But the Scots knew a further test was coming. A truce between England and France had enabled Edward to forsake his military campaigning in Flanders and return to England. In June, having summoned his northern levies for a new expeditionary force, he had begun his relentless advance up the eastern coast of Scotland, spreading fear and devastation as he came, intending to break the spirit of the Scots by forcefully demonstrating what price was to be paid for resistance.

From a Scottish perspective, one of the notes of optimism was that the English supply links were not yet reliable, and many of Edward's troops were reported to be near starving, some of them on the verge of revolt. Whether Scots tenacity could outlast English hunger and disgruntlement remained to be seen.

On this eve of the Feast of Saint Mary Magdalene, camped in the Wood of Callendar, near the town of Falkirk, it appeared they might. For the past several days, the English army had been stalled at Temple Liston, some fifteen miles to the east, by invitation of the Masters of the English and Scottish Temples; but reports just shared by Wallace with his commanders indicated that Edward intended to withdraw his hungry army all the way to Edinburgh on the morrow-for he had no inkling where his elusive foe was to be found. The plan of battle that Wallace had presented involved a quick march in the morning to fall on the English rear guard as they went, destroying their baggage train and killing as many as possible before falling back.

"What do you think?" Arnault murmured to Torquil, as they drifted back from the area before Wallace's tent where a few of the Scots leaders were still clarifying instructions with the Guardian. Clad in the light armor of hardened leather worn by scouts, dark-cloaked and anonymous, the pair blended easily with the following of commanders and more richly garbed Scots n.o.bles now dispersing to their respective camps.

"As a Scot," said Torquil, "I think that it's a miracle they're continuing to listen to him. But they haven't got any better hope just now."

As they watched and listened to the men pa.s.sing by, Torquil still marveled that Wallace had been able to take a nation that was beaten and demoralized and, by the sheer force of his character, set it back on course for victory and freedom, outstripping in valor and strategy so many who were his superiors in rank and experience. Yet the greater- and more terrible-miracle was still to come; for as the weeks had pa.s.sed and Scottish successes grew, there could be little doubt that Providence was elevating Wallace to a far higher estate-and that he was, indeed, the Uncrowned King foretold in prophecy.

Wallace's sacramental role had been sealed at the point when he had been appointed sole Guardian of the realm. John Balliol was a prisoner in London, and Wallace now fought in Balliol's name, as his champion and his surrogate. Some there were among Scotland's greater magnates who resented being led and governed by a man who was the second son of a mere knight. But to Arnault and Torquil, the relative humility of Wallace's birthright was but one of the signs they had been told to seek.

A man of sorrows was he, as well; for an act that had made him an outlaw under English law-his slaying of William Hazelrigg-had been precipitated by Hazelrigg's part in the brutal murder of Wallace's young wife. Wallace had slain Hazelrigg in a spirit of justice; but that act of retribution had not lessened the pain of his bereavement. That abiding sorrow was a further sign of his symbolic and sacrificial kingship. There remained one final trial, and it was the one the Templars most feared: a betrayal at the hands of his own followers.

Whatever their own fears, there was no denying the air of expectancy gripping the camp. The domestic smells of barley and turnips wafted up from the cooking pots as the men prepared their supper, but off to one side groups of men were practicing their swordsmanship. The force of their exchanges suggested pent-up frustration and an edge of resignation. Here and there the voice of a priest could be heard saying Ma.s.s for a group of soldiers; and indeed, the Ma.s.s that Arnault and Torquil had attended earlier had been joined by a greater number of soldiers than usual-a sure sign that many antic.i.p.ated they would soon be face-to-face with the specter of death, and were seeking to armor their souls against his scythe.

The numerous spearmen, the common folk who comprised the main strength of the army, were hunkered down around the cook fires, exchanging desultory conversation as they sharpened the points of their long-hafted weapons. As the two Templars pa.s.sed by, they could hear some discussing in hushed tones the best way to impale the horse of a charging English knight. Others were tinkering with badges and charms they hoped would bring them good luck, trusting as much in their old superst.i.tions as in their prayers to Our Lady.

