There was a moment's hesitation before the Comyn soldiers overcame their instinctive reluctance to give way before a potential enemy. A glowering look from their leader, however, prompted them to carry out his order without further delay. The great bolts were hauled back and the gates slowly drew apart, leaving the way clear for the Templars to enter.

The knights formed themselves into a well-ordered column and Arnault led them forward into the compound. All of them kept a wary eye for any sign of attack, but no hostility was offered. Descending from the rampart, Alexander Comyn curtly issued orders for his men to fetch their horses and equipment in preparation for immediate departure. Now that the decision had been made, Arnault noted, the men of Badenoch appeared only too willing to comply.

At Arnault's command, six of his knights remained on horseback to oversee the Comyn withdrawal, ranging themselves in strategic positions where they could observe the whole interior of the fort, especially the Comyn men now gathering up their belongings. Eight more knights climbed up onto the rampart with crossbows. Leaving Walter de Clifton to supervise the withdrawal of the Comyns, Arnault and the rest dismounted to press on through a second gateway leading to the mound of the citadel.

Dominating the courtyard beyond was a pair of weathered monoliths, rearing up twice as high as a man.

The one on the left depicted a huge bull, its head lowered for the charge, its powerful muscles sharply delineated by lines etched deep in the rock. On the other was the crude yet potent image of a woman rising out of the sea, a human skull hanging between her pendulous b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Each of these figures was surrounded by a swarm of abstract patterns: circles, spirals, and lightning bolts, brightly painted.

"Pagan G.o.ds?" Flannan murmured under his breath to Arnault.

Arnault only nodded, but many of their fellow Templars grimaced at the sight, muttering prayers and warding themselves with the sign of the cross. Others, more military in their thinking, cast calculating looks toward the citadel, which surmounted an earth mound at the far end of the promontory. Arnault found his gaze drawn toward a dark slot in the ground to one side of the path leading up the keep. To his inner senses, the opening seemed to exude an invisible miasma of dank decay, but before he could make a move to investigate, he was hailed by Walter de Clifton, who gestured back toward Alexander Comyn.

Comyn's men had finished hastily gathering up their belongings. Lingering out in the outer courtyard, they looked more than ready to abandon this ancient, haunted fortress. But the late Comyn's kinsman wore a determined expression as he approached the Templar commander.

"I have revised my thinking, Templar," he told Arnault in a low voice. "You may smash every accursed stone in this place, and do so with my blessing. But this is still a Comyn holding. If you are still here on the morrow, then we will meet again with swords drawn."

"If we are still here when the sun rises, then we shall already be dead," Arnault said baldly. "In that event, you and your people had best flee as far from here as possible."

Alexander went a little pale, clearly sensing that this was no dramatic exaggeration, but a sincere warning.

As he hesitated, a sudden movement on the path above them drew all eyes as a cracked voice split the air like the sudden caw of a gore-crow.

"Begone from here, unbelievers, if you value your wretched and unworthy lives!"

The speaker was a gaunt, white-robed figure with a sweeping gray beard, powerful hands grasping a gnarled black staff. Crowned with a circlet of spiny gorse, he was tonsured ear to ear in the Celtic manner, the back hair hanging in two greasy plaits on his shoulders. On his brow was traced in blue the smudged shape of a bull's head. A golden torc loosely circled his thin neck, and wide bracelets of hammered iron were clasped to his sinewy forearms. Beside him stood a much younger man, similarly but less elaborately attired, his wide sleeves obscuring some bulky object he clasped to his breast, over which his head was reverently bowed.

Curtly beckoning his acolyte to attend him, the old man descended the slope in a series of goatlike bounds to halt fearlessly a few yards before Arnault and Flannan, his black eyes blazing as he thrust out his staff to bar the way forward.

"Come no closer, Templars!" he warned. "And you, fool! What have you done?" he demanded of Alexander Comyn. "Would you allow these intruders to defile this shrine of your ancestors? Slay them, as is your duty!"

"My duty is not to you, Torgon!" Alexander retorted. "I owe you naught but my contempt. You can be d.a.m.ned, for all I care-and so can any who stand in your defense!"

He turned his back in pointed disdain. Outraged, the shaman drew back his staff as if to strike, but Arnault lifted his sword in warning to come no closer. With angry vehemence, Torgon rammed the heel of his staff into the ground at his feet and barked a curt command at his a.s.sistant, who hurried forward to present him with the ivory casket he had been hiding under his robes.

