Wallace rounded on him with a flash of anger. "Your speech borders on blasphemy, Templar," he warned. "I have told you once that I seek no crown, and I tell you so again!"

"The divine purpose thrusts upon us many things we would shun if we followed only earthly desires for comfort and peace," Arnault noted. "Do you think it was mere chance that brought you to us, when we sought to save the Stone of Columba from King Edward? It was at that moment, when you were recognized by the power of the Stone, that your destiny was set forth."

Wallace went very still, warring emotions flicking across his honest, open face.

"How could you possibly know that? I do not know! And what is the Stone to you? Who are you, to tell me this?"

"I am a Knight of the Temple," Arnault said, "and my destiny is to serve my Order, and the glory of G.o.d's name, to my last breath.

"The Temple, too, has its destiny-more than just its mission in the Holy Land. And that greater destiny, if you will, is now threatened by grave danger, as is all of Christendom. Meeting that danger has led a few of us here, to Scotland, where our attempts to clarify and deal with this danger have been frustrated repeatedly-sometimes even by those within our own ranks, who have fallen into the ways of corruption.

"You saw some of them at Falkirk-and sent one of them to be judged for his crimes by the All High G.o.d.

So did I. But they are not the only ones we have to fear, or the ones we must fear the most. Others who serve the Darkness more directly have a.s.serted themselves on this same disputed ground, restoring banished pagan sorcery and seeking to bring back the ancient G.o.ds, with their b.l.o.o.d.y ways, from the outer dark into which they were cast centuries ago."

He paused a beat. "But I have told you more than you wanted to hear, or even can grasp."

Wallace's gaze had dropped from his in confusion, but there could be no doubt that Arnault still had his attention.

"The balance here in Scotland is precarious, as you must know," he went on. "The struggle for the throne will determine far more than whether this family or that will gain a period of ascendancy; it will decide whether this Christian nation may survive at all-and with it, the fulfillment of that greater purpose for which the Order of the Temple was founded."

After a pause, Wallace at last spoke in a hushed voice.

"Speak to me of the Stone, Frre Arnault," he whispered. "The rest"-he fluttered a hand in rejection-"I know not how to answer. But the Stone-there is some kinship I felt with it, some. calling. But I don't know what it means."

"Nor do I-or at least, only a part of it," Arnault said. "But when one's own insight or reason fails to bring sufficient enlightenment, one must seek the wise counsel of those with clearer vision. My own quest took me to Iona, and the kindred of Columba. It was there I learned more of the forces at work here, and where my duty lay in the midst of this war."

"If you know that, then you know more than I," Wallace said.

Arnault inclined his head. "I can tell you this: The Stone, which we both have helped to preserve, was given by Saint Columba himself, as a visible sign of the bond between the king and the land. That bond was known of old, but seen in the light of the faith of Christ, its truth is even clearer. The strength of the king gives strength to the land, and vice versa; and what harms one harms the other. The power which arises from this link-the land's sovereignty, if you will-was preserved, focused, contained by the Stone of Destiny; and it lent both authority and power to the king. But the extinction of the line of Canmore severed that link between king and land, and now the Stone itself has been robbed of its potency."

"But-if the king draws his power from the Stone," Wallace said slowly, "and the Stone draws its potency from the king, what is to be done when there is no king, and the Stone has been rendered inert?"

Grateful that he had managed to divert the Guardian's attention to the cure rather than the cause of the problem, Arnault carefully went on.

"Before a true king can be established, the Stone must be restored to its former state. We have learned that this can only be done by one who stands in the place of the king without ascending the throne: an Uncrowned King, if you will, who has all the attributes of a king without laying claim to the crown."

Wallace frowned, looking vaguely uneasy. "With all you have learned, all you have seen, are you suggesting that I am the one you seek?"

"I am," Arnault said quietly. "And if I were to tell you that I had this of Saint Columba himself, in a vision at Iona, that would only frighten you. But ask yourself this: Has any man achieved more for Scotland than you have, or suffered more for her sake in loss and betrayal?"

Wallace met the Templar's gaze squarely, swallowing only with difficulty. His face had the look of a man who was preparing for the worst in spite of himself.

"You're right," he whispered. "I am frightened." He paused to take a deep breath. "So, what is it you would have me do?"

