"I don't know," Arnault repeated. "I'm hoping that one of le Cercle will be able to help us discover what it means- because I've been thinking on it for weeks, and I haven't. Clearly, the implications are far wider than what the Temple is currently facing."

Luc nodded, thoughtful. "Perhaps it does refer to the Fifth Temple, then."

"Perhaps it does," Arnault agreed, "because the original Temple long ago ceased to exist-and it may be that the Order, as we know it, cannot survive this. But the Fifth Temple can and must survive-here, in Scotland.

"And it will be an Invisible Temple, one not made with human hands-for I fear the time is coming, all too soon, when no Templar will be free to ride openly in any land, if the pope truly has abandoned us. But if our public face must vanish, there is still much we can do from behind a hidden face."

"I pray that you are right," Luc whispered, though his tone had taken on some of Arnault's earlier despondence. He sighed. "Have you any idea where to begin? For I confess that I do not."

Arnault nodded. "Only a beginning of an idea, but at least it is that. We have a little time, here in Scotland. We begin by presenting this to what remains of le Cercle."

"That will take time-to gather them together," Luc pointed out. "G.o.d knows, some of them may be beyond gathering, at least in this life."

"We must pray that your fears will prove unfounded," Arnault said determinedly. "And in the meantime, we will do what we can to preserve or at least prolong the existence of the external Temple. If I can induce some of the brethren here to come away with me, I will take them with me to Bruce-and leave them with him, while I take Torquil with me to Dunkeld to meet with Christoph and the others."

"I concur," Luc said. "What would you have me do?"

"Try to persuade the others here to ?ee into the Western Isles," Arnault replied. "There is a place in Argyll, beyond Loch Fyne, inland from Loch Crinan. Nearby, there are monks of the foundation of Iona.

Abbot Fingon told me of it. It would make a secluded staging area, for gathering together the scattering remnants of the Order, such as we can. Some from the Paris Temple will have been told to go there; others will join them, in the coming months and even years that it may take, to build ourselves a place in this land."

"I doubt that many will go," Luc said. "At least not yet. They will not believe that the Holy Father has abandoned us."

"Then we must pray that G.o.d will be merciful, when they are called before the rulers of this world,"

Arnault replied.

The following night, he rode out of Balantrodoch accompanied by three other knights: the only ones who were willing to put off their Templar habits and adopt the life of outlaws, for the others still were convinced that no harm could come to the Order, and that the pope would protect them.

Grigor Murray was one of those who joined Arnault, for he had witnessed the Paris riots and the growing uneasiness sparked by the visit of the king and his minister to the Paris Temple. With him came two of the younger knights, Mingo MacDonald and Douglas Lumsden. Arnault got to know them well in the next four months-for that was how long it took them to ?nd Bruce.

During that winter, the second since Bruce's crowning as King of Scots, the fortunes of the Scottish cause vacillated between incipient disaster and occasional small strides forward. Because the new King Edward was mostly occupied with domestic unrest regarding his favorite, Piers Gaveston, Bruce was left free to concentrate on his own domestic opponents-especially the Macdougalls, the Comyns, and Argyll.

In autumn of the previous year, having made signi?cant inroads into Galloway in the south, the rebel king had blazed northward-on the offensive, for the ?rst time since seizing the crown-leading his army over the mountains in a bold move that enabled him to out?ank an expeditionary force under John Macdougall of Lorn. In October Bruce had seized and dismantled the Comyn-held stronghold of Inverlochy. From there, he and his followers had gone on to raze the castle of Inverness.

The town of Nairn subsequently had been burned to the ground, and Urquhart Castle on Loch Ness had been reduced to rubble. Intimidated by Bruce's show of force, the Earl of Ross had sued for a truce, leaving the English defense of the northland resting on the shoulders of John Comyn of Buchan, Sir David of Brechin, and Sir John de Moubray.

By the spring of 1308, the king and his army had been in the ?eld for most of a year. At the outset, his Templar guardians' primary concern had been to safeguard him on the battle?eld, but the greatest single threat against Bruce's life had taken the form of a debilitating illness that had struck him without warning at Christmas. What had seemed at ?rst to be nothing more serious than an attack of rheum had escalated to a raging fever that had come and gone for months, leaving the king exhausted and sometimes bringing on attacks of delirium. Encamped in the snowy wilds, with scant food and no medicine to hand, the king's devoted friends could only watch and pray over their stricken lord. Only now was it beginning to seem that he was past serious danger.

