"I don't know," Luc said, "and that's what bothers me."

Arnault gazed off across the mist beginning to rise off the meadow, both thoughtful and troubled. The implication that Jay might be cultivating an interest in arcane objects was not one he liked to think about, especially given Jay's presence when the forces of Shadow had attempted to s.n.a.t.c.h the soul of the little Maid. That the Master of Scotland might be trying to build up a collection of such objects was a prospect even more disturbing. The further possibility, that he might intend to attempt unlocking their potential, was worst of all.

Or, he reminded himself, Jay could be as prejudiced as the Grand Master himself, when it came to dealing with objects of non-Christian origin-in which case, the pagan relics and the bones of their former owner probably were now at the bottom of the nameless lake where the de Sautre brothers claimed to have tossed them.

"I suggest that we all keep our eyes and ears open, and say nothing of this except among ourselves," he observed aloud, gathering his reins and glancing at the sky, beginning to dim toward twilight. "Even if all three of them have acted only from the most pious of motives, this may not be the last we have heard of this affair."

Chapter Six.

THE BLEAK AUTUMNAL TWILIGHT WAS CLOSING IN BY THE time the three of them rode through the gates of Balantrodoch. They had scarcely dismounted when a bell began to ring, calling the community to Vespers. Surrendering their mounts to a pair of lay brothers, the three fell in among the other white-mantled figures converging on the chapel from various parts of the compound.

Torches in st.u.r.dy cressets beckoned from either side of the chapel's entrance, more torches strategically placed to chase the shadows from before the other buildings fronting the cobbled yard. Arnault found himself noting many changes since his last visit-and saw that Torquil was noticing them, too. The south range had been extended by the addition of several new outbuildings, and the encircling bawn wall had been strengthened by the erection of a guard tower at the salient corner of the south and west parapets-ambitious and expensive propositions, all.

Domestic changes had been made as well. As they mounted the chapel steps, Arnault looked twice at the new tympanum that had been erected over the porch, lavishly decorated with panels depicting the Last Judgment. Likewise, the stout and plain oak doors he remembered from his earlier visit had been replaced by new ones enriched with carvings ill.u.s.trating scenes from Scripture. The expense involved would not have been negligible, and Arnault found himself wondering where the money could have come from to pay for these amenities.

It cost him conscious effort to lay these speculations aside while he turned his thoughts to the prayers of Vespers. Afterward, instructed to report to Brian de Jay, he and Torquil repaired to the Master's lodge-enlarged since his last visit, Arnault noted, and its previously unglazed windows on the upper floor fitted with panels of leaded gla.s.s.

Sleek and well muscled as a tomcat, Jay received them with the smug air of a man who has good reason to be pleased with himself. Arnault, for his part, was prepared to accord Jay the outward tokens of respect if this would lessen any resentment of the orders he was about to deliver and make it easier to carry out their mission. It was with measured courtesy, therefore, that he gave appropriate salute and presented the Master of Scotland with the sealed doc.u.ments he had been issued in Paris by Hugues de Paraud, the Visitor of France. Torquil tried to appear equally deferential, but apparently did not entirely succeed. Jay favored him with a hard look.

"A junior knight has no place in the counsels of his betters, Brother Torquil," he told the younger man brusquely. "You will withdraw to the corridor and wait there until Brother Arnault and I are finished."

Arnault had no doubt that the condescending dismissal set Torquil's teeth on edge, but the younger man bowed himself out with a becoming display of humility. Only then did Jay venture to break the seals.

Arnault remained standing at easy attention while the other man read over the enclosed orders. After reading them again, Jay looked up at him coolly.

"Are you familiar with the contents of this missive?" he asked.

In fact, Arnault was intimately acquainted with Jay's orders, but he knew better than to admit as much.

"My role is princ.i.p.ally that of courier," he said diplomatically. "It is for you to decide, on the basis of your own instructions, whether or not it is appropriate to tell me anything more."

This response earned him a look of calculating scrutiny, but Arnault kept his face expressionless. After a moment, the Master of Scotland grudgingly yielded to logical necessity.

"With regard to the Scottish succession," he informed Arnault, "it has been deemed desirable that the Order should bear fair and honorable witness to the proceedings of the court of claims. As Master of Scotland, I am directed to a.s.semble a delegation of suitable observers and proceed to Berwick, there to take note of all that transpires.

