"Your countrymen lack experience in the art of warfare as Edward pursues it," Arnault said. "It remains to be seen what lessons they learn from this disaster."

There was no telling how long the English would remain in the vicinity of Dunbar before moving on. The prospect of English armies on the march gave Arnault pause for thought.

"It occurs to me," he said, "that it might be less than politic for two Templars to be moving openly in Scotland without being attached to any English contingent. I wonder if this might be a good time to drop out of sight, perhaps take up disguise."

"Oh?" Torquil said, with an arch look that spoke volumes regarding his opinion of previous disguises he and Arnault had worn.

Arnault chuckled. "Nothing too odious this time, I think. We shall be. pilgrims finally returned from the Holy Land-bound, I think, for a time of religious retreat and penance with the good brothers of Iona.

That illusion will require leaving our armor behind, and borrowing habits from Abbot Henry, but I think that cover gives us justification for taking along our swords."

"At least that means we travel light," Torquil said, obviously relieved.

The final touch was added by Abbot Henry, who supplied them with the black habits of Augustinian brothers and two unremarkable-looking rouncys from the abbey stables to replace the blooded palfreys they had ridden north from Balantrodoch. In this guise, with packs tied behind their saddles and swords strapped under their knees-and with Brother Ninian mounted on the wiry mountain pony he had ridden from Iona-the three slipped out of the abbey gates early the next morning and headed north for the episcopal town of Dunkeld.

The road to Dunkeld was well marked. They easily covered the intervening fifteen miles in less than a day. From the fearful looks and whispers flying among the people in the streets, it was clear that news of the fall of Dunbar had preceded them. They lodged that night in a hospice adjoining the cathedral, and set out early the next morning on the trail continuing north and then westward along the River Tay.

The fickle weather of spring turned stormy, so it took the better part of a fortnight to cross the breadth of Scotland. The road following the course of the river dwindled to little more than a poorly defined pony track as it skirted the north sh.o.r.e of Loch Tay, periodically losing itself amid encroaching forest growth.

Human settlements were few, usually consisting of a few mean huts clumped together in a rough-hewn clearing. The scattering of crofters and fisher-folk who occupied these hovels were wary of strangers and kept their distance.

The terrain grew increasingly wild as they continued westward. All sound was m.u.f.fled by the thickness of the surrounding forest. Several times a day, most often toward dusk, their pa.s.sage would startle small herds of red deer, that scattered in panic before them. The trail, such as it was, cut a ragged line along the floor of the long river valley, which formed a bridge between the lower reaches of Loch Tay and the upper waters of Loch Awe. The valley floor was densely forested, and they found themselves obliged to dismount more than once to clear the way ahead, until they came at last before a broad vista overlooking a spread of steel-blue water.

"I know this place," Ninian said. "This is where the River Awe feeds into the loch. Ahead lies the Pa.s.s of Brander- and beyond that, Loch Etive, and the way to the sea."

"I hope you aren't going to say we must swim across that," Torquil said.

The Columban monk shook his head and smiled faintly. "There is a fording place about a mile upstream.

I'll show you the way."

A shallow strip of stony beach marked the dividing line between the forest and the loch. As the three riders emerged from the dense shadows of the trees, the primordial silence was broken by a sudden outcry from somewhere off to their right, followed by a confused outburst of other sounds. The din was sharply punctuated by the all-too-familiar clang of metal meeting metal.

With a speaking glance at Torquil, Arnault swung down from his horse, handing the reins to Brother Ninian and pulling his sword from under his saddle flap as Torquil did the same.

"Stay with the horses," he said to Ninian in a low voice.

From the shouts and grunts coming from the direction of the struggle, and the clangor of weapons, Arnault judged that there might be eight or ten combatants. He revised his estimate a moment later, when he and Torquil got a glimpse of the clearing ahead, where three burly, bare-legged Highlanders were pressed back to back in the middle of the clearing, spears defensively lowered to keep five circling hors.e.m.e.n at bay.

The Highlanders spotted Arnault and Torquil before any of the hors.e.m.e.n were aware of their presence.

