It was not a bright picture at present. Edward of England and Philip IV of France had gone to war over possession of the Duchy of Gascony. The merchant states of Italy and the provinces of Germany were likewise mired in conflicts over influence and sovereignty. The papacy had been flung into turmoil by the abdication of Celestine V-a condition not improved by the election of Boniface VIII. Only the nations on the outer fringes of Europe could claim any degree of tranquillity, and now even they were being pulled into the net of conflicting alliances that threatened to ensnare and strangle the Frankish West.

This dark tapestry of recent events, however, was threaded here and there with strands of light: threads that shone out all the brighter in contrast to their setting. One such triumph, in Arnault's view, was Torquil Lennox's continuing achievements as a working member of le Cercle. The three years since his initiation had seen him stretched and tempered by the finest instruction that the Temple had to offer, both in the conventional work of the Order and on levels not dreamed of by the Order at large.

The physical signs of Torquil's maturity were readily apparent to anyone who had known him before.

Outwardly, he was more powerful and less restless, the result of having learned to harness his energies to support the work of his inner faculties. More subtle were the signs by which his spirit evinced its acquired strength. But to Arnault they were clearly visible, the proofs that vindicated his initial belief in Torquil's promise.

Realizing that promise had been no simple matter. Following his initiation, while Arnault carried out diplomatic missions of increasing complexity on behalf of the Order and le Cercle, the young Scottish knight had been sent away to a remote preceptory in the mountains of Tuscany, where he had spent six months in prayer and meditation to fortify himself for further instruction.

Thereafter he had gone to Rome in the entourage of the Grand Master, amid the turmoil of Celestine's abdication and the long delay in electing a new pope, there remaining for another six months to broaden his knowledge of arts and languages from the master scholars gathered about the papal court. Upon his subsequent return to Paris, interspersed with occasional forays into the world of financial services and merchant banking-for which Gaspar des Macquelines declared him also to possess a marked apt.i.tude-he had received careful, graded instruction in the esoteric disciplines practiced by those elite few who guarded the Temple's greatest treasures, with Arnault as but one of his teachers.

But having nurtured his pupil's strengths, Arnault still was unable to predict what, in the greater work of the Order, Torquil's ultimate purpose and test was likely to be. All he and the others of le Cercle knew for certain was that Torquil's role seemed intrinsically bound up with the mysterious direction handed down in Cyprus: that the Fifth Temple, whether physical or spiritual or both, was to be established in Scotland as a permanent reliquarium for the secret treasures of ages past, a bridge between the Seen and the Unseen.

Unfortunately, the prevailing turmoil of Scottish affairs since John Balliol's inauguration had precluded le Cercle laying any groundwork, physical or otherwise, for that intention. This latest insurrection by the Scottish barons seemed headed for doom, and Balliol with it. With conditions in Scotland deteriorating by the day, Arnault and Torquil had been authorized by their superiors of le Cercle to take whatever action was necessary to resolve the situation in favor of le Cercle's greater mission-and had routine dispatches to deliver, as cover for their presence back in Scotland. But much would depend upon what they could accomplish in the days and months to come, with Edward apparently once more poised to crush the Scots.

A warning outcry from the watch up in the fighting castle drew the attention of both Templars astern and to starboard, where a broad-beamed carrack was bearing down on them from the north. As the crew hurriedly manned their stations, and the vessel drew gradually close enough for her colors to be read, Torquil eased slowly to his feet and hissed, "Sa.s.senach," almost unheard, though few other ships would have been bold enough to venture into these waters.

Closer scrutiny of the lines of her hull and the set of her rigging only reinforced his a.s.sertion that the ship was English; and her machicolated castle decks fore and aft proclaimed her to be a warship, without doubt. This declaration of English belligerence was confirmed a moment later when a shout from the other vessel ordered them to heave to, on the authority of Edward, King of England.

While unlikely to be more than a mere formality-for a vessel belonging to the Order of the Temple could justifiably claim neutrality, as could Templars traveling aboard her- the challenge came as no surprise to anyone on board. Following the outbreak of hostilities between England and France, Edward Plantagenet had taken steps to impose controls on all maritime activity in the Channel and the North Sea. The number of English naval vessels patrolling Scottish waters, especially along the eastern coast, had further multiplied when it became known that Scotland's ruling Council of Twelve had entered into a formal alliance with France.

