Arnault dared to relax just a little, cautiously sheathing his sword, but the affair was not yet over. The din had alerted the abbot, who came jogging breathlessly into the church by a side door, attended by two of his friars. At the b.l.o.o.d.y scene before the altar, all three clerics stopped short, faces aghast as they crossed themselves.

"You swore there would be no violence committed in this holy place!" the abbot said accusingly to Bruce.

"That was never my intention," Bruce managed to whisper. "Comyn-had other plans."

"There have been dark forces at work here, Father Abbot," Arnault said in Bruce's support, declining to specify what particular dark forces had been involved. "Comyn was the first to draw steel. Bruce had no choice but to slay or be slain."

"That may be, but the vilest sacrilege has been committed!" the abbot retorted, as his friars knelt beside Comyn's body to whisper prayers for the departed soul. The one crouching closest to the head looked up in surprise.

"This man yet lives!"

Startled, the abbot bent close to feel the pulse at Comyn's throat as Arnault moved warily closer.

"So he does," the abbot confirmed, "but not for long, I warrant. Carry him into the sacristy. We can at least give him what solace the sacraments may afford him, in what little time remains to him."

"Father Abbot," Arnault said sharply. "There are dangers here you do not understand."

"I understand my duty as a servant of Christ," the abbot replied, giving Arnault a hard look as his two friars lifted Comyn's body by the arms and legs. "I cannot undo the sin committed here, but at least I can ensure that it is followed by one act of charity."

Arnault looked doubtfully at the stain of Comyn's blood on the altar steps, smearing across the floor as the friars half dragged him toward the sacristy doorway. Realizing there was no way he could prevent the abbot from doing what he felt was right, he glanced back up the nave, where Bruce had withdrawn to remonstrate with Roger de Kirkpatrick in the open doorway. Beyond them, he could see Torquil at guard behind the Bruce, and out in the yard, Comyn's men mounting up under the bristling guard of Bruce's remaining kinsmen.

He started up the nave to join them. He reached them as Kirkpatrick was turning to rejoin the others in the yard- seeing off the Comyns, who had the body of the slain Robert Comyn draped across the front of one of their saddles. Bruce favored Arnault with a nervous nod as he came back inside and glanced toward the altar, and the smear of blood on the altar steps.

"You were right to warn me not to treat with Comyn," he said to the Templar. "In place of unity, I have found bloodshed, and I fear there must be more of it before this business is finished."

"I fear you have the right of it," Arnault agreed, "not merely because the Comyns will not let this go unchallenged. Now do you believe what I told you of the other?"

"I cannot deal with that now," Bruce said hastily.

"There will be some successor to take up those powers-"

"Later!" Bruce said, beckoning to Thomas and Neil, who came running. "Now that my hand has been forced, I must secure my position as best I can.

"Gather our men," he instructed his brothers, as he walked with them back toward the doorway, "and see that they secure the castle and the great hall of Dumfries. Then send word to our supporters that the time has come to rise up and drive the English from our cities and castles. Let the fiery cross be carried all across Scotland, to signal that our time of servitude is at an end. I could have wished for more time to prepare, but after what has taken place here, I have no choice but to move against Edward now, and let the dice all fall where they may."

"And the Comyn territories in Galloway?" Thomas said.

"Those must be taken as quickly as possible, before they have time to ready a defense," Bruce replied.

As Neil and Thomas mounted up and hurried off to carry out their instructions, Bruce next addressed Humphrey Seton.

"Send word by secret messenger to Bishop Lamberton at Berwick, informing him of what has taken place. Tell him to stay in Edward's confidence for as long as he can, but to be prepared to join me, when I summon him. I will go to Bishop Wishart in Glasgow, and beg for absolution. Please G.o.d, we may all meet soon thereafter for my coronation at Scone."

Bruce was recovering quickly, taking matters in hand, already organizing his uprising, already with the bearing of a true king.

"What you have told me of the Stone of Destiny had best be true," Bruce said to his Templar ally. "I will need every source of aid I can muster in these coming weeks."

"We will see that you are crowned upon the Stone as soon as it can be arranged," Arnault responded.

"Thereafter, no one can challenge your kingship."