As their red-haired leader noted the swords in their fists, he threw back his head and gave a bellowed shout.

"To us, if ye be of Scots blood! Otherwise, be d.a.m.ned to ye!"

The liveried hors.e.m.e.n were all in toughened leather jacks and steel caps, armed with long cavalry lances as well as swords. As the captain jerked his mount around to confront the newcomers, his eyes narrowed at the sight of two additional would-be adversaries. A barked command brought two of his subordinates wheeling to charge at them, not waiting to see for whom they declared. The two Templar knights struck defensive positions, for the riders had the reach of them with the long lances.

"Timing," Arnault muttered aside to Torquil through clenched teeth, as the two hors.e.m.e.n spurred forward, splitting left and right as they closed.

Bracing his sword in both hands, Arnault waited till the last possible instant to shift and, as the tip of his opponent's lance whizzed narrowly past his chest, swung his blade downward, hacking down on the shaft with all his strength.

The lance shattered with a splintering crack, and its owner reeled in the saddle. Casting aside the useless weapon, the man heaved himself upright with a curse and brought his mount sharply about, reining in long enough to rearm himself with the mace he was carrying slung from his saddle-tree.

Back where the Highlanders were holding off the other three, out of the corner of his eye Arnault saw the sudden flurry of the riders' captain tumbling backward from the saddle with a well-thrown dagger protruding from the socket of one eye. Torquil was still on his feet after evading the first charge of his attacker, and as both their adversaries came around for second pa.s.ses, he dived under a lance and seized the horse by the bit, wrenching it off stride. The animal reared back, spilling its rider to the ground.

The thunder of approaching hooves warned Arnault of his own peril. As Torquil leaped in to grapple with his fallen opponent, Arnault could see and hear the heavy mace swinging toward him, but he ducked and sidestepped nimbly and came up under the blow, his thrust sliding between the joins of the man's leather jack and piercing him to the heart. As the man toppled from the saddle, wrenching away Arnault's weapon as he did so, the two remaining riders abruptly broke off the engagement.

Scrambling to retrieve his sword, Arnault rolled aside to avoid being trampled as the two hors.e.m.e.n spurred past him, but they fled into the trees and quickly disappeared from sight, leaving the disguised Templars in the company of the three Highlanders and three dead bodies. The big red-haired leader paused long enough to shout a Gaelic taunt after their departing foes, brandishing a fist in defiance, then came over to raise a hand in greeting to Arnault and Torquil.

"The blessings of Michael be upon ye for most welcome a.s.sistance," he said. "All the more, since ye have the look of strangers-and I dinna think ye learned that in any monastery." He nodded toward the swords the pair were cleaning on the cloaks of two of the fallen men. "I am called Euan MacDougall, of the following of Alexander MacDougall, Earl of Lorn. Who might ye be, and what brings ye to these parts?"

Arnault flicked an expectant gaze toward Torquil, who nodded amiably to their questioner.

"We've come but lately from the Holy Land," he said in a deliberate Scots accent, only slightly stretching the truth. "We are making pilgrimage to the holy monks at Iona. Who were these?" He gestured toward the bodies littering the clearing. "Nae Hieland men."

Their new acquaintance curled his lip. "Och, no. Nor Sa.s.senach, either. Irish hobelars sent by Longshanks. Yon laddies were just a scouting party. The main force sailed up Loch Fyne and made landfall a few days ago, near Inveraray. We watched 'em start offloading troops, then hied ourselves north to report what we'd seen-but it seems we'd been seen. This lot overtook us just before ye arrived, thinking tae silence our tongues."

He broke off as a crackling in the underbrush heralded the arrival of Brother Ninian on his pony, leading a stray horse by the bridle rein, in addition to their own two mounts. The Columban brother's anxious expression faded when he saw his travel companions alive and unhurt.

"This is Brother Ninian from Iona," Torquil told the MacDougall clansmen. "I am called Brother Andrew, in honor of Scotland's saint, but I hie from Lennox country. Brother Michael here is French, so he doesna have the Gaelic."

