward of England fully comprehended what they had done.

Tonight, however, the bloodless taking of Cupar Castle had left everyone in a festive mood, and the ?relit hall buzzed with eager banter as heaped platters of beef, bread, and cheese, and pitchers of ale pa.s.sed from hand to hand. Farther down the table, another of Bruce's allies, Sir John of Cambo, sampled the claret just poured for him by a kitchen boy and lifted his cup in the direction of Bishop Wishart.

"My lord Bishop," he called, "there canna be doubt that you have got the better part of the bargain, by letting the English garrison march away unmolested in exchange for leaving us the castle stores. I can a.s.sure ye that the castle cellars are particularly ?ne! I say we set ourselves the task of doing justice to this n.o.ble vintage, and drink to Scotland's freedom!"

This toast was heartily seconded by all, amid much whooping and further pounding of ?sts on tables. But neither Bruce nor those closest to him had lost sight of the very real dif?culties that still lay ahead.

"Well enough, to speak of Scotland's freedom," the new king said to Arnault, Torquil, and the others close around him, as the uproar subsided to convivial converse and serious feasting resumed. "But we need time to consolidate our position. I had hoped Edward would be dead before I made my move. G.o.d willing, he will prove too weak to make us much opposition-and the son is not half the man his father is.

But we cannot count on that."

"Indeed, not," said Bishop Wishart. "I'll not be surprised if we hear that the news has killed him-but if it has not, we must be prepared."

"Aye, the English won't stay away forever," said Edward Bruce, the king's eldest brother. "We've done well in securing the support of the folk of Aberdeenshire-we mostly control the approaches to the Firth of Clyde, in the west. But as long as the south remains divided, we're vulnerable there. It will be dif?cult to defend the border."

"Best not forget about Galloway, either," Seton observed sourly, "and that's well within our borders.

Despite everything we've done, that district is still a hotbed of support for the Balliols and the Comyns."

Mutters of agreement bracketed Bruce from either side, sprung from varying degrees of knowledge of the true extent of danger from that quarter. Both families had been powerful contenders for the crown he lately had taken up. John Balliol, head of the Balliol clan, had managed to wear the crown of Scotland for only two years before being stripped of his t.i.tular sovereignty by Edward of England. Though he had since retired to comfortable exile in France, vowing never to return, some of his adherents still cherished the illusion that he-or his son-might one day be induced to a change of heart.

The Comyn link was even more dangerous, and came, in part, from the marriage of one of Balliol's sisters to the father of the Comyn slain by Bruce a few months before at Dumfries Abbey-a Comyn whose alliance with infernal forces had nearly cost Bruce his life that day. As it was little known that the Comyns, father and son, had dabbled in the black arts, or that they had based their bid for Scotland's crown on an alliance with certain demonic ent.i.ties out of Scotland's pagan past, the majority of Comyn supporters simply viewed the killing, within the supposed sanctuary of a church, as sacrilegious murder.

No matter that it had actually been self-defense, and Bruce had been absolved of the killing within days.

Comyn loyalty would always back the a.s.sertion that Bruce, and not John Comyn, had been the aggressor, violating sanctuary; and absolution by a bishop known to be a Bruce supporter was hardly to be accepted. Small wonder that Galloway, long loyal to Comyn interests, continued to be recalcitrant.

"Aye, that's true enough," Bruce replied, toying with his cup, perhaps recalling some of the circ.u.mstances of that killing-for without Arnault and Torquil, his Templar protectors, he himself might have been killed instead of Comyn. "The Gallovidians can be a shortsighted bunch, with old loyalties and old grudges. An alliance with King Edward is always a possibility, especially if they stand to pro?t from it. I've little doubt but that they'd throw in their lot with the devil himself, if he offered them my head on a platter!"

His glance at Arnault and Torquil con?rmed that he was well aware of the deeper implications for the few who knew the true story.

"It's a pity we had to dismantle the castles at Dumfries and Ayr," said Sir Simon Fraser, who was not among those few. "A strong garrison in either place would have put some protection at our backs."

"Aye, but we haven't the men to spare," Torquil pointed out. "And we daren't leave anything behind that might be useful to our enemies."

"Even if it would be useful to us?" Fraser replied.

