"The Judaic scholar Flegetanis ?rst established the connection whilst deciphering a stone tablet from the Arabian Desert. The inscriptions belonged to a lost codicil to the Book of Genesis, concerning the war in Heaven. According to this codicil, Lucifer himself tore one of the foundation stones from the throne of G.o.d and cast it to earth as a gift to mankind. Since then, all those who would become initiates in the mysteries of alchemy take Lucifer as their patron. His name, of course, means Light-Bearer, though it is not the light spoken of by Christians."

He eyed his two guests expectantly, waiting in the breathless silence. Finally, Lorn spoke, clearing his throat and then choosing his words with care.

"You do not frighten me, Lord Bartholeme. Many folk of my blood have been at war with Christianity since the time of Columba. I owe no allegiance to any G.o.d who demands that a man must bow the knee in abject servility to those who have done him injury. Nor do I turn the other cheek."

"Nor I!" Abernethy agreed.

"Then you have nothing to lose by embracing the mysteries of alchemy," Bartholeme said. "And there is a very great deal to gain. If you are willing, I can begin your instruction this very night."

Lorn and Abernethy traded somewhat wary glances, then looked again at Bartholeme. "How?" Lorn demanded.

Smiling thinly, Bartholeme produced from beneath his sleeve a stiletto, its hilt curiously wrought in the form of a bird. The eye was set with a cabochon ruby, and the thin, serpentine tail disappeared into the weapon's narrow blade, the tip of which he set against the ?nger that wore the black swan signet, applying increasing pressure.

"Do you ?nd it disturbing-the thought of binding a pact with blood?" he whispered.

In that instant the blade punctured his ?ngertip, blood suddenly welling up like a garnet-glittering jewel, in echo of the bird's eye. Both Scots ?inched, tight-jawed as Bartholeme calmly held his wounded ?nger over the remaining wine in his cup, squeezing out several drops.

"Know that blood is the essence of life," he told them, "the via sanguinis, by which power is conveyed."

It was also, though he did not say it, the offering by which to appease the demon he lately had installed in the ring he now pulled from his ?nger and deposited in the cup with a murmured cantrip. It was a lesser demon than the one that served Nogaret, but like most demons, it demanded oblations of blood in exchange for favors granted. Sometimes a mere taste was suf?cient; payment for greater favors required a greater contribution. And for large favors, only a sacri?ce of life-blood would suf?ce-if not a surrogate, either animal or human, then sometimes the alchemist himself.

"You dare much," Lorn said, as Bartholeme laid the dagger beside the cup and wiped his wounded ?nger on a clean cloth.

"I seek a rich prize," Bartholeme countered. "Will you dare as much?"

Without speaking, Lorn picked up the blade and deftly p.r.i.c.ked his own ?ngertip, adding his blood to the cup. Abernethy followed suit, if with somewhat less enthusiasm. When he had done so, Bartholeme took up the cup, brie?y swirled the contents, the while forming his magical intent in his mind, then lifted it to his lips, glancing pointedly at each of his companions before drinking deeply.

"Now, ?nish it between you," he said, pushing it between them on the table.

Lorn's hand was steady as he also drank, but Abernethy looked nervous, and pa.s.sed the back of his hand across his mouth when he had handed the empty cup back to the Frenchman. Bartholeme was smiling faintly as he retrieved his ring.

"Now are we bound to one another in the sight of Lucifer, the Light-Bearer," he informed his new recruits, as he wiped the ring on the blood-spotted cloth-which he would keep, for their blood gave him power over them, if needed. Their blood also bound them to the demon, which might prove even more useful.

"On the day when we cast down the warriors of G.o.d," he went on, "you shall share in the rewards that alchemy can bestow."

Chapter Five.

May, 1306.

THE NEAREST PORT FROM WHICH ARNAULT DE SAINT CLAIR might take ship for France was the town of Berwick-on-Tweed, situated astride the border that separated Scotland and England, and long in dispute. Early in the summer of 1306, once again occupied by the English, it was the staging area for yet another war taking shape between the two kingdoms, being both the mustering point for the Earl of Pembroke's invasion force and its main provisioning depot. Arnault had traveled there by way of Balantrodoch, the Order's main preceptory in Scotland. There he had parted company with Luc de Brabant and acquired the company of a staid and pious brother knight called Grigor Murray, who was charged with the duty to deliver revenues from some of the Order's Scottish properties to the Paris treasury. At Balantrodoch, Arnault also lingered long enough to obtain a travel permit from Fr?re Walter de Clifton, the Master of Scotland. The papers were intended to facilitate procurement of the English travel doc.u.ments he and Brother Grigor would need to cross the Channel to France.

