Knights Templar - Temple And The Crown Part 43

"Precisely my intention," Bartholeme replied. "Come. We have preparations to make."

He nominated Rodolphe, Thibault, and Mercurius to serve as his acolytes, though all of the Black Knights save those on watch would witness and support the working. Before beginning, each of them donned a protective amulet to render them immune to their own destructive enchantments.

On the s.p.a.ce of open ground in the midst of their pavilions, the men marked out a sorcerous triangle, ?xing its points with staves of ashwood. This was circ.u.mscribed, in turn, by a shallow circular trench into which the alchemists set shallow containers of incendiary oils.

The long twilight deepened. As the sun ?nally dipped toward the horizon, they carefully noted its vanis.h.i.+ng point.

"The light of the world has departed!" Bartholeme ?nally proclaimed, on a note of predatory satisfaction.

"Fetch the prisoner! We must make the most of our few hours of darkness."

Wrists trussed behind him and tied to his bound ankles, the captured monk lay s.h.i.+vering in the corner of Mercurius's tent, his white habit besmirched with blood and hanging in tatters about his wiry frame.

Chuckling under his breath, Mercurius ?ung a halter of braided rope around the prisoner's neck and, with the help of two of his master's men-at-arms, dragged his victim outside into the open air.

Bartholeme beckoned them toward the alchemist's circle. Ignoring the prisoner's feeble resistance, his handlers carried him across the trench into the middle of the triangle, where they tethered him by his neck halter to an iron stake driven into the ground at the center of the con?guration.

The halter was secured by a loose slipknot that tightened sharply when the captive attempted to struggle, and backed off when the struggles subsided. Choked nearly to unconsciousness, the monk lay curled on his side with closed eyes, his bloodless lips moving in silent prayer.

"Don't think that pious words will save you," Mercurius jeered, making sure of the bonds. "You're already a dead man-the ?rst of many!"

Ordering the subordinate members of their retinue to retreat to a safe distance outside the trench circle, Bartholeme supplied each of his chosen acolytes with a hollow globe of alchemical gla.s.s, each containing a different mixture of sorcerous chemicals. He kept one for himself as well, as the four of them dispersed to the four cardinal points of the compa.s.s. The three acolytes abased themselves as Bartholeme set his gla.s.s globe at his feet and spread his arms wide in a gesture of summoning.

"Great Lucifer, confer upon us, we beseech you, the powers of desecration!" he said. "Let our enemies feel the might of your hand, which brings eternal Darkness!"

He spat into the trench. The oil ignited with a rush, encircling the prisoner in a ?ickering annulus of ?re.

"Behold the Ring of Desolation, the First Mystery of Zosimos!" Bartholeme declared. "Let its boundaries extend to all who profess themselves servants or friends of the Temple."

He indicated the prisoner with a stab of his hand, then stooped to pick up his globe, cupping it in his right hand as he sketched an arcane symbol in the air above it with his left. The gray liquid sealed within the globe began to bubble and change hue, ?uctuating from livid blue to venomous green.

"I call upon Gzul, bane of water," Bartholeme said. "By the tears of Kaa, I summon and bind you in accordance with the Third Mystery of Zosimos. Send forth an effusion of vapors from the river of death!"

With these words, he dashed the globe to the ground within the compa.s.s of the circle. It shattered on impact, splattering the turf with a greasy rainbow of color that gradually resolved into thin tendrils of fog.

Like hungry worms, the tendrils began reaching out toward the prisoner in the circle's center, who recoiled ineffectually, only to be choked short by the noose around his neck.

Rodolphe smiled coldly at his distress, executing a ritual gesture over the sphere in his hand as he cried, "I call upon Zoath, bane of earth. By the spittle of Kuum, I summon and bind you in accordance with the Fifth Mystery of Zosimos. Send forth a contagion of dust from the plain of Sodom!"

He shattered his globe against the ground. From the midst of its shards, a ?ne scattering of sand spilled across the earth. Like a plague of tiny insects, the grains began to creep toward the prisoner. The monk tried to roll to the limits of his tether, wide-eyed with horror as they continued to advance, his lips still moving feverishly in prayer.

Thibault was the next to speak, lifting his sphere in salute to what they called as he, too, sketched a mystic sign.

"I call upon Ythkar, bane of air. By the breath of Pta, I summon and bind you in accordance with the Seventh Mystery of Zosimos! Send forth an af?iction of cries from the mouths of the children of Lilith!"

The splintering of his sphere released neither fog nor dust, but a ghostly keening that set the teeth on edge. The shrilling mingled with the sand and fog, forming a contained storm of elements.