"No, because we might not be able to hold it, while we're spread so thin," Arnault said. "Believe me, Brother Torquil and I have seen such tactics used to good effect against us in the Holy Land. After the fall of Acre, in 1291, Sultan al-Ashraf's troops swept up and down the Syrian coastline, leveling orchards and villas and wrecking irrigation systems. When they were done, nothing remained to support an enemy invasion force-for that's how we were regarded. The tactic has enabled them to hold Syria uncontested for the better part of ?fteen years."

"So there you have it," Bruce said briskly. "Any fortress we can't defend must be pulled down; any supplies we can't carry with us must be spoiled. The point is to make the English feel so unwelcome that they'll give up the ?ght and go home."

"Amen to that!" Bishop Wishart signaled his steward to bring more wine. "And now, let us do justice to this very excellent fare provided by the English!"

Again, servants pa.s.sed along the tables with ewers of wine and platters of food. Torquil, when he had let his cup be ?lled again, stretched across to spear a gobbet of succulent spring lamb with the point of his dirk.

"How long d'you think it's been since we've seen food like this?" he asked. "Or until we see such again?"

"Too long," Arnault replied. He tore off a chunk from a loaf of fresh bread and dunked it in gravy before stuf?ng it into his mouth.

"If we ate this way too often," Torquil responded, around a mouthful of lamb, "we'd probably get fat and sloppy. Probably best that we're vowed to poverty. But if we were allowed to have any personal wealth, I'd give it all to know what's in King Edward's mind right now."

"Aye," Arnault agreed, "one of the hardest parts of this job is waiting, not knowing when the enemy will strike next, or where."

"D'you think it would make any difference to him, if he knew what's really at stake?" Torquil asked.

"Edward? I very much doubt it." Arnault drank from his cup as his gray eyes roamed the hall.

"Remember that there are good reasons Edward Plantagenet is known as the Hammer of the Scots-and he recognizes no authority but his own. Maybe not even G.o.d's.

"As for what we do," he added in a lower tone, "sometimes I'm not even sure I understand it. How would you even begin to explain something like the Fifth Temple to a man like Edward?"

Torquil shook his head, returning his attention to the meat on his dirk, and both men lapsed into companionable silence amid the buzz and bustle of the feast. The truth was that on this isle of Britain, far darker forces were at work than paid any mind to the wranglings of English or Scottish kings- and the prize was no mere earthly kingdom, but a realm that dealt with the life and death of souls.

Safeguarding that realm was the hidden purpose of Arnault and Torquil and others like them, even though the Temple's avowed public purpose was to win back the Holy Land and safeguard the pilgrim places where G.o.d once had walked. Within the Templar Order there existed a hidden inner order called le Cercle, heir to ancient wisdom turned always toward the betterment of humanity's spiritual condition. Its members had worked toward that purpose from the time of the Order's inception, secretly guiding certain of the Order's work toward a higher purpose than merely retaining a Christian foothold in the Holy Land.

But if the Holy Land once had represented the perfect symbol for the physical and spiritual battle?eld whereon the greater struggle of Light against Darkness was being played out, that seemed no longer to be the case. The ?rst intimations of this shift in focus had begun to emerge in the past several decades, as it became clear that physically restoring the Temple of Jerusalem-rebuilding the so-called Fourth Temple, in succession to the Third Temple destroyed by t.i.tus in A.D. 70-was not likely to be possible in the foreseeable future.

So a new home for the Order must be found-and a new battle?eld for the forces of Light against Darkness. The superiors of the external Temple had their plans for the greater Order, by means of a new Templar state hopefully to be carved out in France, but the Inner Temple must make its own arrangements-and not only in the physical plane. By means of prayer and meditation and the employment of diverse divinatory gifts sometimes accessible to various of their number, the leaders of le Cercle had been vouchsafed certain signs and portents pointing to Scotland as the Order's new home-and the future location of a spiritual Fifth Temple, which would anchor the forces of Light in Scottish soil.

Arnault had been instrumental in discerning these signs; and despite the increasing opposition of dark forces that would have prevented it, he and Torquil had been key players in achieving the ?rst step toward that goal: reviving the ancient power of the Stone of Destiny, focus of the Celtic sovereignty of Scotland, which power had since been vested in Robert Bruce as rightful King of Scots.

Now in progress was the task of making Bruce's kingship effective in practice as well as in law and in declaration, recognized outside Scotland as well as within. Failure would mean the end of Scottish ident.i.ty and a foothold for the forces of Darkness. But if Bruce succeeded in winning the battle for Scotland's freedom, it was le Cercle's intention that the Stone of Destiny, the Palladium of Scotland, would become both a physical and spiritual cornerstone for a new Fifth Temple enshrining the mystical wisdom of King Solomon himself-a temple not built with human hands.

