And since it appeared that his men were sorely in need of remounts.

Though clearly vexed at his failure to turn up news of the renegades, de Sautre did accept the offer of their horses with a modic.u.m of grace, and shortly rode on toward Perth with only two of his men now mounted double.

The afternoon stretched on, with no sign of Wallace. Meanwhile, rumors were rife of John Balliol's imminent surrender. Toward dusk, Luc came to the stable loft where the pair had been dozing, to pa.s.s on the sifting of news that had drifted in during the course of the day.

"How long do we dare to wait?" Luc asked. "You don't suppose anything's happened to him?"

"I devoutly hope not," Arnault replied.

"Maybe we ought to go ahead and make the switch tonight, whether he shows up or not," Torquil said.

"We could temporarily hide the real Stone in the hay down below-or even set off in the direction of Dunkeld tonight, by a lesser route, and hope to make the contact later. Not knowing what the English are doing, I'm nervous about leaving it here any longer than we must."

Both he and Luc looked expectantly to Arnault, who thought a moment and then nodded.

"You're right. We'll pack up our gear and provisions and make the subst.i.tution tonight," he decided. "If Wallace hasn't arrived by the time we've done that, we'll hide the true Stone in here and wait another day. We'll give him until tomorrow night-and if he hasn't come back by then, we'll head in the direction of Dunkeld on our own. I'm sure that a word from Abbot Henry would gain us a few days' sanctuary there; and if Wallace does show, Abbot Henry can tell him where we've gone."

Torquil nodded. "I'm happy enough with that. I just don't want to stay here and do nothing."

Luc went off to acquaint Abbot Henry with their change of plans. It was agreed that they would meet at the church just past midnight, when the short summer night would be at its darkest. Luc returned to the ringing of the Vesper bell, with a basket of provisions over his arm, and the three of them knelt down in the hay of the stable loft and recited the office together with quiet pa.s.sion, for they knew not when they might meet again.

Afterward they shared a light meal of bread and cheese and a little ale, each man alone with his thoughts.

Arnault and Torquil armed themselves then, in the padded gambesons and leather hauberks of ordinary soldiers, and Luc kept watch while the other two dozed, for sleep would be increasingly precious once the Stone was moved from the crypt.

The shadows gradually lengthened and dusk finally began to fall. It was two hours past Compline, and not yet fully dark, when the abbey gate briefly opened to admit a big man on a borrowed Templar horse.

Wallace immediately disappeared in the direction of the abbot's quarters; and as soon as a groom had dealt with the horse and gone away again, the three came down from the loft, Luc and Arnault quickly saddling two fresh horses from the abbey stable and Torquil harnessing the big draft horse with the pack saddle, m.u.f.fling the hooves of all three horses with rags. Very soon, Wallace joined them.

"Thanks be to G.o.d!" Arnault exclaimed in a whisper, as the big Scot slipped into the stable. "You're not a moment too soon! We must move the Stone tonight."

"Aye, I've just been to see Abbot Henry," Wallace said. "I'm sorry if I've cut things a bit fine, but I think I've found what we need."

"You can acquaint us with particulars once we're away from here," Luc said, urging him and Arnault toward the door. "Start shifting the stones. Torquil and I will finish with the horses."

Arnault and Wallace slipped across the abbey yard to find Abbot Henry waiting for them in the shadow of the church porch, a shielded lantern in his hands as he met them by the pile of stones hiding the block of fieldstone chosen to stand in for the Stone of Destiny.

"I've sworn the gate porter to secrecy," he informed them in an undertone. "Barring some mischance, no one else should know of this."

It was the work of a few minutes to slip a stout leather carrying sling around the designated stone and, with the aid of two carrying poles, for Arnault and Wallace to heft its weight onto their shoulders and shift it indoors. The abbot lit the way for them as they picked their way carefully down the steps into the crypt.