Most fortuitously, English Templars were known to be advising King Edward in the present hostilities, and Arnault had been provided with doc.u.ments that gave him and Torquil legitimate cause to be entering these Scottish waters. As the galley's crew turned into the wind and gathered in the sail, the pair made their way onto the main deck, silently watching the English ship come alongside, her war ramparts bristling with archers.

Grappling lines secured the two vessels, flank to flank, and English sailors laid a bridge of planks across the gap to accommodate a boarding party of the captain and two men-at-arms. Already, the sight of two men in the full habit of Knights Templar had caused a stir on the English vessel. Under the eyes of the English archers, Arnault came purposefully forward, saying nothing, Torquil at his side and the galley's captain following respectfully behind them. The captain of the English vessel was waiting a little nervously just beside the side railing, and accorded the knights a guardedly civil greeting before giving his attention to the parchment that Arnault held out to him.

"I see you are bound for Berwick," he noted grimly, as he began to scan the doc.u.ment.

"We are," Arnault agreed.

"Indeed. And your purpose?"

"Diplomatic," Arnault replied. "We come on orders of the Visitor of France, as you can see."

"We already have Templars with King Edward's army," the man replied. "No diplomacy is required. The king means to crush the Scottish rebellion."

"The Temple would prefer to see a lasting peace," Arnault said. "No one wants Scotland to be drawn into the net of hostilities which already threatens the people of France. My brother and I are charged to arrange a truce between the English and the Scots, as a prelude to negotiating a more lasting peace."

The English captain's jaw tightened as he refolded the doc.u.ment and handed it back.

"If you were hoping to stop a war before it starts," he said, "you're already too late. Three days ago, a Scottish army crossed over the border and attacked Carlisle."

"Indeed," Arnault said, with a glance at Torquil, whose eyes had narrowed. "Have you any news of the engagement?"

"Little of substance," came the response. "At last report, the folk of Carlisle were holding their own. King Edward, for his part, has sent his forces to besiege Berwick."

This new intelligence produced a queasy pang in the pit of Arnault's stomach as he recalled his vision of three years previous. Though Berwick Castle was well fortified, the town itself was defended by nothing more substantial than a ditch and a timber palisade-hardly enough to turn back a determined English a.s.sault. Recalling the Lindsay family, he could only hope that his writ of protection would serve its purpose, if events came to pa.s.s as he had envisioned them.

"But, these stubborn Scots will not stand long against King Edward's might," he heard the English captain saying. "Meanwhile, you are free to go. You may count yourselves fortunate that the Master of your Order in England has earned the king's favor by the service he has rendered in this present venture."

Replacing the travel doc.u.ment back in his scrip, Arnault p.r.i.c.ked up his ears at this oblique mention of Brian de Jay, who had recently succeeded Guy de Foresta as Master of England, and also of Scotland and Ireland.

"Am I to understand that the Master of England is here in Scotland?" he asked.

"Where else?" the man countered. "He is the king's princ.i.p.al advisor on Scottish military affairs, having previously served your Order in Scotland. He came north with the army, as a member of the king's retinue."

The news had not been entirely unexpected, but Arnault could sense Torquil restraining bitter comment as the English captain and his men made their way back to their own ship. But once the English crew had cast off the grappling lines, and the galley's captain had gone to relay orders to proceed to Berwick, the younger man could contain himself no longer.

"What does that strutting bag of foul wind think he's doing?" he muttered in an explosive undertone. "Jay has no business favoring Edward's cause on the strength of his own authority."

"Ah, but he follows the example of his predecessor in that," Arnault replied. "Guy de Foresta was also friendly with Edward of England. In any case, you yourself have observed that Jay cares far more for prestige than he does for justice. Whatever the conflict, he will always curry favor with the side he perceives as most likely to advance his own importance."

Arnault had conveyed his suspicions regarding Jay and his motives several years before, but neither Gaspar nor MaArtre Jean nor any other member of le Cercle had been able to prevent Jay from being elevated to his present eminence. Arnault was driven to wonder if the same chaotic influences that had proved so disruptive to his own talents were likewise starting to undermine the function of le Cercle as a whole. The thought that there might be dark forces at work within the Templar Order itself was not one that made for comfortable reflection.

In the meantime, however, the situation in Berwick demanded immediate consideration. If the city fell, there would be little to stop the English forces from marching north on a mission of conquest. Even if the Scottish army were to offer pursuit, Edward would always have the advantage of being able to choose his own ground on which to meet them. And once the English king gained the upper hand, Arnault did not hold out much hope for the Scots salvaging their independence.