"That my own presence should be required is perfectly reasonable," he went on, leaning back in his chair with a somewhat supercilious smirk. "It would be an insult to the dignity of the King of England to send anyone other than the Master of Scotland to head such a delegation. You, as the Visitor's agent, are likewise an appropriate choice, especially since the pair of us were instrumental in negotiating the ill-fated Treaty of Birgham. What I do not understand," he finished with a sour grimace, "is why I find myself specifically enjoined to include Brother Torquil in the delegation. Furthermore, he appears to have been taken permanently from under my command."

Arnault was careful to keep his response both neutral and noncommittal. "I am given to understand," he said, "that the Visitor has been quite satisfied with his work over the past two years-due in part, I have no doubt, to the excellent preparation he received before leaving Balantrodoch," he added, in oblique compliment to Jay. "In addition, since Brother Torquil is a Scot, I believe it is hoped that he may be able to provide a native's insight at the court."

Jay was clearly less than pleased, but he accepted the logic of this explanation without further demur.

"Very well. It appears that decisions have been made by those superior to both of us. I hope you're prepared to earn your keep in the meantime," he remarked with an affected jocularity that made no secret of his true feelings. "Scotland may be a long way from Outremer, but we still make a point of keeping up military standards of behavior and performance. You may go."

Both Arnault and Torquil had been aware that the Master of Scotland would be given leave to make his own selections in filling out the complement for the Berwick delegation. The return to Balantrodoch after a two-year absence had convinced Torquil that any close a.s.sociate of Jay's was likely to prove tedious at best; but that hypothetical aggravation gained a more worrisome aspect at the next morning's chapter meeting, when Jay announced the names of the remaining appointees: A Yorkshire knight called Thomas Helmsley and the younger of the two de Sautre brothers, Robert, whose involvement in the disappearance of the Pictish grave goods had already given Luc cause for concern. The elder, John, would a.s.sume command at Balantrodoch during Jay's absence.

The de Sautres, like Jay himself, were of Anglo-Norman descent, new to the Scottish preceptory since Torquil's departure two years before. Both were black-haired and dark-eyed, but beyond that, they were so dissimilar that had they not shared a surname, no one would have guessed that the two were closely related. John, the elder of the pair, was raw-boned and taciturn, with a spa.r.s.e beard, sallow skin, and a lantern-jawed scowl that occasionally turned calculating. His brother, by contrast, was plump and fresh-faced as an overgrown choirboy, with an officiously busy manner and full red lips that pouted within the bush of his black beard when he was not smiling somewhat inanely.

John was inclined to keep to himself; Robert was sociable to the point of being intrusive. Later on the day of their appointment, the latter seemed to make a point of seeking out Torquil during one of the leisure periods provided by the Rule among the offices and duties of the day. Torquil was sitting on a bench outside the common hall, methodically cleaning and polishing his sword while he enjoyed the Scottish air, when his rubicund counterpart came sauntering over and sat down uninvited beside him.

"Since we're to be riding together on this Berwick junket," he told Torquil breezily, by way of greeting, "I thought we might as well get better acquainted. Where are you from, and what made you decide to join the Order?"

Strictures of knightly courtesy forbade Torquil to utter the first words that sprang to mind. Perhaps primed by Luc's remarks of the previous day, he had taken an instant dislike for both de Sautre brothers.

"My family holds a manor in the earldom of Lennox," he told the younger de Sautre. "I have an elder brother who is the heir, so I chose to follow the way of the cross."

Robert de Sautre flashed one of his fleeting, facile smiles. "You needn't have joined the Order to fight in the Holy Land."

"True enough," Torquil agreed, and added reluctantly, "The Abbot of St. Kenneth's, near my home, was the one who suggested I should seek knight service among the Templars, and his advice seemed worth taking."

Abbot Machar had been a crusader in his youth, serving with distinction in one of the many defenses of Jerusalem. Torquil had no intention of telling de Sautre how raptly he had listened to the old man's tales of desert patrols and siege engagements. He was even less inclined to discuss his reasons for becoming a Templar.

That decision had been prompted by a dream he had had some five years ago. On the night in question, he awoke- or thought he had awakened-to find himself being observed from the foot of his bed by a luminous apparition he now believed to have been the Archangel Michael, flaming sword in hand and girt about in armor that shone like the sun. Obeying the being's gesture to rise, he had been lifted up as though on fiery wings, to a wondrous edifice of spires, b.u.t.tresses, and campaniles suspended in a crystal sphere between earth and sky.

In a voice of unearthly melody, his heavenly companion had declared, "Behold the Temple of the Lord!"