Late May of 1308 found the king and his company bivouacked on a hillside within sight of the town of Inverurie. Torquil and Aubrey had been out on a scouting foray for several hours, and returned to the ?re near Bruce's tent as one of the camp cooks appeared with a steaming bowl, c.o.c.king his head in their direction.

"Brother Torquil, do ye think ye might persuade His Grace to eat sommat?" he asked.

"Is that soup you've got there?" Torquil replied. "Good! If he doesn't eat it, I will." He grinned. "Thank you, Andrew. I'll take it in to him and see if he's awake."

The king's tent was no larger than those of his men, but that made it easier to keep some semblance of warmth inside. While Aubrey waited nearby, Torquil quietly drew aside the tattered sheepskin that served as a door and ducked inside.

Bruce lay huddled under his mantle and several more heaps of tartan, on a crude pallet padded with bracken and several sheepskins. By the scant light of a tiny ?re burning in a pot in the center of the tent, the king's face was a gaunt mask of jutting bones. His sunken lids were closed, but when Torquil would have withdrawn, he stirred and opened his eyes.

"What is it?" he murmured.

Torquil presented the bowl with a ?ourish, crouching down beside the pallet.

"Andrew of Dunskellie presents his compliments, Sire, and craves your opinion of his cooking."

"To see if it's ?t for the rest of the army?" Bruce replied, doing his best to smile as he struggled to a sitting position against the saddle he was using for a pillow. "All right, let's have it."

Torquil sat with him as he ate, and did his best to answer the king's questions concerning camp morale.

"The sooner we can retake the initiative again, the better," Bruce commented between spoonfuls of soup.

"I much regret that I've been such a burden, these past weeks. Have you heard further regarding the trouble with your Order?"

Torquil found himself glancing away, more concerned than he dared show the king.

"Little news reaches us here, Sire," he said noncommittally. "It-doesn't look promising."

"And you would prefer to be about their rescue rather than playing nursemaid to a sick king," Bruce guessed.

Torquil shrugged and did his best to smile. "We all have our parts to play, Sire. Sometimes, those parts seem somewhat indirect. But I do know that the Temple's fortunes are linked to those of Scotland-so serving Scotland's king also serves the Temple. And as a Scot and as a man, I am honored and glad to serve my king."

"You Templars are the diplomats," Bruce said with a smile-and took another spoonful of soup. Nor did he pursue the matter.

Torquil gave him further commentary on provisioning status and the condition of men and beasts in Bruce's army-anything to avoid admitting how anxious he felt on behalf of the Temple. But the Temple's plight was never far from his mind.

He knew that in France, at least, the formerly respected Knights of the Order had become universal objects of persecution. The last report from Brother Luc had detailed a grim catalog of imprisonments and interrogations. Hardest of all to bear had been the news that Arnault's young cousin Jauffre probably had been captured while a.s.sisting Christoph's escape. In addition to Christoph, he knew that Father Bertrand likewise was safely in Scotland, but he had not yet had word regarding any of the other members of le Cercle, including Arnault himself.

The possibility that Arnault, too, had been taken did not bear thinking about; for Torquil lately had learned that King Philip, to lend credence to his claim that he was acting in accordance with the law, had invoked the services of Guillaume de Paris, the papal inquisitor of France, who had authorized the use of torture in the examination of all Templar prisoners. Under duress, many of the brethren had confessed to crimes that included heresy, blasphemy, and s.e.xual perversion: charges carefully calculated to stir the lurid imagination of a credulous populace, now rapidly becoming convinced of the Templars' guilt. Torquil knew that Arnault would never confess to such a pack of lies-but the consequences of not confessing were too terrible to contemplate.

Accordingly, Torquil had forced himself to concentrate on the more immediate dangers attendant on Bruce and his rebel army. While they waited for the king to recover, they had remained constantly on the move, deep in hostile territory, striving to keep their distance from the enemy. A clash at Huntly, a fortnight earlier, had ended indecisively after an exchange of arrow ?re. The men were growing weary of being constantly on the defensive, and Torquil was no exception.

