"Perhaps she will at least provide us with a bit of sport."

Sir John rejoined them, heavily muf?ed in a ?eece-lined mantle, knitted gloves, and a fur cap.

Accompanied by two guards, he led them limping along the length of an adjoining pa.s.sage and up a spiraling mural stair. A stout oak guard port at the top gave access to the citadel's rooftop battlement. An icy blast of wind greeted the party as they emerged into the open air.

Suspended in a salient angle of the northwest tower wall, just at the level of the crenellated parapet, was a large cage made of latticed timber and iron, its top fashioned in the shape of an iron crown. In one corner of the cage, tightly huddled under some skins and what appeared to be a heavy blanket, Bartholeme could just make out a ?gure that looked scarcely human, let alone female.

He smiled as he saw her: Isabel of Buchan, estranged wife of John Comyn, Earl of Buchan. She had dared to place a crown on the head of Robert Bruce-and Bartholeme thought what delicious irony it was, that Edward should have seen ?t to have her cage surmounted by a mocking replica of that crown.

Seeing her miserable state, it also occurred to him to wonder whether her husband shared any of the proclivities of his cousin, the John Comyn slain by Bruce-though that would do her little good. A curious family, the Comyns, though Red John had been inept, in the end. But the once-fair Isabel-if she knew anything-perhaps could redeem the failure of her husband's kinsman, whether or not she willed it.

Snuf?ing into his handkerchief, Sir John approached the cage and rattled his stick between the iron bars.

"Wake up in there!" he ordered.

The face that slowly lifted to look at them from wind-reddened eyes was pinched with cold, and looked like that of an old woman. Dingy blond hair streamed down her back in matted elf locks, and her clothes were those she had been wearing at the time of her capture several months before, now grossly stained with travel and hard usage. The blanket she drew closer around her shoulders to supplement the meager warmth of a tattered traveling cloak had once been worn by a horse.

"Ah, you are home," Sir John said mockingly. "Here's someone come to talk to you, my ?ne lady."

Isabel lifted her chin and glared back at him, managing to look de?ant.

"He may talk as long and as freely as he pleases," she said hoa.r.s.ely, shivering, "but I have nothing to say in return."

"You would be well advised to keep a civil tongue," Sir John warned her.

"Or what?" came the spirited response. "Will you deprive me of my maintenance? Now, that would, indeed, be a serious threat, seeing the luxury in which I am kept by the gracious indulgence of Edward Longshanks."

Bartholeme, meanwhile, had amused himself by inspecting the cage and its appurtenances. The enclosure was perhaps eight feet on a side, roofed with hides, but the open sides were merely barred. A tiny, partially screened cubicle in one corner gave off the stench of a privy. The only other meager concessions to human need were a very small charcoal brazier and a wooden bench to serve as either bed or seat.

"She is a tiresome hag, as you can see," Sir John said, turning to Bartholeme with a snif?e. "Shall I call my men to secure her?"

"I think there will be no need," Bartholeme said lightly.

"Nor would I dream of imposing further, by asking you to remain out of doors at the risk of your health.

I'm sure the lady and I will have a very agreeable visit."

Sir John gave a mocking snort, but showed no disposition to linger.

"As you wish. I shall leave guards posted at the bottom of the stair, should you require a.s.sistance. They will show you back to my chambers when you are ?nished."

With these parting words, he retired indoors. Mercurius took up a station against the door that closed behind him. Only when Bartholeme had satis?ed himself that there was no one else but the dwarf within earshot did he address himself to the wary prisoner.

"I am here to trade information," he informed her.

"I have nothing to exchange," she said.

"That may or may not be true," Bartholeme allowed. "It has been some months since you were taken into custody. I should think you must be starved for news. Are you not the least bit curious to know the current state of Scottish affairs?"

"I have no interest in listening to a pack of lies."

"You may judge what I am about to say for yourself," Bartholeme said. "Perhaps this will serve as a token of truth."

Slipping his right hand into the breast of his doublet, he produced the brooch taken by John of Lorn.

Isabel went pale at the sight of it.

"Perhaps you have seen this ornament somewhere before?" he inquired. "Do feel free to take a closer look."

Clasping her horse blanket more tightly around her shoulders, Isabel reluctantly drew nearer and bent her gaze to his outstretched palm. As she did so, Bartholeme's free hand whisked from under his cloak and darted between the bars, gloved ?ngers crushing a tiny gla.s.s vial mere inches from her face.

She recoiled with a gasp as a plume of black steam ?lled her eyes and nose. Her gaunt features went blank, and her eyes glazed, the pupils going wide. The blanket slipped unheeded from her shoulders, to fall in an angular heap at her feet.

Con?dent that she had gotten a full dose of the drug, Bartholeme dropped the remains of the vial to the stone ?oor and ground it to powder under his boot, then executed a compelling gesture of command before her dilated eyes, binding her will even as he captured her gaze.

"You will listen and obey me," he murmured, with a sidelong glance at Mercurius. "Nod to show me that you understand."

Isabel's disheveled head slowly bobbed up and down. He could sense a part of her will struggling to break free, but he knew it was fruitless.