The sight of the temple had filled Torquil with longing and rapture, but even as he gazed at it, from out of the depths arose a hideous host of demon-creatures. The creatures hurled themselves at the shining sphere, and began hammering at it with weapons of shadow. Through the rising din, Torquil heard the angelic voice again, asking, "Who will defend the Temple against the armies of Darkness?"

To which Torquil had found himself answering, "I will go! Send me!"

Smiling, the Archangel had set a burning coal in the palm of his right hand. The coal blossomed into a fiery sword. Swallowing his fear, Torquil strode forward to meet the enemy. Even as he braced himself to strike the first blow, he had awakened with a start, and found himself once more in the familiar confines of his chamber.

So vivid and compelling was the dream that he had turned to Father Machar for counsel. The abbot had seconded Torquil's own conclusion that he was being called to defend the city of Jerusalem-and as a Knight Templar, by the dream's temple imagery. But he had never mentioned the dream to another soul besides Father Machar.

"If you're from the Earldom of Lennox," said Robert de Sautre, breaking in on these reminiscences, "you'll no doubt be hoping to see the Scottish crown be awarded to the Bruces of Annandale."

True it was that the Earl of Lennox himself was a supporter of Robert Bruce and his family. That issue, however, was so far removed from Torquil's immediate reflections that he was caught off guard. Mentally giving himself a shake, he said stiffly, "I'm not sure I follow you."

De Sautre's white teeth flashed another disarming grin. "Then let me put it another way: If it were up to you to choose, who would you nominate to occupy the Scottish throne?"

Torquil was not about to let himself be drawn, even on a point of speculation. "I would give it to the man who could prove he had the best right to it."

"Ah, but what sort of proofs would it take to convince you?" de Sautre said with a chuckle.

"I'm not the one who needs to be convinced," Torquil pointed out bluntly. "If you're interested in the finer points of legal debate, I suggest you go and ask a law-monger."

"Oh, I expect we'll hear quite enough from them, when we get to Berwick," de Sautre said, refusing to be put off. "But I don't suppose you can have kept much abreast of local affairs, off in Outremer. No matter.

Tell me, what was it like out there? We have few recent veterans here at Balantrodoch."

Relieved to be able to change the subject, Torquil reluctantly began a terse recital of some of the more usual sights and experiences of campaigning in the Holy Land, gradually gathering a growing audience of listeners, wondering whether it was Jay who had sent the younger de Sautre to sound him out.

Arnault, meanwhile, was with Luc de Brabant down in the treasury vault where the pagan grave artifacts had been stored prior to their disappearance.

"This is the last place I saw the items," Luc said in a low voice, holding a torch aloft as he pointed to a spot on the floor in the left-hand corner. "I regret that I didn't make a point of copying out some of the runic inscriptions at the very outset. Had I done so, we might now have a better idea what we're dealing with."

"And then again, we might not," Arnault said. "You can hardly blame yourself for not antic.i.p.ating that Jay might have the artifacts removed."

Stooping down, he ran a hand lightly over the stones where Luc had indicated. A faint but repugnant sensation registered in his fingertips, like a residue of slug slime. He straightened up with a grimace of distaste, rubbing his thumb against his fingertips.

"Did you try touching the floor here?" he asked.

"Yes, but that isn't my talent," Luc replied with a wry smile.

"At times like this, I wish it weren't mine, either. Something has left its mark here, right enough. I would guess that it might have been the rune-staves-and I think it's safe to speculate that they referred to something more sinister than tallies of hides or cattle."

"I just wish I knew for certain what's become of them," Luc muttered.

"Have you any proof that the chest isn't at the bottom of the lake where Jay's men are supposed to have put it?" Arnault asked.

"No. That is to say, I've tried more than once to visualize its whereabouts, but the results have all been inconclusive. For all the success I've had, the chest might as well have been magically translated awa' wi'

the faeries."

Arnault restrained a flicker of a smile at the fastidious Luc's adoption of imagery from local folklore, for the implications were all too sobering.

"I doubt that the wee folk had anything to do with it," he said, "but there are many veils, both dark and light, which divide the Seen from the Unseen. It would seem to be a darker veil that obscures what has happened here. I wonder, though. Perhaps, together, we can discover some glimpse of what we're really dealing with."

"I was hoping you would say that," Luc replied. "That's why I wanted you to look around the vault. I do have the Roman coins I took off the body," he said, displaying them on his palm. "I thought we might try to use them as a link. Shall we give it a try?"

