Turning on his heel, he swept out of the church, de Sautre in his wake. As they emerged from the ruined doorway, Torquil suppressed a shuddering gasp and ducked his head, ending the augury. His pulse was racing as he huddled behind his bit of wall, trying to come to grips with all he had just seen and heard, vaguely listening to Jay and de Sautre mount up-and aware that the younger Comyn, at least, would soon be mounting up as well, to return along this route to the Scottish camp.

Indeed, young Comyn came out to watch with the Highlander as the Templars galloped off to the north.

And while their attention was thus occupied, Torquil tucked the sian back into his pouch and began making his way quietly back to where he had left his horse, ducking low, mind awhirl with the implications of the betrayal.

That the Comyns should be conspiring with Brian de Jay to betray Wallace suggested that their ambitions far outstripped those of the Templar Master-and there now could be no doubt that the relics of the Pictish Briochan had not ended up at the bottom of a lake, as Jay and the de Sautres had claimed.

Whether these were mere trinkets or whether they were objects of power such as the Inner Circle of the Temple guarded, Torquil did not know; but the thought of them in the hands of the Comyns sent a new chill up his spine.

But that must take second place to the wider-ranging treachery involving the betrayal of Wallace. Above all else, Arnault and the Guardian must be warned that Jay was riding to advise Edward of the Scottish position. As the only witness to Comyn's treachery, Torquil knew he had to make it back to Wallace's camp. The fate of the Scottish army must come first, and the deeds of the Comyns could be judged afterward.

When he had almost reached the safety of the trees, he glanced back at the ruined church and saw the elder Comyn coming out of the doorway, looking about wildly, agitatedly consulting with his son and the Highlander as he held out what appeared to be two sticks, holding them parallel to one another and ranging them in the direction of Torquil's hill, as if questing with them.

Torquil ducked behind a tree and gazed back fearfully- appalled-for before his very eyes, the Black Comyn's face seemed to be overshadowed by a greater darkness than the gloom of twilight, a fey gleam lighting the hollow sockets of his eyes that was visible even in the gathering darkness.

Recoiling, Torquil realized that some other ent.i.ty had invaded the Black Comyn's body. Whether the secondary spirit was that of Briochan or the terrible G.o.ddess they both served, Torquil had no idea; but there was no doubt in his mind that he himself was in imminent danger of discovery.

Throwing caution to the winds, he broke for the deeper cover of the woods, heading for the clearing where he had left his horse, aware of young Comyn and the Highlander throwing themselves into their horses and spurring in his direction-and of something else stirring in response to whatever the elder Comyn was conjuring up, surely akin to what had come during that attack on the way back from Iona.

His horse shied back as he burst into the clearing. Ripping the reins loose, he flung them over the animal's neck and vaulted astride. Though the horse reared and plunged, he hauled its head around and launched it with a clap of his heels in the direction of Wallace's encampment. But though he quickly lost the sounds of mere human pursuit, a far worse pursuer had found his scent.

A shrill, ululating hunting call overtook him as he galloped headlong through the woods. He cast a fearful look over his shoulder and gasped to see a huge winged shadow-shape skimming low over the treetops in his wake, malevolent green eyes glaring down above a wide slavering mouth-without doubt, some horror set upon him by the Comyns, an unwanted demonstration of the power they could summon with the artifacts delivered to them by Brian de Jay.

Bending low in the saddle, he spurred his horse even faster, low-hanging branches lashing him as he ran the gauntlet of the trees. The shadow swooped nearer, darkening the ground as it came. As the distance closed between them, it gave another ear-splitting howl and plunged.

Torquil sensed it coming and wrenched his horse aside. The animal stumbled and went down as a huge black wing swept over them like a reaper's scythe, an icy backdraft buffeting Torquil from the saddle. He hit the ground rolling and dived into a nest of brambles as the shadow-hunter turned in the air and prepared to attack again.

White-eyed with terror, his mount heaved itself to its feet, blood seeping from an ugly gash in its flank.

With a shrill whinny, it wheeled and bolted in a flying shower of turf.

The shadow banked in midair. For a moment it hovered, as if uncertain which way to turn, perhaps distracted by the smell of blood. Quick to seize any diversion, Torquil scrambled free of the undergrowth and set off running in the opposite direction.

The rough ground kept conspiring to trip him up. As he struggled on, now gasping for breath, he heard the dread upbeat of wings and felt an icy wind buffet at the nape of his neck. He threw himself flat with an involuntary whoof! and gasped as icy talons swiped at his back. The pain of even a glancing blow was gut-wrenching; and in that instant he could entertain no doubt that not only his body but his very soul was in peril.

