Knights Templar - Temple And The Crown Part 10

Inside the fastness of the Paris Temple, Arnault heard the cries. s.n.a.t.c.hing up his sword, still dreaming, he rushed out through the gates to set off after the rats. In a cobbled cul-de-sac near the Porte St. Denis, he found a teeming mat of them swarming up the doorstep of a modest house. But before he could turn them back, the sheer weight of the rats burst the door's hinges and they poured inside, screeching and chittering for blood.

Arnault charged in after them, crus.h.i.+ng some under his boots, ?aying about him with his sword-but there were always more. Fighting his way up a narrow stair, he came face-to-face with a frail old man with a patriarchal beard, his lined face contorted in a rictus of horror. Askew on his h.o.a.ry head, only noted at second glance, was a peaked yellow cap that marked him as a Jew.

And behind the old man, the h.e.l.l-rats had already savaged his family. In the room beyond, Arnault saw a woman, a man, and two young boys lying dead in their own blood. The rats were swarming over the body of the woman, stripping the ?esh from the bones. And before Arnault's horri?ed eyes, the rats'

bodies melded and merged into new ?esh that rose up in grotesque mockery of human form-a lean, wiry man with lank, dark hair and pale eyes.

Guillaume de Nogaret!

The shock of recognition jolted Arnault from sleep, to ?nd himself standing barefoot in the Temple's cobbled outer courtyard, clad only in his s.h.i.+rt and sheepskin trews, right hand knotted around the hilt of his sword and with no clear recollection of how he came to be there. The sky to the east showed the pale glimmer of dawn, and as he swayed on his feet, trying to collect his bearings, he became aware of rough voices and running feet converging on the Temple gate from outside-a sound he had heard all too recently: the ugly snarl of a mob in pursuit of its prey.

An alarm rang out from the main gatehouse. Other knight-brothers and lay servants were already pouring into the yard, swords in hand, as a frantic hammering broke out from the postern gate in the south wall.

Already in motion, Arnault set out across the yard with scant regard for his unshod state, collecting several other knights along the way.

The watch had already opened the postern gate when he got there, and two brothers of the watch were bending over a limp form crumpled before the opening: an old man in tattered garments, his silver hair matted with blood from an ugly head wound. When Arnault bent down to turn the old man's face to the light, he was shocked to see the elderly Jewish man of his dream.

Meanwhile, there came a fresh burst of noise from outside, as a motley crowd of townsmen erupted from the shadows of an adjoining street, brandis.h.i.+ng clubs and ?eshers' knives and other crude weapons. Their leader was a burly, blond-bearded man in a blacksmith's leather ap.r.o.n, who let out a hoa.r.s.e whoop of elation as he saw the old man being dragged through the postern gate.

"There he is, lads!" he shouted, pointing. "Don't let them take him!"

The mob surged forward. Letting the men of the watch drag the old man inside, Arnault directed several better-armed knights into the doorway around him and lifted his sword to sight down the blade at the old man's pursuers.

"That's far enough!" he said sharply. "You have no business here."

The mob came to a stumbling halt. Their leader hefted a wicked-looking hammer in beefy hands and planted his feet de?antly. "Oh, yes, we do. We're here to carry out the king's orders."

"And which orders would those be?" Arnault inquired on a note of dangerous calm.

"The king has ordered all Jews expelled from the kingdom," came the de?ant reply. "The sooner we rid ourselves of these soulless child-killers, the better for all!"

Arnault raked the mob leader with an icy glare, and the knights to either side of him took half a step forward, weapons at the ready. Recent months had seen a resurgence of the old, old ?ction that the Jews were sorcerers who kidnapped and murdered Christian children to serve their impious blood rites. In a ?ash, it came to him that Philip was after the wealth of the Jews, and had spread the lies to justify taking it. And if he was brazen enough to seize the Jews' gold, the Temple's wealth might well be next.

"Whatever the king's orders may be," he said evenly, "you and your companions have no mandate to act as executioners. Now, be off with you, while you still have time to repent of your folly."

An angry ?ush suffused the blond man's face.

"You don't frighten me, Templar!" he bl.u.s.tered. "We'll not let you or anyone else stand in the way of the king's justice!"

He hefted his hammer again and started forward, several companions in his wake. Arnault let him come within arm's reach, then dealt him a stunning blow with the ?at of his sword. The blond man went down like a felled ox, and the others skittered back.

"Now, get you gone," Arnault ordered, "and take him with you-before my brothers and I forget we are sworn not to shed Christian blood!"