Bruce ?nished his soup and returned the bowl, lying back with a sigh.

"Please convey my compliments to Andrew of Dunskellie," he told Torquil wryly. "Never have I tasted a ?ner dandelion stew."

Before Torquil could frame a ?tting response, there came an indistinct outcry from the edge of the encampment. Even as Bruce signed for Torquil to investigate, the Templar was on his feet and on the move.

Aubrey had already gone to meet two other members of the king's entourage, approaching with a wounded sentry supported between them.

"The Earl of Buchan!" the sentry gasped. "He's headed this way, with nigh on a thousand men!"

A babble of voices told Torquil that the news was already spreading through the camp, that men were rousing, arming, mounting up.

"Men of Carrick," he bellowed, taking command of the immediate situation. "Fetch the king's litter!

Lindsay, get your men mounted. The infantry will march with the king while we provide the rear-"

"No!"

The unexpected voice cut incisively through the hubbub of alarm. Whirling round, Torquil was astonished to see Bruce himself standing at the entrance to his tent, supporting himself against the tent pole. Though he was thin as a wraith, the king's gray eyes burned with determination as he addressed his army with a volume that belied his haggard appearance.

"No, we'll not ?ee," Bruce went on. "For weeks we've had to let ourselves be harried like foxes before the hounds. The time has come to turn and show our teeth. Forget all thought of ?ight. Today we have a kingdom to win!"

This declaration drew a ragged cheer from those close by, but as the cheer spread rapidly through the ranks, Torquil shouldered his way to Bruce's side.

"Sire." he began. "Robert-"

"Don't tell me what I shouldn't do," the king replied. "I've had my ?ll of hiding and retreating, and caution has served me ill." He drew a fortifying breath as he hauled himself straighter. "Forward is the only path left to me, and neither fear nor sickness will make me falter. Now, help me arm, and someone-fetch my horse! We're going to give Buchan the fright of his life!"

A wol?sh grin trans?gured his gaunt features as he made this declaration, and a ragged cheer went up from some of his men. Standing close to the king, Torquil could feel the force of the royal will emanating from him like heat from a bon?re. Excitement spread through the rebel ranks like wild?re as cavalry and infantry began forming up in ranks, hefting their weapons with purposeful intent.

Bruce stood ?rm as Torquil and an esquire buckled him into his hauberk and set his helmet on his head, once again crowned with a royal circlet. Robert Boyd fetched the king's sword, and offered it on bended knee. As Bruce's ?ngers closed around the hilt, his blue eyes lit with a possessive ferocity.

"Where is Brother Aubrey?" he demanded. "I want him as my standard-bearer today! And Torquil-there you are! When we ride out, I want you at my other side. When we three lead the a.s.sault on our enemies, I promise you they will not stand against us! They probably think I'm dead," he added in an aside, "or at least at death's door."

"Not today, I think!" Torquil said with a chuckle, as horses were brought up-for Bruce's conviction was contagious. "Today we ride for Scotland!"

John Comyn, Earl of Buchan, c.o.c.ked an ear at the sounds of a clash of arms ahead, reining back his steed as he turned to his standard-bearer.

"Excellent!" he said. "It appears our vanguard has engaged the enemy!"

A stir of antic.i.p.ation raced through the front ranks of Buchan's heavy cavalry, ranged to either side. To his rear, the spearmen, archers, and clan levies started jostling forward, craning and murmuring as they pressed up behind the ranks of their betters, eager to catch a glimpse of the action.

Just then, a knot of hors.e.m.e.n burst from the trees ahead, bolting down the slope at breakneck speed, with weapons trailing and plaids ?apping. Buchan took a second look and reined short with a curse.

"h.e.l.l's teeth, those are Brechin's men!"

The ?rst of the onrushing riders converged in a sweaty lather of panic.

"Run for it!" one of them shouted.

Buchan grabbed for the bridle of the ?rst rider he could reach and wrenched the horse around to a standstill.

"Who the devil are you running from, ye glaikit coward?" he bellowed.