"At the risk-again-of being taken for a blasphemer, I would have you follow in the footsteps of the King of Kings, Who gave up His life for His friends," Arnault replied, in as much warning as he dared give directly. "I would have you take up your appointed destiny-and do not surrender to the false sweetness of despair, no matter how fiercely fortune may beat against you. The man who will not surrender cannot be defeated, nor can his honor be taken from him. Hold fast to this, whether it be through death or victory, and you will achieve the salvation of your land-but only if you hold true to that purpose and refuse to abandon it, whatever may come in the future."

Wallace walked several paces away, rubbing at his beard, then strode back, shaking his head. "You keep returning to my destiny," he said. "For yourself, you have fortified your faith with old wisdom, with counsel and revelations I do not have. I want to believe that I can still make some difference, but-"

"If you agree," Arnault said quietly, "I believe that a share of what I have seen can be yours, as well."

The offer brought Wallace up short. He gazed long at Arnault, apparently sensing that the Templar was offering more than fine words-perhaps more than he really wanted to know-but after a moment he gave a clipped nod.

"I agree."

Behind them, the camp was just beginning to stir. Probably, no one would disturb them for a while, especially if they appeared to be deep in private converse. Taking a leaning seat against the wall beside them, Arnault swept a hand in invitation for Wallace to join him, then pulled from its habitual resting place beneath his tunic the perforated scrying stone that Brother Ninian had given him. As he removed it from its leather thong, he briefly explained its nature to Wallace, who stared at it skeptically.

"A keekstane?" the Guardian declared. "I had thought such superst.i.tions fit only for old women and simpleminded children. Is it to such talismans as these that we should entrust our lives?"

"We entrust ourselves to G.o.d," Arnault said, "but sometimes He guides us in unexpected ways.

Sometimes He would even have us be as children-for in that way, we best demonstrate our trust in His Providence."

So saying, he slipped a dagger from its sheath and quietly offered it hilt-first to Wallace. Made of steel reforged from a blade broken in battle in the Holy Land, he had carried it with him since the retreat from Acre, as a memento of the reason they were fighting. But some instinct had always prevented him from putting it to ordinary use, and only now did he realize why.

"Make a small wound in your palm," he instructed. "Once a little blood has welled, I shall give you the keekstane to hold.

"What, in some kind of pagan blood sacrifice?" Wallace said doubtfully, as he hesitated.

"Not at all," Arnault replied. It was, however, true that the dagger, no less than the keekstane, must be blooded, to serve the ultimate purpose to which Wallace was called. "The keekstane possesses spiritual virtues that enable it to serve as a window between the Seen and Unseen, and the blood serves as a link between yourself and these virtues. Think of it being akin to the way a saint's physical relic serves as a connection with its owner's spiritual essence-an instrumental means for penetrating the veil that normally screens the future from our mortal eyes."

Wallace searched deep into Arnault's eyes. He looked very apprehensive, but also very determined.

"Very well," he finally said. "I've trusted you before, in far greater matters. I'll not hold back now."

Closing the dagger firmly in his right fist, he set its point to his left palm and, with a quick stroke, opened a small cut about a finger-width long. A coin-sized pool of blood slowly formed in the palm of his hand, and when Arnault had slipped the dagger back into its sheath, he placed the keekstane flat over the wound, pressing it close with his fingertips.

"Close your eyes now," he ordered, "and picture the Stone as you last saw it. Fix its image in your mind.and ask in your heart for a vision of your destiny."

As Wallace obeyed, Arnault closed his own eyes and breathed a hasty prayer.

Kindly Columba, send him clear vision.

Then, reaching out for his own mystical connection with the keekstane, he cast his thoughts back to the revelations he had previously been granted of that other Stone, asking for a sharing of that vision with Wallace. He could feel a tingle beneath his fingertips, the keekstane growing warmer; and then, through more than the eyes of memory, he was looking upon the Stone of Destiny.

And Wallace was with him, standing in awed wonder on the opposite side of the Stone. He appeared surprised and yet strangely accepting, as if feeling, for perhaps the first time since losing home and family, that he had come to the place where he belonged.

As they both gazed down at the Stone, there blossomed at its heart a faint yet steady light, filled with both peril and promise. To Arnault, it seemed for a fleeting moment that he glimpsed the face of Saint Columba in that light; but then the light shrank to a mere point.

Unease flared briefly then, as if in response to their presence there. The darkness beyond the Stone thickened, and a stench of seaweed and dank earth teased their nostrils as ghost-whispers of a pagan chant echoed up through the gloom. A chill shivered up Arnault's spine as he sensed a malignant ent.i.ty hovering unseen on the edge of their awareness, and even Wallace flinched a little.

