Knights Templar - Temple And The Crown Part 4

"I cannot answer for that, Sire," Bartholeme said smoothly, "but you may be a.s.sured that I am your good servant to command."

Chapter Four.

May, 1306.

TWO DAYS LATER, A GIFT ARRIVED FOR BARTHOLEME FROM King Edward: a rich robe of wine-red velvet, enriched with embroidery of gold bullion and silk and lavishly trimmed with ermine.

Mercurius tested the quality of the fabric with knowledgeable ?ngers, a malicious grin creasing the goblin face as he turned to his master. "My lord would seem to have won high favor with the English king," he remarked.

Bartholeme smiled faintly. "Indeed. Pandering to a king's self-interest has long been an effective way to secure advancement." He paused. "But he has not yet taken me to his service." He considered brie?y, then got to his feet. "We must visit the palace straightaway, to thank the king for his princely gift."

Bartholeme wore the robe for his audience. Afterward, he was invited to attend the king on a private walk around the gardens.

"Tell me, my lord, how much longer do you propose to remain in England?" Edward asked.

"That depends entirely on Your Majesty's good pleasure."

"Then I hope you will bide a while yet," said the king, "for it would please me to see you a frequent visitor amongst us. And you will join us, I hope, at the festivities in honor of my son's coming of age."

"That would please me as well, Sire," Bartholeme replied, with a courtly bow-though he still had not yet been offered the position he sought.

In the several days remaining before the Feast of Pentecost, Bartholeme deftly insinuated himself among the other courtiers who gathered daily in the halls of Westminster, his dwarf always at his side and dressed like his master. It soon became clear to the pair of them that there existed three separate factions at King Edward's court.

The ?rst group comprised the king's personal advisors, mostly senior knights of baronial or comital rank: mature, clear-thinking men of proven loyalty whose versatile capabilities had earned them their places in the king's esteem. Shrewd statesmen and able administrators, these household of?cials formed the core of Edward's government. To them fell the practical burden of keeping the country in order.

"These men are dedicated to upholding their king's interests-as, indeed, they should be," Bartholeme observed to Mercurius. "But we shan't ?nd any allies amongst their ranks."

The second faction revolved not around the king, but around the Prince of Wales: a coterie of young n.o.blemen as arrogant and frivolous as the prince himself. Handsome, pleasure-seeking, and self-indulgent, the members of this faction devoted their days to hunting, hawking, and other forms of courtly entertainment. Their nights were often spent in debauchery.

"Popinjays," Mercurius muttered contemptuously under his breath, as he and Bartholeme observed one night from a minstrel gallery. "But could not some of them perhaps be turned to serve your purposes, my lord?"

"Easily," said Bartholeme, "but what would be the point? Not one of them has any true mettle. Such creatures make poor tools." He gave a snort of contempt as his eye roved the hall below them.

"The Lord Edward himself is more like a play actor than a prince," he went on. "He revels in all the stage trappings of royalty-the wealth, the pomp and circ.u.mstance-but conceives little of the burdens of kings.h.i.+p. With no head for strategy and no stomach for hards.h.i.+p, he will make a poor subst.i.tute for his father when the time comes for him to take the throne. But by then, I hope to have the situation in Scotland well in hand."

The dwarf c.o.c.ked an eyebrow at his master. "Then you have found some suitable allies?"

Bartholeme nodded. "Aye, indeed. Among the exiles and adventurers hovering about the English throne are a number of dispossessed Scots-men who have pledged service to Edward in the hope of regaining their lost lands and honors. Unless I am much mistaken, we should have our pick of candidates vying for the pleasure of knocking Bruce off his precarious throne. And we will be free to deal with the Templars."

The Feast of Pentecost arrived at last, its celebrations to begin with Ma.s.s and the knighting of the Prince of Wales and nearly three hundred other young n.o.bles of the realm in the chapel at Westminster. That alone would have been cause for note, since so large a knighting had never taken place in England, but the banquet that followed would be talked about for generations.

By mid-afternoon, the day's more solemn tasks having been concluded, invited guests had begun to gather outside the Painted Chamber of Westminster. The halls of the palace resounded with gay laughter and the music of pipes and timbrels. Tapers and torches cast a dancing golden glow over the revelers, who were decked out for the occasion in a riot of silks, furs, and ?ne jewels.

When it came time for the feast itself to begin, the doors to the Painted Chamber were ?ung open to admit the guests.