Down in a hollow to the west of the camp, the horses of the meager Scots cavalry could be heard whuffling and whinnying uneasily, as if at the approach of a lightning storm. To Arnault and Torquil came the sense of some less natural danger hovering near, closer than the English army that was encamped a full day away-and it was not the natural uneasiness any man might feel at the approach of battle.

As they circled back nearer Wallace's tent, they surveyed the faces of some of the Guardian's commanders. Sir John Stewart pa.s.sed nearby-in charge of the archers of Selkirk Forest, who would have the daunting task of matching skills with Edward's famous host of longbowmen. John Stewart's brother, James the Stewart, was there as well, as were the Earls of Atholl and Menteith, Malise of Strathearn, and Malcolm of Lennox, who would have been Torquil's own lord, if he had not exchanged his feudal vows for those of the Temple.

John Comyn, Younger of Badenoch, was also prominent among them, wolfish and hard-eyed, representing his powerful family, who had contributed the main part of the Scots cavalry. Captured at Dunbar along with three earls and more than one hundred knights and esquires, he had been held a prisoner in England for many months, until King Edward sent him home in the hope that the Comyns would establish some peaceful stability in this troublesome country.

But like so many others, young Comyn had once again taken up arms in the cause of John Balliol. He professed loyalty to the Scottish cause, but there was that about his manner-an edge, a strange glitter in his eyes-that had spooked both Torquil and Arnault, by turns. While all signs pointed conclusively to Wallace as the Uncrowned King, they had yet to identify the shadowy "apostate" referred to in the prophecy.

Torquil was prepared to believe that the younger Comyn might well be that apostate; Arnault was proceeding on the a.s.sumption that they were looking for the leader of a secret cult, pointing out that young Comyn definitely had not been among the mysterious Highlanders who had attacked them on the way back from Iona-though whose those men might have been, they still had no idea.

Wallace finally withdrew to his tent with James the Stewart to confer over a hasty meal while the others dispersed to their own suppers, amid lengthening shadows. Though there were some discontented grumblings, most of Wallace's commanders seemed grimly satisfied to find themselves at last on the eve of a fight, even if it were not to be as glorious as many of them would have wished. Torquil turned to Arnault as they watched from the edge of the clearing.

"I think the men will not be happy about these orders," he said. "They're tired of these cat-and-mouse games. They want to stand and fight."

"And if they do," Arnault replied, "and if they must face Edward's heavy cavalry on ground of his choosing, they'll be ground into the mud."

"They held at Stirling Bridge," Torquil pointed out.

"Yes, but Edward was not present at Stirling Bridge, and the English have learned a few things since then.

Also, Wallace had Murray at his side-perhaps one of the greatest strategists I have ever seen in action. It was a great tragedy for Scotland, that he later died of his wounds."

Torquil nodded, absently crossing himself in remembrance of the much missed Murray. "Aye, but Wallace has the gift of leadership. You've seen the loyalty he inspires. If, by some miracle, he does succeed in chasing Edward back across the border, the people might well offer him the crown. Would he take it, do you think?"

Arnault shook his head. "You know he is meant for other things. Besides, he is not highborn enough to win the support of the n.o.bles which he would need, to reign as king. Moreover, his own sense of honor would not allow him to take such a step. No man is more worthy of the crown than he-yet he will fight to the death for the man who does wear it, or should wear it. And right now, that man is still John-" He broke off and frowned, his attention focused on something off behind Torquil.

"What is it?" Torquil asked.

"Turn gently," Arnault murmured, indicating the subject of his interest with a tilt of his head.

Slowly turning, Torquil followed the line of his mentor's gaze with apparently casual interest, to the unmistakable figure of John Comyn, standing with several of his retainers. Just walking away from them was a small, squat man in leathers and a saffron shirt, who was striding off in the direction of the western reach of the camp. Something about the look of the man made Torquil want to crane his neck to see if there was anything painted on his forehead, but he turned sidelong to Arnault instead, still watching the man- and Comyn-from the corner of his eye.

"Have I just seen what I think I've seen?" he murmured, his glance darting to Arnault's face.

"Later, I'll be interested to hear whether what you think you've seen tallies with my impressions," Arnault returned in an equally low tone, starting to head slowly in that direction-for Comyn had left his retainers and was now walking purposefully in the same direction the Highlander had gone.