"Give me your hands," he ordered.

Isabel complied with the stiffness of a puppet, not ?inching as Bartholeme raked the barb of the brooch across her right palm and drew blood, then smeared the blood across the crystal in the center. Smiling thinly, he then placed the bloodied brooch in her wounded hand and closed her ?ngers over it.

"Name the man to whom this ornament belongs," he commanded. His grasp exerted cruel pressure on hers, where it enclosed the brooch.

Isabel drew a shuddering breath, her lips moving in a rasping whisper.

"King Robert Bruce."

"What cause have you to call him king?"

"I witnessed his invest.i.ture."

"Describe this invest.i.ture. Describe your part in it."

"I conducted him to his enthronement seat, as is my family's right. I placed the crown upon his head."

A feral gleam kindled in Bartholeme's eyes. "This enthronement seat-describe it to me."

The countess responded slowly, like a dull-witted child.

"It was a wooden chair with a high back. It was draped and canopied with crimson velvet."

"Was this chair not designed to provide a setting for the Stone of Destiny?"

A frown of perplexity creased the countess's brow. "I do not know."

"There was no stone in it?" Bartholeme asked. "Something brought out of hiding?"

"No stone," she mumbled.

Bartholeme traded glances with Mercurius.

"Where is it, then?" he demanded. "Where is the Stone?"

A look of desolation ?ickered across her face. "Away down in London," she whispered. "Longshanks stole it, years ago."

Mercurius uttered a muf?ed exclamation of disgust, but Bartholeme silenced him with a gesture.

"Come, Lady Isabel, I'm sure you can give me a better answer than that," he chided.

The woman's white lips twitched uncertainly, but she did not speak. Smiling pitilessly, Bartholeme increased his pressure on her hand, so that the sharp angles of the brooch dug into her ?esh. A breathless whimper of pain whispered from between Isabel's chapped lips.

"I suggest that you think again," Bartholeme said softly.

Tears were welling in her eyes, starting to runnel down her dirty face, but she said nothing. At increasing pressure on her trapped hand, she moaned and swayed, but still failed to ?nd her tongue. With a hiss of contempt, Bartholeme relaxed his grip on her hand, but did not release her.

"So much for nothing, Master," Mercurius said. "Let's be off."

"I'm not ?nished yet," Bartholeme replied. "Were she not in this cage, I might in?ict more traditional a.s.saults upon her virtue, but I have a far more effective weapon." He drew her closer to the bars of the cage. "She may not know it, but she played the role of high priestess when she placed the crown on Bruce's head. Perhaps she can penetrate the veil that shields him from our sight."

With his teeth he pulled the glove from his left hand, exposing his black swan ring. With almost caressing precision he touched its onyx seal between the woman's eyebrows, keeping its demon in check, but letting her know the terror of its presence.

"Listen and heed me, Isabel," he whispered softly, seductively. "You hold in your hand the king's token. It knows him. and you know him. Your blood can bridge the distance that separates you, washing away the barriers of s.p.a.ce and time.

"Yield to it, Isabel. Yield, and do my bidding. Be one with him. and see with his eyes."

Her surrender came almost immediately. Her drooping frame slowly stiffened, and her head lifted. Jerkily at ?rst, she turned her ensorceled face this way and that, like a hound seeking an elusive scent. Then, abruptly, her gaze sharpened to a distant image, and her expression grew keen.

"Good.You have found him," Bartholeme observed, nodding. "Tell me what you see, Isabel."

Isabel drew a short breath. Words tumbled disjointedly from her lips.

". ship heaves and tosses. the sh.o.r.e draws near. my family's ancient seat.I will not be denied."

"Where are you?" Bartholeme prompted.

"Turn-Turnberry." came the whispered response. Then abruptly her tone stiffened.

"I have returned to ?ght! I will not be driven into hiding again!"

With this she gave a little cry and started to go limp, her grip on the brooch relaxing. As Bartholeme fumbled to keep the ornament from falling from her hand and possibly through the barred ?oor of the cage, his control slipping, she crumpled unconscious at his feet. With a grimace of frustration, he retrieved the brooch and returned it to his belt pouch, turning to glance at Mercurius.

"We'll get no more from her," he said, with a disdainful glance back at the unconscious Isabel. "But at least we now know that Bruce has come out of hiding at last. And where else would he go, but Carrick-the homeland of his birth?" Smiling, he stroked his signet ring, calming the demon within. "I should say that this revelation amply repays the trouble we went through to get it!"

Chapter Eighteen.

Spring, 1307 BARTHOLEME DECIDED NOT TO LEAVE BERWICK THAT night, for his newfound information suggested several good measures to which he might apply it. The most ambitious of them required privacy as well as certain preparations, though he had no doubt that the former could be procured through the of?ces of the good Sir John. And it would be expedient to send immediate word to King Edward-though if his own plans succeeded, that precaution would have been rendered irrelevant. Before leaving the tower roof, he carefully wiped every trace of blood from the Lady Isabel's hand with a square of linen. He then took a knife from his boot and cut off a lock of her hair, folding this carefully in the linen square before tucking both items into his belt pouch, along with the brooch.