He elbowed himself up and started running again. Behind him he could hear the gurgle of b.e.s.t.i.a.l laughter as the shadow-ent.i.ty closed in for the kill-and flashed on the utter certainty that he had glimpsed a like ent.i.ty once before, compa.s.sing the death of Alexander III. Panting out a desperate plea to the Virgin for help, he cast about wildly for some natural defense against the powers of sorcery. But there was no running water anywhere, nor any stand of rowan wood- Cursing himself for ten kinds of fool, he thrust his back against a tree and clawed in his pouch for the holy sian that had protected him not an hour before. As soon as his fingers closed around it, he felt a surge of renewed strength, as if all the company of Saint Columba were ma.s.sing at his back, ready to defend him.

Clenching the disk of rowan wood tightly in his right hand, he staggered to a halt and turned at bay, brandishing it, cross-outward, like a shield, quailing before the foul, freezing breath of the horror poised above him.

"Great Michael of the Battles, Ranger of the Heavens, be with me!" he gasped. "Jesu, Son of Mary, shield thou thy servant, soul and soul-shrine!"

In answer, the sian ignited in a blaze of pure white fire, kindling a fire in his heart that left no room for cold or fear. Its radiance expanded outward in a dazzling corona, as though he were holding the sun itself in his hand. Dimly, through the haze of light, he could sense the shadow gathering itself for its final onslaught, but he closed his eyes, concentrating on making himself a channel for the Light that was his shield in the face of the enemy.

The attack, when it came, was so ferocious that the force of it flung him backward off his feet. He struck the ground with a bruising jolt, and only just managed to retain his grip on the blazing talisman. The shadow pressed down on him from above, hungrily seeking a c.h.i.n.k in his defenses. From flat on his back he gasped out another plea for help-to Saint Michael, to Mary, to Columba, to all the angels-even as he thrust the sian again between himself and his attacker.

Then, all at once, an eldritch screech ripped the air around him. In the same instant, the sun-disk exploded in his hand. Splinters of light burst upward in a fountain of white-hot needles, penetrating deep into the belly of the shadow. The creature screeched again and struck at him in a blind fury of flying talons.

Each blow seemed like a dagger slash. Torquil cried aloud in agony and tried to writhe away, right arm still upflung in warding, left arm shielding his eyes, a part of him nearly past caring whether the flying shards of light would take their toll of the shadow before it succeeded in ripping his soul from his body.

Racked with pain and exhaustion, the last thing he remembered was the sight of the wooden talisman crumbling to ashes in his fingers before his senses abandoned him to the dark.

Chapter Twenty-six

AS THE LATE SUMMER NIGHT CLOSED IN WITHOUT BRINGING Torquil back to camp, Arnault found himself increasingly concerned. He had seen no sign of the younger Comyn either, but he could make no very specific inquiries without possibly arousing unwelcome notice.

The atmosphere hanging over the camp was one of simmering excitement as the Scottish army completed preparations for their march against Edward. Wallace himself had been constantly on the move among the men, stopping to share a joke or a bite of food with the common soldiers as often as he paused to elaborate on his orders with their commanders. The Guardian exuded an air of confidence- though there was no telling whether this was because he was a.s.sured of success or because he knew that courage and fear were equally infectious in these close confines. Either way, Arnault could only admire the bond of trust that Wallace had established with his men-at-arms, having shown them so graphically at Stirling Bridge that a determined host of Scottish spearmen could smash the a.s.sembled might of English chivalry.

Arnault wished he could be as sanguine about Torquil. As midnight approached, his forebodings took a sharp upturn when he finally glimpsed young John Comyn strolling past in the company of several of his peers. Falling in casually behind them, he worked his way close enough to overhear their conversation; but such snippets of talk as they let fall gave him no clues as to how young Comyn might have spent the past few hours.

Dropping back to a discreet distance, Arnault studied the younger man through narrowed eyes. John Comyn's demeanor appeared outwardly as bland as his talk, but even so, Arnault thought he could detect small signs of underlying tension in the way the man kept toying with the hilt of his dirk. Such uneasiness was perhaps only natural in view of the impending engagement, but Arnault found himself doubting that this could be the sole explanation-especially when Torquil had yet to put in an appearance.

And there was still the unanswered question of the dark little man who apparently had summoned Comyn-who very much reminded Arnault of the men who had attacked the Templar band on the road back from Iona. If those had been Comyn men.

Drawing a deep breath, Arnault summoned his inner faculties to his aid. When he looked again with a keener eye, he at once became aware of a curious cast of shadow clinging about young Comyn's person, as if the younger man had been touched by something unclean that had left its mark on him. At Berwick, during the court of claims, he remembered glimpsing a similar suggestion of darkness surrounding young Comyn and his father-at the time, dismissed as probably nothing more than a deceptive trick of the eye.