The remaining members of the mob recoiled before his anger, though two of them dared to dart in and seize their felled leader; but the sight of a dozen more armed knights pouring through the gate to fan out before it quelled any lingering bravado. Sullenly the crowd retreated into the shadows, muttering darkly amongst themselves. As soon as they had disappeared from sight, Arnault summoned the sortie party back inside and singled out two of his subordinates.

"Find Father Christoph and Brother Gaspar and tell them what has happened," he instructed them. "They have friends and acquaintances among the city's Jewish community who may be in need of a.s.sistance.

And inform the Visitor."

Directing the remaining knights to secure the gate and keep close watch, Arnault crouched down beside the old Jew. As he laid aside his sword, glancing at the lay brother examining the old man's wounds, the patient stirred.

His eyelids ?uttered open, and his wandering gaze lighted on Arnault's face. One eye was nearly swollen shut, but the other widened as he reached out to clutch at Arnault's sleeve, a low groan escaping from between battered lips.

"No, don't try to speak, friend," Arnault murmured, clasping the old man's hand. "Rest easy. You're out of danger now."

The old man gave an agitated shake of his head. "No. No safety here. Fire and the sword-"

A shudder racked his battered frame, cutting off his utterance, and the lay brother slid an arm under his shoulders to raise him up.

"Give me some help here," he instructed. "We need to get this man to the in?rmary."

Arnault bent to comply, gathering his arms under the injured man's legs; but before they could lift him, the old Jew gave another s.h.i.+ver and opened his eyes wide, with a quivering fore?nger sweeping across all the Templars present.

"The Law will be your death!" he cried in a loud, harsh voice. "And the Law will set you free!"

Startled, Arnault stared at him, but before he could muster a question, the old man gave a bubbling cough. As dark blood trickled from between his broken lips, the dark eyes went gla.s.sy and he slumped back lifeless against the supporting brother's arm.

Chapter Ten.

July, 1306.

FAR IN THE WEST OF SCOTLAND, A FEW WEEKS LATER, YET another summer storm scoured at the slated roofs and stone walls of Dunollie Castle. The winds that swept in off the Bay of Lorn invaded every corner of the keep, sending cold drafts whisking up and down its narrow corridors like invisible rats. The sullen ?re tucked into a corner ?replace of one of the guest chambers did little to dispel the cold or to banish the smell of damp, and the stone walls wept with a bloom of condensation.

"Master, I have seen better-appointed cow byres than this hovel the lord of Lorn is pleased to call his family honor," Mercurius grumbled, huddling closer to the chimney breast. "How much longer must we languish here?"

"Long enough to ensure Bruce's capture," Bartholeme replied. "And I want to be around, when it happens." He was sitting near the room's single window, gazing out at the rain while he honed a dagger on a whetstone. "I don't want him killed before I can question him about the whereabouts of the Stone of Destiny."

It had been nearly six weeks since the engagement at Methven. Failing to apprehend Bruce on the battle?eld, the Earl of Pembroke had dispersed his forces with orders to hunt down the royal fugitive. His allies among the Scottish lords had been sent home to patrol their own ancestral territories, spurred on by the promise of rich rewards for the man who could take Bruce alive. The rebel king was still at large, but Bartholeme was determined that this state of affairs would soon end.

Mercurius, tossing more wood on the meager ?re, was not so con?dent, and recoiled cursing when a gust of wind down the chimney sent a cloud of smoke and soot billowing into the room. He was coughing and slapping ash from his clothing as he retreated nearer to Bartholeme and the window.

"Master, what makes you so certain that Bruce must come this way?" he asked.

Bartholeme tried the edge of his blade against his thumb, then resumed his slow, steady sweep against the whetstone. "It's the only avenue still open to him," he said, not looking up. "The Borders are effectively closed, and Pembroke has secured all the east coast ports from Berwick to Banff. Meanwhile, the Comyn earls of Badenoch and Buchan have tightened their hold on the North-and Bruce will know this. I suspect that he is far too canny to attempt slipping past them for an escape to Norway.

"No," he continued, "his sole remaining hope for sanctuary and support lies with his wife's father, the Earl of Ulster. The safest route to Ireland is by way of the Mull of Kintyre, which lies but a day or two from here. Sooner or later, Bruce will be forced to turn south-and when he does, we will be on hand to seize him."

Mercurius c.o.c.ked an ear toward the door as footsteps approached.

