Arnault glanced at Torquil, who set aside his wine, choosing his words carefully.

"Father Abbot, you know I am a fellow Scot. When I fought in the Holy Land, it seemed to me that the aspirations of all Christendom were bound up in the quest to recover Jerusalem, the Holy City.

"That quest is a good and holy cause-but when I came back to Scotland, I came to wonder whether it was but part of a larger struggle for which Scotland itself may be a pivot point. There is a darkness abroad in this land, especially since the death of the last Canmore, being spread abroad by something-or someone-bent on swallowing up all that is good in this world. If is not contained and dispelled, such a darkness could continue to spread until it has swallowed up the whole of Christendom."

Abbot Henry's face had gone very still, and he answered only after a studied pause.

"I fear you have not spoken all that is in your heart, Brother Torquil. If the knights of your Order have some deeper knowledge of this matter than is common to the Church at large-and by my friendship with your Brother Luc, I think they may-I pray you most fervently to be plain in what you are trying to say."

Torquil glanced at Arnault, who allowed himself a faint sigh of relief.

"That is why Brother Torquil and I have come back to Scotland," he said. "For we have come to believe that both the cause and the cure of Alba's ills lie here at Scone, with the Stone of Destiny."

"The Stone?" Abbot Henry murmured.

"Aye, consider it in light of Scotland's mystic lore," Arnault went on. "Ever since the days of Columba, the Stone has been Scotland's greatest talisman of light, her palladium, the cornerstone of Scottish sovereignty. But in recent years, that light has dimmed, and likewise the power of Scotland's monarchy. If this nation is to survive the coming storm, it seems to me that we must find a way to rekindle the Stone's secret flame. Only then will the crown-and the kingdom-stand firm."

The abbot looked startled, but also somewhat relieved. "How curious it is that you should say this," he said. "Twenty years ago, I would have been quick to dismiss the notion that so holy and time-honored a relic as the Stone could ever lose its virtue. But for some time now, I have felt it in my heart that all was not as it should be."

"How long?" Torquil asked.

Abbot Henry shifted his attention to the younger knight. "I think," he said slowly, "that it was in the year that King Alexander III died, that I first noticed something amiss. But it wasn't until the day of John Balliol's enthronement that I became sure of it."

Torquil gave a little gasp, and Arnault leaned forward eagerly.

"Can you describe what you felt was wrong?"

A frown furrowed the abbot's brow as he groped to put his feelings into words. "It is akin to the sense one sometimes has of an altar long unused-or one that has been profaned. A spark may remain, but such an altar has a different feel from one used daily to offer the holy sacrifice of the Ma.s.s."

Arnault nodded, precisely aware of what the abbot was trying to describe.

"Perhaps this is a peculiarity of our Celtic race-to sense such things," Abbot Henry continued. "I have heard it said that those of great holiness can choose between a consecrated Host and mere bread-which seems to me quite likely, if one accepts that diabolical ent.i.ties cannot bear the presence of the Host.

Clearly, it is more than mere faith that is involved; but I cannot tell you what more.

"But the waning power of the Stone is akin to all of these things. And on the morning of John Balliol's enthronement, suddenly it seemed that there was nothing left but a flicker."

Arnault glanced at Torquil-clearly dying to speak-and signed his permission.

"Father Abbot," Torquil said, "on the night before John Balliol's enthronement, one of your brothers told me much the same thing-a Brother Mungo."

"Ah, Brother Mungo," the abbot said with a faint smile. "Alas, he has pa.s.sed on-may G.o.d grant him rest-but he was a very dear and holy man. Odd that you should mention him just now."

"How so?" Arnault asked.

"Brother Mungo came to us from the Iona community- founded, as you may know, by the blessed Columba himself. And I count your mention of him odd because only last week, another Columban brother appeared at our gate and asked permission to spend a period of retreat with us-a Brother Ninian. Even more oddly, he has spent a large part of each day in contemplation of the Stone. I cannot think that he could have known you were coming-or why. But it occurs to me that this cannot be coincidence. I think, perhaps, that you are meant to make his acquaintance."

"I think, perhaps, we are," Arnault agreed. "Before we do, however, there is one thing more that you should know, concerning our interest in the Stone-and I choose my words with care, because I have no wish to give offense or cause for scandal."

"If we are speaking here of things Unseen," Abbot Henry replied, "I a.s.sure you that I will not take such words as scandalous, if that is your fear, Brother Arnault. Please speak freely."