His worst immediate fears were confirmed when the ship drew within sight of the Scottish coast. The sea haze hanging over Berwick town was mingled with billows of greasy gray smoke. Torquil joined him at the railing, and together they watched in growing dismay as the galley approached the entrance to the harbor. Both of them had seen enough siege action in the Holy Land to recognize the signs of a disaster in the making.

The scene at the waterfront was one of panic and pandemonium, with scores of townsfolk clambering for s.p.a.ce aboard the handful of fishing boats tied up at the quay, recalling similar hysteria attending the fall of Acre. The captain of the galley, likewise a veteran of the wars of Outremer, prudently ordered his crew to drop anchor at some distance from the quay, and posted armed guards on the upper decks to repel any attempt to take possession of the ship.

"Are you certain it's wise to try landing in the midst of all that?" he asked Arnault.

"I'm afraid we have no choice," Arnault replied. "Have a boat lowered-but I'll risk only one of your men to row us ash.o.r.e."

The boat landed them well clear of the harbor front, nosing into a sandy spit for just long enough to disembark them. Helmeted and lightly armored in mail hauberks and coifs, with mantles bunched up to keep them dry, they splashed through the shallows and quickly navigated a short, rocky incline, clambering then through patches of gorse to head toward the row of fishermen's cottages that marked the seaward boundary of the town. After vaulting over a stone wall festooned with fishing nets, they made their way along a narrow alleyway that ran westward between two rows of houses. The streets beyond were teeming with citizens of Berwick town, aimlessly milling like sheep without a shepherd.

One hand on the hilt of his sword, Arnault stepped into the path of a grim-looking man towing his wife and two young sons behind him, holding up his other hand in a halting gesture.

"What has happened?" he asked urgently.

The man recoiled, wild-eyed, his family scurrying fearfully behind him.

"Don't you know?" he gasped. "The English have broken through the town's defenses. There's still some fighting going on along the perimeter, but it won't be long before they'll be running riot in the streets."

His glance flicked timorously to the broadswords the two knights were wearing, and Torquil said, "You have nothing to fear from us. No one but a craven makes war on innocent civilians."

"That's not what we've heard," the woman said from over her man's shoulder, somewhat emboldened by the sound of Torquil's Scottish voice. "They say that King Edward has ordered his men to slaughter anyone they meet. Please let us go, good sirs! We must get away before the English soldiers come and murder our children before our eyes!"

Both men wordlessly stood aside, and the family fled off down the street.

"Dear G.o.d, your vision was true!" Torquil murmured.

Arnault only nodded, heartsick. Through and above the surrounding hubbub of babbling voices and hurrying feet, he could make out more distant sounds that chilled his blood: screams and wails and the harsh clangor of weaponry- sounds that both of them had heard too many times before.

"We've got to find Jay," he told Torquil grimly. "Maybe he can persuade King Edward that mercy is the better part of conquest."

The pair set off at a lope, hands on sword hilts, making for the line of the River Tweed, which marked the battlefront. The din grew louder as they drew nearer the town's center. The smoke they had seen from the harbor was growing thicker. Here and there among the housetops could be seen the lurid glare of burning timbers.

Torquil was in the lead when they came to the cobbled crossing of two thoroughfares. The sight of a painted sign above the door of one of the nearby buildings made him stumble to a halt.

"The Lindsays!" he exclaimed to Arnault. "Dear G.o.d, their house is just along there!"

Together the two Templars charged off up the road to the right. Some of the houses were already burning. From somewhere ahead came rending sounds of breakage mingled with screams of distress.

They had come almost abreast of the sounds when the door to one of the houses flew wide, disgorging two English soldiers dragging a disheveled teenage girl between them.

Two more soldiers followed with a second girl, perhaps slightly older than the first, bodice ripped asunder, one breast exposed. Both girls were white with terror, too shocked to put up much of a struggle. The drawn swords of the soldiers were red and dripping with fresh blood.

The sight of two Knights Templar brought the marauding party to a jumbled standstill. Their leader, a big man with a broken nose, gave the pair a broad leer and an elaborately drunken salute, apparently a.s.suming that the Templars were on the same side. Before either Templar could correct that a.s.sumption, a small boy of five or six came hurtling out of the house to fling himself at the rear-most soldier, sobbing in childish fury and hammering ineffectually at the man's armored bulk. The man clouted him with the pommel of his sword and drew back for a finishing thrust as the boy collapsed to the ground.

