And for whose glory do you seek him, Knight of Cra-gheal? the saint asked.

"For the glory of the Threefold One, He Who is Chief of Chiefs," Arnault said boldly, employing the Celtic imagery he had absorbed in the past weeks, in the company of Ninian and the other Columbans.

"And my Order's motto-the motto of Cra-gheal's Order-likewise declares our service to G.o.d's glory.

Non n.o.bis, Domine.

"However worldly that Order's external purpose," he went on, "its inner duty is to erect the Fifth Temple, to the glory of G.o.d's holy name-for which the Stone of Destiny is to become the cornerstone, and Scotland its foundation. I am given to understand that the success of this mission stands or falls by Scotland's freedom, which is bound up with the waning power of the Stone-and neither can be restored save by the ransom of the Uncrowned King. I seek some sign by which to find him."

Caught up in the pa.s.sion of his appeal, it was not until he had finished speaking that he became aware of a sensation of warmth radiating from the Breastplate. A rainbow aura emanated from the jewels, not crackling with energy as it had at Scone, but gently shimmering as it mingled with the silent moonlight.

Amid the silence, Abbot Fingon softly spoke, not in pleading but in observation.

"The Magi were given the sign of the star to show them the way to Bethlehem," he said. "Were they not also looking for an Uncrowned King?"

The stern face in the mirrored rainwater smiled faintly.

My sons are wise-both my sons of Iona and those by adoption.

His luminous gaze returned to Arnault. Know that he who is to be sacrificed in imitation of our Lord shares these traits in common with his Master: He will be a man of sorrows, obscure in his origins and rejected of other men.

The saint's image was beginning to dissolve into the moonlight. Arnault leaned forward, the better to hear Columba's parting words.

Where the Stone is, there also will he be found. He shall accompany the Stone into darkness, and by him shall it be restored, to be that cornerstone upon which depend both an earthly kingdom and the New Jerusalem. Soon he shall make himself known-and you shall instruct him in his destiny.

Chapter Twenty.

I HAD NOT THOUGHT IT POSSIBLE THAT EVEN A PUPPET KING could be so spineless," the younger John Comyn muttered to his father, the Lord of Badenoch. "Nor can I decide which canker gnaws worse in my belly: the arrogance of the English dogs, or Balliol's inability to stand and fight like a man."

The two were standing on the heights above the watch fires that marked the encampment of the Scottish feudal host, which lay sprawled before them among the forested hills and glens of the Grampian countryside. It was well past midnight. Behind them, ghostly dim under the light of a waning moon, lay a circle of standing stones known locally as Sunhoney-a name of benign a.s.sociation that did not at all reflect its ancient and dark affinities. It was for this, rather than for any strategic advantage, that the army had been led here at the elder Comyn's urging.

Following the rout at Dunbar, King John Balliol had abandoned his base at Haddington and withdrawn his forces to the central Highlands. They had been on the move now for weeks. Caught between vanity and fear, the king vacillated daily between the two extremes, one moment bl.u.s.tering, the next moment quaking. So far, he had shown no gift for strategy and even less for leadership, with no apparent intention other than to keep as much distance as possible between his army and the English.

Now he was preparing to sue for peace, and to throw himself and his kingdom on the mercy of Edward of England. King Edward, for his part, seemed content to lurk in mid-Lothian, consolidating his hold over the east coast burghs in a leisurely fashion.

"John Balliol is as worthless as an empty sheep's bladder flapping in the wind," Comyn agreed, contempt edging his voice. "If he will not play the part of a king, then he deserves nothing better than to be stripped naked and flung onto a dung heap. If he fails us, I will give the G.o.ddess his bones to pick beside those of the Templars." His voice cracked suddenly, flaring into flint-edged anger.

"Treacherous, foreign-born knaves! They will pay, and pay heavily for this latest outrage!"

John Comyn glanced sharply at his father, but the vehemence of the other's outburst warned that comment would be ill-advised.

"The Master of England has taken Briochan's relics into England," the Lord of Badenoch announced in a flat, gray voice. "The ambitious Frre Brian de Jay is far more devious than we dreamed."

The younger Comyn gaped at this revelation. "He has taken them to England-are you sure?"

"Would that I were not!" came the clipped reply. "The G.o.ddess showed me in a vision-for which favor I paid dearly! I suspected from the start that the disruption of Briochan's resting place was no mere coincidence. I am given to believe that his relics now lie hidden in a secret place within the English Temple-which means that they could not be further from our grasp if Jay had sunk them in the sea-or in a tarn by Balantrodoch, as was claimed when I first had inquiries made, regarding the disposition of the grave."