That was the theory, at any rate-and once arrived in Berwick, the pair did not hesitate to employ all the clout that usually accompanied Templar livery. Grigor even resorted to Templar arrogance, to no avail.

With the streets of Berwick swarming with troops and the harbor teeming with ships, the town's resident English of?cials were too busy trying to keep order to deal speedily with a tri?ing matter of travel doc.u.ments for a pair of neutral Templar observers. It took more than a week to obtain the necessary signatures and secure pa.s.sage aboard a Flemish merchant ship bound for Dieppe.

They made port on the ninth of June-Saint Columba's day, it occurred to Arnault, as he and Grigor swung up on their hired horses and set out for Paris. He had hoped that was a good omen, but on the second day out, just south of Rouen, a heavy storm compelled them to take shelter for two nights at the Templar preceptory at Prunay. By the time the weather improved enough to venture forth, road conditions had become so atrocious that they abandoned all thought of continuing by horse and instead took pa.s.sage aboard a river barge bound for the French capital.

The barge made periodic stops along the way to take on and unload cargo. Venturing ash.o.r.e at one of these landing stages, in hope of something besides the scant and monotonous fare aboard ship, Arnault found the local inn abuzz with somewhat agitated-sounding converse, which subsided to furtive whispers as he entered. The tavern keeper minding the kegs behind a counter littered with tankards wore a look of surly irritation.

"If you mean to have a meal, ?rst make sure you can afford it," the man warned, as he wiped at the counter with a ?lthy cloth. "You'll pay like everybody else!"

It was not a response to which Arnault was accustomed, when traveling openly as a Knight Templar, but he schooled his expression to one of benign surprise and produced a silver coin worth twice the cost of any meal likely to be available in such an establishment.

"Are your prices as high as that?" he said mildly.

The tavern keeper eyed the coin with distaste, but clunked a tankard in front of Arnault and turned to fetch an earthen jug of ale.

"You'll have been away for a while, then," he said as he ?lled the tankard. "That will cover the cost of your drink- just." He jutted his chin at the coin. "But if you want food, even a chunk of bread and cheese, it will cost you another of those."

"Indeed," Arnault said, producing another coin. "Prices do seem to have risen since I last traveled in this part of the world."

The tavern keeper gave a mirthless laugh and scooped both coins into a pouch at his waist, though his tone became more genial, now that he knew his patron had money. "Well, if you've come from abroad, sir-though by your accent, I take you for a Breton-my advice is to go back there. Around here, your money soon won't be worth anything- thanks to yesterday's royal decree."

Further converse revealed that King Philip was devaluing the currency of the realm to increase his revenues-not the ?rst time he had tampered with the coinage to ease ?scal embarra.s.sment in the royal treasury. Recent rumor had it that he was fretting increasingly about his indebtedness to the Jews, who were always a good target for resentment when ?nances got tight. Given that the Templars served as the king's bank and were among his princ.i.p.al creditors, even more than the Jews, Arnault found himself wondering uneasily what measures Philip might be considering to rid himself of these obligations.

Taking bread and cheese with him as well as information, Arnault rejoined Grigor and resumed his journey-and continued to pick up local gossip that suggested disturbing changes since his last trip back to France. By the time the barge pa.s.sed the meeting of the Oise with the Seine, two days later, he had come to suspect that matters here were nearly as dire as in Scotland, if for different reasons.

He stood with Grigor in the bow of the barge when the Abbey of St. Denis at last hove into view, knowing that it marked nearly the end of their journey. The river was running high from the recent storm, and everywhere men could be seen laboring to repair damage to the dikes and embankments. Grigor had never been to Paris, and declared himself unimpressed, though he craned his neck to gaze upward as they pa.s.sed before the spires of the abbey church.

"We ha' better in Scotland," he grumbled. "Ye should see th' cathedral in Elgin. Tha's where I was born.

'Tis sae ?ne, they call it the Lantern o' the North."