"I can guarantee you that some will," Bruce replied, "and Longshanks will be at their head."

Before he could comment further, a terrified shriek came from inside the church. As he and Arnault ducked back inside, the sacristy door flew open and the abbot and one of his friars came bursting out, eyes wide and terrified, faces deathly pale and distorted with dread. Arnault bolted toward them, but was nearly bowled over as the panic-stricken men shouldered past him-and fetched up short as a blast of arctic air gusted after them.

"Torquil, to me!" Arnault shouted urgently.

Torquil was already racing down the nave, sword in hand; but as he reached Arnault's side, a pulsing blackness filled the sacristy doorway, dissolving then to reveal John Comyn clinging to the door frame, apparently heedless of the blood drenching his robe. The Lord of Badenoch looked to have aged a century in the mere minutes since his presumed death. Though he was hardly older than Torquil or Bruce, his hair had gone completely gray. The sunken eyes were red-rimmed, lit with a brooding gleam of lambent green, and the skin of his face seemed to have no flesh behind it, as if the ent.i.ty possessing him was sucking away the last vestiges of his vitality, to give itself a few more precious minutes of animation.

The abbot shrank back behind Arnault. His friar had continued running up the nave.

"I was placing the chrism on his brow, when suddenly he rose up in ghastly life!" the abbot babbled.

"Black flames sprang from his body and engulfed the room with choking, stinging vapor. I fear that Brother Mark is dead. We had no choice but to flee for-"

He broke off with a cry as the ensorcelled figure lumbered forward, making for the front of the altar.

Bruce and his remaining men had surged into the church behind the two Templars, but pulled up short at the sight. The abbot scuttled to supposed safety behind a statue of the Virgin, in an alcove near the door, where the other friar was already cowering in terror. In pa.s.sing, Arnault noted that the faces and hands of both men were dappled with scorch marks.

Shouting for Bruce to stay back, Christopher Seton boldly advanced toward Comyn, sword in hand. His two brothers rushed forward to support him, but all three of them stopped dead as an ear-splitting howl burst from the corpse's lips, shredding the air with its harshness and intensity.

An icy blast of wind roared up the nave, tumbling the Setons backward. Bruce and the Templars were also buffeted off balance, and had to struggle to stay on their feet as Comyn bestrode the stain of his blood and lifted both arms above his head in a gesture of summoning.

A grating voice burst from his throat in harsh command, and a nimbus of black flame burst forth around his desiccated frame. As if in answer, to fill the void of that blackness, a whining wind invaded the church, bringing with it a maelstrom of invisible energies. Precious candlesticks toppled from the altar with a clang of metal against stone, and a weighty Gospel book was hurled aloft in a flurry of loosened pages, as if to show disdain for such items of piety.

Arnault could have no doubt that Comyn-or his patron-was the source of the tempest; and only extraordinary measures would suffice to stop him. Bracing himself against the storm, squinting against the biting gale, Arnault handed off his sword to Torquil and closed his fist around the hilt of the dagger he had used to empower the Stone, forged in the land of Christ's birth from a blade broken in holy crusade, made trebly sacred by the blood of Wallace. Shifting to grasp it by the blade, he c.o.c.ked back his arm and summoned all his remaining strength in a muttered prayer for divine aid-then threw the weapon with all his might.

Time seemed to slow as the dagger tumbled point and pommel and point and pommel, releasing a rainbow-burst of radiance as it embedded itself point-first in Comyn's heart. Comyn's body staggered back with a ululating wail, and lambent eyes gaped incredulously at the cruciform hilt protruding from the shattered chest. With a final strident howl, the possessing ent.i.ty fled the body of its host, leaving the corpse itself to crumple before the altar, like a deflated air-bladder. The storm departed with it, leaving behind an incongruous silence that was broken only by the harsh breathing of those who had barely survived this fresh horror.

Arnault was the first to approach Comyn's body, bending cautiously to set his hand on his dagger, confirming that this time Red John Comyn of Badenoch was truly dead. As he pulled the dagger free, he turned to glance back up the nave, where Torquil was holding Bruce and his men from approaching any closer.