There they exchanged the fieldstone block for the true Stone, Abbot Henry lingering briefly to blacken down the subst.i.tute while Arnault and Wallace used the same sling apparatus to carry the Stone itself back up the stairs. It was much larger by half than the subst.i.tute stone, and commensurately heavier, and even Wallace was trembling with the strain by the time they got it out to the yard.

Torquil was waiting with the big draft horse that would have the honor of conveying the Stone. Only by dint of his help and that of Abbot Henry-and much grunting and wincing-were they able to shift the Stone onto the pack saddle; for they must heft the Stone higher than their heads. Abbot Henry came with them as far as the cottage where Luc waited with the cart and the two saddle horses, one hand resting on the Stone in its pack, obviously reluctant to part with it. When they had shifted it onto the cart, Arnault and Wallace tying sheepskins over it to cover it while Luc and Torquil hooked up the pack horse between the cart's traces, Abbot Henry gave the Stone a final pat and stepped back.

"G.o.d speed you, brothers," he murmured. "Even if this scheme of ours should ultimately fail, you Templars will have done more to secure Scotland's independence than King John ever has."

"It is not alone for Scotland that we do this, Reverend Father," Arnault said quietly, as Wallace vaulted up onto the driver's seat. "You have, in the Stone, a treasure more precious than you know. Luc"-he nodded to their fellow Templar as he and Torquil took the reins of the two riding horses-"we'll send word as often as we can."

"G.o.dspeed, all three of you," Luc said. "I wish I were going along, but someone has to keep an eye on what Jay and the de Sautres are up to."

Arnault only snorted as he and Torquil mounted up.

"Unfortunately, I'll warrant we've not heard the last from them," he replied. "Father Abbot, we'll at least send word to you when this is finished," he promised. "I hope it won't be long."

"I shall be waiting," the abbot said, lifting his hand in blessing. "Until then, may Saint Columba be your inspiration, and may G.o.d hold you in the hollow of His hand."

The summer sky was already paling in the east as they left the abbey behind and joined the road toward Dunkeld. In the next hour they began to pa.s.s a few fellow travelers, but the emptiness of the road was notable. It was as if the whole region were holding its breath, like a frightened hare immobilized beneath the circling shadow of a hawk.

"I'm beginning to know this stretch of road all too well," Torquil muttered above the creaking and rumbling of the cart's heavy wheels.

"Be grateful for small things," Wallace replied. "At least we have a road-for now."

No one commented on the clouds beginning to build in the east, for the prospect of rain was a daunting one, added to the already arduous task before them. Keeping a wary eye on the weather, they entered the fringes of Birnam Wood, speaking but little, and then in low voices. A mile farther on, at Wallace's direction, they left the Dunkeld road and struck out westward along a rutted woodcutter's track, following that until they entered a tiny clearing traversed by a thread of running water.

"We must leave the cart here," he told them, as he jumped down to unhitch the horse pulling the cart.

After bringing the big draft horse alongside, they shifted the Stone to its back and secured it, then overturned the cart to make it look abandoned. Wallace then headed down the little rill, which soon became a narrow burn, leading the horse with the Stone. The two Templars followed with the other two horses, carrying the poles and sling for the Stone.

They trudged along this muddy track for the best part of an hour, no one speaking, as other rivulets joined the one they followed and they eventually were obliged to shift to a narrow, stony track beside what was now a shallow but swift-running stream. The big pack horse could go only slowly, because of the weight of the Stone, and dropped its head gratefully as they halted where another, larger stream joined in from the right side.

"Now we turn upstream," he said, pointing. "There's a cave on up that glen, maybe another half mile. It's on the other side, but we can cross farther up. For the last few hundred yards, we'll have to carry the Stone."

Neither Arnault nor Torquil could summon any response save to press on.

They left the two saddle horses there, tied to a tree, and followed along with the poles and sling as Wallace continued on, still leading the horse with the Stone. From beyond the next bend in the stream, the sound of fast-flowing water recalled an incident both Templars preferred to forget, but they reached the fording place without incident and tethered the horse to a tree.