Euan MacDougall accepted these introductions without demur, according all three of them a broad grin.

"Weel, we canna hold that against him. It's no every man lucky enough to be born a Scot. But if ye care to ride with us from here, I can offer ye shelter at Dunstaffnage, in thanks for the help ye gave us-an'

from there, mayhap ye can get a boat as far as Mull. We'll tarry long enough tae bury the dead; but then we're awa', to tell his lordship what we've seen."

"Brother Michael?" Arnault whispered under his breath to Torquil later, as they helped dig three shallow graves. "You've given me a name with high aspirations."

"But fitting," Brother Ninian returned, "since we are about Cra-gheal's business."

Riding with the MacDougall men, nightfall overtook them before they reached the other side of the Pa.s.s of Brander. They camped within sight of the peak of Ben Cruachan and pressed on early the next morning, hoping to make the castle at Dunstaffnage before dark. At the western end of the pa.s.s, near the headwaters of Loch Etive, they encountered a much larger contingent of mounted MacDougall men who, after a rapid exchange in Gaelic, rode off south to pick up the trail of the Irish mercenary force. The three pilgrims and their MacDougall escort continued on toward the castle under skies that promised more than a hint of rain.

The Earl of Lorn was not at home, having ridden south to investigate reports of English warships off Seil.

In his absence, the three travelers were received by the captain of the castle garrison, who saw to it that they were suitably lodged among MacDougall's chief retainers. When Torquil inquired about sea transport to Mull, he was told that the captain of a galley anch.o.r.ed under the lee of the castle might be willing to accept their hire. The captain in question proved sufficiently contemptuous of English seamanship to accept the gold Torquil offered him, and it was agreed that they would set out the next day on the first outbound tide. Since the vessel was unfit for horse transport, Euan made arrangements for their mounts to be stabled at the castle until they returned.

"An' if ye shouldna come back," he said cheerily, before they retired for the night, "the beasts are worth more than they'll eat."

As the three of them lay down to sleep that night, their one remaining worry was the weather.

That anxiety proved well founded when a storm blew in during the night, bringing with it heavy squalls of hard rain. By first light, the clouds had cleared, but the waters out in the Firth of Lorn were wild, whipped into foamy peaks by strong winds from the west.

"I think we may be in for a rough pa.s.sage," Arnault remarked with misgivings as they made their way down to the sh.o.r.e, provisioned with bread and cheese and several stone bottles of ale for their journey, and both knights carrying their swords.

The galley was still secured at her moorings, but the captain and several of his crew were pacing the beach with dour expressions on their faces. As soon as he caught sight of his three pa.s.sengers, the captain came to meet them.

"We canna sail until the wind changes," he told Torquil. "Nae for gold or sil'er. Even rowin' with all our might, we couldna fight this gale."

Torquil exchanged sour glances with Arnault and Brother Ninian.

"How long do you reckon this will last?" he asked.

The captain shrugged. "I canna say. The wind and the sea have their own ways. Only a fool tries to fight them."

Arnault suppressed a vexed sigh. "I suppose we've no choice, then, but to wait until the weather takes a better turn," he said quietly.

"Not necessarily," Ninian said. "This errand of ours is no light matter. Perhaps there is something to be gained by asking aid of a higher authority." He turned to the ship's captain. "Stay by your vessel," he instructed. "I think you will have your fair wind before much longer."

"Do you know something that we don't?" Torquil asked curiously, when the captain had departed with a shrug.

"Columba has brought us this far," Ninian said calmly. "By his favor, we shall complete this journey in good time."

Beckoning the pair to accompany him, he set off along the beach. Sensing that there was more than caprice in the Columban brother's actions, Arnault signed for Torquil not to speak as they followed after him. Ninian strolled along the sh.o.r.eline in what seemed a leisurely fashion, stooping now and again to pick up and examine some of the pebbles that strewed the sand. In a little while, he had collected four smooth stones of sea-polished quartz and a stick of driftwood peeled white by the surf.

