Father Bertrand was already there, along with Christoph and Gaspar himself.

"Fortunately, I think that one vault will do," Breville was saying to Oliver, as they followed Anselmo into the room. "I won't say that he brought all of the treasure of the East, but it's certainly more than I'd hoped. I wish I could have persuaded him to heed the Holy Father's instructions."

"So do I." Oliver gestured toward chairs around the conference table, where Gaspar and the others had risen at their arrival. Behind them, Oliver closed the door and locked it, standing then with his back against it as the others took seats.

"Our brother informs me that the Grand Master has brought treasure to the value of more than 150,000 golden ducats," he said to the room at large. His voice was low, clipped. "Gold, plate, specie."

"Indeed," Gaspar said. "And where does this h.o.a.rd come from? And why?"

"It comes from our treasuries at Lima.s.sol, Famagusta, and Nicosia," Anselmo replied. "I fear he cleaned them out-practically everything, down to the last silver gros."

"That explains where," Gaspar said. "And the 'Why'?"

"He's convinced he can persuade the pope to declare a new crusade," Anselmo said. "If so, the a.s.sets will be more secure here in France than they would be on Cyprus. It would be the Order's contribution to the war effort."

Gaspar was shaking his head. Christoph looked troubled.

"The king would like that," Gaspar said, "but the prospect will get little support from the common folk. I expect you'll have heard about the riots here in Paris. Any trouble on the road from Ma.r.s.eilles?"

"Nothing serious," Anselmo replied, "but it's obvious that our popularity has declined drastically since my last visit. Villagers give us black looks, and townspeople jeer as we go past. In one village, they even threw stones. All the individual episodes were trivial enough, on their own, but the change in public att.i.tude gives me cause for concern."

"Aye, if we plan to move our spiritual focus out of France," said Breville, "I'd say we'd best do it sooner rather than later."

Father Anselmo glanced at Arnault. "That would be your cue, I think, Brother Arnault. I mean no criticism, but the rumors we've been hearing about Scotland are not encouraging. The gossip on the road is that Scotland's war of independence is over, and Edward of England's victory secure. Is it?"

"Certainly not!" Arnault said indignantly. "I'll concede that Scotland's fortunes are somewhat in eclipse-and it's true that the rebel forces have been defeated and dispersed. It's even true that, for the present, Edward's lieutenants hold sway over the countryside. But don't believe for an instant that Scotland's hopes for freedom are dashed, so long as Robert Bruce still lives!"

"Then, Bruce is alive?"

"Aye, he was at last report-and I think I would know if he were not. Brother Torquil is with him, along with one of our probationers: Brother Aubrey Saint Clair, a distant cousin of mine. I gather from Brother Luc's reports that they took Bruce into hiding on Iona for the winter, under the protection of the brethren of Saint Columba. During that time, his supporters hopefully will have been marshaling the support to launch another campaign."

"Can they launch another campaign?" Anselmo asked.

"Physically-yes, I believe so," Arnault replied. "But when I said Bruce was under the protection of the Columban brothers, I was referring to spiritual as well as physical dangers." Both newcomers looked at him sharply.

"Whatever you may have heard about the Scots, make no mistake," he said. "The reverses Bruce has suffered weren't owing to poor strategy or even bad luck. Torquil believes that someone, probably in the English camp, has been attempting to get at Bruce by means of sorcery."

"Merciful Lord!" Anselmo exclaimed, as Bertrand silently shook his head. Breville's face had gone very still.

"Explain," he said softly. Something in Breville's tone made Arnault pause to moisten his lips before answering.

"You'll have been told about the trouble with the Comyns, several years ago." Breville nodded. "This was different. Torquil smuggled a report to us, a few months after it happened. There was a skirmish with the English at a place called Dail Righ. At the height of the ?ghting, while Torquil was trying to defend Bruce, something supernatural came hurtling out of the sky. Its glance stopped him in his tracks-drained the strength from his legs-but he was able to drive the monster away. He avers it was no beast of nature, but a ?end in the form of a huge black bird."

Breville's eyes narrowed. "A black bird?"

"That was how Torquil described it, yes. He said it was nearly the size of a pony, with a long serpentine neck and a toothed bill-something like a cross between a serpent and a great black swan."

"Nom de Dieu!" Breville's eyes brie?y closed as he whispered the expletive, and the others looked at him askance.

"You know something of this apparition?" Gaspar asked.

"Or one like it," Breville replied. "I wish I did not. In Spain, there is an accursed brotherhood known as los Caballeros del Cisne Negro-the Knights of the Black Swan. Such a creature is the physical manifestation of a demon that serves them. They have secret strongholds scattered throughout Spain and the Mediterranean. I did not think it possible that they had sown their polluted seed so far a?eld."