"We should pray for Comyn's soul," he announced, as he straightened up from cleaning the dagger on a corner of Comyn's cloak, "that he will find whatever rest there may be for one such as he."

Diffidently the abbot advanced to his side, Bruce and the other friar approaching more warily. The abbot clutched his crucifix tightly in his still-trembling hands as he chanted a brief prayer in a hushed tone. Bruce gazed down at his old rival with an expression still betokening disbelief, and slowly shook his head.

"For all that I disliked the man," he muttered to Arnault, "I still can scarcely credit that he came to this."

"The powers of corruption take their toll of victims," Arnault said. "These have held sway for many centuries."

Bruce's eyes flashed with righteous determination. "They shall do so no longer in a land that has me for its king," he vowed.

Arnault faced him squarely. "Then allow me to act as your agent. The evil you have witnessed today is rooted at a place called Burghead, far to the north. If you will grant me the authority to act in your name, I know what must be done."

"I grant it willingly, and my prayers go with you," Bruce replied. "I will not rest easy until I know that such an abomination no longer darkens our land."

Arnault gave him a curt nod, then turned to Torquil.

"Go with him," he said. "I will deal with the other. For a time, at least, with Comyn dead, those at Burghead will be without a leader. There can be no better time to strike."

Chapter Thirty-five.

ARNAULT RODE TOWARD BURGHEAD FIRST VIA THE TEMplar commandery at Balantrodoch, where he apprised Luc and Flannan of what had happened and, with their a.s.sistance, selected a detail of thirty knights and serjeants who had not been tainted by the past regime of Brian de Jay or the de Sautre brothers. Included among their number was the current Master of Scotland, Walter de Clifton, who hardly raised an eyebrow when Arnault requested the use of men for a holy war in the north. Luc had primed the Master very well.

"I know little of these matters, but I have complete trust in Brother Luc," Clifton had said. "I am eager to learn, and have no love for what you have described. Choose what men you wish, only allow me to join you."

Luc accompanied them as far as Scone, where Abbot Henry had already received warning of the deed done at Dumfries and had dispatched a trusted messenger on to Iona, to notify Abbot Fingon of an imminent coronation.

After a good night's sleep, a last hot meal, and a fortifying Ma.s.s, Arnault and Flannan rode on with the Scottish Master and their band on the long ride toward Burghead, leaving Luc to help oversee preparations at Scone.

They pa.s.sed first through Dunkeld, the knights in their white mantles, serjeants in brown, the black and white battle banner of Beaucant before them. Scotland lay still in the grip of winter, and the elements themselves seemed set to turn them back as they pressed north and west along Strath Tay and Glen Garry. The icy northern gales met them head-on, pelting them with rain and hail and dampening spirits as they soaked through raiment.

Each night, when the horses had been cared for and they took their spa.r.s.e meal of travel fare and sought to thaw and dry around their meager campfires, Arnault would give his men careful preparation for what they might face when they reached their destination. Later, bolstered by their communal prayers, they confessed one another of their petty failings, as had always been the way of the Temple, for only coming to battle clean and gracefull might they hope to weather the worst that might come.

But these were not men of the stripe who had been led astray by Brian de Jay. Warfare and the disciplines of monastic life, under the solid rule of Luc and their new Master, had tempered their souls like well-forged swords, giving them the will to endure hardships that would have defeated men of lesser strength. And Arnault fired their hearts with a sense of purpose that sustained them in defiance of the elements, and would not suffer them to be turned aside from their G.o.d-appointed task.

Elsewhere in Scotland, especially across the south, as the fiery cross of battle was being carried from town to town, summoning loyal Scots to rally under Robert the Bruce, another Templar was playing his own part in the battle to defend their cause: accompanying the Bruce to seek absolution from Bishop Wishart of Glasgow, for the sacrilegious murder committed at Dumfries.

"My Lord Bishop, I have killed the Red Comyn-slain him before G.o.d's holy altar!" the Bruce confessed, falling to his knees before Robert Wishart. "I never meant to do it-I truly had called him there only to seek a resolution of our differences, for the good of all Scotland. But he drew on me! He-seemed to call dark forces to unman me, to render me helpless before him. But then his focus was distracted-and I slew him."

