The chains made a ladder spanning the gulf between heaven and earth. Luminous winged forms moved up and down the ladder in progressions as stately as dance. As he gazed at them in awe, one of these angelic beings separated itself from the others and came to meet him. Trembling, Arnault bowed his head in mute salute, gasping as a voice whispered to his soul, mingling fire and music in its unearthly purity.

Have no fear, Knight of the Temple. Thy desires are known. To build the Fifth Temple, a cornerstone has been prepared. Behold and see.

In the blink of an eye, Arnault found himself standing at the ladder's head. The angel took him by the hand, and suddenly they were descending.

The earth rose to meet them, wreathed in veils of cloud. The ladder of angels became a rainbow bridge suspended between the sunlight and the rain. Where it touched the ground, its base was shrouded in shining mist. At the heart of the mist lay a strange, dark stone charged with the meteoric resonances of a fallen star.

Thus saith the Lord of Hosts, blessed be His name; Behold the pillow where slept Jacob, son of Isaac-legacy of the house of Israel. Follow in the footsteps of Holy Columba, and thou shalt surely find it: hallow of saints and high seat of kings. Build thee thy Temple upon this foundation, and it shall not fail.

At this p.r.o.nouncement, a sudden radiance burst from the stone like a lightning flash. It leapt from the heart of the stone to the jewels of the Breastplate on Arnault's chest, kindling a surge of raw power so fierce that it all but took his breath away.

Arnault doubled forward with a choked exclamation of dismay, arms closed over the Breastplate as he sank back on his hunkers. His sudden collapse drew Gaspar and Father Bertrand closer, but they were loath to interfere, for the gems affixed to the Breastplate were blazing with colored fire, casting their rainbow light all about the room.

"Should we end it?" the Templar priest whispered, poised to move.

"Not yet, I think," Gaspar breathed. "Let the vision run its course."

Before Father Bertrand could question further, the fiery emanance died back as abruptly as it had come on, the jewels again only jewels. Shuddering, Arnault drew a short, sharp breath and slowly let his arms sink to his sides, his eyelids quivering. After a moment, he shakily drew himself upright and opened his eyes.

"Arnault?" the priest whispered.

Reeling a little, still light-headed, Arnault lifted trembling fingers to the Breastplate on his chest and brushed one of the stones in gingerly caress, focusing only with difficulty. The linen was unmarred, the stones only stones.

"I am-not harmed," he murmured.

Still a little dazed, he let them help him to his feet and guide him to a seat on one of the chests, let them divest him of the Breastplate and other regalia, a.s.sured them that his physical reaction had come of fatigue, not the working itself. With many a pause he recounted the details of his vision, still caught up in wonder. While they worked, throughout the recitation, Bertrand and Gaspar exchanged troubled glances.

"What you have described is consistent with biblical accounts of true vision," Gaspar noted, sitting on another of the chests as his shrewd gaze continued to a.s.sess Arnault. "The question is, have you any idea what it means?"

Slowly shaking his head, Arnault once again found himself recalling a very different vision two years ago, on a remote island in the Orkneys, and was suddenly struck by the una.s.sailable certainty that both were part of a larger picture, somehow linking the death of the little Maid with the dilemma now facing the Templar Order. He could not see how the two could possibly be connected. And yet.

"Perhaps I do," he said, frowning. "An intimation-nothing more. I. think-though I'm by no means certain- that the vision may have been pointing us toward Scotland as the site for the new Temple."

"Scotland?" Father Bertrand repeated.

"What brings you to that conclusion?" Gaspar asked.

"Give me a moment," Arnault whispered.

Dropping his head into his arms, he tried to make sense of what was coming to mind-more difficult than it would have been, because of his physical fatigue. While he was thus occupied, Gaspar and Bertrand busied themselves restoring the room to its usual appearance, locking away the ritual accoutrements they had a.s.sembled. By the time they were finished, Arnault was prepared to offer more coherent speculations about his earlier statements.

"You will recall that I have distant kin in Scotland, so I am somewhat familiar with what I am about to tell you," he said, straightening to stretch his kinked neck, rubbing it with a callused hand. "And exposure to young Lennox has given me further insights in this regard. It becomes clear to me that the stone I was shown in my vision may very well have been the one known among the Scots as the Stone of Destiny, which has been used as the inaugural seat of all the Scottish kings since the days of Kenneth MacAlpin.