The tables had been arranged to leave an island of open s.p.a.ce in the middle of the ?oor for the performance of various entertainments. Bartholeme arrived in his court attire, and was shown to a place at the king's own table, among the great of?cers of state and the highest lords in the land. Ignoring the haughty glances directed his way, he settled himself comfortably with Mercurius behind his chair and waited for the king to appear.

A ?ourish of trumpets heralded the entrance of Edward and his queen, with the newly knighted Prince of Wales following in close attendance. All present rose as royal heralds escorted the king and his family to canopied chairs at the center of the table. At a nod from Edward, the Archbishop of Canterbury offered up a prayer of grace and thanksgiving, after which a second trumpet ?ourish announced the formal commencement of the meal.

A small army of pages and servants dispersed through the great hall, bearing laden trays and steaming platters. In the course of the next few hours, Edward and his guests dined on a sumptuous array of rich and exotic dishes: geese stuffed with quail, lampreys stewed with oysters, and larks baked in honey, in addition to more commonplace staples such as roast beef and venison and succulent spring lamb.

While they ate, the guests were regaled with a succession of pageants presented by members of some of London's prominent trade guilds, drawing their inspiration both from biblical sources and chivalric romance. Between one presentation and the next, while scenes and drops were being s.h.i.+fted, the performance area became the stage for jugglers, tumblers, dancers, and puppeteers. And throughout it all, music ?oated down from the galleries above, mingling the music of ?ute and recorder with the pulsing beat of tabor and tambourine and the silvery, broken sound of the psaltery and the harp.

As the meal gradually drew to a close-though drinking would continue far into the night-servants returned in droves to carry away the leftovers and trenchers of bread to be distributed among the poor. Shortly, the Archbishop of Canterbury rose to deliver a somewhat ponderous discourse on the virtues and obligations of knighthood. Somewhat to Bartholeme's surprise, the Prince of Wales seemed to be making a sincere effort to attend to the speeches being made in his honor. Following the last of the exhortations, the master of the king's revels struck the ?oor of the hall three times with his rod of of?ce.

An expectant silence fell as a procession of footmen entered from the wings, clad in livery of black velvet quartered with cloth of gold and ushered by heralds wearing tabards of King Edward's arms. The footmen carried on their shoulders a silk-draped bier on which reposed a pair of life-size swans sculpted from ebony, each sinuous neck engorged of a golden and jewel-studded crown, the beaks fas.h.i.+oned of gold and the eyes set with bright-?as.h.i.+ng rubies. The sight caused Bartholeme to sit forward with keen interest, for the statues clearly had been fas.h.i.+oned in the likeness of the Cygnus Hermetis that adorned his signet ring.

These the footmen bore to the royal dais, where the heralds placed the ebony swans on the table before King Edward's high seat, within easy reach of his hand. The king looked very tired after his long day, but got to his feet when the footmen had withdrawn and turned toward Bartholeme, singling him out with a sweep of a beringed hand.

"My lords," he said in a voice that had lost none of its power, "we commend to your esteem the Sieur Bartholeme de Challon, of the court of King Philip of France. Since his arrival, Lord Bartholeme has done us great service through the of?ces of healing. He professes to have learned this wisdom through the arts of alchemy-the symbol of which you see before you, manifested in these swans. Therefore, in salute to Lord Bartholeme, we take to ourself these swans as a sign of lasting triumph against all caitiff enemies of our crown!"

Laying his gnarled hands shakily on the heads of the twin swans, he continued.

"Hear me, and bear witness!" he declared. "By the G.o.d of Heaven and these swans, I hereby swear that I will take no rest until the Lord has given me victory over the crowned traitor Robert Bruce and the perjured nation of Scotland! I further swear that, when the traitor has been dealt with, I shall again make crusade to the Holy Land, so help me G.o.d!"

This oath provoked an outbreak of cheering and cries of af?rmation and support, such that the Prince of Wales likewise was moved to come forward and lay hands on the swans, af?rming his father's oath and swearing never to rest two nights in the same place until he reached Scotland.

"Hear, hear!" came the shouted af?rmations.

"By the swans we swear!" cried an anonymous voice from somewhere in the hall, followed by like cries of, "Death to King Hob!" and "d.a.m.nation to all who follow him!"

As other voices took up the cry, the hall resonated to a noise like thunder as men stamped their feet and pounded on the tables and cheered, many others crowding forward to lay hands on the swans and add their af?rmation. Only when the cheering at last subsided did Bartholeme rise to stand silently at his seat, his action stilling the commotion.