Gaspar exchanged a glance with Arnault, then said, "Brother Luc wrote to us last summer, relaying a report from the Master of England. It seems that the English king produced a pair of sculpted ebony swans at the feast following the knighting of his heir, and swore upon those swans, not to rest until he had won his war against the Scots-as did nearly very other knight present."

"Madre de Dios," Breville murmured, gone ashen. "You do not think."

"That King Edward is a black magician?" Christoph shook his head. "No. In any case, he is dying, so it would make little difference if he were. Last summer, when he left London, his strength was only suf?cient to take him as far north as Carlisle. Luc expects news of his death within a matter of weeks.

Besides, the swans may be mere coincidence. On the other hand, it is possible that someone close to him. But, tell us more of these Spanish knights."

Breville nodded. "They are followers of a cult who claim to have inherited the secret lore of an Egyptian adept called Zosimos of Panopolis, but what they practice is a perversion even of that. They are led by a council of masters calling themselves the Decuria, and believe that alchemy offers man eternal life without recourse to G.o.d. They contend that men can attain physical perfection, and therefore immortality, through the transforming in?uence of the philosophers' stone."

"Salvation without sacrifice," Father Anselmo said, nodding.

"As I said, they are a perversion, a blasphemy," Breville agreed. "Their teachings and practices are rooted in the pride of Lucifer, whom they take as their patron. They predate us by several decades, but also arose in the Holy Land. They perceive us as a threat to their ascendancy. More than once, they have attempted to undermine the integrity of the Order from within. Mine was the task of foiling one of those attempts, many years ago, when one of the Decuria in?ltrated the Order and brought the caput propheticus back to Jerusalem as a trophy of war."

Oliver exhaled through his teeth with a hissing sound, and Arnault pursed his lips. Even before his initiation into the ranks of le Cercle, he had heard whispered rumors concerning a strange head-shaped relic said to have been recovered from an accursed city somewhere in the Arabian desert.

Some tales identi?ed it as the skull of one of the Nephilim, a strange race of beings alluded to in the Book of Genesis. Others claimed the relic was actually the mummi?ed head of John the Baptist, perversely made into an idol of veneration. But all the versions agreed that destructive af?nities a.s.sociated with this "head" had begun immediately to exert their in?uence over the Order, with the loss of Jerusalem mere months after the head's acquisition.

The tales surrounding the caput had been linked to other rumors as well, suggesting the existence of a renegade a.s.sa.s.sin sect calling itself the Brethren of the Cygnet-or of the Signet, for they were said to wear a ring inscribed with a swan on the seal.

Could it be, Arnault wondered, that the Brethren of the Signet and Breville's Decuria shared a common allegiance with the forces of Darkness? It was not inconceivable that such a sect might have attracted recruits from the West. And if they had divined the importance of an independent Scotland as the site of the Fifth Temple, they would have ample reason to see this thwarted.

By Gaspar's next comment, he had been following a very similar line of reasoning.

"This tale suggests a worrisome possible connection," he said. "Robert Bruce bears upon his shoulders not only the fate of Scottish sovereignty, but also the fate of the Temple. Whether it is Knights of the Black Swan or the Brethren of the Cygnet or your Decuria makes little difference. What matters is that, somehow, forces of Darkness have become aware of our interest in Scotland, and are attempting to thwart us."

"The signs are clear enough," Breville said. "I have little doubt we are dealing with the Decuria-and if so, no one in le Cercle knows better than I, what we are up against. Let me attend to this, Christoph. I have dealt with these vile sorcerers off and on for the better part of ?fteen years. Whatever guise they may have adopted, they won't be able to hide from me."

"And let me go back to Bruce!" Arnault added. "Torquil needs to know about this, and he shouldn't have to deal with it alone."

Christoph shook his head. "I cannot spare you both. There remain a great many questions regarding the Grand Master's plans-and the Holy Father's intentions, and the king's. No, for now you must stay with us here in Paris, Arnault. I need your counsel and your skills." He turned his gaze on Breville. "But you I give leave to take whatever a.s.sistance you require, and endeavor to discover the ident.i.ty of our enemy. We must know what and whom we are ?ghting."

Breville gave a curt nod, a predatory gleam already kindling behind his dark eyes. "Consider it settled. I will take my leave as soon as the necessary arrangements can be made."

"What are we to do in the meantime?" Oliver asked. "We have the greatest Treasures of the Order housed here in Paris. Can we not invoke their powers for our own protection?"

Christoph shook his head regretfully. "The Treasures aren't meant to be used as weapons. To use them thus would be an abuse of the trust vested in us. No, whatever is to become of the Order, our ?rst priority must be to safeguard the Treasures for the sake of future generations. Nor can we justify taking any action that might cause harm to the ignorant and the innocent."