"Very well. These are our perceptions. You mentioned that you first began to notice a change in the Stone after the death of Alexander III. When Brother Luc and Brother Torquil and I were last here, we came upon certain indications suggesting that black magic may have been involved both in the death of Alexander and that of the little Maid of Norway. Incidentally, I was present when the Maid died. We have yet to trace this evil back to its source. But there is every reason to believe that the disempowering of the Stone may be one of the effects linked to this cause."

Abbot Henry's face had drained of color during this recitation, and he recovered himself with a shudder.

"Dear G.o.d, why did Luc not tell me?" he whispered.

"I pray you, do not fault Luc," Arnault said. "He would not have been certain how such a claim would be received- and we have yet to establish clearer proofs. Even now, we are not in a position to name any names. In view of the present crisis, however, I think a closer examination of the Stone becomes imperative-and I think, Reverend Father, that the sooner you introduce us to Brother Ninian, the better."

"I shall send one of the serving brothers to fetch him immediately," Abbot Henry said, rising to do so.

"Under the circ.u.mstances, I feel certain he will be as anxious to meet you, as you are him."

The serving brother returned a short while later, bringing with him a tallish, fine-boned figure of a man whose white robes and Celtic tonsure marked him as the Columban brother of whom Abbot Henry had spoken. As the abbot made the formal introductions, Arnault allowed himself to refine his first impressions.

Brother Ninian appeared to be on the young side of forty, clean-shaven and graceful of carriage, with flaxen hair drawn back in a tail behind his tonsure and a gray gaze the color of rain-washed agate. His hands were slender, with long, tapering fingers that bespoke a gift for artistic expression. A serene containment in his manner suggested depths of spirit rare even among those dedicated to a life of prayer and self-denial.

Brother Ninian, in his turn, was eyeing his new acquaintances with a curiosity as unaffected as it was single-minded. On an indrawn breath, his face was transfigured by a beatific smile, his eyes like sunlit wells br.i.m.m.i.n.g with love and compa.s.sion.

"All praise to the High G.o.d," he murmured. "You are the ones I was told to expect!"

This declaration both surprised and intrigued all three of his listeners.

"Who told you to expect us?" Arnault ventured.

"Why, Cra-gheal himself," Ninian answered.

"Cra-gheal?"

"It's the old Scots tongue," Torquil said eagerly, before Ninian could explain. "Cra-gheal-the red-white one. It's one of the names given to the Archangel Michael. Is it Saint Michael to whom you refer, Brother Ninian?"

"It is, indeed. Michael of the White Steeds, Michael of the Battles. Cra-gheal instructed me to come here and await the arrival of two warrior-monks who would be wearing his sign in token of his fellowship." He pointed to the distinctive red crosses emblazoned on the surcoats and mantles of the two Templar knights. "Do you not claim great Michael as one of the patrons of your Order?"

"We do," Arnault acknowledged.

Ninian nodded as if the matter was settled. "Then I know why you are here: to seek the renewal of the Stone of Destiny."

He turned his gaze to the room's tiny window and continued, holding his listeners spellbound.

"I was standing upon a rock by the sh.o.r.es of Iona," he said, "when the voice of Cra-gheal called to me from over the waters, bidding me rise and go to where the Stone lies sleeping. To that place would come two of his warriors here on earth, seeking the means to rekindle the Light that has come down to us from ancient times. He bade me offer you aid and counsel according to such wisdom as has been given to me."

The light in his eyes, as he shifted back to gaze at them, bore witness to the truth of his declaration, so that Arnault could not doubt that Brother Ninian had been vouchsafed a mystical revelation-or that he would accept, without question, the framework of esoteric focus by which their present mission was guided. Briefly, and without mincing words, Arnault acquainted both Ninian and Abbot Henry with the background and rationale of what he proposed to do, not failing to mention the role of the High Priest's Breastplate.

"What I am suggesting is best approached with due preparation," he said, by way of summation, "preferably over several days. Given that the Eve of May is only three days hence-which Brother Torquil tells me is also the turning of the old Scottish new year-I suggest that we agree on that day, and use the intervening time to prepare ourselves by fasting and meditation."

"An apt and auspicious choice," Ninian agreed. "It is the eve of the ancient festival of Bealtuinn or Beltane, when bonfires still are lighted upon the hilltops to welcome in the summer. The night is no less potent in these times in which our allegiance is given to the Son, rather than the sun."