Alarmed, Arnault thrust Alexander behind him and prepared to ward them both, for he sensed with a sudden and unshakable certainty that the chest contained the relics of Briochan, which Torquil had told him of seeing handed to the Comyns by Brian de Jay, eight years before. Torgon spat contemptuously, and darted back between the two standing stones.

Brandishing the casket aloft, he offered it to the cloudy heavens above, as a torrent of invocation poured from his lips. Thunder rumbled in apparent response, but Arnault dared not let himself be moved.

"Your cause is lost," he told the old man. "Your patrons are dead, and those you serve will soon be swept away forever. It is not too late for you to turn away from this madness and ask G.o.d's forgiveness for your sins."

"What care I for your murdered G.o.d?" Torgon snarled. "It is your childish faith which shall fade away and be forgotten, in ages yet to come. My patron is Briochan-he who serves those who live as long as the earth itself. Come, Briochan!"

In answer came a boiling up of baleful energies from the ground between the monoliths, quickly enveloping Torgon like a suit of new clothes, overlaying his visage with a spectral image Arnault had seen before, in the vaulted treasury at Balantrodoch-Briochan, indeed, summoned in defense of the deities he had championed in ages past! At the same time, as Torgon's voice rose on an eldritch screech, a bitter wind swept in from the sea, bringing with it the stench of rotting seaweed. A deep boom reverberated from the subterranean stairway, shaking the citadel to its foundations.

Undaunted, Arnault reached into the neck of his surcoat and pulled out the keekstane he had brought from Iona, again worn on its leather thong. With his other hand he raised his sword. Sighting down its length at Torgon-Briochan, he closed the sacred stone in his raised fist and made bold to pet.i.tion Saint Columba, invoking his authority to drive back once again those forces he had beaten into submission centuries before.

"Kindly Columba, beneficent, benign: In name of the Three of Life, in name of the Sacred Three, in name of the Secret Ones, and of all the Powers together-shield me from thine ancient enemy. O Michael of the white steed, lend me the sword of thy protection!"

At the same time, he opened his left hand to display the keekstane in his palm, directing its window toward Torgon.

A flash of white light burst forth from the heart of the scrying stone, leaping across to Arnault's other hand and coursing down the length of his blade on the path he directed. With a searing crack, the bright beam struck the casket of pagan relics, dashing it from Torgon's clutching hands.

The manifestation of Briochan vanished like a snuffed candle flame. Torgon's eyes flared with redoubled rage, and he pointed an indignant finger at Arnault.

"Now you have earned my wrath!" he howled. "I shall send you such pain as you have never imagined!"

Fists clenched, he crossed both scrawny forearms before his breast in a clang of iron armlets; but before he could formulate any further intent, he was caught in the throat by a crossbow bolt. The force of its impact knocked him sprawling at the feet of the two great monoliths, a final paroxysm racking his frame as blood gushed from his lips and he at last was still.

Turning, Arnault saw Alexander Comyn handing the crossbow back to Walter de Clifton, who began calmly winding the weapon to take another bolt. With cold deliberation, Comyn drew his dirk before striding over to examine the shaman's prostrate form. From where he stood, however, Arnault could see there was no need to strike again.

Confirming this, Comyn turned to the shocked acolyte, who cringed at his glance.

"Take yourself away from here," he said coldly. "Return to whatever village or farm it was that sp.a.w.ned you, and find yourself such obscure occupation that you never come to my attention again."

With quaking hands, the young man hastily stripped off his pagan accoutrements and dropped them in a heap by his master's body. With a last fearful look at Comyn and then at Arnault, he scuttled off past Clifton toward the open gateway, like a frightened field mouse fleeing to its nest. Alexander Comyn snorted in derision.

"It appears that I have inherited both the responsibility and the curse of Burghead," he explained, his face a tight mask of self-control. "If there is to be blood on anyone's hands, it should be on mine. I do not wish to see a fresh cause of feud, when there are too many scores already to be settled."

Arnault inclined his head in acknowledgment of the other man's wisdom. "I hope that when we next meet, it will be under friendlier circ.u.mstances."

"I would not depend upon it," Comyn replied. "Friendship is in short supply in these troubled times."

Turning on his heel, he strode off in the direction of the gateway, where his men were waiting with the horses. Seizing the reins of his own steed, he mounted up and rode off, sparing no backward glance. His men fell into line behind him, and soon were disappearing into the distance. With the departure of the Comyn soldiers, the Templars stood down from battle alert, looking to Arnault for further instructions.

