"With all due respect for your rank and office-" Arnault began.

"No!" de Sautre barked, gesturing with his sword. "I will have no more of your arrogance. You knights of Outremer are all alike-infected with the sins of pride and heresy. It's time you were curbed. If you are not brought to book for your actions, soon the whole Order will be called into disrepute."

Arnault could feel Torquil's eyes upon him in mute outrage, but he could see no option other than to surrender, and on de Sautre's terms. The men surrounding them were too many, and too well mounted to outrun-and in any event, he was reluctant to provoke bloodshed among these, his sworn brothers. With a sinking heart, he gave a nod to the Master of Scotland.

"If you send to Paris, the Visitor will confirm our special status," he said evenly. "But in the meantime, we will come with you."

Partially drawing his sword with his left hand, hilt first, he kneed his horse toward the nearest of de Sautre's men and prepared to surrender his weapon. Torquil sourly headed toward another man. The unexpected capitulation brought a pleased smirk to de Sautre's lips; but before his men could secure the surrender, a flurry of black-fletched arrows suddenly whisked from the gloom of the surrounding trees, unheard above the background roar of the nearby cataract, striking three men and wounding several horses.

As men and horses screamed and the Templars wheeled in alarm, knights and serjeants, looking around wildly for the source of the attack, at least a score of motley figures moved amid the cover of the forest beyond, nocking arrows to bows for a second a.s.sault-though they were not English longbows, and few of the arrows had the power to penetrate fatally, save where they struck unprotected flesh.

De Sautre's men were already scattering, even as he shouted orders, hunched low over saddles to afford smaller targets, casting aside their lances and drawing swords-for the quarters were too close for any conventional cavalry response. Some of them quickly dismounted, taking cover among the great boulders closer to the river, a few of them attempting to engage some of the closer bowmen hand-to-hand-though not always with happy result, for there were spearmen with the bowmen, and the spears had a longer reach than a broadsword-and an element of surprise as well, at least until the first Templar went down.

Meanwhile, it was the horses who were taking the brunt of the attack-and adding to the confusion-more and more of them loose, becoming a hazard of their own as their steel-shod hooves churned up the pine needles in ever greater alarm, frantic for an escape as the rain of arrows continued, eliciting the odd outcry or equine squeal. One big bay, stung by an arrow and still with a rider astride, nearly bowled over Arnault's smaller horse as it exploded into a bucking fit and ignominiously dumped its white-mantled rider at the feet of a dark little man who suddenly appeared from behind a tree-and was gone again, his dagger reddened with Templar blood, before anyone could even get a good look at him.

Steadying his mount, Arnault pulled back with Torquil and the rest in good order, all of them with swords now in hands, all of them now Templars against a common enemy. But as more arrows whizzed among them, Torquil was obliged to make a precipitous dismount as his valiant little rouncy went down with a piteous squeal, a feathered shaft deep in its chest and blood spraying from its nostrils.

As yet another flurry of arrows came raining down, Arnault ducked down and kneed his own mount closer so Torquil could shield behind it and catch on to his stirrup, to cling for dear life as Arnault whirled the little horse clumsily on its haunches to drag him out of the line of fire-but only at cost, for as Torquil scurried for cover behind a boulder, Arnault's mount met the fate of its stablemate, cut down by a hail of arrows that, individually, merely would have wounded, but in aggregate spelled its doom. Arnault rolled clear with a m.u.f.fled oof! and scrambled to join Torquil, only just managing to keep his sword, as more arrows blacked the air, splintering and pinging among the rocks.

"I gather," said Torquil, "that we don't make a run for it just yet."

"I would if I could, believe me," Arnault muttered. "But we can't abandon our brethren to be slaughtered.

Who are these men?"

"Not just common outlaws-that's for sure," Torquil said, both of them scrambling for safety as several loose horses came bolting past them to head upstream along the river. "And not a hunting party, either."

He peered cautiously around the rock behind which they were sheltering, then leaned out farther for a closer look. "Good Lord, that one's got some kind of symbol painted on his fore-"

He ducked back with a muttered oath as an arrow whizzed past him, close enough to ruffle his hair.

Arnault waited a beat, in hope that the shooter would turn to other targets, then risked a look in his turn.

The attackers were emerging again from among the trees, now arrayed in two ranks, with archers to the fore and spearmen gathering behind. All of them seemed to have foreheads painted with the symbol Torquil had seen on the first: a blue, roughly triangular shape with curved protrusions extending outward from the two upper angles, perhaps meant to be the horns of a bull or ram. Seeing it, Arnault was seized with an unaccountable sense of foreboding.