"Sire," he said, with a slight bow from where he stood, "while this occasion is still upon us, I beg leave to ask a boon of you."

King Edward was still standing behind the swans, his face waxen with fatigue, but the gaze he directed toward Bartholeme was gimlet-sharp, and his reply fell into utter silence.

"You have my ear, my lord," he said.

Swift-moving as a hunting cat, Bartholeme approached the royal dais to lay his hands on the heads of the two swans between them.

"My request, Sire, is this," he proclaimed in a voice that all could hear. "I ask that you accept my service, as you have accepted the services of these many new knights of your household. Give me leave to accompany you when you take to the ?eld against King Hob, and I pledge to harry your foes to the brink of death and beyond!"

This declaration brought a gaunt smile to the king's lips and a pounding of hands and cups on the tables as Edward's men registered their approval, though Bartholeme knew they had no idea how literally he had meant his pledge. Their acclamation died away as the king lifted a hand for silence.

"There is no boon you could ask, Lord Bartholeme, that I would more willingly grant than this," King Edward declared. "If you can swear to me that you are free of all prior obligations, then I shall be pleased to accept the offer of your sword."

"In all save loyalty to my own land and king, Sire, I do so swear," said Bartholeme. "Your enemies shall be my enemies."

Edward's smile broadened. "Then I decree that from this moment, you shall be counted among the knights of my personal household-and glad am I of your company!"

A faint smile of satisfaction curved at the Frenchman's lips as he bent to kiss the king's hand.

Following the events of Pentecost, the visiting families of the newly ?edged knights gave up their lodgings and began dispersing to their homes, and the young knights themselves made ready to depart with the king and the Prince of Wales on the march north into Scotland. There they planned to rendezvous with the English forces already in the ?eld, after which young Edward of Caernarvon would a.s.sume overall command of the English army on behalf of his father, whose health remained precarious.

Bartholeme de Challon also prepared to leave for Scotland, and on the eve of their departure invited two young Scots n.o.bles to dine with him at his lodgings, both of them from families with a history of personal rivalry against the Bruces of Carrick. John Macdougall of Lorn was a ?rst cousin to Bruce's late adversary, John Comyn, and considered himself honor-bound to avenge the death of his kinsman. Sir Alexander Abernethy still professed allegiance to the deposed John Balliol, and bitterly resented Bruce a.s.suming the Scottish crown. Big, bullheaded, and ruddy, Abernethy arrived in a belligerent mood, barging ahead of Lorn as Mercurius admitted them and then retired.

"We have just come from having words with one of the prince's posturing companions," he growled, as Bartholeme directed both him and Lorn to seats in the snug before the ?re. "That strutting popinjay had the audacity to throw the name of Toom Tabard in my face, claiming Scotland to be justly subject to England by nature no less than by law."

Bartholeme controlled a smile as he turned away to pour wine into two pewter cups. "Toom Tabard," or "empty coat," was the nickname derisively applied to John Balliol, after he had been publicly stripped of his kingly rank and regalia by King Edward. Ten years after Balliol's submission, the name still rankled among those who came from north of the border.

"I was minded to crack his empty head for him," Abernethy continued in the same resentful rumble, "but Lorn here would have none of it."

"Aye, and lucky for you that I dragged you off," Lorn retorted, "for yon lady-faced p.r.i.c.kasour was none other than Piers Gaveston, the Lord Edward's favorite."

At this Bartholeme intervened, pa.s.sing ?lled cups to both men.

"Gaveston is nothing more than an empty codpiece," he said dismissively. "You might as well take offense at a b.i.t.c.h breaking wind under the table as give ear to a word he says.

You won't win back your lands by thras.h.i.+ng lapdogs. Save the strength of your arm for taking on Bruce."

Abernethy's brow darkened at this mention of their adversary.

"Bruce!" His tone laced the name with contempt. "Aye, the sooner we march north, the better. And when we get there, we'll see who does the lion's share of the thras.h.i.+ng- the likes of us, or the Lord Edward and his parcel of dandies."

"I would not dismiss the prince out of hand," Bartholeme said. "He will be your next king, and he has won his share of tournaments."

"True," said Lorn, "but he's nae the general his father is. Someone ought to warn him that real battles are nae fought by the rules of chivalry."

"Especially not when you're dealing with a back-stabbing traitor like Robert Bruce," Abernethy grumbled.

"Like him or not, Bruce will not be easily beaten," Bartholeme pointed out. "To get the better of him, you may be forced to ?ght ?re with ?re."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Lorn asked.