"I've seen it-and it is ?ne," Arnault conceded. "But this is also beautiful, I think."

Grigor considered, then shook his grizzled head. "Nah. Elgin is better."

Controlling a wry smile, Arnault decided that any further attempt to convert Grigor to an appreciation of French culture and artistry was likely to be so much wasted energy, regardless of the fact that St. Denis marked the focus of much of the sacred tradition of France. Made a royal mausoleum by the present king's grandfather, the saintly Louis IX, the venerable abbey church housed holy relics and ef?gies and tombs of past monarchs dating back to Carolingian times.

Perhaps its most precious relic was the sacred chrism kept in an ampulla shaped like a dove, said to have been delivered directly from heaven, without which no king of France might be validly anointed and crowned. But since Scottish kings had not yet won the right to be anointed at their coronation-a privilege that must be granted by the pope-Arnault supposed that Grigor had every reason not to be impressed by that distinction of St. Denis.

Nonetheless, he gazed up at its spires as they pa.s.sed it by, considering its past, and found himself re?ecting that every age had its battles to ?ght. Where the paladins of Charlemagne had waged war against ignorance and barbarism to lay the foundations of Christendom, their successors, the Templars, were facing an equally hard battle to preserve that spiritual inheritance. It helped to put things into perspective, as he returned to his roots after his sojourn in Scotland.

Following two more bends of the river, their barge at last came within sight of the towers and bridges of Paris itself. Grigor merely scowled and hunched down in his mantle, hugging the leather satchel he had been charged to deliver, looking more uneasy by the minute. For different reasons, both of them were more than ready to go ash.o.r.e-and did so, as soon as their barge had skirted the point of the Ile de la Cit and swung into a toll station in the lee of the Grand Pont. Shouldering the modest weight of their packs, and with Grigor also carrying his satchel, the pair left the barge captain disputing with the customs agents of the marchands de l'eau and made their way up the embankment to the thronging streets above, where Arnault motioned them into the shadow of the church of St. Germain, so he could take his bearings.

Bewildered, Grigor stood close to his side, satchel now hidden under his white mantle, looking around uneasily.

"It isn't very far from here-less than two miles," Arnault said, gesturing in the direction they needed to go.

"The Paris Temple is just outside the city walls-that way. It will do us good to stretch our legs, after so many days on the river."

"If you say so," Grigor murmured, though his tone made it clear that, like most knights, he did not regard foot travel as a proper chivalric pursuit. No sooner had they set off along the Grand Rue, however, when a voice on a note of query called Arnault's name from behind.

"Arnault? Arnault de Saint Clair?"

Hand on the hilt of his sword, Arnault turned to see a mounted party of Templars approaching over the bridge: four white-clad knight-brothers shouldering their horses through the crowd, accompanied by an equal number of serjeants, the latter in their customary brown mantles ensigned with the red Templar cross. The knight in the lead was a proud, erect ?gure with a silvery beard and a backswept mane of silver hair, who raised a gloved hand and grinned as Arnault turned.

"Now, there's a bit of luck!" Arnault said to Grigor.

He, too, raised a hand both in greeting and salute as the party continued toward him, for their leader was the very man Arnault had come to see: Gaspar des Macquelines, one of the senior members of le Cercle, and a close friend as well. He saw the ?ick of Gaspar's gaze toward Brother Grigor as he worked his horse through the crowd, and knew that both of them would needs be circ.u.mspect until they could ?nd some privacy.

"It is you!" Gaspar exclaimed, dismounting to come and greet Arnault with a fraternal kiss of peace.

"What on earth are you doing in Paris, and on foot? If you'd let us know you were coming, we'd have sent a proper escort to meet you."

"To make sure I didn't get lost along the way?" Arnault said with a chuckle. "I know it's been a while since my last visit, but I can still ?nd my way home. This is Fr?re Grigor Murray, bringing responsions from some of the Scottish commanderies. His French is not so good, but he's been welcome company on the journey."

"Indeed. Welcome, Fr?re Grigor," Gaspar said in Latin. "My English is not so good, either," he continued in that language, at Grigor's look of mysti?cation, "but I fancy we'll limp along somehow. I am Gaspar des Macquelines. You are most welcome."

With Grigor, too, he exchanged a stiff kiss of peace, returning his attention then to Arnault.