As I recall, it is kept by Augustinian brothers at Scone Abbey, not far from Perth."

Gaspar looked thoughtful, but Father Bertrand cast them a dubious glance.

"I have heard mention of such stones," he said tentatively.

Arnault gave a distracted nod. "Tradition has it that the Scottish Stone was brought from Ireland by Saint Columba- who, you may recall, was of the royal lineage of the kings of Leinster. Irish legend claims that the Stone came originally from Israel by way of Egypt. It figures there as the legacy of a Hebrew princess, the exiled daughter of King Zedekiah, who married an Irish king and gave her name to the Irish hallow called Tara. I know of no other stone which answers so closely to the conditions revealed to me by the angel."

"I will concede that the elements would seem to fit," Gaspar allowed. "The injunction to walk in the footsteps of Saint Columba can be read as a clear instruction in that regard."

"All the same," Father Bertrand said, "even if your interpretation is correct, I do not see how we can act upon this vision until the issue of the Scottish succession is settled for good or ill."

"I agree," Arnault said. "That being true, I think it prudent that someone of our number go to Scotland and investigate the matter further. I would seem to be the obvious choice- and I would suggest that Brother Torquil be a.s.signed to accompany me."

Gaspar nodded. "I agree-though the final decision does not rest with me, of course. But as soon as I return to Paris, I shall render a full report of this night's work. a.s.suming that le MaArtre agrees with our a.s.sessment, you can expect to receive a change of orders before the end of autumn."

"Are you satisfied that Brother Torquil is ready for such an a.s.signment?" Father Bertrand asked Gaspar.

Gaspar nodded as he rose. "We shall find out, soon enough. At very least, he is a Scot. And from what you have said of his progress thus far, Arnault, it seems to me that this might be a fitting time to further test his mettle."

Chapter Five.

MUCH THOUGH IT PLEASED HIM, BEING SENT BACK TO Scotland was the last thing Torquil Lennox had expected, either for himself or for Arnault de Saint Clair. Riding now with Arnault across a broad expanse of bracken, swept by an October wind, less than a day's ride from Edinburgh, he fancied he could taste the savor of distant heather on the air as he reflected on the somewhat unlikely circ.u.mstances surrounding their return.

It was common knowledge that the Grand Master intended to launch a new crusade as soon as the Order could rebuild its strength. Every effort was being made to enlist a host of new knights to replace those who had been killed in the defense of Acre and its environs. Surviving veterans like Arnault and Torquil were sorely needed in Cyprus to help train these raw recruits in the arts of desert warfare. Even so, the two of them had been recalled to Paris in late August, and now were en route to their newest a.s.signment, detouring first by way of the Templar preceptory at Balantrodoch.

Their orders had been issued at the instigation of Gaspar des Macquelines, after taking up an appointment as a deputy treasurer at the Paris Temple. This, by itself, was enough to make Torquil wonder whether their present mission might be somehow connected with whatever mysterious work Gaspar and Arnault had undertaken four months ago, back in Nicosia. His own recollections from that night remained strangely beclouded, at once luminous and obscure. More than once, he had considered mentioning his experience to Arnault, but the dream-if dream it was-was so unlike anything else he had ever experienced that he was uncertain how to put it into words.

Their current a.s.signment, by contrast, seemed reasonably straightforward. After nearly two years of debates and delays, the judicial proceedings surrounding the Scottish succession were at last drawing to a close. It was expected that Edward Plantagenet would award the Scottish crown before the end of the year. A Templar delegation, to include Arnault and Torquil, was to proceed to Berwick, there to observe the final deliberations of the court of claims and witness the installation of the new King of Scots-whoever he might be.

Carrying orders to that effect, signed by the Visitor of France, the pair of them had set out from Paris via Calais, traveling first to London and there reporting to Guy de Foresta, the Master of England. Armed with the appropriate safe conducts for their pa.s.sage north and authority to procure provisioning and fresh horses along the way, they headed then for Scotland by way of the long North Road once called Ermine Street by the Romans, then through Ancaster, Lincoln, and York, across Hadrian's Wall at Corbridge, and on past the border abbey of Jedburgh. Nearly a fortnight after leaving Paris, they began to spot familiar landmarks, and expected to reach the gates of Balantrodoch well before nightfall.