At that moment, a man-at-arms from the Guardian's cadre of military advisors came shouldering between two lowland knights, raising a hand to catch their attention.

"Saint Clair-a moment!" he called, as Arnault and Torquil both turned. "By your leave, the Guardian requests a word."

With a fleeting glance at the departing Comyn, Arnault nodded to Torquil. "I'll rejoin you later," he said, with a meaningful nod. "See if there's word from that contact we were expecting."

"Aye."

As Arnault headed off toward the Guardian's tent with the messenger, Torquil returned his covert gaze in the direction of the younger Comyn, still making his way briskly toward the western reach of the camp-and directly opposite to the direction in which his own men were camped, on the army's east flank.

Torquil's uneasiness had now become a distinct p.r.i.c.kling at the back of his neck.

Taking care not to appear too furtive, he set off to follow, keeping pace at a discreet distance. Comyn proceeded through the camp like a man with a definite purpose in mind, looking neither left nor right, but Torquil was able to keep his quarry in sight without drawing attention to himself, weaving his own way quickly through the maze of tents and cook fires and milling men.

Comyn came at last to the horse lines picketed toward the western perimeter of the encampment, where the Highlander Torquil had seen before was holding two horses, talking amiably to one of the grooms.

Comyn hailed both men in a friendly fashion, exchanging banter that Torquil could not hear as the two of them mounted up and rode slowly out and along the western perimeter of the camp-apparently in no hurry, but Torquil's sense of something being wrong was still as strong as ever.

A few words with a groom farther along the horse line secured Torquil a mount as well, and he headed immediately in the direction Comyn and his mysterious companion had just disappeared-and was able to catch just a glimpse of them as they pa.s.sed into the screen of the forest edge and then briefly emerged to disappear again down the narrow defile of a stream leading directly away from the camp.

Now certain that Comyn was up to no good, Torquil followed, making use of skills hard won in the Holy Land to keep the pair always in sight yet never be seen himself. When, several miles beyond the camp, they appeared to be making for a ruined church, nestled down in a hollow beside a narrow stream, Torquil hung back amid the shadows of a veiling stand of trees to watch.

The pair drew rein in the ruined churchyard and dismounted, and Torquil likewise slid from his saddle.

He slipped his sheathed sword from its hangers and slid it under his saddle flap before starting to work his way closer on foot, keeping to what cover was available, finally taking refuge behind a crumbling freestone wall-still at some distance from the stone sh.e.l.l of the building itself. But it was close enough to see that another horse was already standing hip-shot within the ruins of the church porch-and the brief glimpse Torquil got of a dark-clad figure who appeared briefly in the doorway to beckon young Comyn inside had something of the familiar to it; but he could not make out what it was.

Straining for some hint of what was going on, Torquil considered trying to make his way closer; but the Highlander remained with the horses, looking vaguely bored but apparently watching toward the north as he let the horses graze. Very soon, the dark dots of two additional riders could be seen approaching from that direction, causing the Highlander to poke his head briefly through the doorway into the ruins.

Hunching deeper into his hiding place, trusting that his leathers and dark cloak would continue to camouflage him, Torquil bit back a gasp-for the figure that emerged with young John Comyn, shaking back its dark hood to reveal a hard, bearded face that had seen more than its share of battles, was none other than the elder John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch, hitherto believed to be still in the north, defending his family's ancestral lands.

But even more appalling was the ident.i.ty of the two men drawing rein in the churchyard. For their dark cloaks only partially covered bright white surcoats bearing the splayed red cross of the Order of the Temple; and as they, too, shook back their hoods, Torquil could have no doubt that he was gazing upon Brian de Jay and John de Sautre!

Chapter Twenty-five.

THE IMPLICATIONS WERE STAGGERING. THAT THE YOUNGER Comyn should find it advisable to meet clandestinely with his father was bad enough; but to have arranged an a.s.signation on the eve of battle with the Master of the English Temple and the Preceptor of Scotland-known to be riding with Edward of England as his advisors-was a betrayal of astounding magnitude.