"It is good to see you, old friend. And look there," he added, ?inging a hand in the direction of the three other knights. "You don't seem to have noticed that your young cousin is fair bursting to speak to you."

He beckoned forward a dark-eyed young knight on a tall gray, who immediately swung down, grinning, and came to present himself before the newcomer.

"Jauffre?" Arnault exclaimed. "Sweet Jesu, you've quite caught me off my guard. My apologies. You are quite the grown man! Rome obviously agreed with you!"

The warmth of his salutation dispelled any dif?dence in the younger man, and the two embraced enthusiastically. "I'm delighted that you noticed," Jauffre said, still grinning. "It's good to see you again."

Gaspar clapped their young colleague on the shoulder. "You should be proud of him, Arnault. If he hadn't elected to join the Order, he would have made a gifted scholar. I don't know which is stronger: his grasp of philosophy or his af?nity for medicine."

Jauffre had the grace to look abashed, but Arnault recalled that even as a boy, his young cousin had displayed a rare sensitivity to things unseen by most. If early signs were any indication of things to come, Jauffre would one day be a potent addition to le Cercle. As he turned to glance expectantly at Grigor, Arnault made the introductions.

"Grigor, this is another of my cousins: Fr?re Jauffre de Saint Clair. Jauffre, Fr?re Grigor Murray, from Balantrodoch."

"Well, you can only be bound for the Temple," Gaspar said, switching to English again for Grigor's bene?t, "so why not let us bear you company? Especially if Brother Grigor is carrying responsions. The streets of Paris are full of footpads and cutpurses."

"We would welcome that," Arnault replied, "but I fear we're afoot, as you can see."

"Well, that's easily enough remedied," laughed Gaspar, with a glance back at the serjeants. "Etienne, Jean-Louis, would you be so good as to give our brothers the use of your mounts? Viose, you and Michel can take them up double behind you, and remind us of our origins."

Soon mounted, amid good-natured banter as horses were reallocated, Arnault fell in beside Gaspar as the Templars set out along the boulevard, Grigor riding with Jauffre and the others, who dropped back to a discreet distance.

"Did you have any dif?culty getting out of Scotland?" Gaspar asked as they rode, continuing to speak in English, for the sake of possible overhearing.

Arnault grimaced. "No more than I expected. Edward of England is poised to mount a new invasion, which means everything is in a state of upheaval. But no one questioned our political af?nities. As far as the English are concerned, the Temple is still regarded as a neutral observer."

"I'm relieved to hear that," Gaspar said. "It's important that the Order should maintain an appearance of neutrality with regard to Robert Bruce."

"Oh?" Something in Gaspar's tone made Arnault glance at him sharply. "Why? What's wrong?"

Gaspar squared his shoulders and took a deep breath, though he kept his voice low. "The Holy Father has been persuaded to declare Bruce excommunicate."

"Surely that isn't possible!" Arnault murmured, feeling slightly sick to his stomach. "On what grounds?"

"For shedding the blood of John Comyn on sacred ground."

"But he confessed it!" Arnault blurted, though he kept his voice low. "Bishop Wishart gave him absolution, within days of it happening. Torquil was there!"

"It doesn't matter," Gaspar replied. "The Holy Father either doesn't know or doesn't care. So far as he's concerned, Bruce is guilty of sacrilegious murder."

"Comyn was possessed by a demon," Arnault said stubbornly. "If Bruce hadn't killed him, I would have-or Torquil would have. I wish we had."

"So do I," Gaspar said, "at least for Bruce's sake. But you didn't, and he did-and he's the king. The fact remains that he has lost the of?cial support of the Church, because of his action. And anyone who aids him will fall under the same sentence."

Arnault fell silent for a long moment as they negotiated a crowded portion of the street, gravely troubled by what he was hearing. The excommunication could not re?ect any honest, prayerful a.s.sessment of the true circ.u.mstances-not that the pope could be told the true circ.u.mstances-but surely, word from Wishart would have reached the pontiff by now. The act opened an ugly rift between the heavenly Jerusalem and the Papal See of Rome. It remained to be seen whether even the building of the Fifth Temple could heal the breach.