"That is surely true," Abbot Henry declared with a solemn nod-making it unnecessary for either Arnault or Torquil to comment on this rea.s.surance that none of them need feel constrained by conventional expressions of religious practice.

For the next two days, Brother Ninian and the two Templars immersed themselves in the abbey community's rhythm of prayer, hearing daily Ma.s.s, and reciting all the offices of the liturgical day, the knights with their mail and weapons put aside, affirming the monastic aspect of their calling. On the last night before May Eve, however, the two Templars armed themselves before Compline and remained afterward in the abbey church to keep vigil in a peculiarly chivalric devotion.

It was a practice particularly beloved of Arnault, and one that Torquil had also taken very much to heart, always yielding of refreshment of the spirit and, in Arnault's case, a source of illumination. Kneeling down at the foot of the sanctuary, before the altar of the Blessed Sacrament, he held his drawn sword before him at arm's length, hands just beneath the quillons, the point resting lightly on the floor.

He fixed his gaze first on the center of the cross formed by quillons and blade and whispered aloud the motto of the Order: "Non n.o.bis, Domine, non n.o.bis sed Nomini Tuo da gloriam." Then he let the focus blur to include the candles beyond, flickering on the altar, and gave his thoughts freedom of flight, like doves seeking a resting place in the wilderness.

His mind lighted for a time on Brother Ninian, kneeling in the chapel of the Stone, as he did each night. In his quiet ways and loving respect for the whole of creation, the Columban brother reminded Arnault of the followers of Francis of a.s.sisi, who, like Ninian, affirmed and embraced the Divine spirit in all things and celebrated G.o.d and nature in a single act of worship.

In Ninian's case, however, those att.i.tudes and practices were an inheritance from Scotland's mystical past. In manner and appearance, the Columban brother might almost have been the living embodiment of those early times, his white habit and Celtic tonsure linking him with his inheritance of Druid spirituality, which had seen the coming of the teachings of Christ as fulfillment and extension of a Trinitarian concept long honored in their traditions.

And yet there was nothing distant or remote in Ninian's grasp of war and politics, as the Templars had discovered that first day they met him. On the contrary, it was his awareness of the spirit dwelling in all things that illuminated his understanding of Scotland's present need.

That Ninian's practices were grounded on Scottish soil was visibly demonstrated the following day, the Eve of May. As the Templars left the abbey church after Ma.s.s, at that "third hour" of the ancient world, when the Holy Spirit came down upon the Apostles, they glimpsed the Columban brother's white-clad form setting out toward the neighboring summit of the Moot Hill, where he remained for the rest of the day in fasting and in prayer. Bound to a similar regimen of observances, the two Templars did not see him again until late that night, when they and he and Abbot Henry met in the chapel of the Stone to perform the proposed rite of divination.

It was approaching midnight. The church was empty and silent, dark save for the Presence lamp above the tabernacle and the gleam of the lanterns that the party had brought to light their way. While Abbot Henry silently fetched a brace of candlesticks from the nearest aumbry and invested them with fresh beeswax candles, Arnault and Ninian moved to the rear of the chapel, where Ninian proceeded to lay out several small items from a deerskin pouch at his girdle. Arnault spent those few precious minutes with head bowed in his hands, preparing himself for the work to come.

The altar of the side chapel was dedicated to Saint Andrew. Once Abbot Henry had lit the altar candles, he extinguished the lanterns and knelt down before the altar to offer up prayers for the protection of the partic.i.p.ants and the success of their evening's work. Torquil, for his part, drew his sword and made a sun-wise circuit of the chapel's inner perimeter, tracing out a protective circle and pausing at each of the quarters to embellish it with an additional symbol of protection. Once having closed the circle, he positioned himself just within the chapel's entrance, facing outward with his sword grounded beneath his hands, ready to defend the sacred s.p.a.ce and its occupants against all intruders, physical and otherwise.

Arnault sensed the completion of that part of the work, and looked up to find Ninian quietly gazing at him. With a faint smile, Arnault took out the Breastplate from its resting place next to his skin. Ninian watched with grave respect as the oilskin and silken wrappings were removed, reverently kissing the fingertips of his right hand and then glancing at Arnault for permission before lightly touching one of the stones in salute.