"What will you do now?" John asked.

His father's craggy face was haggard and drawn, his eyes red-rimmed with sleeplessness. Each night for the past three, he had sought communion with his dark patrons, withdrawing to the secret shelter of the ancient stones to invoke the power of the waning moon, each night offering increasingly costly sacrifice of blood and seed and soul. Only tonight had he received an answer.

"The obstacle is not insurmountable," Comyn said coldly. "We have, in our favor, the fact that the Templars very likely are not aware of our particular interests. Jay himself, however, is a most ambitious man-as evidenced by his fawning attendance on Edward at Berwick. While he may have some inkling that possession of Briochan's relics confers a potential for power, I would be willing to wager that he sees it largely as a means to further his own ambitions."

"By using pagan magic?" John asked, startled. "Surely a Christian would be profaned by dabbling in such things."

Comyn contained a disdainful smirk. "Some believe that at least a portion of the Order has been tainted by exposure to Saracen heresies-but I am less concerned with the state of Jay's soul than I am with recovering Briochan's relics. You have seen the use we make of Christian holy things; in like manner, he could profane the things we hold as sacred.

"To prevent that, I have been shown a way to force the return of Briochan's relics." Glancing behind them, Comyn drew his son closer, lowering his voice. "Jay's deputy, the Templar called John de Sautre, remains in Scotland. His brother, Robert, however, has gone south in Jay's following-and Jay has gone to Cyprus. The blood link between brothers is a powerful bond, as you know. If we can capture John de Sautre, we can work through him to get at Robert- and he, in turn, can be compelled to steal back Briochan's relics and bring them to us."

The younger Comyn nodded, but his expression was doubtful. "I understand, in general, what you are proposing," he agreed, "but I would a.s.sume that this John de Sautre either rides with King Edward's advisors or has withdrawn to the main Templar preceptory at Balantrodoch-which, in addition to being strongly fortified, lies in an area now under English control."

His father raised a peremptory hand. "I do not propose to attack them in their lair, or even to penetrate the English lines. Our own position will be precarious enough in the coming weeks, if Balliol does, indeed, surrender. Edward will not fail to note our family's part in this rebellion.

"Nonetheless, the Templars present an increasingly vexing obstacle to our plans. I have learned by various means that the Temple itself apparently harbors factions in contention with one another. Some weeks ago, shortly after Berwick, two knight-brothers departed Balantrodoch for Scone, where they spent several days before departing in the company of a monk of the kindred of the cursed Columba.

"That they rode north from Scone, and in that company, leads me to believe that they may have been headed for Columba's Isle of Iona, in the west-possibly without the permission or foreknowledge of their superiors, for they left Scone in secret, having put aside Templar habit in favor of pilgrim attire. And not long after, the Master of Scotland rode out precipitously from Balantrodoch with an armed following, searching along the route they had traveled, making inquiries."

"Why should Templars go to Iona?" John said suspiciously. "And is it not a serious breach of their Rule, to put aside their Templar livery?"

"Breaches of their military discipline do not concern me!" Comyn said sharply. "And it is premature to worry that the visit of Templars to Iona could bespeak an alliance with those wielding the power of Columba. My more immediate concern is the very useful Master of Scotland, who is no longer safe in the fastness of his preceptory of Balantrodoch. Whatever the internal differences within the Templar Order, he holds the key to gaining access to Brian de Jay and the hiding place of Briochan's relics.

"I therefore intend to take advantage of de Sautre's foray into the west to send a contingent of our own in pursuit, to follow and ambush him and his men. Once we have taken them, we shall sacrifice those of lesser account to the G.o.ddess, and wreak such torment on de Sautre himself that he soon will be begging to do whatever we ask of him."

Sullen pa.s.sion kindled in John Comyn's dark eyes.

"Let me lead them, Father!" he whispered. "I know what to do. I swear to you that I will make these Templars howl for the mercy of death!"

The elder Comyn shook his head. "Would that I could give you that satisfaction. But we both are needed here, to prop up our faltering puppet king and to try to hold together some semblance of an army. If Balliol is supplanted only to be replaced by Edward, our goal is no nearer than it was. My lieutenant Seward shall pursue the ambush, and Torgon shall go with him. He is the true servant of the G.o.ddess, and knows how to draw upon her power at need. Together they will obtain what we want, or die themselves in the attempt."

John de Sautre had nothing but jaundiced contempt for Scotland and its people. As far as he was concerned, the whole country was little more than a barbarous wilderness, a wasteland of gloomy forests, sullen lochs, and midge-infested bogs. Even the purple heather that covered the hilltops in the summertime seemed garish and unnatural to his eye, like a perennial infestation of plague.