Taking these items with him, he led the way to a flat, firm stretch of sand at the edge of the tide line. The Templars watched in silence from a few feet away as he squatted down and used the stick of driftwood to draw a circle in the sand, little larger than a man's head. To this he added two intersecting lines, quartering the circle with the sign of the cross.

Signing himself with the same symbol, he then struck a casual posture of supplication, face uplifted, open palms turned to the sky.

"O great Columba," he said quietly, "is it truly your will that we should be stranded here on this sh.o.r.e, when our hearts are longing for the counsel of your house? Surely it is no hard thing for you to obtain for us G.o.d's favor, so that He send us fair winds to speed us on our way."

The Templars were startled to hear Ninian address his spiritual patron in such familiar, almost reproachful terms. At the same time, however, such informality bespoke the close personal affinities that evidently existed between Ninian and the saint of his house, in defiance of time or s.p.a.ce. Exchanging glances, they waited with interest to see how he planned to proceed from here.

Humming to himself, the Columban brother next took the four smooth stones he had gathered and placed one at each of the cardinal points of the circle he had drawn. Having done this, he again turned his palms upward in supplication and raised his eyes heavenward, intoning softly: "Bless to me, O G.o.d, the four elements.

Bless to me, O G.o.d, the four quarters of the sky.

Bless to me, O G.o.d, the four winds.

Bid those that hinder me be still, And those that favor me awake."

With these words, he reached out and transposed the stones resting at the east and west points of the circle.

"As the world turns, so turns the wheel of the sky," he murmured. "As the sky turns, so turn the winds under the sky."

He remained crouching there with head bowed and eyes closed, in an att.i.tude of prayerful repose. Amid the ceaseless roll of the waves and the screech of wheeling gulls, a stillness slowly built, during which everything around them seemed to hold its breath.

Then, after what seemed a long, drawn-out wait, Arnault realized that the strong winds out of the west were starting to abate. Each successive gust was lighter than the last, until even the last breeze subsided into gentle stillness. As that calm settled over the beach, the waves smoothed themselves out until the sea was bright and level as a mirror reflecting the sky.

Then, just as gently, as Arnault glanced at Torquil in wonder, a new wind arose out of the east. The first they felt of it was like a feather brush past their cheeks. The breeze gathered strength, bringing with it the scent of heather and gorse from the surrounding cliff tops.

As it continued to build, Ninian lifted his head and opened his arms wide in a gesture embracing the sea and the sky, his eyes alight with praise and pleasure. Then, lowering his arms, he began to remove the stones from their settings, each with an accompanying phrase of thanksgiving.

"Thanks be to thee, Michael of the Angels, and thanks be to thee, Bride of the blessings. Thanks be to thee, Mary mild, and thanks be to thee, Columba of the rock. Thanks be to thee, in heaven above and earth below, for thy words in the ear of the Shepherd of my heart."

When all of the stones had been removed from their ceremonial alignment and tossed, one by one, back into the sea, the Columban brother rose jerkily from his crouch and clapped his hands three times, scuttling backward then as the next wave rolled high enough to smooth away the lines in the sand. He seemed quite oblivious to the looks of wonder on the faces of his companions as he rejoined them.

"We'd best get back to the boat," he said. "Our captain will be eager to sail, and our crossing now should be swift and sure."

Chapter Eighteen.

IN LESS THAN THREE HOURS' TIME, THE SHIP WAS NOSING THE shingled beach on the south sh.o.r.e of Mull. As its three pa.s.sengers waded ash.o.r.e, after first helping turn the bow back to sea, Arnault was still marveling at the turn of nature wrought in response to Ninian's prayerful appeal. Such eloquent demonstrations of Columba's provident care for his flock encouraged Arnault to believe that the saint of Iona would not be deaf to their own pet.i.tions. He looked forward more keenly than ever to meeting Ninian's superior, Abbot Fingon.

First, however, the three of them must cross the width of the island's south end on foot. Ninian had already warned them that the terrain between here and Iona itself was as rugged as any they had encountered so far. The only habitation nearby was a handful of crofters' huts. The only farm beasts to be seen were a motley scattering of sheep, a few scraggy cows, and one swaybacked plow pony.