"But that was not the fatal blow, my lord," Torquil interjected. "Comyn yet lived when we came into the church. The abbot had him taken to the sacristy to give him last rites, but he somehow revived, and again tried to attack the Bruce. Another finished him, to save the Bruce's life."

"Another?" Wishart said, shrewdly c.o.c.king his head.

"None of either Bruce or Comyn loyalties, I promise you," Torquil replied, his tone making it clear that the bishop should not inquire further on specifics.

"Then, it appears that Robert has not, in fact, committed sacrilegious murder," Wishart replied. "Certain it is, however, that the Comyns will not see it thus."

"Indeed, they will not, my lord," Bruce murmured, hardly able to believe this turn of fortune.

"Very well. For that you did, indeed, cause grievous bodily harm to a sworn enemy, and in G.o.d's church," Wishart went on, "I give you the penance to spend this night in prayerful contemplation of the consequences of your action, prostrate before the Blessed Sacrament. Make a good act of contrition for your sins, and a firm resolution to sin no more." He lifted his hand to sketch the sign of blessing over Robert's hastily bowed head.

"May our Lord Jesus Christ absolve you, and with His authority I absolve you, from all the sins of your past life, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

"Now," he said, rising to his feet with a dusting motion of his hands, as if to put this all behind them. "We have much work to do. I have longed for this day. I have in my keeping certain royal vestments and regalia, secretly kept against this glad time when a King of Scots might again reign over us. These must be taken to Scone. Brother Torquil, in particular I thank you for the services rendered this realm by the Temple, and will ask your further a.s.sistance in preparing missives to summon certain others whose support will be required, to properly crown our king. Do your orders permit it?"

"They do, my lord," Torquil replied. "My brief is to remain with the Bruce until he is crowned, and to do all within my power to help that come about. I was a Scot before I was a Templar, but happily the two loyalties are joined in this, our present enterprise."

"And I was a Scot before I was a bishop," Wishart replied with a grim smile. "I think we understand one another. Come into my study, my sons, where we will make preliminary lists of what must be done. Then, while Robert makes his penance this night, you and I, Brother Torquil, will set about producing the letters of summons that can be entrusted to no others. Scotland's freedom is dawning at last!"

In the north, however, little evidence could yet be seen of any dawning. Though many of the southern castles and towns were already yielding to Bruce and his followers, news was slower to penetrate the bleak Highlands, where winter still held sway. Arnault and his Templar troop used every hour of daylight to hasten their journey, not halting until the horses could no longer see their footing. Clattering past small villages as night descended, the eerie gray of twilight lent them a spectral appearance that sent frightened country folk scurrying indoors.

Stories quickly spread of a phantom host flying by night across the land, who might carry off any man foolish enough to stumble into their path. Some said it was Saint Andrew leading a company of warrior saints to spread the call to arms throughout Scotland. Others suggested they were led by the ghost of William Wallace, seeking out his betrayers to wreak G.o.d's vengeance upon them for their treachery. Had they known the truth, they would have been no less fearful, for this was indeed a company waging a holy war- though not against any mortal foe-bent on a mission fitted only to those who rode with Saint Michael himself for their captain.

The Templars rode up the valley of the River Spey into Moray and the Comyn heartland of Badenoch, where word of John Comyn's death had gone before them. The loss of the Comyn chief appeared to have left the people of this region confused and demoralized, and certainly no one ventured to challenge a column of Knights Templar riding in full battle array. On Arnault's instructions, they avoided the towns and castles, keeping to the spa.r.s.e country tracks that led them through the rugged hills toward their destination, some of them so narrow that the riders must go single file. Making a wide detour around Elgin, they came at last in sight of the fort of Burghead, rising up against the stark background of the cold North Sea and a cold winter sky.

Arnault called a halt, and the whole company drew rein to survey the outermost rampart, which lay now a few hundred yards off. They could see no signs of activity, but Arnault had no doubt that they were being watched by hidden sentries. He gave the order to ready arms.

His men adjusted their helmets and loosened swords in scabbards, some of them unlimbering crossbows.