But that had been before John Balliol's inauguration, when Torquil had reported seeing the elder Comyn palm a consecrated Host at Ma.s.s-and long before the attack on the Templars.

Now the son's dark aura was clearly present, certainly no less unsavory than his father's had been-a discovery that filled Arnault with grave forebodings for Torquil's safety. And he could not conceive any good reason why Torquil should not have come back by now-if he were able.

He was reticent about confronting young Comyn directly, for it was possible the man would remember him from Berwick or Scone, as having been a Templar-a discovery that could well undermine his usefulness to Wallace. To get the answers he urgently needed, Arnault knew he would have to use another avenue of investigation.

Wrapping himself in his cloak, he made his way quietly to a secluded area on the outskirts of the camp.

His destination was a hollow dell just beyond the reach of the watch fires. Here, behind a screen of young oak trees, he spread his cloak on the ground and sketched a circle of protection around it with his sword, which he then stuck into the ground before him as he sat down cross-legged. Delving into the neck of his gambeson then, he pulled out the cord on which the keekstane that Brother Ninian had given him hung.

After bowing low before the cross of his sword, he clasped the stone in his right hand and closed his eyes, drawing-though he did not know it-on the same strands of Celtic wisdom that Torquil had summoned with his sian of rowan wood, some hours before; for the keekstane, like the sian, possessed kindred resonances with Celtic spirituality. It had not occurred to Arnault that he might seek Torquil using the link between these two tools of spiritual discernment; but he found himself reaching out with the same kinds of imagery that both of them had learned on Iona, as he framed his pet.i.tion to the forces of Light.

Thou Michael Militant, thou king of the angels, he prayed in the stillness of his soul, shield thou thy servant Torquil with the shade of thy wing and the might of thy sword. By the power of the Chief of Chiefs, send me forth upon the road taken by my brother-in-arms, that I may find him, safe and still in thy service.

So saying, he turned inward in spirit, seeking the silence at the center of his being. Like the petals of a rose unfolding, that silence opened up to receive him. He stepped into that silence and at once found himself slowly rising in spirit above a sea of trees-the Wood of Callendar, he knew at once, as he overlooked the familiar landscape.

Once oriented, he cast beneath him for some sign of Torquil, and was drawn toward a shimmering thread of light weaving its way westward across the forest floor-surely the direction Torquil must have gone after the younger Comyn. Just as some dark avatar of pagan times had left its mark on young Comyn, so Torquil's talisman of light had left its imprint on the ground over which he had pa.s.sed. That luminous residue of power would fade in due course, but for now it represented a trail that Arnault could follow.

In spirit he set off along that shining route as it wound its way through bog and briar and thickets toward the sh.e.l.l of what appeared to be a ruined church. As he approached the ruin itself, Arnault received his first intimation of something amiss. The starlight that bathed the surrounding hillsides stopped short of the burial ground that lay to the north of the derelict church. As he moved closer in spirit to investigate, his whole frame of vision was suddenly wrenched askew.

The scene around him spun and blurred. Even as he fought to regain his equilibrium, he was hurled away from the ruins like a stone from a catapult. A sensation of desperate flight seized hold of him, choking the breath from his lungs as the landscape streaked past. Then an explosion of darkness brought his momentum to a sudden shattering halt.

For a long moment, he lay stunned. When his senses began to return, he had the confused impression of being in two places at once. He was aware on the one hand of his physical body, anch.o.r.ed to its circle of protection in the oak grove. On the other, he found himself confronting a strange void.

His initial reaction was one of complete bafflement. Only gradually did it dawn upon him, with growing horror, that this pocket abyss of emptiness was all that was left of Torquil's protective talisman.

A choked outcry of denial burst from his lips. The emotional backlash jolted him rudely out of trance, sitting cold and stiff before the standard of his sword. For a moment, all he could do was stare with numb disbelief. Then, by slow degrees, feeling began to return to his extremities, bringing with it an aching surge of inner pain as his conscious mind began to grapple with the possibility that Torquil might well be dead.

His first impulse was to commandeer a horse and set off in search; but even as he thought it, he knew he dared not. In the dark, on the eve of battle, without some clearer indication to guide him, success was most unlikely. And much as it brought him personal sorrow, he knew that he had a higher duty to fulfill.