Uncovering the Stone, they fitted the sling and slipped the poles in place so that they could lift it out of the pack saddle. Then, shouldering their heavy burden, with Wallace on one end and the two Templars on the other, they eased their way down the bank and waded knee-deep, testing their footing with every step. The temperature was brisk under the overcast sky, but all three men were sweating by the time they reached the other side.

They set the Stone down on a patch of sand and paused to catch their breath. Pointing ahead, Wallace marked the place where the stream emerged from a ravine. The overhanging banks were sheer, but an old rock fall had left a narrow strip of exposed rock between the stream and the right-hand cliff wall. The Templars eyed the prospect with obvious misgivings, but Wallace flashed them a rea.s.suring grin as they picked up their burden again.

The footing grew ever more precarious. Suspended from poles in their midst, the Stone was like some wayward pendulum, threatening at any moment to throw one or another of them off balance. With agonizing slowness, they edged ahead by inches, never shifting one foot until the other was firmly planted.

Beside them, the stream was becoming a cataract, its swift-running waters ever ready to turn a misstep into injury or even death.

So engrossed was Arnault in minding his footing that he didn't realize they had reached the cave until Wallace signaled a halt. Only then did he raise his eyes to the dark, triangular rift in the cliff face, about eight feet above the streambed. Access looked just possible by way of a jagged ledge slanting up from the water's edge.

"It's easier than it looks," Wallace a.s.sured them between gasping breaths.

Arnault's shoulder muscles were burning by the time they gained the cave entrance. Torquil's face was scarlet with exertion, and even Wallace was looking strained. They eased the Stone's weight to the cave floor and stood there panting for several minutes, bent with hands braced on knees, too winded to speak.

Torquil was the first to recover. The failing daylight filtering in through the opening did not penetrate far beyond the entrance.

"How far back does this go?" he asked Wallace.

The big man grinned. "This is just the anteroom. There's a larger chamber beyond this one. It's round, like a Templar church-wee, but you'll like it. Give me a moment and I'll strike a light."

Crouching down on the floor of the cave, he produced from the leather pouch at his belt a tallow candle, a small bundle of dry moss, and flint and steel, from which he soon produced a flame. As a pale glow blossomed around them and Wallace held the candle high, a secondary gap could be seen at the rear of the cave, as wide as any doorway.

When Wallace had taken the candle into the adjoining cavern and set it firm on a few drips of wax, they carried in the Stone and set it in the center of the chamber. The feel of the place was good-perhaps fifteen feet in diameter and vaulted to nearly that height. After divesting the Stone of its carrying poles and sling, they hid these against the back wall, then came to briefly lay their hands upon it in farewell.

"You've chosen well," Arnault said to Wallace. " 'Tis a fitting temple to shelter the Stone-at least for now." He glanced at Torquil, knowing that the other Templar would catch the layers of his meaning.

"Aye-until the King shall come into his own again," the younger man replied. His answering glance made it clear to Arnault that it was not Balliol he meant, but a king who would never be crowned.

The man they believed would be that king merely sighed and gave the Stone a final caress, having delivered it-at least for a time-to a place where it might wait in safety.

It was not until several months later, in an office in the bowels of the Paris treasury of the Temple, that Brothers Arnault de Saint Clair and Torquil Lennox learned of the resolution of that day's work. Thanks to the intervention of Gaspar des Macquelines, and some inventive and largely unverifiable reporting on the part of Arnault himself, their actions in Scotland had been totally vindicated by the Visitor of France-who, a full week before their arrival in Paris, had already received a pointed inquiry from the Preceptor of Scotland. The reply later sent by Hugues de Paraud, Visitor of France, coolly confirmed that the knights named in said preceptor's complaint had acted with his full authority, and implied that the earlier orders concerning these knights (which said knights had shown to the preceptor) ought to have been sufficient for no further questions to be asked.