"Then, protect the ignorant and the innocent," Arnault said. "Protect Bruce! Without him, and the refuge of the Fifth Temple, I don't see how we can guard the Treasures for the sake of future generations!"

Christoph sighed. "I understand what you're saying-and believe me, I want to ?nd a way to do what you ask. But let us never forget that we are sworn to the service of G.o.d, in a war that will never end until the world itself ceases to be. We have always been ready to give our lives in our Master's cause. Henceforth we may be asked to sacri?ce our very ident.i.ty in a greater cause." He allowed himself a faint, ironic smile.

"Believe me, I have no more wish to die than the next man. Give me time to think and pray about this, Arnault. Let us all pray about it."

A re?ective silence followed. Arnault was the ?rst to break it.

"If you will not let me go, then we must ?nd a way to apprise Luc and Torquil regarding the Knights of the Black Swan," he said. "Perhaps it will help them put a name and a face to the enemy that has been pursuing them."

"The warning must be subtle," Breville said. "The Decuria will have many resources at their disposal.

Whatever form your warning takes, be aware that if it falls into the wrong hands, it could a.s.sist them in their dark work."

"Then, we dare not commit any word to writing," Christoph said. "No cipher would suf?ce to baf?e our foes. Nor can we trust to word of mouth. There are ways to sift a man's knowledge, with or without his consent. No," he concluded, "we must devise something new."

Chapter Seventeen.

Spring, 1307.

A NARROW SEA STRAIT SEPARATES RATHLIN ISLAND FROM the northern coast of Ireland.

Allied to the earldom of Ulster, the island's population of farmers and ?shermen were accustomed to minding their own business. But they were not oblivious to the plight of their Scottish neighbors, nor were they resigned to English ships encroaching on their ?shing waters. Thus they raised no objections when, early in the spring of 1307, their island became the mustering point for Scottish rebels poised to renew their country's bid for freedom. In the dawn of a morning late in February, keen winds buffeted the north sh.o.r.e of the island, frothing up cascades of foam with each incoming wave. Standing on the shingle, Robert Bruce narrowed his gaze against the morning light as he surveyed the array of galleys riding at anchor beyond the sh.o.r.e break.

"They make a brave sight, don't they?" he remarked to Torquil Lennox.

"Aye, they do," Torquil agreed. "Your friends have exerted themselves n.o.bly."

"It remains for us to seek a ?tting victory that will crown their efforts," Bruce replied. "But the ultimate prize will be to see the full restoration of Scotland's sovereignty."

The ?eet already had begun to muster when Bruce arrived a few days before. The contacts pursued by his brothers over the winter months had reaped a swift and generous response, not only from his staunch supporters in Scotland, but also from Ireland, on behalf of Bruce's Irish-born wife.

The single strongest contingent had been furnished by Christiana MacRuiaridh of Mar, hailed by her own clan folk as "Lady of the Isles." The MacDonalds of Argyll likewise had sent both men and ships, as had Malcolm MacQuillan, the lord of Kintyre. As a result, Bruce now had thirty-three galleys at his disposal and enough seasoned ?ghting men to renew the campaign that had foundered so close to extinction at Dail Righ.

The moment of departure was rapidly approaching. In the ?elds adjoining the seafront, the men were breaking camp. Most of the army's weapons and supplies had already been loaded aboard the waiting galleys. The ships' masters and their crews were standing by, ready to raise anchor and sail at the king's command.

The timing could hardly be better. Edward Plantagenet was lying bedridden at Lanercost Priory, a sick man dependent on letters to acquaint him with what was going on north of the Border. The Earl of Pembroke might have taken up at least some of the resulting slack, but his ef?ciency was being hampered by the Prince of Wales, attached to his command, whose love of tournaments had taught him little of actual warfare. Not for the ?rst time, Torquil found himself thinking how matters would fare far easier with the Scots, once a new king was on the English throne-and wishing for that day. G.o.d willing, it would not be long in coming.

Crunching footsteps on the shingle behind them put an end to Torquil's musings.

"Sire," Aubrey announced, "they're saying that we have about two hours' grace before the tide turns."

"Well enough," the king replied. "Call our captains together. I want a ?nal word with them before we embark."

The conference took place on the beach before the king's tent. Bruce wasted no time getting down to business.

"Gentlemen, today marks a new beginning," he began without preamble. "Today we set out in earnest to recover the freedom which Edward of England has stolen.

"The English are masters of war," he went on, scanning the keen faces. "To them it is a time-honored game-and no one knows better how to exploit the rules. If we try to ?ght them on their own terms, we are doomed to lose. So we are going to play the game a new way, by rules of our own making."