"Jesu Christi!" he murmured under his breath, ducking down.

Striding long-limbed behind the others came a powerful, bearded figure in a leather hauberk and helmet who appeared to be the leader of the band. His bare, muscular arms were covered with spirals and runic symbols traced out in blue, in addition to the symbol on his forehead, giving him the aspect of a pagan war chief of ancient times. Brandishing a spear high in his right hand, he flung back his head and gave a bull-throated bellow. The archers ceased firing and dropped back, allowing the spearmen to rush forward between their ranks.

Whooping and yelping, they charged down from amid the trees, bounding over rocks and other obstacles as they came. De Sautre's voice penetrated the din, ordering his men to stand fast. Gripping their swords more tightly-for without body armor of any kind, they were far more vulnerable than their fellow Templars-Arnault and Torquil braced themselves shoulder to shoulder as they watched the first wave of attackers engage with the Templars ranged at the forward edge of the clearing.

Oddly, the attack seemed largely a hit-and-run engagement. Yelling like demons, the Highlanders hurled themselves at the barricade of rocks and began jabbing viciously between the boulders with their long spears. Arnault and Torquil saw a serjeant fall in the first seconds of fighting- though apparently only wounded-and two or three attackers also fell back groaning and clutching wounds. Glancing down the line, Arnault saw several spearmen lying either dead or wounded on the ground.

Even as this fact registered, a roared command from the Highland leader brought a rush of reinforcements. These were armed not with spears, but with swords and battleaxes, and with targes of hardened leather on their shield arms, studded with bra.s.s. From their numbers, Arnault guessed that the archers had abandoned their bows, and were now joining in the fray.

Another serjeant and a knight fell wounded, but the rest held fast, refusing to be pushed back. As the clash of steel against steel continued, never quite reaching Arnault and Torquil, they became conscious of a more insidious sound permeating the din of battle, throbbing like the rumble of distant thunder. There was a cadence to it, dull and heavy like the pulse beat of some monstrous leviathan.

Craning his neck to find where it was coming from, Torquil nudged Arnault in the ribs and directed his attention upriver, where a solitary figure in dirty white robes was watching from a stony point. What at first appeared to be a man's head trapped under the figure's right arm was, in fact, a painted drum-and the source of the throbbing sound, Arnault realized, as his eyes caught the movement of sinuous fingers flying above the painted drumhead.

And even as he listened-now picking out the rhythm more clearly, for knowing its source-the sound of the drumming began to pulse with a depth and volume not commensurate with the distance and far beyond the mere physical size of the drum, somehow rising above the roar of the river and the din of the fighting. The rough voices of the Highlanders joined in raggedly with a guttural chant that matched the cadence of the drumbeat, in no language Arnault knew but which made his blood run cold; for the chant somehow conjured up the memory of a farmhouse in Orkney, where a freezing shadow had come l.u.s.ting after the warmth of innocent human life.

Even as he made the connection, silently seizing Torquil's biceps in an urgent grip conveying danger and alarm, the drumming abruptly ceased. At once the attackers broke off combat, quickly fading back into the forest. Their Templar opponents checked, declining to pursue, seeming suddenly to sense a change in the air, looking around nervously for something they could not see.

The descending silence was as ominous as the calm at the eye of a storm. As they watched, hardly daring to breathe, thin tendrils of cold white mist began to rise up from the ground beside the river, near the feet of the now-motionless drummer-who, almost certainly, was some species of pagan shaman.

"Something's coming," Torquil murmured in a cracked whisper. His bearded face was pale under its healthy patina of weathering and freckles.

"I know," Arnault responded grimly, "and I think I'd better try to stop it. Guard my back. This is going to be quick and dirty-if it even works."

Shifting to both knees, he planted his sword in the ground in front of him like an upright cross as the drumming began again-softer, this time, and slower, and somehow even more sinister. He breathed a wordless plea for grace as he reached into the bosom of his borrowed black robe and brought out the packet containing the Breastplate. Unwrapping it with trembling fingers, he dared take no time to don it properly, or to prepare as he should; only cupped it reverently over his heart under his bare hands, swallowing hard as he called his inner faculties to order-for something definitely was coming.

"Non n.o.bis, Domine," he prayed aloud, softly. "Eripe me de inimicis meis, Deus meus." Rescue me from mine enemies, O my G.o.d. Defend me from the workers of iniquity, and deliver me from these men of blood.

The drumbeat and chanting throbbed on, dragging at the senses. Out in the clearing, by ones and by twos, the other Templars were slowly lowering their swords, standing stupefied, eyes wide and staring.