His dislike was particularly virulent as he watched his men break up their encampment on the marge of Loch Tay. The morning air was dank and cold, and a mist lay heavy on the water. Since leaving Balantrodoch, every step of the way had been hampered by bad roads and foul weather. After too many nights sleeping rough under drizzling skies, de Sautre's loathing for his surroundings had reached the point where he could no longer find words venomous enough to express it.

He wished, not for the first time, that he was back among the green and pleasant fields of his native Huntingdonshire, where those of common birth knew their place. The folk of this benighted land were unbecomingly independent. Only yesterday, the Templar party had come across a handful of crofters who sullenly refused to respond to any questions put to them in English, French, or Latin. Another time John de Sautre would have ordered them soundly beaten to teach them respect for their betters, but just now he had more pressing business to attend to.

Harcourt, de Sautre's second-in-command, approached him on foot, beating aside a swarm of midges as he came.

"The men are ready, sir," he said. "They're awaiting your orders."

De Sautre greeted this news with a sour grunt. "Tell them to mount up," he said. "Send d'Urberville ahead to scout the way. Tell him to keep silent on the move. If he catches any glimpse of our quarry, he's to report back immediately for further instructions."

He scarcely knew who was more deserving of his wrath: Arnault de Saint Clair, or the incompetent fools who had let Saint Clair and the equally infuriating Lennox slip through their fingers. Brian de Jay had left parting orders that the pair were to be kept under careful surveillance. De Sautre had entrusted the matter to three supposedly seasoned men, but Saint Clair and Lennox had proven too slippery for them.

When Lamballe, Quincy, and Rutherford lost their quarry at Scone, de Sautre had been compelled to pick up the trail himself.

It had not been entirely easy to arrange his departure. King Edward had ordered all fighting men loyal to his cause to muster at Castletown in preparation for a march on Edinburgh. Though Templars were not obliged to answer to any secular authority, deferring only to the pope and their own superiors within the Order, Brian de Jay and his predecessor as Master of England had established ample precedent for Templar advisors to ride at Edward's side.

Accordingly, de Sautre had obtained leave to venture north, ahead of the English army, on the pretext of scouting out the terrain. Thus far, he had seen little along the way to suggest that Balliol's supporters had much fight left in them-a state of affairs that gave him flexible rein under which to carry out his own objectives.

He swung up on his charger as the knight named d'Urberville set off up the narrow trail and disappeared almost at once into the trees. They would give the outrider a few minutes' head start before following.

Riding up alongside him, Harcourt drew rein and allowed himself an explosive sigh.

"Remind me again why we're waiting in this G.o.dforsaken place, being frozen and rained on and eaten alive by midges," he grumbled in an undertone.

"Because they've taken off on their own initiative, maybe even gone apostate, so we're obliged to bring them back!" de Sautre snapped. "If they've been to Iona, this is the most direct way back to Scone."

He had obtained his intelligence by bribing some of the servants attached to Scone Abbey. While professing ignorance of the whereabouts of their recent Templar visitors, who had spent most of a week in prayer and meditation with the monastic community, several of his informants recalled that they had ceased noticing the pair's presence at about the same time that a visiting Columban brother had also departed, shortly after news came of the Scottish defeat at Dunbar.

A casual walk through the abbey stables had discovered the presence of two leggy palfreys from the stables at Balantrodoch, eating their heads off, and an obliging stable servant had volunteered the information that, yes, two Templars had left the animals in temporary exchange for a pair of the abbey's st.u.r.dy rouncys, and were expected to trade them back when they eventually returned to collect their armor and other possessions left for safekeeping with the abbot-who declined to speculate on the probable destination of the pair. But further inquiries along the road north had revealed that a Columban brother and two bearded and black-clad pilgrims with swords strapped under their saddles had pa.s.sed that way at the appropriate time, and had turned west after leaving the hospice at Dunkeld.

None of this squared with the orders shown de Sautre by Saint Clair, authorizing him and Lennox to approach various Scottish clerics regarding the instruction of King John's conscience. De Sautre could concede the possible worth of seeking counsel of the Abbot of Scone-but Columbans? And why had Saint Clair and Lennox found it advisable to do so in disguise?-unless it was to hide something.

"I still don't understand why they did it," Harcourt said. "They're both veterans-well acquainted with the chain of command."