"Now to arrange for a place to work," he said to Mercurius, as they started down the turnepike stair.

An hour later, he had secured accommodations for the night, penned a missive to King Edward, and enlisted the services of a reliable messenger on Sir John's fastest horse to deliver it. Controlling a smile, he watched from a window overlooking the castle yard as the courier clattered out the barbican gate, already at speed.

Mercurius, standing beside him, murmured, "You know, of course, Master, that by the time King Edward's troops arrive in the area, Bruce will have moved on."

"That need not concern us," Bartholeme said with a thin smile. "The important point is that he ?nally has ventured out from wherever he had gone to ground, these past few months. Before tomorrow's dawn, our Templar friends will deeply repent having allowed him to do so."

They had retired to the quarters allotted them. Sir John had dutifully extended an invitation to join him at table, but had evidenced no sign of disappointment when his guest declined, pleading fatigue; the state of his cold made it likely that he was more than grateful for the chance of an early night. Mercurius barred the door behind them before turning to his master, for it was clear that Bartholeme had other intentions than recovery from his "fatigue."

"What is your will, Messire?" he asked.

Bartholeme's eyes shone like burnished steel as he turned from the window, twisting the swan signet on his ?nger.

"Fetch me my case," he said softly. "Tonight we summon up the Cygnus Hermetis. I intend to send it to Bruce, to rip his living heart from his breast. In the moment of his death, his very soul will be laid bare to me-before I offer it up to the Lords of Darkness-and I will know all he knows, from the name of his favorite hound to the whereabouts of the Stone of Destiny."

A malevolent grin creased the dwarf's goblin face, but he said nothing as he fetched the small traveling chest containing his master's alchemical paraphernalia. He watched with keen interest as Bartholeme carefully selected several items from the chest's contents.

By way of preparation, Bartholeme traced an alchemical sigil on the mantel above the ?re, with a drawing stick of tallow and ashes. Directing Mercurius to build up the ?re, he then made a measured circuit of the room, sketching further symbols of warding on each of the four walls. A low-voiced incantation activated the wards, sealing the room from the inside. A deft series of mystical gestures sent ?ames roaring up the chimney.

Satis?ed that his preparations were adequate, Bartholeme returned to the ?reside and rapidly stripped to the waist, exposing a dark, zoomorphic tattoo at the base of his breastbone. Then, signaling Mercurius to stand clear, he muttered a further invocation and ?ung the drawing stick into the ?re.

The blaze leapt higher, with an accompanying billow of heat into the room. Bathed in its sorcerous glare, Bartholeme plucked up a parchment packet of alchemical salts and cast that into the ?ames. As it burned, ?aring up in hues of emerald, violet, and indigo, he added the severed lock of Isabel's hair-though not its linen wrap-which the ?re consumed in a hungry ?ash and the sickening stench of burning hair.

The heart of the ritual was approaching. Kneeling, Bartholeme used a second tallow stick to sketch an inverted pentagram on the ?oor in front of the hearth, its points as wide as the span of a man's arms. In its center he laid out the bloodied linen from Isabel's hand, and placed thereon the brooch of Lorn and his own swan signet ring. Around these, encompa.s.sing the ?ve points of the pentagram, he sprinkled a circular trail of coa.r.s.e black powder-and then sat well back.

At his gesture of command, a spark from the ?re ignited the powder with a bang, de?ning a circle of ?re and sending acrid gray smoke roiling into the room. Drawing a deep breath of the smoke-laden air, Bartholeme lifted his hands in a suppliant's posture and whispered the ?nal words of an ancient rite of summoning.

A spot of darkness appeared within the ring of ?re. A mere speck at ?rst, the darkness quickly blossomed into the hulking shape of a great, long-necked bird with wings of shadow. Mantall, it glared around the room with ruby-glowing eyes, its saw-toothed bill gnashing hungrily. The slow surge of its pinions caused the ?ames to gutter.

"Hail, Cygnus Hermetis, bird of infernal night!" Bartholeme whispered, abasing himself before the creature. "Hail, Hawk of Lucifer, Harrier of Shadows! Behold my oblation, an offering of blood and ash.

Feed and be glutted!"

As he opened his hands toward the blood-streaked linen at the center of the pentagram, the creature c.o.c.ked a baleful eye, then lowered its great head. The linen vanished with a searing crackle and a hint of blood-stench, leaving the brooch and the ring behind. With a harsh laugh, Bartholeme scuttled forward on his knees, fearless now, and picked up the brooch, cupping it in both hands to cradle it against the tattoo on his chest.

"Hail, Swan of Darkness, I give you him who owned this object: Robert Bruce, so-called King of Scots!"

he declared. "You have tasted the body and blood of his priestess. Now ?nd the king himself, and feast upon his heart!"

Blinking its ruby eyes, the Cygnus spread its shadow-wings and, with a great beat of its pinions, shot up the chimney in a gale of sulfurous ash. The ?ames roared after it, changing brie?y from phosph.o.r.escent green to deepest blood-crimson.