"Strike him at your peril, Sa.s.senach!" Torquil bellowed, and lunged forward, sword in hand.

His charge caught the leading pair of marauders off guard. They hurled their captives aside and scattered, leaving him room to attack the two in the rear. A powerful downstroke took the first of his adversaries high on the right shoulder, all but severing the man's sword arm, and he folded screeching to the ground.

The second man backed at once, suddenly dead sober- but when he tried to use his prisoner as a shield, she came suddenly to life and sank her teeth into his wrist. Bellowing curses, he wrenched his arm away and dashed her from him. A clumsy parry saved him from being skewered on Torquil's blade, but the impact made him drop his weapon and he turned to flee.

At the same time, Arnault dispatched the first of the remaining men with a close-handled thrust through a weak point in his foe's mail shirt, bursting the net links under one arm and penetrating the man's rib cage.

The man collapsed choking, blood frothing from his lips, as Arnault vaulted over him to press the attack on the last ravager.

The first man's demise had given the second one time to plan his attack. The big man sprang to meet Arnault, their swords clashing in a ringing shower of sparks. Lighter on his feet than his adversary, Arnault spun on his heel, sweeping his blade upward as he did so. His opponent's lunge went wide, and Arnault used that brief advantage to bring his sword cleaving down with killing force on the other man's skull.

He wiped his blade clean on the dead man's cloak, then turned to look for the children. The three of them were cowering in the shelter of the doorway, faces averted to the wall. Ducking briefly into the house, Torquil fetched a blanket and tossed it to the girl with the torn dress.

"Their parents have been butchered," he told Arnault in a low voice. "We can't leave them."

"Then we'll have to take them with us," Arnault said. "Let's move on."

Shepherding the children between them, they carried on up the street, swords still drawn. But as they approached the familiar gateway to the yard of the Lindsay house, they knew they were too late. The gate had been torn off its hinges, and the house beyond was in flames. Of Johan Lindsay and his family there was no sign.

"There's no way to know where they may have gone," Arnault said bleakly. "And they could all be dead, in there." He gestured toward the burning house with his sword.

"Could they maybe have gone to the Red Hall?" Torquil asked.

"The Red Hall?"

"Aye, the guildhall for the Flemish cloth merchants," Torquil replied. "Didn't Johan Lindsay deal in wool?"

"Of course!" Arnault paused a beat, thinking, then gestured with his sword.

"The nuns of St. Bride have a house back that way," he said. "We'll hope that the English soldiers won't violate a religious house. Take the children there, then make for the English lines and seek out King Edward and his commanders. Use every argument at your command to try and secure clemency for the local populace. If you find Jay, see if you can flatter him into helping you."

"I'll do what I can," Torquil agreed. "Where will you be?"

"Paying a visit to the Red Hall. I gave Johan Lindsay a writ of protection when we were here before.

He's a tenant of the Temple. If he's there, he may appreciate a bit of clout to back up that writ. I'll join you in the English camp as soon as I can."

Leaving Torquil to shepherd his charges back the way they had come, Arnault set off in the direction of the Red Hall. Every turn revealed increasing evidence of ma.s.s slaughter and an army running amok. The streets leading toward the town center were littered with corpses. The air rang with the hideous din of drunken laughter and rampant looting, punctuated by the roar of flames and the occasional collapse of a burning building.

By the time Arnault came within sight of the merkat cross marking the center of the town, he had encountered hardly a handful of citizens left alive. Those still capable of reason he sent off to seek sanctuary at whatever religious house lay nearest. The rest he was obliged to leave to the care of Providence, while he hurried on in the hope of perhaps preserving the lives of the Flemish guildsmen.

A strong smell of burning met him as he turned into the High Street. In front of him and to the left stood the Red Hall itself, its castellated rooftop bristling with activity. The lower levels of the hall were wreathed with dense, billowing black smoke lit by glimmers of orange flame. From out of the smoke came a hungry, crackling roar.

With a murmured word of prayer on behalf of those inside, Arnault hurried forward. Between him and the hall stood an encircling array of English soldiers, hoa.r.s.ely jeering and brandishing their swords and shields. Intermittent flights of arrows came whistling down from the roof of the hall, sowing b.l.o.o.d.y damage wherever they broke through the English defenses, but the smoke was growing denser by the minute as the flames ate their way up the walls of the building, outside and in.