The light, however, did not waver, and Arnault could see that Wallace was holding firm to that sight, taking courage from it in spite of the sense of imminent menace that threatened to intrude. Fueled by their faith, the light expanded and the dark retreated before it, the vile smell and the aura of personified evil also receding.

The unholy chant faded, giving place to sounds of distant combat. The battle din mounted amid the thunder of hooves and the clash of arms. The screams of dying men mingled with an exultant clamor of victory as Arnault and Wallace found themselves enfolded in radiance like a golden ray of sunlight.

Banners waved on every side-the flags and ensigns of Scotland-and the clamor became discernible as the acclamation of a king. A throne took shape amid the glow, and seated upon it was a crowned figure whose face they could not make out.

Then the cheers subsided, and the golden light faded, and the chamber sank once more into a darkness that was only faintly illuminated by the point of light at the Stone's heart. It was smaller than a candle's flame, yet it held the sole hope of fulfillment of the vision of the new king.

Beside Arnault, Wallace's hand had closed around the keekstane, and he was slowly shaking his head, eyes still tightly closed.

"I cannot see," he whispered. "I must see further. I must See!"

Gently Arnault set his fingers back on Wallace's, willing calm, searching his mind for a way to extend the vision- and remembered a way, learned on Iona.

"I can help you see further," he murmured. "Keep your eyes closed. First, give me the keekstane." He watched the other's trembling eyelids as he plucked the stone from Wallace's bloodied hand.

"Now close your fist. and relax it slightly, so that your fingers form a tube in your left hand. good. Now blow three times through that tube while you invoke the Trinity- but say it in the Gaelic."

Wallace's brow furrowed and his lips parted as if to question; but then he drew a deep breath and let it out, lifted his fist to his lips and blew three times.

"In ainm an Athar. agus an Mhic. agus an Spioraid Naoimh."

"Now. turn your face to the east," Arnault said softly, "and lift the tube to your left eye, and look through it at the sun. and let yourself See."

Trembling, Wallace obeyed, squinting at the light-and as Arnault again closed his eyes, he was back in that other place before the Stone. Wallace was still there as well, but kneeling now before the Stone to set his b.l.o.o.d.y hand upon it.

At that touch, new light spilled forth from the billow of gauzy curtains within a narrow doorway. Its invitation was for Wallace only, its cool breeze fresh and sweet with the scent of lilies, and Arnault watched with wonder as Wallace turned toward that doorway and slowly rose, clearly reluctant yet acquiescing, and began to walk toward it. A part of him longed to warn Wallace; but another part knew it was for this purpose that he had brought Scotland's Guardian to this place between the worlds-for only here might he learn what was asked of him, and either accept or reject what had been ordained for him.

Wallace disappeared through the doorway into light, and utter silence enfolded Arnault, overlaying the growing bustle of domestic sound in the campsite not far away. His own sense of isolation became so intense that he was half minded to attempt going after Wallace, to confront whatever had taken him, even if, in doing so, he violated his own sworn duty. But before he could make any such decision, the light at the heart of the Stone of Destiny flared up like a bonfire igniting, and the dark chamber dissolved before it like mud being washed from a windowpane by a torrent of cleansing rain.

Abruptly Arnault found himself back on the edge of the field, with Wallace still beside him. The morning sun shone fully upon them, and the light showed up the pallor of Wallace's face. Arnault hardly knew whether to ask him what he had seen.

Wallace licked his lips and flexed his hand, the blood in it now mostly dried, and took a deep breath to steady himself back into the world of the Seen.

"G.o.d's will can ask much of us, truly," he said at last, with a slow, distant nod. "I will do what I see now that I must, but I do not know if I can bear it as I ought."

But Arnault, too, had glimpsed at least some inkling of what he, too, must bear, and met Wallace's haunted eyes with a compa.s.sion that was as deep as it was blind.

"Whatever awaits you," he vowed, "I swear that you shall not bear it alone, while I live."

Wallace only looked down at his b.l.o.o.d.y hand, flexing it again before bending briefly to wipe it clean on a patch of dewy gra.s.s.

"I do not think you know what you are promising, my friend," he whispered as he straightened. "I do not think you know at all."

Part IV

Chapter Thirty.

THE SIX YEARS FOLLOWING FALKIRK WERE HARSH ONES FOR Scotland. Wallace himself spent much of that time attempting to drum up support on the Continent, but to little avail, and eventually returned. Though Scottish patriots under a succession of Guardians and combinations of Guardians after Wallace made periodic attempts to rea.s.sert the kingdom's independence, Edward of England continued his relentless campaign to impose English sovereignty on the land, so that by mid-June of 1304, nearly every Scottish leader of note had reluctantly done homage to the English king.