"I don't see why not," Arnault said, with a glance at the closed door. "Are we likely to be interrupted?"

"Not at this hour. This part of the undercroft is all devoted to stores-and treasury vaults, of course. Most of the brothers are well aware that I'm apt to have them shifting heavy chests and sacks, if they're around when I'm doing inventories-which I've made a point of doing a lot of, since this all began."

"Let's have a look, then," Arnault said, taking one of the coins to examine it in the torchlight. "The worst that can happen is that nothing will happen."

After dragging another chest nearer the corner where the artifacts had previously been stored, the two men sat shoulder to shoulder on it, each with one of the coins closed in his hand.

"Now tell me, very particularly, what it is we're looking for," Arnault said. "You mentioned the ivory casket with the rune-staves. What about the bones and other grave goods?"

"Everything but the casket was put into a leather sack to bring them here," Luc replied. "Then, that's what we're looking for-the remains of the man whose eyes were covered by these coins. Let's begin."

Closing their eyes, both men took a moment to steady themselves, measuring their breathing as each sought the tabernacle of stillness at the core of his being. As minds and bodies came to rest, Arnault prefaced their entry into the realms of the spirit by softly whispering the motto of their Order as a prayer of invocation, Luc's voice quietly joining his: "Non n.o.bis, Domine, non n.o.bis sed Nomini Tuo da gloriam."

The murmur of their combined voices dwindled into the profound hush of interior silence. Casting forth with the vision of soul, not of body, aware of Luc's shadow-shape beside him, Arnault turned his focus to the coin in his hand and found himself drifting amid a ghosting whisper of silvery fog, not limited by time or s.p.a.ce. The visionary ground that stretched away beneath them was pale and smooth, as featureless as sand. As he sought some sign by which to orient himself, the mists before them curdled and swirled, affording a fleeting glimpse of something moving away from them in the gloom.

He could accord it very little shape, but it seemed roughly the height of a man. He knew that Luc saw it, too. They set off after it with purpose, only to have it melt into the fog before they could catch a better look. Baffled, renewing his focus through the coin, Arnault scanned above and below, to left and right, wondering which way it might have gone- and was drawn by another ghostly flit of movement off to his left.

Again he started forward, this time sending Luc off to the right with a flick of shadow-thought. A glimpse of something again melted away before him, dematerializing into the fog whence it had come. A moment later he sighted it again, this time a short distance away and to his left. When he altered course to keep pace with it, it faded from view, as elusive as a shade.

There commenced a game of hide and seek. To Arnault, the suggestion of shapes that lured him on seemed to alter form with each new manifestation. At first it seemed that he was chasing a naked youth with streaming golden hair, then a white-robed and white-bearded shaman, then again a wolf running on all fours, tongue lolling amid savage-looking jaws. The fog itself seemed part of the game, now opening to offer a clear path, then closing in again to baffle his pursuit.

But always, the beckoning images remained tantalizingly out of focus. The longer the game went on, the more convinced Arnault became that he was being deliberately baited. After repeated failures, he signed for Luc to give it up. This tacit acknowledgment of defeat was greeted by a faraway screech of derision, like the echo of a raven's caw.

Or a specter's malignant laughter. Abandoning the hunt, and suppressing a sudden shiver of premonition that penetrated to the bone, Arnault set about withdrawing from his trance. Luc roused a heartbeat behind him, and the two men turned to look at one another uneasily.

"Did you hear anything?" Arnault asked.

Luc nodded. His lined face was very pale beneath his silvery beard.

"Have you ever heard anything like it before?" Arnault persisted.

"No," said Luc, and added soberly, "I think we must have gotten close, though-either to the man buried with these coins or to some less than savory ent.i.ty a.s.sociated with him."

He took the other coin from Arnault and examined it and his own yet again.

"Whatever he or it was, it was quick to get our measure," Arnault agreed. "Pictish, you said. It certainly had the feel of old power." He thought a moment. "I wonder if your farmer perhaps stumbled on the burial place of some pagan sorcerer."

Luc slowly nodded. "It's possible. Celtic legend abounds with accounts of magicians and priests of ancient times. Some of them had rather spectacular clashes with the early saints who came to Christianize these lands-and they do seem to have had access to real power." He paused a beat. "I hope you aren't suggesting that our fellow with the runestaves is one of those, and that his power somehow is still potent?"