Making the most of his armored height and Templar livery, Arnault shouldered his way through the ranks, sword in hand, until he located the captain in command of the attacking forces.

"What's going on here?" he demanded.

His voice was steel-edged with authority. The captain swallowed a sharp retort when he got a good look at his questioner.

"There's thirty or so Flemish rats holed up in their den," the man said. "We've orders to smoke them out, or let them perish in the flames."

"Have you offered them terms for surrender?" Arnault asked.

"Aye," the captain said. "But they threw the terms back in our faces. As far as I'm concerned, their road to h.e.l.l starts here."

As if in response to this unsparing declaration, there came a sudden catastrophic boom from inside the burning hall. Every visible window was simultaneously etched in flame. The whole building quivered on its foundations, lit up from inside like an alchemist's forge. Then, with another deafening roar, the hall collapsed, burying everything and everyone inside under a mountain of blazing rubble.

A shock wave of hot air swept the street, raining fiery cinders down on the neighboring buildings. The English soldiers turned and bolted, diving for cover into alleys and doorways. Arnault was driven into retreat along with the rest. When it was safe to look again, there was nothing remaining of the Red Hall but a raging funeral pyre.

No one could have survived that inferno. Whatever fate Providence had decreed for Johan Lindsay and his family, Arnault could only trust that they were now in G.o.d's hands, whether here on earth or in heaven. Swallowing his rage and frustration like bitter bile, he turned his back grimly on this latest atrocity and set off in search of Torquil.

With the town overrun and half its buildings on fire, the garrison of Berwick Castle put up less resistance than had the men of the Red Hall. By the time Arnault came within sight of the castle gates, the royal banners of the English king were flying high above its battlements, as they had before the election of John Balliol. Various members of Edward's household troops patrolled the perimeter and manned the gatehouse.

Sheathing his sword and doffing his helmet, Arnault presented himself to the first guard he came upon.

"A big, redheaded Templar? Aye, he was looking for an audience. You'll find him in there somewhere,"

the man said, gesturing inside.

Arnault's livery pa.s.sed him on into the castle without further challenge. Making for the great hall, he bypa.s.sed a line of English knights with prisoners waiting to be delivered into the custody of one of the king's wardens-all, by their dress, wealthy burgesses and members of the gentry, who could be expected to pay handsomely for their lives and their freedom. The common folk, by savage contrast, had been left to suffer butchery, unless something could be done to ease their desperate plight.

The hall was teeming with anxious townsfolk and soldiers, but Arnault's arrival was noticed almost immediately by Torquil, who came shouldering through the throng to meet him, helmet under his arm.

"The children are safe with the nuns of St. Bride," he reported, "though I had to remind a band of Welsh mercenaries that religious houses are not fair plunder. The mother superior of the house asked to be escorted here so that she could beg for mercy on behalf of the townspeople. A lot of other clerics are here, too, for the same reason, but so far the king has declined to see any of us." His green eyes flicked over Arnault's taut, soot-streaked face. "Did you find Johan Lindsay?"

"Whoever was in the Red Hall, they're all dead now," Arnault said baldly. "Edward's soldiery fired the hall. By the time I got there, it was already too late."

Torquil shook his head and crossed himself, murmuring, "May they rest in peace." He sighed. "I haven't had any luck finding Jay, either, though I'm sure he's somewhere around. I caught a glimpse of Robert de Sautre as I was coming up on the castle, but he was in the middle of a troop of mounted knights and I couldn't chase them down." He drew himself up. "So what do we do now?"

Before Arnault could summon an answer, a familiar, self-satisfied voice penetrated the undercurrent of anxious murmurings that filled the room, from somewhere above their heads.

"I heard there was a Templar brother looking for me. Now I see there are two of you."

Arnault and Torquil turned and looked up. Brian de Jay was surveying them from the gallery that overlooked the chamber. When he saw their faces, his blue eyes narrowed, "Why, Brother Arnault de Saint Clair-and the ever-faithful Brother Torquil Lennox," he noted with an affability that rang patently false. "I had no idea we were expecting such an ill.u.s.trious visitation. When one of my serjeants told me that two knight-brothers had come ash.o.r.e from the galley in the harbor, I chided him for spreading rumors. Now I see he was reporting the truth. Come up and join me-now."

Arnault and Torquil found a wheel-stair in a corner of the hall and climbed to the next floor, where Jay received them with a curt nod and led the way to a small room on the seaward side of the citadel.