Official news of the surrender of John Balliol, and Edward's response to this latest Scottish rebellion, had also reached Paris by the time Arnault and Torquil arrived: how Anthony Bek, acting for the English king, had received Balliol's submission at Brechin Castle and stripped him of the accoutrements of kingship; had ripped the red and gold arms of Scotland from his tunic, and broken the kingdom's great seal into four pieces, and seized the crown and scepter, ring and sword-had taken all of these away to the Tower of London, and Balliol and his infant son as well, along with many chests of charters and records looted from Edinburgh Castle, and even the castle's famous Black Rood of Saint Margaret-and the Stone of Destiny, formerly kept at Scone Abbey.

That latter rumor greatly subdued the homecoming of Arnault and Torquil to the Paris Temple. After a week's rest and discussion, having reported on their mission and returned the High Priest's Breastplate into the keeping of le Cercle, the pair were preparing to return to Scotland-still incognito-to confer with the Bishop of Glasgow, Robert Wishart, who was quietly fomenting talk of new rebellion in the west with James the Stewart.

But very shortly before their planned departure came a letter from Luc de Brabant, delivered to Gaspar des Macquelines by a Scottish knight named Flannan Fraser. Not being an intimate of le Cercle, Frre Flannan was not summoned to be advised of the letter's contents; but as soon as Torquil had fathomed the gist of the letter, he determined to toast his fellow Scot as a true and worthy son of Scotland, merely for bringing the news.

"Brother Luc says that English soldiers came during the first week of August, with authority from Edward of England to seize the so-called Stone of Destiny," Gaspar said, with a tiny, pleased smile. "What they took away with them-though G.o.d grant they may never realize this-was the stone you left for them. He says that Wallace was there to see the deed done, disguised as a rather tall lay brother, and that Wallace said to tell you that the cart the English soldiers confiscated to carry away the "~Stone of Destiny' was one you would know."

Both Arnault and Torquil exploded into delighted guffaws at that news; and at the looks of bewilderment from their companions, Torquil recovered himself enough to explain.

"He means that they took the cart we used to carry the true Stone to safety," he said, still trying to recover his composure. "And that, G.o.d willing, is as close as the Sa.s.senachs will ever get to Scotland's most sacred symbol of its sovereignty!"

Part III

Chapter Twenty-three.

LONDON IN SEPTEMBER OF 1297 WAS IN A FERMENT-LESS on account of the unseasonable heat than because of the staggering news recently arrived from the north. The map of Scotland spread before Frre Brian de Jay, Master of the English Temple, had been drawn to show the Temple's holdings there; but what riveted his attention was the account the Master of Scotland was giving him of the astonishing English defeat at Stirling Bridge.

Under the gaze of Stirling Castle, half the English army had crossed the bridge over the River Forth to be met by an inferior Scottish force under command of a baron's son called Andrew Murray and a renegade upstart named William Wallace. It should have been a clear English victory; yet the ragtag Scots had cut the English chivalry to pieces while their comrades could only look on helplessly from the other bank.

The incompetence of the English commanders, Warenne and Cressingham, made Jay grind his teeth.

Their arrant stupidity, combined with the boldness of the Scots, had resulted in a defeat that had undone years of campaigning by King Edward, who was currently in Gascony fighting Philip IV. Cressingham, the king's treasurer in Scotland, had paid with his life; and his skin (so it was said) had been flayed and made into (accounts varied) a baldric for Wallace's sword, saddle girths for his hors.e.m.e.n, or small pieces that were sent throughout the country in triumph.

"As if this were not enough," John de Sautre concluded sourly, "these Scottish renegades continue to pet.i.tion Rome for sanction of their rebellion."

At this, Jay sprang to his feet and slammed a fist on the table.

"G.o.d's curse on every last one of them!" he cried. "Every time we stamp out the flames of their revolt, some new spark ignites the kindling, and the fire blazes even more fiercely than before. Who is this Wallace? Where does he come from? He is a nothing-not even a knight!-and yet the Scots follow him as though he were their king!"