Vaguely restless, Torquil pushed back his hood and briskly rubbed at his hair and beard, now neatly trimmed for diplomatic duties and nearly grown out to their proper copper hue. It had been raining intermittently since daybreak, and the copses flanking the trail on either hand were heavy with trembling droplets. The misty autumn landscape seemed strangely blurred after the sun-drenched vistas of Syria and Cyprus, but the air had a keen, cold bite that quickened his blood.

This homecoming would have been the sweeter had he not been all too aware that his country's continuing independence was far from a.s.sured. And he still was uncertain about aspects of their present a.s.signment, having always thought that tiny Scotland figured but little in the grand schemes of the powerful Temple. Arnault, he knew, was sympathetic to the Scottish cause, but those sentiments set him apart from most of their fellow Templars-including the Master of the Scottish Temple. Torquil could understand, if only grudgingly, why an English-born knight like Brian de Jay might favor the union of Scotland with England. What he could not fathom was why Gaspar des Macquelines should be taking so keen an interest in Scottish affairs, when his own responsibilities were bound up with the concerns of the Paris treasury.

He had considered asking Arnault about it; but something in the other's manner had made him hesitate.

Given Gaspar's involvement in whatever had happened back in Nicosia, and because of Arnault's none too subtle allusions to the danger, if they had been discovered-not to mention his cryptic references regarding not only the future of the Order, but of future generations-Torquil had feared even to mention that night, though he had considered it more than once. Glancing again at his mentor, apparently half dozing in the saddle, he decided again not to do so, only ranging his gaze off toward the ragged outline of the hills to their left, blurred by a veil of drifting cloud.

Arnault, meanwhile, was well aware that his younger companion was harboring a growing number of questions.

Such answers as he had to give, however, would have to wait a while longer-at least until after they reached Balantrodoch.

He was by no means certain what kind of reception they would receive when they got there. Though Brian de Jay had proven competent enough in his duties regarding the Maid of Norway, his was an awkward personality, not likely to have been improved by acquisition of the additional authority carried by his present rank as Master of Scotland. Nor had he been happy to have Torquil seconded to service in Palestine. Arnault had mentioned his misgivings both to Gaspar and to the Visitor of France when the orders were being drawn; but it was perfectly correct that the Master of Scotland should lead the Berwick delegation.

His misgivings had been echoed by Torquil during the course of their long ride north. Though normally the soul of charity and tact, the younger man had made it clear that, while delighted to be returning to his native Scotland, he was far less sanguine about having to answer, in any way, to Scotland's Master.

When pressed, he had told Arnault something of Jay's notion of military discipline, from his own experiences as a new recruit when first he entered the Temple. On reflection, Arnault suspected that the reality might have far exceeded the tactics of mere condescension and occasional intimidation to which Torquil had alluded-which meant that both of them would have to tread carefully in the weeks to come.

Fortunately, they would have at least one ally when they reached Balantrodoch. Secure in the upper echelons of the princ.i.p.al Templar command in the north, following twenty years of active service in the Holy Land, Luc de Brabant had been the eyes and ears of le Cercle in Scotland for more than a decade, far predating the arrival of Jay, with hidden talents that far outweighed the more visible skills that had secured him his current office as the preceptory's treasurer. Arnault's friendship with Luc went back to his own entry into the Temple, and his gradual recruitment to le Cercle, in the decade that followed; and it was to Luc that Arnault had entrusted his private observations regarding the death of the little Maid. He remained confident that if anyone could penetrate the heart of that unresolved mystery, Luc was the man most likely to succeed.

Arnault caught his horse on the bit as the animal stumbled on an exposed root, the sudden lurch jolting him from his reverie. They had entered a wooded valley flanked on both sides by higher ground. The trail was little more than a ribbon of mud, winding back and forth through tangled brakes of elder and rowan.

From somewhere off to their left he could hear the gurgling rush of running water. He was about to ask Torquil if the stream had a name when he caught a glimpse of something white moving among the trees up ahead.