"I don't know what I'm suggesting," Arnault replied, casting another glance around the chamber. "But I do think it might be a good idea not to do anything else with those coins until we've had a chance to consider the situation further-certainly not before Torquil and I return from Berwick."

"Then perhaps it might be best to lock them away in a place where such an ent.i.ty cannot possibly use them as a link to this world-say, hidden in a back corner of the tabernacle of the Blessed Sacrament,"

Luc said grimly.

"An excellent precaution," Arnault agreed. "Meanwhile, there's still the question of what actually happened to the relics of the coin's owner-which may or may not have actually ended up at the bottom of a lake. I think you should keep your eyes and ears open, and see whether you can find out where, specifically, the de Sautre brothers might have dumped that chest."

Chapter Seven.

THE TEMPLAR DELEGATION SET OFF FOR BERWICK THE NEXT morning under bleak October skies: the Master of Scotland, attended by Brothers Thomas of Helmsley and Robert de Sautre, and Arnault and Torquil, on behalf of the Visitor of France. Brother Thomas, though utterly correct in every aspect of military deportment and pious decorum, proved to be a man of little affability and fewer words, as were the three serjeants who accompanied them to care for their horses and equipment, each with a pack pony on a lead. Accordingly, Arnault and Torquil found themselves obliged to affect amus.e.m.e.nt at the ongoing byplay of sycophance and bl.u.s.ter between Robert de Sautre and Brian de Jay. The strain made the three-day ride to Berwick seem like a week.

The royal burgh of Berwick-upon-Tweed was perched on a jutting headland at the mouth of the River Tweed. The thriving center for Scotland's wool trade with the Low Countries, its prosperity was proclaimed by the size and quality of the houses that lined its busy thoroughfares. The market square at the head of the High Street commanded a view of the harbor, whose gray waters were dotted with fishing boats. Two Flemish cogs were moored at the quayside, where bales of raw wool and stacks of hides were waiting to be loaded aboard in exchange for grain and fine-dyed cloth shipped in from Bruges.

Dominating the town itself was Berwick Castle, a strongly fortified sh.e.l.l-keep enclosed within a stout curtain wall. But as they rode beneath its gates, the Scots-born Torquil stifled a snort of indignation at the crimson flutter of England's three lions flying arrogantly above the keep's topmost tower, ostentatiously proclaiming to all comers that Edward Plantagenet, King of England, had taken possession of this and all other royal Scottish castles pending his judgment with regard to the Scottish crown. Nor, by this symbol, did Edward scruple to remind all concerned that his was the sole royal power in Scotland until such time as he chose to relinquish it on his own terms.

Not unexpectedly, Berwick's narrow cobbled streets were packed, bustling with courtiers and clerics, servants and serjeants, merchants and adventurers. Augmenting the town's resident population of nearly three thousand were several hundred visitors from both sides of the border, some of long standing, some but newly arrived, in antic.i.p.ation of Edward's forthcoming announcement, all competing fiercely with one another for hospitality and lodging. Among those fortunate enough to own property in the burgh itself were the hereditary officers of the Scottish crown-the constable, chamberlain, chancellor, and steward.

All other comers had to make the best of the available resources, according to their rank and means.

The castle, of course, had been taken over by Edward and his household and officers. In the town below, all the usual accommodations were long ago spoken for. The religious houses within the burgh itself were full to capacity. The local inns, likewise, had nary a bed or pallet to spare. Across the River Tweed, in the English settlement of Spittal, the town's hospital and almshouse had been converted into a hostel for the duration. Those unable to find shelter in one of the friaries, nunneries, public houses, or private homes on either side of the Tweed were obliged to live under canvas, encamped on the common lands that extended out into the surrounding countryside.

The more eminent members of the English clergy were quartered a few miles downriver at Norham Castle, the administrative seat of Anthony Bek, the Bishop of Durham, who was King Edward's princ.i.p.al advisor on matters of policy. More soldier than priest, Bishop Bek was more distinguished for his military expertise than for his pastoral achievements. The Scottish prelates, including William Fraser of St.

Andrews and Robert Wishart of Glasgow, had chosen to take up residence at Coldingham Abbey on the Scottish side of the border, a few hours away. On hearing of this arrangement, the night before their arrival in Berwick, Torquil had remarked to Arnault that it was probably native prudence, as much as a desire for civilized comfort, that had prompted the Scottish prelates to put some distance between themselves and Bek's well-armed following.

"Bek may be a bishop," Torquil muttered, "but he's English, and I dinna trust him."