"Search the place," Arnault told them, "and gather up anything that seems unclean to you. Burn what will burn, and sprinkle the rest with holy water. We must cleanse this place of its evil."

He himself directed the destruction of the monoliths. Looping ropes around the great stones, mounted knights heaved them over so that they crashed to the ground like fallen giants. Both shattered; and hammers and picks were then used to smash them into pieces.

Meanwhile, Torgon's staff was broken and cast onto a bonfire, along with various items of shamanic regalia and the body of Torgon himself. To this cleansing blaze was added the chest of relics. As the flames consumed them, Arnault cast a measure of salt on the flames and p.r.o.nounced a formal edict of interdict, banishing the spirit of Briochan to whatever afterlife awaited him. He prayed silently that with Briochan's departure, there would be no further revival of his cult.

Once these tasks were completed, he turned to that dark stairway leading down into the earth, where final rites must also be performed. He took with him Flannan Fraser.

"Just keep reciting whatever prayers you think appropriate," he told the other knight, as he handed him a torch. All around the mouth of the stairwell, a dozen knights were already kneeling in a circle, swords thrust into the ground before them like crosses, hands on the cross-hilts. One of them was Walter de Clifton, the Master of Scotland.

"We are prepared to support you as you have taught us," the Master said. "But what should we do, if you should not come out?"

"If that should come to pa.s.s," Arnault said, "fill in this opening with earth and stone, consecrate our grave with your prayers, and return to Scone, to inform Brother Luc. Then be guided by his instructions."

Clifton inclined his head. "Go with G.o.d, my brothers."

"We shall," Arnault said with a smile. And turning his gaze to the rest kneeling around him and Flannan, he said, "Non n.o.bis, Fratres."

"Non n.o.bis, Domine," they responded, in reiteration of the Templar motto that had sustained the Order through nearly two centuries of service to the Light. "Non n.o.bis, sed Nomini Tuo da gloriam!" Not to us, Lord, not to us but to Thy Name give the glory.

Again grasping the scrying stone in his free hand, Arnault held his sword at arm's length before him like a crucifix as he led the way down the steps into the gloom that waited below, Flannan behind him, accompanied by the whispered aves and paternosters of those remaining above ground.

"G.o.d before me, G.o.d behind me, G.o.d above me, G.o.d below me.I on the path of G.o.d, G.o.d upon my track," Arnault murmured, stringing together phrases from the prayers that Brother Ninian and Abbot Fingon had taught him, using them to focus his intent.

"The compa.s.sing of G.o.d and His right hand be upon my form and upon my frame. the compa.s.sing of the High King and the grace of the Trinity. May the compa.s.sing of the Three shield me in my need. from hate, from harm, from act, from ill. Christ Himself is shepherd over me, enfolding me on every side. He will not forsake me, hand or foot, nor let evil come anigh me."

A moldering stench rose to met them as they descended, an unsettling mix of salt water, rotting vegetation, and damp earth. Flannan's torch behind Arnault cast his shadow long on the steps before them.

"The air seems thick, like pushing through water," Flannan noted, though he did not sound afraid.

"Fear itself is trying to stifle us," Arnault said. "If we do not let it master us, then it can do us no harm. Say your prayers and trust in G.o.d."

At the bottom of the steps they paused before a threshold, beyond which they could hear a low, rasping breath, like steel grating against sandstone. A noisome exhalation gusted past them, extinguishing the torch and plunging them into pitch blackness.

"Valiant Michael of the white steed, I make my circuit under thy shield!" Arnault said into the darkness.

"For love of G.o.d and for pains of Mary's Son, spread thy wings over us and shield us, thou Warrior of the King of all and Ranger of the Heavens." Drawing breath, he went on more boldly.

"The mantle of Christ be placed upon me, to shade me from my crown to my sole. The mantle of the G.o.d of life be keeping me, to be my champion and my leader."

A roseate radiance blossomed from the cross-hilt of his sword, brightening to a flame as pure and colorless as adamant. In the same instant, Flannan's torch flared into life once more. The reeking gloom retreated precipitously before these twin beacons of the Light. Shoulder to shoulder, the Templars edged their way across the threshold, into the cavernous chamber beyond.