"That really doesn't concern you," de Sautre said coldly, for he shared Brian de Jay's suspicions that Saint Clair and Lennox, obviously favored by the upper echelons of Templar authority in Paris, had brought their share of secrets back from Outremer-secrets that an elite within the Order were attempting to h.o.a.rd for their own advancement. "To act on their own initiative bespeaks contempt for the Rule of the Order. At very least, they were obliged to report any revision of their plans to a local superior-me. One way or another, I'll have them back at Balantrodoch to answer for their actions."

Fortunately, the Rule gave de Sautre all the authority he required to detain the two renegades under duress until they could be compelled to make a full disclosure of their secret activities. He would have welcomed an excuse to flog the truth out of them, after the labor, expense, and misery this journey had cost him, but that satisfaction would have to be reserved for Jay when he returned from Cyprus.

Nonetheless, de Sautre intended to make life a misery for his errant confreres until a final reckoning could be made.

Arnault scarcely heeded the intermittent showers and even downpours that accompanied him and Torquil on their departure from Iona. The revelations of Saint Columba had given him so much to think about, that he had little attention to spare for the weather. When Torquil broke in on his reflections with the suggestion that they stop to rest the horses, he was faintly surprised to discover that the hood and shoulders of his black cloak were wet.

It seemed far longer than a week since he and Torquil had exchanged their farewells with Brother Ninian and Abbot Fingon on the beach at Iona, after changing back their Columban habits for the black robes they had worn for their journey there. Halting again for the hospitality of Dunstaffnage, and to collect their horses, they had been warned that Irish mercenaries were known to be still in the area, but they had not encountered any trouble on their homeward journey, other than the relatively minor discomfort of sleeping rough on damp ground.

The sky overhead was piled high with swift-moving clouds, hinting at more rain yet to come. Distractedly aware of the need to answer a call of nature, Arnault reined in and started to dismount.

"Watch the mud!" Torquil warned.

Arnault caught himself in mid-swing and glanced at the ground beneath his horse-fetlock-deep in mud-then grunted his thanks as he swung back up until he could move the animal a few steps forward to drier ground.

"I fear I'm more preoccupied than I realized," he said, jumping down. He handed his reins to Torquil before moving farther off the trail. "I've been trying to devise a plausible story for de Sautre when we get back."

"Well, he certainly can't be told the truth-at least not all of it," Torquil said after a moment, as he, too, dismounted. "All aside from what we actually did on Iona, I expect that our mere independence to go there, and to put aside our habits to do it, could be construed as rank insubordination."

"That wouldn't surprise me," Arnault said with a snort, from behind a convenient bush. "He strikes me as a man just looking for an excuse to flex his authority."

While they were acting under orders instigated by the Master of le Cercle and issued by the Visitor of France, both men knew that, according to strict interpretation of the Rule of the Order, de Sautre could claim that they were still arguably accountable to him, as their local superior.

"If it weren't for the fact that Luc should be advised of what we've learned," Arnault went on, "I'd avoid Balantrodoch altogether, and head us straight for the nearest east coast port where we could take ship for Paris. I confess, I haven't a notion how we proceed, until we've had some guidance from le Cercle."

He emerged from the bushes and took back his horse's reins. "I would be feeling far more confident if we knew what's been developing in the rest of the country during our absence."

Torquil only nodded agreement, both of them falling silent as they set out walking for a while, to rest the horses. Since leaving Dunstaffnage, they had yet to encounter anyone who could give them fresh news of any military or political developments since Dunbar. What they feared most was the possibility that Edward might have pressed his campaign northward in an extension of his Berwick strategy, giving his army leave to burn, slay, and "raise dragon"-displaying the dreaded dragon banner, under which no mercy would be given, and none of the acknowledged conventions of war would be observed. At best, the English king was likely to be adding further victories to his credit, bringing Scotland ever more firmly under his sway.

"If John Balliol is still at liberty," Torquil finally said, "the Scots host will remain active in the field. He's still our king, even if he's a bad king. But what if he's been captured?"

"In that case," Arnault answered, "the outcome will depend on where the loyalty of his commanders lies: To the man, or to the realm?"

"The two should be one and the same," Torquil said.

"True enough-but are they, in John Balliol? I fear increasingly that they may not be."

After walking a while longer, they remounted. No longer traveling in Brother Ninian's company, they had abandoned the pretext of being religious pilgrims and now wore their swords strapped at their sides, though their borrowed black cloaks mostly hid the fact that they were armed, and covered the packs tied behind their saddles. They saw no one all the bleak morning.

The trail followed the line of the River Dochart, its surface like beaten pewter under the overcast sky.

The water quickened as the afternoon wore on, the distant rush of a cataract gradually dominating all lesser sounds.