"Someone's coming, Master."

Bartholeme was already rising, his dagger sliding into a boot-top sheath as the footsteps halted just outside the door. A peremptory knock heralded the precipitous entrance of John Macdougall of Lorn, the castle's owner. Clenched in one ?st was a crumpled sheet of parchment bearing fragments of a broken seal. Mercurius retired discreetly to the shadows of the chimney corner.

"So much for our plans to let Bruce come to us!" Lorn blurted, brandis.h.i.+ng the parchment. "A messenger just delivered this. It's an order from the Earl of Pembroke to gather my following and return immediately to Perth."

It cost Bartholeme an effort to mask his annoyance at this threatened upset of his plans. "I a.s.sume," he said, "that Pembroke gives some reason for the urgency of the summons?"

Lorn emitted a rumble of disgust. "The Prince of Wales has come north from Carlisle, bringing substantial reinforcements. All who have sworn fealty to the English crown are ordered to Perth straightway to attend a council of war."

"Where is the Lord Edward at present?"

"Dumfriess.h.i.+re, according to this," Lorn replied. "He turned aside just north of the Borders to receive the surrender of Lochmaben Castle-which at least closes another door on Bruce! He'll remain there long enough to dispense justice. Then he'll be on his way again. We're all expected to be waiting in Perth when he arrives."

Bartholeme pinched his lip thoughtfully. "Inconvenient timing-but it still gives us a few days to hunt Bruce down."

"We've been doing that for weeks-and look where it's got us. He could be anywhere!"

"No, he is somewhere," Bartholeme said, his voice trailing on a note of speculation. "Leave me to think, and I'll let you know what I come up with."

Lorn bristled resentfully, but a look at the Frenchman's face caused him to swallow his arguments and retire from the room. When the door had closed behind him, Bartholeme cast a pointed gaze toward the shadows of the chimney corner.

"Mercurius," he drawled, "I fancy a game of chess. Be so good as to fetch the pieces."

The dwarf gave him a knowing grin and, while Bartholeme secured the door, went to the traveling chest set under the window and dragged it into the center of the room. There he took from a compartment at its bottom a checkered game board and a ?at, bra.s.s-bound box containing a set of chess pieces, half carved from ivory and half from jet.

Cus.h.i.+oning the pieces was a folded square of black silk, which he shook out and spread over the chest before laying out the checkered board, careful to align the corners according to the cardinal points of the compa.s.s. He then brought a pair of stools to ?ank the chest, straddling one and beginning to lay out the game pieces-not to begin a new game of mere diversion, but to establish the positions in a more deadly game already in progress.

Bartholeme, meanwhile, prepared the room itself, unsheathing his dagger to anoint its tip with a mixture of spittle and adder's venom taken from a vial he removed from the medicine chest beside his bed. Then, invoking the powers of darkness with a muttered incantation, he used the dagger's envenomed point to sketch a large pentagram on the ?oor, its center encompa.s.sing the chessboard and the two stools. He sealed the pentagram with a tracery of power, then cleaned the blade, sheathed it, and claimed the stool opposite Mercurius.

The dwarf was seated on the side of the board dominated by the black pieces. From behind the ranks of white pieces, Bartholeme surveyed the state of play.

"Bon," he declared, "but the balance of the game has s.h.i.+fted since Methven. We must begin by removing the pieces that are no longer in play." He plucked the two white bishops from the board. "These are Lamberton of St. Andrews and Wishart of Glasgow, both now bound for imprisonment in England.

Better, had they been executed like the others, but they can do little harm where they are going." He dropped the two white bishops into the box with a clatter of ivory against wood. "May they live to see the extinction of their hopes.

"These p.a.w.ns I likewise declare forfeit," he continued, plucking more white pieces from the board as he spoke the names. "Simon Fraser. Alexander Scrymgeour. Christopher Seton.William Gourlay. May their death agonies feed and strengthen the power of their foes!"

More ivory pieces clattered into the box, whereupon he reached for the two rooks.

"Here are the castles of Lochmaben and Dumfries, which the fortunes of war have delivered into English hands. May the Scottish loss of these citadels be a sign of things to come!"

Only seven white pieces remained on the board: the ivory king, the queen, three p.a.w.ns, and two knights.

Bartholeme cast them into shadow as he pa.s.sed his hands over them in a gesture of conjuration.

"Here is Bruce," he declared. "And here is his queen, with her attendants following. Here are the Knights Templar, their would-be protectors. The maledictions of the Lords Infernal be upon them, waking or sleeping! From this moment onward, let the forces of destruction shadow their every move!"