Torquil noticed it, too, his green eyes narrowing sharply and then relaxing as the flash of white gradually became another horseman, white-mantled like themselves and white-hooded against the drizzle, weaving his way toward them between the trees at a leisurely pace. Sighting them in turn, the newcomer reined in behind a fallen log and raised a hand in greeting as they came into hailing distance, then pulled back his hood to reveal a backswept shock of silver hair above sparkling gray eyes, an aquiline nose, and a full silver beard.

"Luc de Brabant, as I live and breathe!" Arnault exclaimed, gigging his horse forward with Torquil only a half length behind.

Sensing their intention, the older knight skillfully backed his mount out of their path, grinning as the two jumped their horses over the log and wheeled around to rein in on either side of him.

"Well met, my brothers!" he said with a laugh, gentling his snorting mount as it sniffed noses with the two newcomers, and the three animals quickly sorted out the niceties of equine precedence.

"Well met, indeed!" Arnault agreed heartily. "But, what on earth are you doing here?"

The treasurer's gray eyes were twinkling. "Why, looking for you, of course. I had an inkling you'd be coming this way."

It was entirely possible that London or even Paris had sent a message on ahead of them, alerting the Balantrodoch community to their impending arrival. But it was also true that Luc de Brabant had his own methods for finding things out. Either way, Arnault was glad of the older knight's presence, for they must needs be circ.u.mspect once they reached Balantrodoch. Luc, meanwhile, had transferred his attention to Torquil, reaching across to punch him lightly on the upper arm.

"Brother Torquil, how are you? Tell me, Arnault, can this gentil chevalier possibly be the same boisterous wolf cub who followed you off to the wars in Outremer?"

Torquil had the grace to blush.

"The very same, I fear," Arnault confirmed with a droll grin. "And you'd scarcely credit the breadth of his accomplishments since."

"Then he's a credit to his training," Luc replied easily. "I've been looking forward to swapping tales with the pair of you ever since we received word that you were coming."

"Who told you? London, or Paris?" Arnault asked.

"Oh, Paris, to be sure," Luc replied easily. "Come. The preceptory's less than an hour's ride from here, as Brother Torquil will recall. You can tell me all about matters in Outremer and on the Continent."

Together the three men set out northward along the rutted track, Torquil falling in behind his elders when the trail got too narrow for three abreast. Under cover of pa.s.sing along the latest military gossip, Arnault took note of the small changes that the past two years had wrought in his friend's appearance. Luc's hair was more white now than gray, and despite his present jaunty manner, there were indications of strain to be read in the deepening lines of his face. As conversation shifted to the local situation, the causes for Luc's anxiety began to emerge.

"The signs are already in the wind that Edward intends to award the crown to John Balliol," he informed his companions, as the three of them paused to let their horses pull at gra.s.sy tussocks already burned by the first frosts. "The Balliol connection with the royal house of Canmore comes by way of an elder daughter of David, Earl of Huntingdon, while Robert Bruce of Annandale is descended from a younger daughter of the same line. Of the two dynastic claims, Balliol's is generally acknowledged to be the stronger."

"Only in accordance with the English laws of primogeniture," Torquil chimed in. "The Scottish tradition of tanistry allows for much greater freedom of selection."

He fell silent as Arnault raised an eyebrow at him in question, but Luc nodded for him to continue.

"By tanistry, the important thing is not who stands closest in blood kinship to the late monarch," Torquil explained, "but rather, who among the eligible candidates is best suited to wield the power that goes along with the crown."

"That is my understanding," Luc agreed, taking up the thread. "The difficulty, of course, lies in getting the various contenders to reach an agreement without recourse to civil war-which is why the Scots let themselves be bullied into accepting Edward's claim as Lord Paramount. Now that he's nearing a decision, the piper will have to be paid, and the new king will be forced to pay homage to England's king."

Arnault scowled. "Can nothing be done to stop it?"

Luc shook his head. "The present situation has advanced too far to be reversed. It must now be allowed to run its course. The chance for a change will come after the award of the crown has been made. And then it will depend largely on the character of the man who ascends the Scottish throne."

"You say that's likely to be Balliol," Arnault said. "Will he prove little more than an English puppet, or does he have sufficient strength to a.s.sert his own independence-and Scotland's?"

Luc considered briefly. "He has considerable support among the older baronial families of Scotland, not least that of the Comyns of Buchan and Badenoch. The latter is married to Balliol's sister."

He paused, looking vaguely troubled, and Arnault c.o.c.ked his head.