And was it mere gold for which the Comyns were prepared to commit treason? For John de Sautre had a long, narrow casket tied behind his saddle, revealed as he swung down. And both Comyns eyed it hungrily as he unlashed it and tucked it under one arm, both of them watching both Templars warily as the four of them disappeared into the ruins again.

Torquil knew that he must find out more of their plans; but he dared not venture closer, for the Highlander was now tending all five horses, and idly scanning the approaches to the ruin, sure to catch any attempt by Torquil to spy upon what was going on inside.

There was one recourse open to Torquil that might work-used with some success in the past, though he had never dared to try it under such conditions. But desperate circ.u.mstances called for desperate measures; for if the Comyns and the Templars riding with Edward were preparing to work a betrayal, the cost to the Scottish patriots could be beyond reckoning.

Hunching down as small as he could make himself, Torquil eased his fingers into the pouch at his belt and, after probing briefly, brought out a roughly circular wooden disk, perhaps the size of a hen's egg.

Called a sian or charm of protection, and cut as a cross section from a branch of rowan wood-long regarded as protective against the forces of evil-its two faces had been polished to a silken sheen and then inscribed by the monks of Iona during the appropriate cycles of new moon and tides, accompanied by appropriate prayers and blessings. One side bore the sign of the cross, burned into the wood, the other an inked inscription in the ancient Celtic tongue: Mor do ingantaib dogni in ir genair o Muiri.

Silently Torquil mouthed the words, his heart making of the line a prayer as his mind supplied the meaning: The King that is born of Mary performs many wonders.

Then, calling on knowledge he had gained during those weeks spent praying and learning with the kindred of Columba, on the blessed isle of Iona, he closed the sian in his right hand and pressed that fist to his forehead, silently reciting to himself the Failte Mhoire, the Hail Mary as he had learned it in the Gaelic. He could not remember the Gaelic for the rest of the charm of the Frith Mhoire, or augury of Mary, but he knew the flow of intent, and trusted that the Mother of his Lord would hear him, even if the words were not exactly right.

"The augury mild Mary made for her Son, the Queen-maiden gazing downward through her palm." He made a tube of the fingers of his left hand and blew through it thrice, in the name of the Three Persons of the Trinity, then held that tube to his left eye and turned his gaze toward the ruined church as he whispered what he could remember of the Failte na frithe.

"The augury that Mary made for her Son, that Brigid breathed through her palm. The Son of the King of Life be my stay behind me, to give me eyes to see and hear all my quest."

At first he could see nothing but a constrained glimpse of the man waiting with the horses in the gathering gloom of twilight. But then, as his breathing steadied and he reached deeper into his inner stillness, he saw-but-did-not-see four black-cloaked figures standing far to the east end of the church, before the ruined altar. Likewise, the whisper of voices became gradually audible through some faculty that was not physical hearing.

"Do not try to impress me with your courage, Templar," the Black Comyn was saying. "Save it for the field of battle. Let me see what you have brought us."

He took a stride forward, but Jay swiftly interposed, clapping a hand to the hilt of his sword by way of a warning.

"Not so quickly. Can you deliver to me what I seek in exchange?"

"Wallace?" Comyn retorted. "We can bring him to you. But you will have to slay him yourself."

A distant part of Torquil was aware of a queasy stirring in his stomach, but he kept himself focused and distanced from his outrage for fear of missing any vital piece of knowledge.

"Bring him where?" Jay retorted. "You will get no satisfaction from me until I know where Wallace is, and what his plans are."

Comyn's eyes narrowed. "And will you get satisfaction from your king, if you bring him not this victory?

Do not try my patience, Templar. Before I will speak further concerning what you desire, I will examine what you have there. If that does not suit you, then draw your sword, and we shall settle our business with blood rather than words!"

The silence bristled between them, but then, abruptly, the Master of England curled his lip and lifted his hand away from his weapon.

"Very well, you may make your inspection," he said. "Brother John, over there will do."

He pointed to the pediment of a fallen pillar, its top sheared off to leave behind a rude table of stone.

Impa.s.sive, John de Sautre came forward and set the casket on the rough surface. The other three men gathered round, and Jay presented the Black Comyn with a small key.