Bartholeme affected a look of surprise. "You are aware, are you not, that Bruce has been receiving a.s.sistance from the Order of the Temple?"

"We've heard reports of Templars being seen in Bruce's camp," Lorn said cautiously. "We understood that they were acting merely as observers."

"Doubtless that's what they'd like the rest of the world to believe," Bartholeme said. "But let me a.s.sure you that the Templars' interest in Scottish affairs is far from impartial."

He paused to replenish their cups before continuing, relis.h.i.+ng their looks of question as he took up his own.

"Since the loss of Acre, all the military orders have been forced to redirect their activities," he said, after taking a sip. "The Teutonic Knights have found a new theater of operations in the Baltic. The Knights of the Hospital are poised for action against the pagans and heretics on the fringes of the Byzantine Empire.

For the Templars to launch a new crusade against the Saracens to the south would be rankest folly. With their rivals already on the move toward the north and east, where else are they to go, but west?"

Lorn's brow darkened. "Are you suggesting that the Templars want to make a new home for themselves in Scotland?"

Bartholeme nodded. "And to ensure that they ?nd welcome, they are said to be placing the Order's resources at Bruce's disposal. All the resources," he added with emphasis.

"Stop hinting and make yourself clear," Abernethy snapped impatiently.

Bartholeme lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You have probably heard rumors condemning the Templars as sorcerers and heretics?" He nodded in echo of their startled nods. "I very much fear that those rumors are not without foundation. Through traf?cking with the Jews and the Muslims, they have gained access to powers above and beyond the realms of nature. If Bruce has consented to become their puppet, they will use these powers to defeat King Edward and secure their own interests."

Lorn and Abernethy exchanged glances, and the latter set down his cup.

"If what you say is true, what can we do to stop them?"

Bartholeme smiled coldly. "I have crossed swords with the Templars myself before now, and I tell you that the only way to combat Templar sorcery is by invoking supernatural forces hostile to those at their command. I can teach you how to harness such powers. but I do have my price."

"Name it," Lorn said coldly.

"I want something which the rebels have in their possession," Bartholeme replied. "I want the Stone of Destiny."

"You're too late," Abernethy said. "King Edward has already taken it."

"Perhaps you are not aware that the stone at Westminster is a fake," Bartholeme said carefully, "and not a very good one at that. Let the king keep his trumpery trophy. When we have disposed of Bruce, I claim the real Stone as my reward."

"What is the Stone to you?" Lorn demanded.

Bartholeme took a sip of wine and lounged back in his chair. "What do you know of the science of alchemy?"

His two listeners exchanged nervous glances, but their uncertainty was laced with respect.

"I have heard," said Lorn, "that those who practice it seek a secret knowledge by which lead may be changed into gold."

"That tale embodies only as much of the truth as the vulgar mind can understand," Bartholeme said.

"There are always pretenders, of course, willing to cheat the credulous, but true alchemy is deeply rooted in mysteries older than Christianity. And the transformation of base metals is only a tri?ing expression of a far greater power."

Abernethy looked somewhat skeptical, but Lorn leaned forward with narrowed eyes.

"Nothing in the world exists," Bartholeme continued, "without some ?aw or weakness which contributes to its destruction. The Church would have us believe that disease, in?rmity, and death are the consequences of Original Sin. The prelates preach that Man's only recourse is to seek salvation from G.o.d, who alone has the power to confer eternal life. But I tell you now that, for those daring enough to seek immortality on their own terms, alchemy offers another way."

"How?" Abernethy asked.

"By means of the philosophers' stone," Bartholeme said, "which causes all things in nature to conform to their ideal of perfection. The physically whole and perfect man is a man immune to the ravages of mortality. That is what makes the philosophers' stone the ultimate object of the alchemist's quest-and that is what the Stone of Destiny is: a philosophers' stone, a lapis philosophorum."

Both the Scottish lords looked startled. It was Abernethy who ?rst found his tongue.

"What makes you so sure of that?" he asked.

"I belong to an alchemical brotherhood who have made the Stone an object of lifelong study,"

Bartholeme replied. "In some ancient traditions, the philosophers' stone has another name: the lapis exillis caelis-the Stone Fallen from Heaven. We have reason to believe that the Stone of Destiny and the lapis exillis are one and the same." He paused a beat. "Shall I go on?"

Abernethy seemed to have trouble swallowing, but Lorn was slowly nodding.

Bartholeme inclined his head with a faint smile.