"It's specious, of course, but the Holy Father has spoken," Gaspar said, when they had cleared the crowd. "How will Bruce react, when he hears the news? You've told us he's devout, if open to notions beyond orthodoxy. Will an excommunication undermine his con?dence?"

Arnault brie?y considered. "I don't think so. If anything, it could even strengthen his resolve. Whatever else may befall, Bruce and his people still have the support of the Celtic Church-which counts for a lot. It has long been his aim to restore a Celtic monarchy, working to reclaim the Celtic sovereignty of the land in partnership with a Celtic Christian church. After spending some time amongst the Columban brethren, I think I understand why. I suspect you do, as well."

"Indeed," Gaspar murmured.

Indeed, both of them understood, for they both had worked with Columban monks to renew the mystic powers of the Stone of Destiny for Bruce before and during his enthronement. Following in the footsteps of their founder, Saint Columba, his followers took their spiritual inspiration from Saint John the Evangelist, rather than from Saint Peter. Mystical and tolerant in its outlook, their church was not Rome's rival, but rather its complement. With their af?nity for the land itself, the Columbans had proved invaluable allies in the struggle to a.s.sert Scotland's independence. Very soon during his time spent among them, Arnault had come to hope that their harmonizing in?uence would one day a.s.sert itself to the bene?t of Christianity at large.

"Tell me," Gaspar said, keeping his voice low, "is the Stone still safe?"

"For the moment, it is," Arnault replied. "Physically, it's been made as secure as possible, given the times; our Columban friends have cast over it their strongest charms of warding. But I've counseled Luc and Torquil to remain vigilant. The war with England will be entering a new stage, now that Bruce is crowned, and for all we know, there may be other hostile powers at work beyond those exerted by the Comyns."

"How well you echo my own worst fears," Gaspar murmured. "Oh, there's trouble at this end, as well,"

he continued at Arnault's look of inquiry. "You knew, of course, that there has been talk of amalgamating the two military orders. It's the king's idea, because he wants to be the head of the combined order that would be created-the Rex Bellator, or some such thing-but now His Holiness seems to be going along with the notion. He has summoned the Masters of both the Temple and the Hospital to meet with him in Avignon."

"Are you serious?" Arnault asked, dumbfounded.

"I wish I were not," Gaspar replied. "We received our summons only a few days ago, to forward to Cyprus. The Visitor is preparing his own letter to accompany it. He's strongly counseling that the Master not return, that he make up some excuse; but you know how stubborn de Molay can be."

Arnault did, indeed. Though his own interactions with the present Grand Master had never been other than routine, he well remembered the grumbling speculations at the time of de Molay's election, nearly ?fteen years before. In fact, the expected choice had been Hugues de Paraud, then the treasurer of the Order and now the Visitor: a consummate politician who had developed a good working relationship with Philip of France.

De Molay, by contrast, was primarily a military disciplinarian, rigidly conservative and nearly illiterate, devoid of imagination-which was one of the many reasons he had never been told of the existence of le Cercle. Though he had learned something of administration during a stint as Master of the English Templars, his immediate posting before his election as Grand Master had been as Grand Marshal, the supreme military leader of the Order. In neither post had he particularly excelled; yet he still had managed to get himself elected. According to some, the voting had been so contentious that the Master of the Hospitallers had been asked to arbitrate. Arnault wondered whether Foulques de Villaret intended to obey the papal summons "Will the Master of the Hospital obey the summons?" he asked.

"He'd be best advised not to," Gaspar said. "He's presently involved in an important campaign on Malta, so he has a perfect excuse not to come. But de Molay wants another crusade; he'll come-and if he does, I strongly suspect that Pope Clement may intend to turn this conference into an inquiry."

"An inquiry over what?"

Gaspar hunched down in his saddle, obviously choosing his words with care.

"An inquiry over us," he murmured. "Hostility against the Order is on the rise. We have always had our detractors, of course, but the accusations we've been hearing lately are increasingly scandalous. It's entirely possible that many of the common folk are starting to believe that these lies must be true-and it isn't just the usual resentment of our success. If de Molay ?nds himself obliged to defend the Order against charges of sorcery and perversion, I worry what the outcome will be."

The prospect caused Arnault to glance at Gaspar sharply, but mindful of their exposed location, riding down a public street in Paris, he kept his response very general.

"I don't suppose you've been able to track down the source of any of these rumors?"