And all the while, the white ground mist rising before the pagan shaman was growing ever thicker and whiter, beginning to drift down the riverside toward the clearing in thick, ropy tendrils, driving a wall of cold before it. Grinning with malignant antic.i.p.ation, the Highlander warriors began emerging from behind trees, softly chanting again, watching.

Tightening his concentration, Arnault repeated his prayer, unaware that the words that rolled from his tongue were now in Hebrew.

"Ha tzilayni mayoyvay elohai." Rescue me from mine enemies.

But at these words, an answering warmth sprang up beneath his palms. The warmth grew warmer, joined by a glow, pushing against his palms like a living thing.

He opened his fingers outward and let it go-felt a surge of motion, like the flight wind of an invisible bird.

The drumbeat faltered. The break in its rhythm disrupted the cadence of the chant. As the drummer and his followers struggled to reestablish the pattern, there appeared a sudden rift in the clouds overhead.

A long, slanting beam of sunlight spilled through the gap. Like a sword blade of transparent gold, it struck the ground in front of the advancing fog. The drumming faltered to a halt. The mist recoiled like a blind white worm, rolling backward and beginning to sink into the ground, subdued.

Continuing on, the beam of sunlight then spilled upriver toward the drummer, overtaking him in a zone of brightness. The shaman started up from his trance with a cry and staggered backward out of the light, shielding his eyes with the crook of his arm. An answering howl of dismay went up from the attackers, turning to shouts of alarm as the Templars shook free of the spell that had turned their limbs to lead, jerkily looking around them, swords rising in their hands.

The ray of sunlight disappeared, but the pagan shaman continued stumbling his way blindly toward the shelter of the trees, away from the river. Seeing him in retreat, most of his followers abruptly turned tail and ran, deaf to the exhortations of their rune-painted chief, who also began to make for the forest.

"After that man!" de Sautre shouted, punching his sword in the direction of the leader. "I want him alive!"

The Templars were quick to seize the offensive, making the most of their armored advantage as they drove after the fleeing Highlanders. Three more spearmen and a pair of swordsmen fell as the Templars overtook them. As several serjeants and a knight pressed on to harry the last of the fleeing Highlanders, de Sautre and three of his knights surged around the leader and a last pair of swordsmen, cutting down the two swordsmen without ceremony and then closing in on the leader in a concerted rush to surround and bring him down. A sharp scuffle ensued as they attempted to subdue him without using mortal force; and while their attention was momentarily diverted, Torquil turned anxiously to Arnault.

"Now would be a good time, I think, for us to be going," he said.

Arnault roused with an effort. Dazedly returning the Breastplate to its usual hiding place, he accepted the hand that Torquil held out to him and heaved himself upright, automatically retrieving his sword. Only then did he summon a wan grin for Torquil's benefit.

"That way, I think," he said, pointing the way upstream. "Let's go catch some horses and be on our way."

Chapter Twenty-one.

I'D GIVE A LOT TO KNOW WHOSE THOSE MEN WERE," TORQUIL remarked later that night, as he and Arnault sat huddled over a tiny campfire in a secluded fir-wood. "They were certainly a wild and hairy lot-probably from far to the north-but nothing I've ever seen. And what about those symbols painted on their foreheads?"

"Some kind of clan totem?" Arnault guessed. "Or maybe a cult symbol? It looked like an animal head-a bull, I think. In magical terms, such a symbol might be used much as we might use the picture of a saint, as a common focus, except that it was-well, I won't say "~pre-Christian,' because what helped us repel the attack is also pre-Christian."

"Something from a different spiritual lineage, then," Torquil ventured. "Not Judeo-Christian, but-Celtic, perhaps?"

Arnault shook his head, gazing into the meager flame of their campfire. "If it was Celtic, it certainly wasn't Celtic in the sense that Brother Ninian and his Columban brethren would understand it. It wasn't even Druid, I don't think. Ninian told us that when Saint Patrick first brought Christianity to these islands, and used the shamrock to ill.u.s.trate the Trinity, some of the Druids he encountered were already prepared for the coming of that way of looking at G.o.d. They regarded it as a fulfillment rather than a supplanting."

Torquil snorted softly. "Somehow, I don't think those men today saw it as a fulfillment."

"Nor do I," Arnault agreed. "Incidentally, did it seem odd to you that your relatively unsophisticated countrymen would attack an obviously better armed and armored band of mounted knights who were already spoiling for a fight? And forgive me if this seems proud, but I find it hard to believe that such a large band of Templars would not be recognized for what they are. Taking on such a force because you must is one thing. Deliberately attacking is quite another. The attack definitely didn't have the feel of them just stumbling upon us."