The clatter of fresh logs being piled on the ?re jarred Arnault from his contemplation, and sent waves of heat billowing across the room. Sti?ing a yawn, Arnault gave himself a shake and pushed his half-empty wine cup to one side.

"I think I'll step outside for a few minutes," he said to Torquil, pivoting to swing a leg back over the bench where they sat. "If I don't get a breath of fresh air, I'm apt to nod off and fall face?rst into my trencher-though G.o.d knows when we'll be this warm again."

"I'll join you," Torquil replied, for the combination of warmth and wine was also making him heavy-lidded.

But before either one of them could rise, a muf?ed disturbance from outside the hall heralded the appearance of a guard from the outer baillie. Murmured speculation grew and followed the man as he threaded his way toward the head of the hall, subsiding as Bruce signed for silence and nodded for the man to speak.

"Two travelers at the gate, Your Grace, with news," the sentry reported. "Templars," he added, with a glance at the two seated near the king.

"Then, fetch them in!" the king ordered.

The sentry bowed himself out, leaving a murmur of tense expectancy. When he returned a few moments later, two closely muf?ed ?gures accompanied him, shaking back the hoods from mud-bedraggled dark mantles that parted as they walked to reveal the conspicuous white livery of the Order of the Temple.

Both Arnault and Torquil stiffened as the two approached, settling back onto their bench, for the elder of the pair was Fr?re Luc de Brabant, their le Cercle counterpart from the main Scottish preceptory of Balantrodoch, south of Edinburgh: a wiry, silver-haired man in his still-vigorous sixties. Bearded like the younger man who accompanied him, Luc looked tense and somewhat preoccupied as his blue gaze swept the room, evidently searching out Arnault and Torquil, for he looked visibly relieved as he spotted them. His younger companion was one of Arnault's Scottish cousins-Aubrey Saint Clair, still very junior in his service to the Temple and to le Cercle-who bore himself like a man braced for a possibly hostile reception.

"I can't say I like the look of this," Arnault muttered, with an apprehensive glance aside at Torquil-for only a matter of some urgency would have brought the aging Luc in person, all the way from Balantrodoch.

Silence settled on the hall as the newcomers made their way toward the high table, Luc in the lead, and inclined their heads to the king, who signed for them to speak.

"I fear that the news we bring is not good, Sire," Luc said, with another glance at Arnault and Torquil.

"Would you rather hear it in private?"

A ?icker of misgiving showed in the Bruce's eyes, but his gaze was steely. "Secrecy won't soften the blow," he said. "No, speak out where all can hear."

"As you wish." Luc squared his shoulders, half-turning to address the a.s.sembly as well.

"I regret to report that an English invasion is on its way," he announced in a carrying voice. "By all accounts, King Edward has put not one, but two armies in the ?eld. The eastern contingent, under command of Sir Henry Percy, is expected to arrive at Berwick within the week, with an estimated six hundred horse and two thousand infantry."

As a murmur of consternation rippled through the hall, he paused to glance back at the king, whose face was set like stone.

"Continue," Bruce said quietly.

"The second army, in the west, is commanded by the Earl of Pembroke," Luc said.

A ?attened silence followed this announcement, and Arnault and Torquil exchanged troubled glances. No one present needed reminding that Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, had a personal axe to grind.

Half cousin to the English king, he was married to the sister of the slain John Comyn. A few of Bruce's supporters had been witness to his killing of Comyn at Dumfries, but only the four Templars knew the truth of what had provoked the killing. Young Aubrey, standing close to Luc's shoulder and a good hand taller, had not been present, but by his scowl, Arnault could make a good guess as to what was probably on the younger man's mind, imagination doubtless having embroidered the account he had heard.

"Fortunately," Arnault murmured, leaning a little closer to Torquil, "I very much doubt that Pembroke knows anything about Comyn's. shall we say 'darker' involvements. As Comyn's brother-in-law, however, he does have a family obligation to avenge his death. This is apt to put a personal edge to the coming campaign."

"Pembroke himself is not the worst of it," Luc warned, before Arnault could say more. "It is what we all have been dreading. Not content with naming a commander known for his ruthlessness, Edward has given the order to burn, slay, and raise dragon."