"You don't sound very sure about the Balliol contingent," he said.

"Indeed, I am not," Luc said grimly. "Balliol himself is hardly inspiring, and the Comyns are a calculating lot. If they're supporting Balliol's bid for the kingship, you can be sure it's entirely to suit their own purposes."

"Was this what you wanted to discuss before we arrived at Balantrodoch?" Arnault asked quietly.

"Actually," said Luc, "my greater worry strikes rather closer at home."

Arnault looked at him sharply, unaccountably thinking at once of Brian de Jay. "If this is some confidential matter touching the Order, I think you may rely on Brother Torquil as readily as you would me."

"Very well," Luc said, tossing a brief glance across the meadow around them-a gesture not lost on Arnault. "This is going to sound outlandish-which is, indeed, why I didn't want to discuss it back at the preceptory-but it was sparked by something you and I discussed the last time you were in Scotland."

"Go on," Arnault said.

"You asked me to look into the possibility that someone in a position of eminence might be using-shall we say-illegitimate means to influence the course of Scottish affairs."

Torquil looked at them curiously, but Luc continued in a low voice.

"After you left, I did as you requested, but as you know, my investigations came to naught. Since the beginning of this year, however, something has come to light that started me wondering again. Torquil is a Scot, and knows this area, as well as the local lore, so I'm happy to have his impressions on this."

He drew a deep breath and went on.

"Back in March, one of our tenants was clearing some land at the edge of his property when he stumbled across a very old pagan burial site-and a stone coffin, with the contents still astonishingly intact. The discovery so frightened him that he wouldn't even rebury the remains. He told the factor in charge of the estate, who sent word to the preceptory, requesting that someone come to examine the relics and determine how they should be dealt with. The porter on duty at the gate referred the message to me, with the result that I was the one who rode out to the site with our priest to make the necessary a.s.sessment."

Torquil was listening intently, his face betraying nothing. Arnault merely nodded for Luc to continue.

"The remains were those of a tall man, apparently a shaman-priest of some Pictish tradition," the treasurer went on. "The bones were still clad in the rags of a Druid-style white robe, with a wreath of dried leaves that crumbled to dust when disturbed. He'd also had Roman coins covering his eyes-probably pre-Christian, I later decided, though I think the grave was not so old as that. Among the grave offerings buried with him were a bronze amulet inscribed with the head of a bull, face-on, and a small ivory chest containing a bundle of rune-staves, of the sort used for divination. The-ah-characters inscribed on the staves were of a kind I had never seen before, and the general feel was-well, not clean, if you catch my drift. Rather than risk having anyone else tamper with the grave items, I had them taken back to one of our underground vaults for safekeeping, until I could study them more closely."

Arnault's interest was thoroughly aroused, both by the information itself and by Luc's somewhat coded description, in light of Torquil's presence. The younger knight looked both intrigued and repelled.

"Have you been able to learn anything from the items?" Arnault asked.

"No," Luc replied, "and that's the stranger half of the tale. I had kept out the coins, in hopes of establishing some kind of time frame or a.s.sociation for the original burial, but it occurred to me that if I were going to attempt translating the runic inscriptions, it might be easier-and safer-to work from transcriptions, rather than from the rune-staves themselves. With this object in mind, I went down to the vault two days later, only to discover that the artifacts were gone."

"Gone?" Torquil blurted. "Do you mean to say that someone stole them?"

A fleeting scowl crossed Luc's sharply defined features. "I'm not sure "~stole' is the right word," he said.

"When I questioned others with access to the vault, I was informed that all the artifacts-the bones and the grave goods together-had been taken away and disposed of by order of Brian de Jay."

It was Arnault's turn to look askance. "Were you able to find out why?"

"After a fashion," Luc said neutrally. "Having viewed the artifacts for himself, the good Frre Brian-so I was told- p.r.o.nounced them to be the product of pagan sorcery and an abomination to the house. Two senior knights, actual brothers named John and Robert de Sautre, were charged with getting rid of the objects. When I questioned them in turn, they told me that, at Jay's orders, they had loaded everything into a chest and thrown the chest itself into the waters of a lake several miles from here. Of course," he finished, "I have only their word for it that this is what they did."

"But-what else would they have done?" Torquil said blankly.