"No, I agree. More like a deliberate ambush."

The pair had ridden as far as they could before darkness finally forced them to halt for the night. They could only hope that they had left their fellow Templars far behind. Torquil picked up a stick and poked moodily at the fire between them, trying to forget how hungry he was. The saddlebags on the horses they had appropriated had produced little of culinary significance: a dry rusk of bread and a bit of moldy cheese in one, and nothing edible in the other. They had shared what there was of it, because they had nothing else and dared not call attention to their presence in the area, but they had concluded that de Sautre and his men must have been living off the land, probably demanding lodgings and food as they traveled.

"When de Sautre has a chance to think things over," Torquil said quietly, "I hope he appreciates that we stayed long enough to save his skin before giving him the slip." He paused to toss a few more sticks on the fire. "Of course, if he'd actually seen you do what you did, I don't suppose it would have done much to help our case."

"A point which poses yet another mystery," said Arnault. "Those ambushers weren't hunting us, they were hunting de Sautre and his men. We just happened to be there in time for what would have been the kill.

The fact that they came prepared to use sorcery means that this wasn't just a skirmish between enemy forces. It wasn't even a grudge against the Order because Jay has been using Templars to fight against fellow Christians. Besides, I'm fairly certain our friends today weren't Christians. I think whoever was behind the attack has a different kind of grudge against the Templar Order. And I think I may know why."

"I'm listening," Torquil said.

Picking up his own fire-poking stick, Arnault rearranged the fire more to his liking.

"I haven't worked this all out yet, but I begin to see a connection between Jay and the de Sautres, and those missing pagan relics they say were disposed of in a lake that they can't or won't now identify, and a pagan sorcerer called Briochan-whose relics they probably were, and whose shade may well have been responsible for tearing apart Brother Colman's scriptorium. In fact, I seem to recall that Luc said there'd been some kind of amulet with a bull's face on it, among those missing grave artifacts."

Torquil whistled low under his breath. "Are you suggesting that Jay and his cronies did keep the relics, and those were Briochan's followers who attacked de Sautre and his men?"

"Something like that."

"But-why would Jay and his cronies want pagan relics?"

"Perhaps for the same reason that the Temple collects sacred relics: to gain access to the powers a.s.sociated with them. We tell ourselves that we wield our relics in the service of G.o.d. I expect that those who revere Briochan's relics feel much the same way, using his relics in service of their G.o.ds. And it could well be that Jay and his a.s.sociates were- or are-attempting to appropriate Briochan's powers for their own purposes.

"All of our brethren are aware of at least a few of the more conventional Christian artifacts in the keeping of the Temple-splinters of the True Cross, various saints' relics. Perhaps Jay or men like him have guessed that an elite few of us also guard more exclusive and more powerful treasures, whose very existence is unsuspected by the rest of the Order. Denied access to those, it could well be that some disgruntled faction within the Order has determined to gain access to alternative sources of extraordinary power-and might even be trying to use them to their own profit."

"That would certainly be in character for Jay," Torquil muttered.

"Unfortunately, I fear you may be right, reluctant though I am to speak thus of a brother Templar. And if the rightful inheritors of Briochan have come to suspect that Jay has stolen away their holy things, one can hardly be surprised if they might conclude that the Order itself is responsible. Hence, this afternoon's attack."

Torquil shook his head, frankly dismayed. "As if it weren't enough that the Stone is ailing, and the Scottish monarchy is being undermined by sorcerous interference, now you tell me that we have to worry about corruption among our own brothers!" He sighed heavily. "And de Sautre will deem us the renegades! What do you propose we do?"

"We still have our ongoing mission to accomplish," Arnault said, "and that is to prepare a foundation in Scotland for the building of the Fifth Temple. We must never lose sight of that. And whatever charges de Sautre may choose to lay against us at official levels, we've done nothing that le Cercle won't support. I expect that Gaspar and the Visitor can pull their usual strings behind the scenes to get us off- perhaps with some formal reprimand and maybe even a token penance, but I have no worries on that account, so long as we aren't prevented from getting word to them-and Luc will see to that. Meanwhile, Luc can continue to act as liaison, so long as he isn't compromised by aiding and abetting us openly."

"That's fine for the long term," Torquil agreed, "but in the meantime, I should point out that we're still on the run, at least so far as de Sautre is concerned. It's a pity we didn't get a chance to ask him for news of the war-but I suppose we'll find out soon enough. Where next, then?"