"A precious Hallow," he breathed. "May G.o.d grant you discernment to use it wisely."

So saying, he moved back a step and bowed to Arnault, gesturing toward the Stone in sign for him to begin. Mentally commending himself to G.o.d, Arnault then sank to his knees behind the Stone, as he had knelt once before, then took a deep breath to steady himself before slipping the Breastplate's fastening chains around his neck, so that the ornament came to rest over his heart.

"Almighty G.o.d, Eternal Father of Lights," he prayed aloud, "in Whom there is no darkness, and before Whom no secrets lie hid, lift the veil from my mortal eyes and enlighten my soul, I pray, that my spirit may discern the nature of hidden truths and my heart may clearly know Thy will."

With these words, he reverted to contemplative silence, sinking back onto his hunkers. While Abbot Henry continued his own supportive intercessions, Ninian picked up a small wooden bowl he had filled from a vial of collected rainwater, stirring the contents with a sprig of flowering hawthorne, cut earlier by the light of the moon.

"I spoke to the wood," he chanted softly, "and it sang to me of the earth. I spoke to the water, and it sang to me of the sky. Blessed be wood and earth, water and sky, in token of their Creator. Let their songs be on my lips, in praise of the High G.o.d."

With these words, he used the hawthorne sprig as an aspergillum to shake water on the Stone in blessing.

Pale hawthorne petals also shook loose, fragile and fragrant.

"Creature of earth," he whispered, "be blessed in the name of that One Who is above all others. Awake and know thyself for what thou art: a vessel of G.o.d's power!"

After bowing profoundly to the Stone, he set the bowl aside and sank down opposite Arnault, taking from his pouch a flat, water-smoothed gray stone the size of a hen's egg and perforated at its center by a naturally formed hole, which he laid into Arnault's up-cupped palms.

"This is called a keekstane, a seeing-stone," he explained. "Such objects are rare gifts of nature. The eyehole is a window on the world of hidden things. I give it to you now, as the one to whom true Vision may be revealed."

Pulse quickening, Arnault closed the keekstane in his two hands and prepared to engage his inner perceptions. After a moment he invoked the power of the Breastplate, and soon became aware of a growing warmth at his breast, and even an answering tingle from the keekstane.

Bowing his forehead to it, he began reaching for a link to join the two. Very soon he became aware of a sensation of warmth radiating from the Breastplate. The warmth quickened to a glow and spread to his chest, setting his blood racing. The act of breathing seemed to fan the flame brighter and hotter, like bellows stoking a forge. It set his heart ablaze so that it burned in his breast like a live coal.

The chamber of the Stone seemed to waver around him as he dared to lift his head, hands clasped tightly around the keekstane, held close before the Breastplate. With a faint sense of dizziness came the feeling that he was being lifted up to some higher plane of perception, where the firmness of the floor beneath his knees seemed the only thing keeping him anch.o.r.ed to the physical world. All else was being ignited and transformed by the fire in his heart.

The heat at his breast soared above the threshold of pain, but even as Arnault gave a gasp, the fire discharged itself with a sudden jolt. There came a dazzling burst of light from the center of his chest, and in that instant, all the jewels in the Breastplate came suddenly to life in a rainbow blaze of unearthly radiance.

Hands trembling, Arnault dared to lift the keekstane before his gaze. Seen through the keekstane's window, bathed in that supernal light, the Stone of Destiny underwent a startling change. Its opaque density drained away like wine from a cup. Its remaining ma.s.s became transparent as a block of clear gla.s.s. As Arnault gazed into its vitreous depths, still peering through the keekstane, an arc of rainbow fire leapt from the Breastplate to the Stone.

Shimmering colors mapped its surface in crackling force lines. In the same instant, at the very heart of the Stone, there appeared an answering splinter of light. Like a seed of starfire, it blossomed outward, meeting and merging with the fire dance of colors on the surface. Then, just as swiftly, it died back, leaving only the ghost of a glimmer behind.

The waning wrenched at Arnault with an almost physical sensation-as if he were being pulled inside the Stone. At the Stone's core, he could feel a pulse of invisible energy, throbbing like the lingering heartbeat of a dying man. In a single, bleak instant, he sensed that revival might be possible-but by no means was it certain.