The Lord of Badenoch took a deep breath before unlocking the box. His gnarled fingers quivered slightly as he slowly lifted the lid. When he bent to view its contents, his whole face tightened. Frowning with concentration, he extended the index finger of his left hand over the open box and waved it slowly back and forth, as though testing the air by some arcane means.

The Templars exchanged glances, knowing that everything hinged upon Comyn's reaction. The younger Comyn watched the knights closely, alert for any hint of treachery. The silence drew itself out. Then the Black Comyn sighed aloud and raised his hands in an att.i.tude of thanksgiving.

"These truly are the relics and spells of Briochan," he murmured reverently. "We shall welcome him home, and the G.o.ddess will shower us with her favor."

Jay reached out and banged the lid shut. Comyn rounded on him with an angry glare, but the Templar set his left hand on the lid in pointed possessiveness, right hand on the hilt of his sword.

"These relics go nowhere," Jay said, "until you first fulfill your part of the bargain."

The younger Comyn moved to his father's side, quivering with fury. "You are not in one of your Temples now," he declared. "This is our land, and you will speak with respect!"

"Nay, let us do as we have undertaken," Comyn said, raising a hand to calm his son. "You wish to bring Wallace to battle and slay him, Templar? It can be accomplished. Your king's army lies no more than a few hours' march from the Wood of Callendar, where the Guardian has made his camp. On the morrow Wallace will advance, hoping to catch the English host as they retreat and deal them a fatal blow."

Jay's right hand balled itself into a fist. "So near," he muttered. "Had we but known-"

"You know now, thanks to us," Comyn cut in sharply. "If you go forward to meet Wallace instead of withdrawing toward Edinburgh, he will have no choice but to stand and fight."

"And then what?" Jay demanded. "Will you stand with him?"

The Black Comyn's lip curled in a sneer of contempt. "William Wallace is a commoner and a usurper," he stated bitterly, "and I will not see my men fall in his cause."

The younger Comyn took his cue from his father. "At the point of battle, I will lead our cavalry from the field. The others' hors.e.m.e.n will follow. We will keep them safe from any folly of Wallace's, to fight another day. In time we can raise more foot soldiers to serve the cause of a king-but not a commoner."

"What of Wallace himself?" Jay asked. "Will he flee also, when he sees you abandon the field?"

"He is no craven, for all his common blood," young Comyn conceded. "He will stand his ground for as long as he can. And he will be yours for the taking-if you can catch him."

With preternatural swiftness, Jay seized the Black Comyn's wrist and pressed his palm down hard on the lid of the casket. Comyn's eyes flared with surprised outrage, but Jay held him firmly.

"Swear upon these relics you hold so sacred," the Master of England ordered, "that what you have said is true and that you will fulfill your promise on the morrow."

"By what right do you-" Comyn began.

"By right," Jay said coldly, "that what we have brought you are tangible relics of power. All you have given in exchange are words. Without your oath on this-we have no bargain!"

For the s.p.a.ce of several heartbeats, the two men glared at one another, eyes locked in a battle of wills.

The younger Comyn and John de Sautre likewise bristled, hands on sword hilts, uncertain whether to risk interfering, until finally the Black Comyn drew a hissing breath.

"I swear by all that I hold holy," he whispered through gritted teeth, "that what I have said is true and that I will not break my bond with you."

Satisfied, Jay released Comyn's wrist and took a step back, nodding for de Sautre to do the same.

Neither made any attempt to interfere as the elder Comyn gathered up the ivory casket and cradled it possessively against his chest. His eyes widened, taking on a feverish inner luminance, as if Briochan's long buried power were already infusing his frame.

"Come," Jay said to de Sautre. "The king must have this news at once, before he begins to withdraw."

His subordinate mutely nodded his compliance, but as the two Templars turned to go, Comyn spoke again.

"We shall not meet again, Templar, for the h.e.l.l of your own making awaits you."

An unearthly resonance to his voice chilled Torquil even more than the depth of the betrayal just agreed.

Jay's response, however, was a disdainful sneer.

"If we do meet again," he said, "you will be kneeling before my king-or his headsman."