Apart from a few scattered pockets of resistance, only Wallace himself, Sir John de Soules, the most recent Guardian, now sheltering in France, and the garrison at Stirling Castle, under command of the young Sir William Oliphant, had refused to capitulate. And Wallace was in hiding in the north, Stirling Castle under siege by Edward himself, unlikely to hold out more than another month or two.

Arnault and Torquil had arrived back in Scotland at about the same time Edward began the Stirling Castle siege, once again moving freely as Templars, again carrying orders, as they had at Berwick eight years before, that would absent the Master of the English Temple from the king's side. For though the current Master, one William de la More, was deemed to be pious and upright as well as competent, untainted by his predecessor, and was only following long established general policy of the Order-that the Master of England should advise the English king in matters of military strategy, as Brian de Jay had done-le Cercle had deemed it advisable to reduce this potential source of English advantage by having said Brother William summoned to report to the Grand Master in Cyprus, as they had done for Jay eight years before.

Brother William had received his orders gracefully, unaware of the affinities of the knight-brothers who delivered them save that the men were sent under authority of the Visitor; and Edward had issued writs of safe conduct for Brother William to clear the port of Dover and sent him with a letter to the Grand Master, praising his services to the crown and asking that he be sent back as soon as possible. But it would be at least midwinter before Brother William returned from Cyprus-and by then, Arnault and Torquil would have been able to cautiously begin setting in place the next phase of le Cercle's master plan, without fear of unwitting interference from their English superior.

The slow evolution and crafting of that plan had been accomplished only with difficulty during the six years since Falkirk. Though the pair had made periodic trips back to Scotland during that time, gauging the pulse of developments unfolding there, they and le Cercle had also known that William Wallace's time as the Uncrowned King had yet to run its course; and Wallace himself pa.s.sed many months in France, pleading the Scottish cause with king and pope.

As for the Comyns, the deaths at Falkirk of Brian de Jay and John de Sautre had precluded finding out anything further about the casket Torquil had seen them give to the Comyns; and since, in subsequent years, the Comyns had seemed to derive no untoward gains that might be attributed to the a.s.sistance of sorcery, further speculation in that regard had been put into abeyance against the receipt of further information.

Meanwhile, the fortunes of the Order as a whole were also demanding careful examination and consideration, for France was becoming almost daily a less than hospitable home. By 1303, resolving a long-standing struggle for power between king and papacy, the king's agent, Guillaume de Nogaret, had succeeded in deposing the hapless Pope Boniface VIII, alleging misconduct of a most heretical and blasphemous nature. Subsequently imprisoned, Boniface soon had died under bizarre circ.u.mstances, having beaten his own head against the stone wall of his room. Some said that other hands might have guided his head to the wall. Since the Order answered directly to the Roman pontiff, who was its spiritual protector, it was necessary to view any attack on the papacy as a potential danger to the Order as well.

The French king still reposed sufficient trust in the Temple to allow some French treasury functions to be based at the Paris Temple; but in times like these, no king could truly be trusted.

Even in matters that did not directly concern the Order, Philip IV was proving less than trustworthy.

Though formerly a supporter of John Balliol's restoration-since turmoil in Scotland would inconvenience Edward in pursuing his continental wars-that support had ended two years before, when Philip entered a treaty with Edward at Coutrai in 1302. It now appeared that yet another urgency was being added to the Order's race against time: to see whether the Temple could establish its new spiritual home, anch.o.r.ed in the mystical erection of the Fifth Temple, before the Order's enemies in France ousted it from its physical home, now based largely at the Paris Temple.

All of these considerations were well known to Brothers Arnault de Saint Clair and Torquil Lennox as, amid the dusk and drizzle of the eleventh day of June, they picked their way across the boggy, salt-tanged Ca.r.s.e of Stirling, whose marshy flatlands were subject to tidal flooding along the meandering course of the River Forth. Besieged Stirling Castle lay less than two miles across that ca.r.s.e, encircled by the armed hosts of Edward's army, daily battered by his mighty siege engines, the Parson, the Berefrey, and his newest plaything, the War Wolf.

But their destination was Cambuskenneth Abbey, not the English lines; and the English king would have taken grave exception to any secret meeting with the man who had summoned them there.

The pair had first made the acquaintance of William Lamberton, the dynamic and capable Bishop of St.