As if in response to that revelation, he felt a sudden, rending pain in his chest, as if his heart were being torn out. The anguish took his breath away. His body crumpled, bringing the realm of vision crashing down in ruins around him. As he slid toward the floor, the keekstane slipping from his fingers, a voice seemed to whisper above the fading tumult.

"The realm has fallen into the hands of an apostate!" it cried. "Only blood may pay the ransom price. The time of the Uncrowned King draws near-the time of the warrior-victim, stalwart in battle. To him, the sacrifice; to his successors, the victory!"

Chapter Seventeen.

THERE IS SOME LITTLE COMFORT TO BE TAKEN FROM THE fact that the Stone of Destiny still retains a spark of its former power," Abbot Henry observed heavily. "But if we cannot find the means to fan that ember back to life, I fear that the future of this land will be bleak, indeed. And as to the cost of putting things right, we have nothing more to go on than hints and riddles."

"Prophecy, I'm afraid, is nearly always obscure," Arnault said. "Still, we've been given this guidance for a reason. We must now use our human wits to hammer out a meaning."

He was speaking from a chair drawn up by the hearth in Abbot Henry's study. Though it was now morning, and he had had the benefit of several hours' sleep, he still was not fully recovered from the rigors of their previous night's work. Slouched deep in a neighboring chair, Torquil was looking similarly weary and perplexed. Only Brother Ninian, standing by the window, continued to preserve an appearance of unruffled calm.

Arnault had no recollection of anything past the point where his vision had overwhelmed him. He had awakened in a bed in the abbey's infirmary, with Brother Ninian watching over him. Very shortly, both Torquil and Abbot Henry had joined them. The Breastplate had been returned to its wrappings and was back in its accustomed hiding place, under Arnault's shirt and against his skin. On Ninian's recommendation, he had hung the keekstane around his neck on a thong of leather.

"Whatever the meaning," Abbot Henry said, "it behooves us to fathom it as quickly as possible. There is, indeed, a shadow on the Stone and on the land, apparently intent on plunging us into pagan darkness.

The cure would seem to lie in the hands of this so-called Uncrowned King. And unless we find out who he is-and how he must empower the Stone-King Edward will overwhelm our lands, and the shadows will overwhelm our souls."

A lengthy discussion followed. Various speculations and proposals were examined, only to be discarded as untenable. Eventually the debate dwindled into frustrated silence, finally broken by Brother Ninian.

"It occurs to me," he said, "since I was sent by Cra-gheal to a.s.sist you, that perhaps you are meant to accompany me back to Iona. We have in our library many ancient texts and ma.n.u.scripts. A few are even ascribed to the hand of Columba himself. In addition, we preserve the oral traditions of our distant past.

Some of our brethren have been trained in the ways of the seannachie, who carry vast sums of ancient wisdom in their memories. It may be that one of them can offer the enlightenment that presently eludes us."

Both Arnault and Torquil brightened at that prospect, and Abbot Henry gave an enthusiastic nod.

"We'll come, of course," Arnault replied.

After a quick discussion of practicalities, they planned to make their departure the next morning. Torquil and Brother Ninian began a.s.sembling provisions after the noon office, while Arnault caught a few hours'

sleep.

But shortly before Vespers, when Arnault had just joined the pair in the abbey stables, inspecting the mounts available for the journey, a clatter of hooves in the yard outside at once was joined by the sound of running feet and a growing murmur of anxious voices. Arnault glanced outside, then beckoned for the others to join him, for an exhausted-looking rider on a lathered horse had just drawn up in the abbey yard, and two lay brothers were leaning hard against the horse's sides and trying to keep it from collapsing as monks began emerging from doorways all around the yard.

"The English have taken Dunbar!" the rider gasped out as he slid gracelessly down from the saddle. "At least three earls are taken as well, and many other men of rank. Next Edinburgh itself is threatened-and then the whole of Scotland!"

A general outcry of dismay greeted this announcement, along with urgent clamorings for more details, but few were forthcoming. From what the Templars could gather, grave strategic blunders had doomed the Scots defense from the outset, and King John was now retreating northward with the Comyns and others of his baronage. To Earl Warenne's cavalry had gone the honor of attacking and taking Dunbar on King Edward's behalf-and the English king and his main army were now believed to be making their way west toward Edinburgh in a leisurely fashion.

"So much for John Balliol's military ac.u.men," Torquil muttered in an explosive undertone as he and Arnault moved off. "And what were those fool earls thinking of? They might have held Dunbar!"