Pressing on through dense forest tracts of varied hardwoods and evergreens, increasingly in shade and damp, they urged their horses along a fragrant, m.u.f.fling carpet of pine needles, nearing a clearing close beside the rushing waters, where Ninian had urged them to make camp on their outbound journey. All around, a vigorous growth of a.s.sorted hardwoods vied with majestic conifers and the bristle of pines, blue-green in the failing light, several of the trees with rookeries tangled high in their branches-virgin forest, never touched by axe or blade. Captivated by this tangible evidence of the splendor and beauty of G.o.d's creation, Ninian had not understood why both Arnault and Torquil maintained such watchful wariness as they pressed past it-until Torquil pointed out, as the roar fell behind them, how such a sound could mask the approach of an enemy.

Again aware of this danger, as the trees thinned all around them and the clearing opened out, Arnault found himself straining to hear above the roar of rushing water and trying to pierce the deepening shadows of the forest as he and Torquil urged their horses to a quicker pace, glad that enough of the day remained to press well past this place before they must stop for the night. But even as Torquil's mount gave a wary nicker of inquiry, Arnault knew it was not their mere intrusion that suddenly sent dozens of rooks exploding upward into flight, their harsh caws of alarm all but drowned out by the rushing water.

Both men drew rein sharply, hands dropping to the hilts of swords as blue eyes and green probed amid the trees. A first flash of white, glimpsed peripherally on their left, immediately became one of a full dozen mounted men-six each of white-mantled knights and brown-liveried serjeants-moving slowly forward from the cover of the trees and shadows, lances braced at knees and helmets on heads.

Arnault checked, keeping his sword sheathed and warning Torquil with a glance to do the same, searching the faces, wondering whether they would be obliged to attempt fighting their way out against such odds, and against fellow Templars. Anywhere else in Christendom, he would have welcomed a chance meeting with brother-knights; but here, far from the nearest Templar outpost, he could only think that they had come for him and Torquil. His heart sank as one of the men kneed his warhorse to the front of the party. The Templar mounts dwarfed the Scone abbey rouncys.

"So, the prodigals surface at last," said John de Sautre, resting his sword across the pommel of his saddle. "I hope you have a good explanation for your actions in these past several weeks."

At a gesture from their preceptor, the knights of his entourage fanned out to surround the new arrivals.

Their bearded faces were expressionless beneath their basinets, making Arnault wonder what de Sautre had told them about Torquil and himself.

"An explanation?" he echoed mildly. "Forgive me if I seem obtuse, Frre de Sautre, but you did see our orders. And surely Brian de Jay must have acquainted you with our mission before he himself left for Cyprus."

De Sautre's coa.r.s.e lips curled in a sneer. "Mission? Is that what you are pleased to call it? No, I'm afraid that neither the Master nor your orders mentioned that the two of you were to be exempted from all the usual obligations of the Rule, including humility and obedience to your superiors. Oh, I'm sure you had some reason for going off on your own to visit some obscure community of heretics on the edge of civilization," he continued acidly, "but somehow I take leave to doubt that this mission of yours was sanctioned by any recognized authority within the Order."

Arnault could sense Torquil bristling, but he flashed his companion a warning look and said mildly, "Then you appear to be laboring under an unfortunate misapprehension. Our orders are discretionary, and come from the Visitor of France."

"Forgive me if I find that hard to believe," de Sautre said coldly. "Surely, knights under the direct command of the Visitor would be habited according to the Rule of our Order. To set aside our Lord's livery is to spurn His service. It seems you have as little respect for Him as you have for the Rule."

"We didn't always display our livery in the Holy Land, either," Torquil muttered. "But I wouldn't expect you to know that."

De Sautre turned to him with a glare, bright red patches flaring on his cheeks as Arnault put out a restraining arm.

"And what, exactly, is that meant to imply?" de Sautre demanded. "That you are operating under some hidden agenda of the Visitor, which absolves you of adherence to our Rule?"

"I regret that I am not at liberty to justify the Visitor's instructions," Arnault said, aware that de Sautre was not likely to back down, regardless of what he or Torquil said.

"Indeed?" De Sautre gave a bark of harsh laughter. "Then you can have no objection to accompanying us back to Balantrodoch, so I may satisfy myself as to the truth of your a.s.sertions. This is far outwith the usual chain of command, as you well know.

"As proof of your good faith and obedience, you will surrender your weapons. I trust I need not shame myself or the pair of you by requiring that you submit to being bound. I concede the possibility that your activities have, indeed, been authorized by the Visitor-much though I doubt it-but until inquiries can be made of Paris, or Frre Brian returns from Cyprus to clarify my own obligations as his deputy in Scotland, you will consider yourselves under arrest."