The torchlight revealed a broad expanse of shining blackness rimmed by stone, a sullen pool so densely black that neither the torchlight nor the radiance surrounding Arnault's sword could penetrate its depths.

Tendrils of greenish vapor rose off the surface in sickly coils. Peering more closely, Arnault could discern sluggish stirrings of movement within the womb of the dark.

Taking a firmer grip on the sacred scrying stone, looping its thong from around his neck, Arnault began reciting fragments of prayers he had rehea.r.s.ed with Luc before setting out on this crucial mission, again calling on the wisdom of Saint Columba.

"The strength of the Triune be our shield of cleansing.be the Cross of Christ to shield us upward. be the Cross of Christ to shield us downward.be the Cross of Christ to shield us roundward."

At the p.r.o.nouncement of the first few lines, the vapors rising from the pool recoiled. A shiver pa.s.sed across the surface, penetrating deep into the inky blackness below. As Arnault continued his words of exorcism, the waters began to churn into a sc.u.mmy froth, exuding venomous green bubbles as something monstrous took shape in the depths, driving rapidly toward the surface.

Arnault braced himself, tightening his grip on sword and keekstane as a huge, distorted female form erupted from the roiling water like a leviathan, casting a foul spume over the two knights as she reared above them. Both men recoiled from a blast of fetid breath, Flannan lifting his torch in a warding-off gesture, but Arnault never faltered as he brought his chant to a close with a ringing Amen.

The apparition snarled but kept her distance. Dwarfing them in size, she glowered down at the two Templars, lips drawn back in a feral leer that exposed rows of yellow, rotted teeth. Her face was wizened and wrinkled like that of a crone, but her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were huge and full beneath the shroud of foul, lank hair trailing down to the water like tendrils of rotting vine.

"So, little soldiers, have you come to feed my blood hunger?" she demanded in a heavy rasping voice.

"Give yourselves to my embrace, and I will suck you dry and feast upon the marrow of your bones!"

Arnault only held his sword steady, murmuring under his breath, "Columba, be thou a bright flame before me." Behind him, he could sense Flannan's taut dread, but the other man did not retreat. The ent.i.ty before them slavered and snarled, but Arnault sensed indecision. Stronger than her age-old hunger was a note of growing fear.

"You have no power over us," he stated firmly. "Your worshippers are either dead or scattered like withered leaves, and your name is fading from the face of the earth."

The creature greeted this p.r.o.nouncement with a cackle of angry laughter.

"Spineless worms!" she shrieked. "Maggots! I will rip your flesh to tatters and bite into your hearts like ripe, succulent fruit!"

"You shall do no such thing, for Columba's task is accomplished at last," Arnault responded, his voice unwavering. "In name of the King of life, in name of the Christ of love, in name of the Spirit Holy, the Triune of my strength, be banished!" he cried.

At his declaration, a crystalline beam of white fire blazed forth again from the window pierced in the keekstane. Brighter than either the torch or the glow emanating from Arnault's sword, it filled the room with a supernal light that banished every shadow. It burned away the stench of decay, leaving behind a fragrance like incense smoke. The demoness shrank back with a shrill wail, recoiling into the dark sanctuary of her birthing pool.

"Go now into that abyss whence you came!" Arnault ordered. "By Michael chief of hosts, by Uriel of the golden locks, by Gabriel seer of the Virgin of grace, and by Raphael prince of power-may G.o.d's angels and the sword of Saint Michael sever you from this world!"

With a swift casting gesture, he flung the keekstane into the pool. White flames spread instantly across the surface, rushing up the creature's trailing hair to engulf her in a blazing nimbus of purifying fire. Her scream shook the walls of the underground chamber before she sank beneath the burning water, as if dragged down by a powerful undercurrent.

The room itself convulsed. The flames shot higher, licking the roof overhead. Spurred into movement, Arnault seized Flannan by the arm.

"Go! Get out of here quickly!" he urged.

They bounded up the stairs, taking two at a stride, as the blistering heat of the inferno roared up the stairwell after them. As they burst into daylight, throwing themselves to either side, their fellow Templars grabbed them and pulled them well clear of the circle of swords still ringing the stairwell opening.

Fire and smoke erupted upward, but could not seem to pa.s.s beyond the outline of an invisible dome above, delineated on the ground by the circle of swords. As a final catastrophic boom rocked the headland, the earth convulsed, the stairwell collapsing in on itself. The final echoes dwindled into stillness as the smoke slowly dissipated.