A stir rippled through the crowd. Even Bruce's veterans craned forward, battle-worn faces lighting with new interest.

"So, how are we to wage war our way?" the king asked in ringing tones. "To begin with, we must renounce the empty vanities of chivalry that the English n.o.bility hold so dear. Let the Prince of Wales and his lisping favorites sport their banners and parade their horses, and vie with one another for pride of place. We, for our part, will not be ashamed to adopt tactics more common to brigands-tricks, sleights, and diversions. Only by these means can we hope to achieve our ends."

A rumble of tentative agreement answered him. Bruce waited for it to die down.

"We lack the numbers to ?ght a pitched set battle," he stated ?atly. "We always have. So what I propose to do instead is to divide our forces into three separate raiding parties. Our ?rst objective will be to hara.s.s and confuse the enemy. If these operations are successful, we can expect greater gains to follow."

He went on to outline the plan in greater detail. Torquil was already familiar with its features, having helped Bruce formulate his strategy. An advance guard was to go ash.o.r.e on the Mull of Kintyre, and from there make inroads into Arran, taking every opportunity to gather supplies and information along the way. Stephen Boyd would command this party, a.s.sisted by the talented and loyal James Douglas.

A larger raiding party of eighteen galleys was to be commanded jointly by the king's two brothers, Thomas and Alexander. Their objective was to make for Galloway, there to engage and subdue the MacDoualls and McCans.

The largest landing force, led by the king himself, would sail for Carrick, formerly the territorial demesne of the Bruce family. If all went well, the three companies would rendezvous at Turnberry Point.

The plan met with hopeful approval, and the captains dispersed to their ships. Soon sails were being raised to catch the wind, and oars were trimmed to plow the waves. Shouts of farewells rang out over the water as the three ?eets dispersed like migratory birds, unerringly homeward bound.

Far to the east, an overnight change in the weather cast a pall of cloud over the Scottish lowlands. Snow was falling lightly as a well-armed party of hors.e.m.e.n approached the gates of English-occupied Berwick Castle. A sentry on duty at the main gate came to attention as the party's obvious leader drew rein before the interwoven bars of the heavy iron yett that secured the outer barbican.

"I am Bartholeme de Challon," the rider announced. "I have permission of King Edward to question a prisoner in your charge."

From the pouch at his belt, Bartholeme produced a folded square of parchment secured with a lozenge of sealing wax. Recognizing the imprint of the royal privy seal, the sentry handed it to an of?cer, who likewise glanced at the seal, then signaled his men to unbar the port.

"Sorry to delay you, m'lord."

Bartholeme merely nodded acceptance of his due, reclaiming his doc.u.ment and riding through the barbican arch with the air of a man who has every right to the deference the seal had produced. Amid the party that followed him, the sight of Mercurius riding pillion behind one of his retainers, wearing a miniature replica of his master's ?ghting harness, drew glances of good-natured amus.e.m.e.nt from the guards posted on the adjoining parapets.

"Be so good as to inform your superior that I must speak with him at once," Bartholeme said to the guard who came to take his horse, as he swung down from the saddle.

Sir John Botetourt was in his private apartment, morosely nursing a cold and something hot in a cup between his two hands. Heat from a pair of charcoal braziers, added to the glow from the hearth?re, gave the room the air of a gla.s.s-blower's forge. Sir John looked up as Bartholeme entered, Mercurius tagging at his heels, and sti?ed a sneeze. One bandaged leg was propped up on a stool, and there was a walking stick leaned against the raised hearth.

"This d.a.m.nable climate!" he complained through a soggy linen handkerchief. "The Scots are welcome to it, so far as I'm concerned! Which prisoner did you wish to see?"

"Isabel, Countess of Buchan," Bartholeme replied.

Sir John registered a rheumy blink. "You must know that she is being held under terms of-signi?cant duress. No one is allowed to communicate with her save myself and the two women who look after her needs."

"You will ?nd that an exception has been made," Bartholeme said mildly.

Smiling faintly, as if in apology, he presented his doc.u.ment for the other man's inspection. Sir John permitted himself a noncommittal grunt, but set his cup aside and broke the seal, dabbing at his nose while he read the order. His eyebrows rose.

"So it has," he observed on a note of mild envy. "You evidently occupy a high place in the king's esteem.

Very well, my lord." He laid the doc.u.ment aside and picked up his stick. "Give me a moment to make ready, and I will take you to see her."

A short delay ensued while Sir John retired to don additional layers of clothing. In his absence, Mercurius did little to disguise his impatience.

"Master, I hope we haven't come all this way for nothing," he grumbled under his breath.

"If the woman knows anything," Bartholeme said crisply, "we'll have it out of her. If not-" He shrugged.