Shields that had been slung from saddlebows were shouldered for defense, and lances were lifted, their pennants fluttering in the icy wind. At Arnault's right hand, a serjeant rode closer with Beaucant streaming above him, famed throughout Christendom as an emblem of holy war. As Flannan moved in at his left, Walter de Clifton leading the column to deploy in battle order, Arnault's heart stirred at the prospect of going into action, his brothers arrayed on either side of him, ready to give their lives for their faith and for each other.

The company started forward at a trot, keeping to their line in an imposing show of discipline. Heads bobbed up behind the Burghead battlements, and cries of alarm rang out, echoing thinly through the wintry air.

The Templars continued to advance without drawing any missile fire from above. Arnault signaled the company to halt within bowshot range of the gates; then he and Flannan rode forward to inspect the fortifications at closer range. They kept their shields at the ready, but none inside ventured to fire upon them.

"Very old," Flannan said. "In its day, this would have been a formidable defense. But you can see where the ramparts have been patched and repaired. It should be no great challenge to scale the wall head."

"With luck, it won't come to that," Arnault said.

They had the wherewithal to a.s.sault the fort with ropes and grappling hooks. Nevertheless, Arnault hoped to resolve the business without bloodshed. The handful of faces that could be seen peering down at them over the walls were more nervous than defiant. He was willing to wager that most of them had never before faced so heavily armored a company; and they were right to be dubious about their chances of defending a stronghold as timeworn and dilapidated as this one.

A new figure appeared above-one with evident authority, from the manner in which the others deferred to him. Arnault kneed his horse a few steps forward, taking the risk that this might draw fire.

"I am Frre Arnault de Saint Clair, Knight of the Temple," he announced. "Who commands here?"

"I am Alexander Comyn, brother to the Earl of Buchan and kinsman to the Lord of Badenoch," the other man replied. "Since learning of the Red Comyn's death, I have a.s.sumed responsibility for this fort, and hold it in the name of his son, who is not of age."

"Have you also a.s.sumed responsibility for the barbarous practices that have taken place here?" Arnault demanded. "If so, you must set your soul at a cheap price."

This observation provoked grumblings of uneasiness from the men around the Comyn commander, and earned Arnault a smoldering glare.

"It is those who basely murdered my kinsman on holy ground who have courted d.a.m.nation!" came the angry reply.

"I will be plain with you, Alexander Comyn," Arnault said. "It was ancient sorcery and unholy practices embraced by his father that were the Red Comyn's undoing. If you know this place, and are aware of the evil that dwells here, you must surely see the truth in what I say."

He could see that his words had struck home. At the same time, however, Alexander Comyn was clearly determined to retain his dignity in front of his men. It would require delicate handling to persuade this Comyn to do what he must know to be right, without unwittingly provoking him into resistance.

"Yield us this unholy place, I pray you," Arnault urged. "It is not worth the price of your immortal souls."

"This is some trickery!" Alexander replied. "Are you the vanguard of Bruce's army, come to wipe us out?

Has he not the courage to ride at your head?" he challenged.

"I swear by Christ's blood that we come here to do no man any harm," Arnault a.s.sured him. "We have come only to cleanse this site of the taint that has lain upon it for too long, and to free all who dwell hereabout from its deadly curse."

"And what then?" Alexander Comyn pressed him. "Will you require our submission?"

"When we have carried out G.o.d's work here, we shall leave and not return," Arnault promised. "We have come to fight the servants of darkness, not you or your people. You have my solemn word on that."

The two men regarded each other with hard calculation while their respective followers looked on in hushed expectancy. Obliquely Alexander Comyn surveyed the dozen men who stood in the ramparts beside him, more waiting in the yard below-but were they enough? His Highlanders were a proud breed, and looked ready to do whatever their leader asked of them, even if it should mean a fight to the death-but the battle-hardened knights before him, with their deadly lances and crossbows and great warhorses, bearded faces resolute beneath their steel helms, were not foes any man would willingly challenge.

"I must trust what you have said," Alexander Comyn said at last. "Enough have died for my kinsmen's false dream- and it becomes more and more of a nightmare, the longer we suffer it to continue." He turned to his men and ordered, "Open the gate!"