The Templars flocked around Arnault and Flannan. Clapping the other knight on the shoulder, for he had done well under fire, Arnault cut short an anxious flood of inquiries with a rea.s.suring wave.

"We're all right," he gasped. "The danger is past. Let us give thanks to G.o.d. Brother Walter, summon the brethren."

He drew a deep breath and cast a grateful look around him as they came, the newcomers adding their swords to the others as all of them knelt outside that holy circle, hands clasped on the cross-hilts symbolizing their faith, and bowed their heads to recite a solemn Te Deum. The sun was sinking behind the hills to the west. Here and there, a bonfire still spat and crackled as the last of the pagan paraphernalia was reduced to ash. Night was descending upon Burghead, but it would be a night free of the evil that had haunted this country for so long. When they had finished their prayer, Arnault sheathed his sword and signaled his men to fetch their horses.

"Let us be gone from here before darkness falls," he ordered. "Whatever struggles may yet be to come, this battle at least is won. Non n.o.bis, Domine!"

"Non n.o.bis, Domine, sed Nomini Tuo da gloriam!" the rest responded, in fervent affirmation.

Chapter Thirty-six.

FOLLOWING THE CLEANSING OF BURGHEAD, ARNAULT TOOK his men back to Balantrodoch, where he would acquaint Luc with far more detail of the success of their mission than could have been gleaned from any of the others, even Flannan. But first Luc had news of a different but no lesser import, which he imparted to all the men in a hastily convened chapter meeting.

"The rebellion is now well and truly afoot," he informed them. "I have had word several times from Brother Torquil, who rides with Bruce as a military advisor. In addition to taking Dumfries and Dalswinton, Bruce has made himself master of the castles at Tibbers, Ayr, and Dunaverty. His supporter, Robert Boyd of Cunningham, has taken Rothesay Castle, and has laid siege to Inverkip. The only castellan in the west who has refused to yield is Sir John Menteith of Dumbarton. Otherwise, Bruce now has effective control of the Firth of Clyde."

"Is there still an English fleet anch.o.r.ed at Skinburness?" Walter de Clifton asked.

"There is," Luc replied. "But with control of the firth- even without Dumbarton-Bruce can still count on allies and supplies being able to reach him from Ireland and the Outer Isles."

"That's as may be," one of the senior knights rumbled, "but I like it not, that the Order seems to be being drawn into a dispute among fellow Christians. The mission to Burghead served G.o.d's holy cause-none who were there can deny it. But no more right is it for us to fight for this Robert the Bruce than it was for some of us to have fought for Edward of England, under Brian de Jay."

"That is true," Arnault said carefully. "And no one asks us to fight for Bruce. What is required is that we help maintain the peace, as has always been the purpose of the Temple, wherever we are sent-and that, if need be, we lend our swords to prevent Edward's forces from interfering in the wishes of the Scottish people; to see their own king crowned, and to regain their freedom."

In the absence of instructions otherwise from their superiors in France, the chapter agreed that such intent was reasonable; and following evening prayer, Luc released all of them to retire to beds for the first time in several weeks. In a subsequent meeting, in private with only Arnault, he was able to reveal information he dared not share with the others of their Order.

"I need not tell you, I think that questions are still being asked in some quarters concerning the manner of John Comyn's death," Luc said, "but the senior members of the Scottish clergy have been told enough of the truth to justify Bruce's actions. Thanks, in part, to Torquil's quick thinking, Wishart of Glasgow has given Bruce formal absolution for the slaying-and Bruce, in exchange, has sworn a formal oath to uphold the freedom of the Scottish Church. Wishart preached a rousing sermon from the pulpit, exhorting the Scottish people to fight for Bruce as for a crusade. As a result, oaths of fealty are pouring in from every quarter."

"Then, Bruce now has support from the Scottish clergy, the Scottish n.o.bles, and the Scottish people,"

Arnault replied. "Not all, of course-but at least the way is paved for him to receive the formal seal of kingship: the power that will attend his enthronement on the Stone of Destiny. And that will help him unite all the factions, to stand against Edward of England."

Plans were already set in motion for Bruce to undergo a more conventional coronation and enthronement at Scone Abbey-as conventional as such could be, in a state of war with England, and with so much of the traditional regalia still languishing in London. This public ceremony was to take place in less than a fortnight, on the Feast of the Annunciation, this year falling on the twenty-fifth of March.