"It's been a while since we last had to carry our gear on our backs," Torquil observed, hefting his share of the provisions under his cloak, behind his sword.

"Just be glad we left the armor back at Scone," Arnault replied. He slid his own sword between his back and the pack he already wore, shifting the weight more comfortably as he glanced at Brother Ninian.

"Which way?"

Ninian gestured behind him, where a thin track no wider than a game trail disappeared amid spring-green vistas of bracken and gorse.

"As you see. We have perhaps three or four hours of daylight left."

"Then I suggest," said Arnault, "that we see how much of the trail we can put behind us before nightfall."

The trail in question was little more than a rugged footpath. During their first afternoon's march, they saw no other living creatures save for a pair of hawks on the hunt and a scattering of wild sheep roaming over the gorse hills that flanked them on either hand. They camped in the open that night, eating spa.r.s.ely of their travel fare and rolling up in their cloaks by the side of a shallow, peat-bottomed burn. Early next morning they set off again, hoping to reach the halfway point of their journey before the end of the day.

The trail they were following cut a crooked swath through several interconnected valleys. Their packs seemed to grow heavier as they trudged through the bracken. Toward the middle of the afternoon, they caught sight of two fat ponies with wicker panniers across their backs, browsing lazily on a patch of spa.r.s.e, wind-flattened gra.s.s. Beyond the ponies stretched a brown slash of peat bog, where two white-clad men with tonsures like Ninian's were industriously cutting peat with long-handled implements, robes kilted up between their legs.

"Ah, now there's happy happenstance," Ninian said, waving an arm to attract their attention. "Se do bheatha!" he called out.

The two monks looked up, faces splitting in delighted grins at the sight of Ninian.

"Go mbeannai Dia dhut!" one of them called back.

Tossing their cutting tools onto the embankment, they scrambled up to hurry toward the new arrivals.

One of them was dark-haired and wiry, the other a match for Torquil in height and build, but fairer haired. Their legs and arms were muddy, their habits also sporting peaty smears, but there could be no doubt that they were brethren of Ninian's community, as confirmed by their Gaelic chatter and the hearty embraces the three exchanged before Ninian shifted to Latin to make mutual introductions.

"This is Brother Fionn, and this is Brother Ciaran," he declared, indicating first the dark-haired brother, then his fair, big-boned companion. "They came across to Mull two days ago to gather fuel. If we help them load up the ponies, we can all travel back to Iona together."

The prospect of company and an end to their journey more than made up for the prospect of a few hours spent cutting and stacking peat turfs. Shedding their cloaks and packs, the two knights set to work contentedly beside Ninian and the other two monks. Long before dusk, the ponies' panniers were full to capacity.

"There's a bothy about a mile west of here," Brother Fionn announced, as they washed off the worst of the mud in a narrow rivulet feeding into a burn downhill. "We can sleep there tonight under cover, then move on to Iona in the morning."

The bothy was only a rough freestone structure, but it provided welcome shelter from the chill winds that blew up with the setting of the sun. Once the ponies had been watered and turned out to graze, and a fire had been lit, initial conversation between Ninian and his fellow monks was concerned primarily with news of their little community. Cooking oat porridge over the fire in a leather bag, speaking of such small matters as the taking of fish and the herding of flocks, the Columban brothers seemed blessedly far removed from the dark complexities of war and politics.

And yet, it soon became clear that they were not so isolated as they seemed, when Brother Fionn moved on from a disquisition on the making of parchment to ask for news of John Balliol's war against Edward of England. Surprisingly, the monks of Iona had even heard reports of the fate of Berwick, and were anxious on behalf of the people of the other east coast burghs. When Torquil described the inglorious defeat of the Scottish host at Dunbar, Brother Ciaran shook his s.h.a.ggy blond head in dismay.

"We Scots have not studied war as the English have done," he remarked. "If Scotland is to retain her independence, our people will have to make up in faith and fervor what we lack in experience."