In going out to spy on the younger Comyn, Torquil had encountered something dark and deadly-perhaps something akin to what they had glimpsed on the road from Iona; something powerful enough to overcome the protective influence of the talisman blessed by the brethren of Saint Columba. If, as seemed quite possible, this dark and deadly something had been summoned at the instigation of Comyn himself, then it was equally possible that the Comyns were the source of the destructive apostasy that had brought about the downfall of the house of Canmore and the quelling of the Stone of Destiny. If they could do that, they might well have guessed the part Wallace was meant to play in reviving the Stone-and if so, it was only a matter of time before they would try to take his life as well, removing one further obstacle in the path of their ambitions.

It was likely that only the threat of English domination had restrained them so far. But their power now seemed to be on the ascendant. Would the Comyns wait to see Edward defeated, and afterward turn on Wallace? Or would they first strike him down, and use their dark powers to try and drive the English from their land?

Either way, the life of the Guardian was in serious danger. If Wallace were to die in ignorance, an unwitting victim rather than a willing sacrifice, then Scotland's ruin would be a.s.sured. And if Scotland were to fall, there would be no Fifth Temple, no future haven for the Templar Order and the sacred treasures that they guarded for the good of all mankind. However much Arnault might grieve for the unknown fate of his brother-in-light, his first and highest duty was to remain here and protect the Guardian, upon whom so much depended.

Rising somewhat unsteadily, he retrieved his sword and cloak and started back to camp. During his absence, many of the men had settled down in their blankets to seize what rest they could before the dawn march. Arnault was conscious of a twinge of envy as he pa.s.sed silently among them, making for Wallace's tent, for sleep was a luxury he himself could not afford, if the Guardian's safety was to be a.s.sured.

There were guards on duty about Wallace's tent, but they all knew him well by sight, and did not question him further when he announced his intention to remain close at hand in case the Guardian should require his services. After making a circuit of the area, Arnault settled down in the shelter of a nearby boulder and composed himself for the vigil yet to come. The guards were not to know that this quiet, modestly accoutred knight of foreign origin was maintaining wards that no enemy could breach without his knowledge. If his shoulders were bowed, it was because the burden he was carrying seemed as heavy as any cross.

The light behind Torquil's eyelids was very dim at first- or was it that his ability to perceive the light was somehow deficient? He seemed to have lain in pain and darkness for so long that he was almost afraid he was deluding himself with vain imaginings of an end to the night. He struggled to open his eyes-which were the only part of him that seemed at all capable of movement-but squinted at the pain the brightness caused.

The mere fact that he remembered his own name was a miracle in itself. Beyond that, he could remember little else, except an icy pain from which his soul shrank. He tried to focus on the point of light above him, reluctant to lose sight of it, in case it vanished. But instead of fading, the light expanded, broadening out until it formed a ring of golden fire, like a royal diadem.

Its radiance was filled with a warmth that Torquil had almost forgotten, in his eternity of endless cold and darkness. Though his body ached in every nerve, his soul reached out to it in yearning. Like some bottomless marsh, the darkness clung to him, trying to suck him back into its cold womb, but he began to struggle, determined not to let it bury him again.

The light itself came to his aid, casting down a beam of brightness like a life-rope to his soul. Eagerly he clutched at it-and felt himself floating upward into the midst of the ring of fire. Then the darkness receded, leaving him momentarily dazzled. When his vision cleared, he found himself gazing up into another human face, a trimly bearded face that smiled down at him as he tried to blink away the lingering haze from his eyes.

"Look you, he is alive!" a voice declared triumphantly; and only belatedly did Torquil realize that it was his rescuer who had spoken.

Frowning with effort, he studied the other more closely- a man somewhat younger than himself, with bright gray eyes and a mercurial cast to his features. His head was encircled by an aureole of brightness that Torquil might have mistaken for a nimbus or a crown, had he not seen that it was the light of the sun shining behind him through the surrounding trees. There was something elusively familiar about his countenance, but for the moment Torquil could not put a name to him.

Sinewy hands gripped his shoulders, easing him into a sitting position. He accepted that support without question while he bemusedly surveyed his surroundings, wondering how he came to be here. A localized twinge of discomfort made him look down to where his right hand lay open at his side. His palm was burned in the middle and covered with fine white ash.

"That mark on your hand seems to be your only injury, but you have the look of one who has survived a mortal battle," the other man observed, looking him over. "My companions declared you a corpse, and urged that we be on our way, but something told me there was life yet in this cold body."

For the first time, Torquil noticed that his rescuer was not alone. Near at hand were two other young knights, friends of his, by their familiar bearing. A dozen other men were waiting in the background with the party's horses. All wore mail and the colorful surcoats of Scottish n.o.bles, and they carried the weapons of war.

His rescuer called for a waterskin. When it arrived, he helped Torquil to a drink.