"Scone, I think-and preferably before de Sautre gets there," Arnault replied.

"I think we'll be well ahead of him," Torquil said. "He has wounded. He won't be able to travel as fast as we can- and he's also short a few horses." He contained a snort of ironic satisfaction. "He can't have been happy to discover that we got away with two of the fittest ones."

"Aye, that will be one more grudge against us," Arnault said. "Meanwhile, Abbot Henry needs to be apprised of what we learned on Iona. After that, I'm none too sure. My instincts say we should get back to Paris as quickly as we can, and get our official status sorted out. That may be the only thing that will get de Sautre off our backs-and Jay, once he finds out about today."

For the next two days, subsisting on little but water, they took advantage of every hour of daylight to press eastward, avoiding settlements and only risking even a religious establishment when they paused at last to ask news and hospitality of the monks of Dunkeld. The news made their hurried meal lie like lead in their stomachs as they pressed on toward Scone.

During their absence, not unexpectedly, Edward had advanced northward from Roxburghe to lay siege to Edinburgh Castle, which had held out for little more than a week before surrendering. He had moved next on Stirling, which yielded without any resistance at all. The English king was now said to be somewhere south of Perth-which put Scone within easy striking distance.

The gates of Scone Abbey were closed when they arrived, for it was after dark, but the porter remembered them, and immediately let them in. By the time they had stabled their horses, making apologies to the brother hostler for the loss of the mounts he had loaned them from the abbey, word had been taken to Abbot Henry of their arrival and a lay brother was waiting to accompany them to the abbot's quarters. To their surprise, they found Luc de Brabant in the abbot's company.

"Good Lord!" Arnault exclaimed, breaking into a broad grin as he came to embrace the older man.

"What on earth are you doing here?"

That Luc was likewise relieved to see them was evident, as he exchanged similar greetings with Torquil, but his sobering news soon dampened the reunion.

"You haven't heard, then," he said. "John Balliol has sued for peace. They're d.i.c.kering over the terms, but it's only a matter of time."

"Where is Balliol?" Torquil asked.

"With what's left of the Scots army, somewhere north and east of here," said a Scottish voice from the direction of the fireside. "Word is that Longshanks has sent Bek of Durham to take the surrender. Once that happens, there's little to stop the English king from making himself sole master of everything between Berwick and the Moray Firth."

Both new arrivals turned to survey the speaker, who slowly unfolded from his chair. Apparently about the same age as Torquil, he was a brawny, broad-chested figure of a man, a full head taller even than Arnault-who was above average height-but with a thatch of curly auburn hair and bushy beard and startling blue eyes.

"Ah," Luc said. "William Wallace, you should make the acquaintance of Brothers Arnault de Saint Clair and Torquil Lennox, Knights of the Temple-though one would hardly guess it, by their present state," he added, indicating their black robes with a sweep of a white-clad arm. "Will hails from Strathclyde-his father was a knight in the service of James the Stewart-but I met up with him down by Dunfermline.

Under the circ.u.mstances, it seemed a good idea to bring him here with me."

The look of contrived innocence on Luc's face told Arnault that this was far from being the sum of the tale. Wallace himself undertook to supply further details.

"Och, I was being chased by a band of English hobelars," he said with a grin. "Their captain had been hounding me all the way from Kincardine. Brother Luc was gracious enough to let me climb a tree while he sent them off in the opposite direction."

"A lie which I have already reported to my confessor," Luc said, with a droll glance in Abbot Henry's direction. "What Will has omitted to tell you is that he was only in danger of being captured in the first place because he stopped to help me rescue some holy sisters whose cart had broken down a few miles from the town."

Wallace shrugged. "Facis de necessitate virtutem," he quoted. "One makes of necessity a virtue."

This ironic use of one of Saint Jerome's more memorable observations brought a smile to Arnault's lips.

Intrigued by this unexpected display of erudition, he began to share Luc's interest in Wallace.

"And may I ask what happened at Kincardine, that made this English captain so determined to capture you?"

Wallace shrugged and grinned again. "My spearmen accounted for nearly a third of his company. He seems to think I'm the one to blame for it."

"He's probably right," said Abbot Henry. "Even your uncle Robert would probably be forced to admit that you make a better soldier than a priest." Seeing the looks of inquiry from both Arnault and Torquil, he added, "One of Will's uncles studied here for a time, before he was ordained, so I've no qualms about offering sanctuary to anyone who shares his name."

"I don't plan to be here for more than a few days," Wallace a.s.sured them.