Andrews, when he was still chancellor to Wishart of Glasgow, during those taut, exhilarating days when Wallace was first bursting into prominence. Even then, young Lamberton had been well wedded to the patriot cause, and soon had shown himself to possess a keen intellect, a remarkable ability to flex according to circ.u.mstances, and a fervent longing for a return to the precepts of Celtic monarchy that had guided the Canmore kings. In the aftermath of Stirling Bridge, when Wallace's influence was at its highest, it had been no difficult matter to persuade the new Guardian that Lamberton would make a worthy successor to Bishop William Fraser, one of Scotland's longest serving advocates, who recently had died in France.

In the intervening years, Bishop Lamberton had proved an untiring champion of Scotland's liberties, running the dangerous gauntlet of English warships to risk repeated trips to Paris and Rome to plead Scotland's cause, serving in various combinations of Guardianship among such men as John Comyn, Ingram de Umfraville, the younger Robert Bruce, and Sir John de Soules, yet always walking that fine line from which even Edward of England had not presumed to topple him; for Lamberton had an unerring instinct for knowing exactly how far he dared push the English king while still retaining his own integrity and his position of influence in the affairs of Scotland.

In addition, Arnault and Torquil had discovered, he entertained more than just a political affinity for Scotland's Celtic past, and was even conversant with many tenets of the Columban spirituality practiced on Iona; and while they had not confided the whole of their mission to him, Lamberton seemed to sense that the pair were more than they seemed, and apparently was willing to accept that, at the appropriate time, they would reveal what further he needed to know. He knew how they and Wallace had spirited away the true Stone of Destiny, though not-by his own request-where it lay; and he had become a staunch ally among Scotland's clergy hierarchy.

Meanwhile, he continued to pursue the practicalities of their common goal in his own ways, with tact, sensitivity, and an unswerving focus on eventually restoring Scotland's independence. Like almost everyone else, the Bishop of St. Andrews had made an outward peace with Edward, rather than face exile or imprisonment, but Arnault knew full well that his love of country and his hunger for its freedom had not been quenched.

"It's dangerous for him even to have come here," Arnault said to Torquil, as they drew rein in the last of the screening trees before they must set off across a final stretch of meadowland between them and the abbey gate. "He could have met us any of a number of other places, farther away from Edward and his army."

Torquil lifted his gaze to the dark silhouette of the castle perched on its crag, then returned his attention to the abbey, where a few torches were beginning to show beside the gate.

"Well, it looks safe enough," he said. "Have you come up with any idea what he might want?"

"None," Arnault replied. "So I suppose we're just going to have to ride over and find out."

Hooded heads lowered against the drizzle, the two continued on across the last few hundred yards separating them from the abbey. The gate porter swung the gates wide at their approach. Within, a cowled brother was waiting to take their horses into the abbey stables, out of sight, and two more were standing on the porch of the abbey church- black-robed Augustinian friars. They bowed in acknowledgment as the two knights swept toward them in their distinctive white mantles. One of the monks stepped deferentially aside while the other opened one half of the double door. Arnault and Torquil greeted them silently in pa.s.sing as they entered the church's gray, candlelit interior.

A black-cloaked and hooded figure was kneeling in prayer before the high altar. As the two Templars approached, spurs ringing on the stone flagging, the man rose and crossed himself before turning to push back the hood from a tonsured head only now beginning to gray at the temples: William Lamberton, now six years a bishop, but still only forty-one, nearly a decade younger than Arnault.

He was clothed in the plain black of a Benedictine beneath his traveling cloak, a sure sign that this a.s.signation was, indeed, as secret as Arnault had been led to believe. Though the bishop showed a winning honesty in his brown eyes, and an authority to his bearing that any man would admire, both Templars had learned that Lamberton had an uncanny knack for altering his manner to seem the most una.s.suming and commonplace of men. No doubt in Edward's presence he was a very model of humility, giving no indication of the threat he genuinely presented to the king's plans for dominance.

"Thank you for coming, brothers," he said in a low voice that was pitched not to stir echoes from the surrounding stonework. "You were not hindered in obtaining leave?"

Arnault smiled faintly. "You perhaps are not aware that the Master of England has again been sent from King Edward at a time when his presence nearby might have been inconvenient. As a consequence, we are able to travel freely about our business."

"Would that I could say the same," Lamberton said with a thin smile. "My friend the king still has me watched, and it was not easy to slip away. I am like a religious novice who must prove his worth before being allowed to act without supervision."