"Robert, we still do not know who he is or on what side he is allied," warned one of the knights who was standing close by.

"Hush, man," said their leader dismissively, still supporting Torquil with his arm. "One act of charity is a slight matter, compared to the risks we've already taken-or those we shall take in future."

He spoke with casual authority. Torquil took another sip of water, then swallowed it at a hasty gulp as his jangled memory yielded up the name he had been searching for.

"You are Robert Bruce!" he exclaimed huskily. "The youngest of them. I saw you and your grandsire at Berwick."

Young Bruce gave a brief nod by way of acknowledgment.

"Then you will know that was only the beginning of the troubles that have plagued us since," he said with a grimace.

Torquil scarcely heard him. Other, more recent memories were starting to resurface. The Comyns and the Templars- the dark hunter pursuing him-the shield of light that must, after all, have saved his life.It all came back to him in a rush that made his head swim.

The betrayal of Wallace and the Scottish host!

He made an abrupt attempt to get up, only to fall back with an involuntary cry as a wave of pain racked his body from head to foot. Bruce let the waterskin fall and flung a bracing arm around him as he was overtaken by a fit of shuddering.

"Steady on, man!" he admonished. "Give yourself a bit of time to recover your strength. What misadventure brings you to this sorry state? If you were ambushed by brigands, they must have been merciful ones, to have left you without a drop of blood spilled."

"Not brigands," Torquil said hoa.r.s.ely, with a shake of his head that set it to spinning. "Something far worse."

Before he could elaborate, one of Bruce's friends interposed.

"Robert, we must go. Leave this fellow the water-even some food, if you will-but let us be on our way, if we are not to fight."

A troubled expression crossed Bruce's face and he nodded his acceptance of what the other had said.

Fearful of what might happen if he failed to spread the warning, Torquil clutched Bruce's arm and held him back.

"Give me a moment to speak with you alone," he implored.

The urgency in his tone gave Bruce pause. He took a closer look at Torquil's face, then waved his companions away. Once they were out of earshot, he eyed the other man expectantly, still crouched down beside him.

"All right, what have you got to say?" he said.

Torquil drew an aching breath. "First, tell me truly: Do you fight for Edward or for Wallace?"

Bruce's face hardened. "By what right do you question my loyalties?" he demanded, with a sharpness that told Torquil he had touched a raw nerve. "You have not even revealed your name, let alone your allegiance."

"My name is Torquil Lennox. Despite my raiment, I am a Knight of the Temple."

"Then you are for Edward," Bruce said, with a narrowing of his gray eyes.

Torquil shook his head, but even that slight motion brought on a brief attack of dizziness. He focused on Bruce to stop the spinning. He felt he could trust this man-though in truth, he had little other choice, if he was to reach Arnault in time to prevent a disaster.

"I am for Scotland, and therefore for Wallace," he stated with as much firmness as he could muster. "That makes me a renegade in the eyes of many of my brothers, but G.o.d's will is not always what wins the favor of men."

The anger faded from Bruce's expressive eyes.

"In such times as ours, it is a lucky man who can find a straight, unmuddied path to walk," he noted.

"Truth be told, my father sent me to join Edward's army. If you were at Berwick, then I should not need to remind you that John Balliol was chosen as king ahead of my grandfather, who had the more just claim. Nothing he ever did has proved him worthy of the throne, so we will not help him hang on to it.

With Balliol swept aside, a Bruce may yet wear the crown."

"Is it ambition, then, that sends you to Edward's side?" Torquil dared to ask.

"Take care that your tongue does not serve you ill!" Bruce warned. "Though I was sent to support Edward, and though I would cheerfully see John Balliol stay locked up forever, I will not take up arms against William Wallace. I will not make a man my enemy because he loves his country too much."

He sighed and glanced aside. "In defiance of both Edward and my father," he continued bleakly, "I am returning to Carrick. Some might see it as shirking my duty, but I see it as the only way of preserving my honor."

Torquil made another effort to rise, and this time the pain was more bearable. Bruce helped him to his feet and kept one hand on his shoulder to steady him.

"If you honor Wallace for his loyalty to Scotland, then I beg you to help me," Torquil said unsteadily, panting a little. "There is a plot afoot to betray him this very day, in which my brother Templars are playing a princ.i.p.al part-and also the Comyns," he added, knowing that would catch Bruce's attention, even if he cared little about Templar treachery. "I must get word to the Scots army before they join battle with Edward."

"A betrayal?" Bruce said. The keen look that came upon his face reflected curiosity held rigidly in check, for such an intimation powerfully underlined the urgency of Torquil's mission, regardless of what specific part was being played by his mortal enemies, the Comyns.