"They say Murray is the strategist of the pair," de Sautre pointed out.

"Murray is nothing!" Jay declared hotly. "It is Wallace who is the leader, and he claims his victories in Balliol's name! Balliol-a pantomime king disgraced by his abject surrender. Do you know where he lies now? Under house arrest, just outside London-allowed a huntsman and ten hounds, by G.o.d! Not even considered sufficient threat to remain at the Tower, where all such spineless rebels should end their days!

There he awaits the king's return, like a lapdog pining for its master-and still he has such a champion!"

He strode over to the window and glared out angrily over the nearby rooftops to where the Thames gleamed silver in the evening sun. The London Temple occupied a prestigious location that Jay, in a calmer frame of mind, found appropriate to the Order's eminence. He much preferred to be here at the center of a mighty kingdom, rather than chasing around the dank landscape of Scotland, pursuing rebel Highlanders and errant Templars, but Scotland still came under his provincial authority.

"There must be more to it," John de Sautre observed distractedly. "Could Wallace be receiving a.s.sistance?"

Jay rounded on his subordinate with a glare. "Indeed! Perhaps from our disgraced brethren, Saint Clair and Lennox- the men you let slip through your fingers!"

John bowed his head to hide his expression. "We received confirmation from the Visitor that they had authority to work incognito, and on their own initiative. And since they escaped us, there has been no further evidence of their presence in Scotland. And it is only a guess that they are with Wallace's army."

"A guess?" Jay echoed caustically. "Guesses are all that is left to me, thanks to your incompetence."

"We did take a prisoner after that ambush," John reminded him.

"Hardly through any cleverness of yours," Jay growled, "though I will concede that you extracted some intriguing information before he died. It would never have occurred to me that the Comyns would return to the old religions-and I find it fascinating to learn that the remains discovered in that grave near Balantrodoch appear to be those of the pagan wizard Briochan-as has been confirmed by my esoteric contacts here in London."

His displeasure dissipated, and he stroked his beard thoughtfully.

"Yes. and certain relics. Those offer us certain. possibilities. Perhaps we may yet salvage something to our advantage."

"Do you intend to turn these things against the Comyns?" de Sautre asked. "Not exactly," Jay replied.

"Other options suggest themselves, if my researches should prove accurate."

Further elucidation was interrupted by a respectful knock on the door. Jay's curt acknowledgment brought Robert de Sautre scurrying into the room, his round face aglow with guilty satisfaction, like that of a schoolboy who has been stealing apples from a neighbor's garden. He cast a furtive glance into the corridor outside before quietly closing the door behind him.

"You have accomplished your errand?" Jay inquired with a lift of one eyebrow.

The younger de Sautre bobbed his head enthusiastically. "The gaoler could scarcely credit his good fortune, to be so richly recompensed for so trifling a task."

He presented his superior with a small leather pouch. Jay untied the strings and peered inside. "You are sure these come from Balliol?" he asked.

"I saw him take the clippings myself," Robert affirmed. "It was part of our bargain that I should be present. I did not wish to run any risk of deception or mishap."

John de Sautre grimaced, aware that his brother was inviting comparison with his own efforts. "What have you brought?" he demanded.

"Nail clippings and hair from that most royal prisoner, John Balliol of Scotland," Robert responded smugly.

The Master of the Temple stuffed the pouch into his scrip and pa.s.sed a key to Robert. "Fetch the chest,"

he ordered, "and have horses readied."

"Where are we going?" John asked.

"To Westminster Abbey, to answer some of our questions and light the road ahead."

The elder de Sautre's brow furrowed in consternation. "Through sorcery?"

"Did not our Lord Himself practice the arts of prophecy?" Jay retorted. "Did not Saint John see visions of the days to come, foreshadowing the end of the world? What sin is it for us to do as they did? And what holds us back from doing so, other than a want of courage?"