For an instant, all the light in the room seemed to falter, though a hint of ?relight re?ecting on the remaining white pieces somehow cast a faint glow over Bartholeme's face, giving it a skeletal aspect.

"Now for the work of the night," he breathed. "Mercurius, are you ready?"

"Yes, Master," came the eager answer.

Faintly smirking, Bartholeme slipped the black swan signet from his ?nger and took from his sleeve a skein of dried catgut. This he threaded through the circle of the ring, tying the ends together with an intricate knot whose peculiarities bound and harnessed dark arcane energies. As he let the ring dangle over the game board, grasping the length of gut by its knot, the dwarf settled in antic.i.p.ation, stubby hands braced on his knees, ?xing his gaze on the ring as Bartholeme set it gently swinging like a pendulum.

"The swan is a symbol of perfection," Bartholeme whispered in a sibilant, singsong tone. "Perfection is the key to wholeness. Be one in spirit with the swan, and embrace the wisdom of Hermes. Surrender your will to the great Darkness which is the krater of transformation."

Mercurius's eyelids drooped as he watched the pendulum swing above the board, the long lashes ?uttering and ?nally closing over the beautiful eyes as he exhaled softly, coa.r.s.e features relaxing. As he sank deeper into trance, Bartholeme slipped the loop of catgut over the dwarf's head and around his neck. Then, keeping hold of the ring, he invoked by name the spirit of his ancestral familiar.

"Hear me, ye gates of h.e.l.l," he whispered. "I summon to this time and place Thierry de Challon, who once was Magister of Shadows and now is thrall to the Dark Lords. In the name of Lucifer Prince of Darkness, I call you forth, Thierry de Challon, from the womb of infernal night! Be present here, in this living vessel who waits to receive you, and speak through his mouth!"

A noise like rus.h.i.+ng wind invaded the room. In that instant, the dwarf gasped and his misshapen body went rigid, stubby hands reaching out to brace against the edge of the trunk. The beautiful eyes snapped open, unseeing, but now lit by an eerie gleam betokening intelligence of a far different magnitude than that of the dwarf known as Mercurius. As the ?eshy lips parted to speak, there issued a deep, harsh voice wholly unlike his own.

"I hear and attend," came the whispered response. "Ask what you will."

Bartholeme's eyes narrowed, taking on a predatory gleam. "I seek Robert Bruce, the One chosen by Many. Cast your vision over the land and tell me where he is to be found in this present moment."

"I hear and obey."

Eyes unseeing, moving his arms with the stiff, jerky motion of a marionette controlled by invisible strings, Mercurius began rearranging the chess pieces on the board between them, placing the white king and queen, the white knights, and the remaining white p.a.w.ns in a beleaguered cl.u.s.ter at the center of the board. Around them his stumpy hands positioned the black pieces, their array growing ever more threatening as the ent.i.ty possessing him related its vision.

"I see a village beside a great waterfall. and a ragged column of men marching westward along the bank of a wide river." The voice gained in strength and volume as it continued-and was not that of Mercurius.

"In their midst rides the White King, with the White Queen at his side, and four other women."

Bartholeme's smile held a sly satisfaction, for the whereabouts of Bruce's wife, Elizabeth de Burgh, and the other female members of Bruce's family had been previously unknown.

"Excellent! We will capture the king and queen together, in a single move. If Bruce declines to trade the Stone of Destiny for his own life, most a.s.suredly he will yield it up for the life of his consort."

"First you must overcome their guardian knights," the alien voice warned.

"It will take more than two Templars to deny me this prize!" Bartholeme retorted. "Where will Bruce be tomorrow?"

"He follows the river's course west, then north," came the reply. "Before him lies the gateway to an open valley-"

The voice abruptly ceased, and Bartholeme leaned forward with a scowl.

"Continue."

The dwarf's face contorted in a grimace of pain, but his lips parted again, the voice of Thierry de Challon taking on a harsher note.

"The valley bears the name of a Christian saint," came the strained reply. "Those who dwell in the sight of the Prince of Darkness are forbidden to speak it."

"The name I can learn for myself," Bartholeme said impatiently. "Will Bruce enter this valley?"

"He will."

"Where will he go from there?"

"I cannot tell. The saint's in?uence clouds my sight."

When Bartholeme attempted to press the matter, the dwarf's body began to manifest signs of stress.