"The Bruce!" the rider cried, white-eyed, trying to rip his reins free. "He's no nearer dying than you are! It was all a trick to lure us in. And now he's after us, thirsting for blood!"

Buchan's consternation caused him to release his grip.

"That's impossible!" he snapped, though he could feel the blood draining from his face.

"There he is now!" someone yelled, pointing behind them. "With a host o' Hieland de'ils at his back!"

Even as the cry rang out, the trees disgorged a hostile line of hors.e.m.e.n with weapons at the ready, Bruce himself conspicuous at their center. Mounted on a s.h.a.ggy Highland-bred steed, sword in hand, he was ?anked by two knights as tall as himself, with the battle standards of Saint Andrew and the royal lion of the Scottish crown snapping above their heads.

Bruce and his mounted entourage were backed by a formidable array of infantry, all of them apparently ?red by their king's presence. To the horror of Buchan and his men, the a.s.sembled spearmen and archers formed up smartly into disciplined ranks behind their mounted captains, weapons at the ready.

"For Scotland and liberty!" Bruce roared-and gave the signal to charge.

The rebel host poured down the slope like a great wave, smashing into the ranks of Buchan's men with the penetrating force of a battering ram. Men and horses foundered and fell, impaled on thickets of spears, their screams mingling with the sound of battle cries.

Buchan's knights wheeled this way and that, vainly trying to defend themselves, but the rebels swarmed about them like wasps, giving no quarter. As the ?ghting grew heavier, a wail went up from the ranks of the defenders.

"There's no stopping the Bruce! Even death can't hinder him!"

Buchan's battle began to buckle.

"Stand your ground, d.a.m.n you!" the earl cried.

But panic had already taken over, as Buchan's men began scattering, ?eeing. His cavalry galloped off at full speed while his footmen were cut down from behind as they tripped and stumbled over one another in their ?ight. Bruce and his cavalry made ruthless pursuit, spreading carnage through the broken ranks of the enemy.

"On!" Bruce cried hoa.r.s.ely. "Let's make an end of it, here!"

He tried to urge his own horse forward, but his strength was fast fading, and he suddenly paled and drooped over the pommel of his saddle.

"That's enough!" Torquil insisted, reaching over to yank in the reins of Bruce's horse. "The day is won!"

Together, he and Aubrey escorted the king from the ?eld, leaving Boyd and Lindsay and Bruce's other lieutenants to mop up. Back amid the deserted con?nes of the camp, the two Templars helped Bruce from the saddle, Aubrey supporting him while Torquil removed his helmet. The king was grinning raggedly, though a feverish sweat had broken out on his brow.

"So, do you still think we should have retreated through the woods?" he asked.

Torquil answered with a slow shake of his head, but there was admiration in his voice. "You risk yourself too readily, Sire."

"So you say." Bruce managed a labored chuckle as Aubrey helped him sit. "I say that no medicine would so soon have cured me as this chance to show our enemies our mettle."

He drew a deep, somewhat labored breath. "Now that we've put Comyn and his cronies to ?ight, we'll harry this country into submission so that I may never be troubled from this quarter again. I must have the Highlands secure at my back."

"So we must, Sire," Torquil murmured. "I only pray you do not push yourself too far or too fast."

Chapter Twenty-six.

May-June, 1308 ONLY WHEN HE WAS a.s.sURED BY HIS SCOUTS AND COMmanders that Buchan's army was utterly routed and his own position secured did Bruce agree to return to his sickbed.

Even from there, however, he continued to issue orders before taking a grudging nap. By evening he was up again, shakily doing the rounds of the camp?res and warmly commending his men for their bravery, offering encouragement to those who were tired and far from their families.

To those who had been wounded he gave special attention, bringing comfort and fort.i.tude by his presence. Casualties, happily, had been few, testifying to the completeness of the rebel victory.

It was after dark when a sudden cry from one of the sentries announced the approach of several armed riders. The newcomers were quickly surrounded by bristling guards, anxious of the safety of their king even here in the midst of his camp, but the lead rider reined in submissively and slowly dismounted as Aubrey pushed his way to the fore on the king's behalf, to investigate.