"I call upon Oa, bane of ?re," Mercurius rasped in his rough voice, lifting his sphere in stubby hands. "By the blood of Shak, I summon and bind you in accordance with the Ninth Mystery of Zosimos! Send forth a malediction of fevers from the well of the inferno!"

His globe, upon shattering, released a swarm of ?ery motes that, like burning wasps, joined the wailing storm. As the swirl of elemental evil spiraled inward to overwhelm the captive monk, he managed only a choking sob of mortal despair. None present could be certain whether the victim heard Bartholeme's ?nal words: "I name you Shuel, the plague-carrier! Through you shall a mortal pestilence be released upon the Templars and all who stand by them!"

In the leafy depths of the New Park, the greater part of the Scottish rebel army lay in ?tful sleep, catching what rest they could while the darkness lasted. Arnault was dozing uneasily when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and roused at once to see Torquil bending over him.

"A deserter has arrived from the English camp, claiming to have urgent information for the king," Torquil said quietly. "I thought you should be present to hear what he has to say."

Arnault ?ung off his blanket and stood up, buckling on his sword as he followed Torquil to Bruce's tent.

Closeted with the king was a grizzled n.o.bleman whose accents proclaimed his Scottish origins.

"There's devilry afoot in the English camp," the man was muttering. "If I hadna seen it with my own eyes."

As the man shuddered and crossed himself, Bruce caught Arnault's eye.

"This is Sir Alexander Seton," he said. "He was with us at Turnberry, but then he lost faith in our cause for a while, and has been serving the English-as have many good Scots. But he has just been telling me about a band of French knights who joined King Edward's service under the banner of a black swan. I very much doubt that he was meant to see what he saw, but-tell them, Seton, exactly what you told me."

Seton gave a nervous nod, hugging his shoulders to suppress another shudder. "It was G.o.d-awful," he whispered. "I hope never to see its likes again. I think they were conducting some kind of sorcerous ceremony. They were tormenting a prisoner. From where I was standing, he looked to be a monk of some kind. He was wearing white robes. Or at least, they were meant to be white."

Arnault glanced sharply at Torquil, his blood running cold, for there was no doubt in his mind that Seton was describing Brother Ciaran.

"Three of those Black Swan Knights were muttering charms over a ?re pit," Seton continued. "And there was a dwarf with them; he was muttering, too, and the poor monk was writhing on the ground, with a halter around his neck that was choking him if he moved-but he couldn't not move, because he was in such pain. If this is how King Edward hopes to win his victory, I want no part in his cause."

He drew a steadying breath and ?xed his gaze on Bruce. "My lord King, now is the time, if ever you mean to win Scotland. The English have lost heart. They are discom?ted, and expect nothing but a sudden and open attack. I swear, on my head and on pain of being hanged and drawn, that if you attack them in the morning, you will defeat them easily, without loss of-"

At that moment, racing footbeats heralded the arrival of one of the schiltron captains.

"Trouble, Sire," he gasped. "Where is Father Ninian? Our chaplain, Brother Fionn, has taken a ?t of some kind! It- don't look natural to me!"

Arnault and Torquil set off on the run, Bruce close behind. They found the Columban brother writhing on the ground, his eyes wide-open, staring blankly at nothing. His skin had an uncanny, phosph.o.r.escent pallor, and when Arnault bent to examine him, he discovered the other man's pulse was racing.

Other denizens of the camp were drifting over, peering and muttering.

"Keep everyone else away!" Arnault ordered, with a glance up at Torquil. "This is no natural illness."

As Torquil moved to disperse the onlookers, also waving the king back, Father Ninian arrived, white and breathless, the Brecbennach under one arm.

"Someone told me that Brother Fionn-dear G.o.d!" he breathed, as his eyes lit on the stricken monk. He dropped to his knees and gingerly touched Fionn's forehead, then crossed himself quickly.

"We must seal the area immediately," he murmured. "There is great evil about."

"We'll take care of it," Arnault said. "See what you can do for Fionn. Sire, stay well back-please!"

Yielding his place to the Columban abbot, he helped Torquil set the necessary wards in place. By the time they rejoined Ninian, Breville had also arrived and Fionn's condition had worsened alarmingly. A rash of blisters erupted across his skin, swelling and cracking before their very eyes. He was burning with fever. Blind to their presence, the stricken monk thrashed from side to side groaning in anguish.

"If only we had kept that healing talisman," Torquil murmured, appalled.

"Aye, it's like a disease, but it's advancing far too quickly," Breville agreed. "It's as if some deadly plague were devouring him before our very-"

He stopped short as a dread possibility occurred to him, but Ninian spoke his thoughts aloud.

"It is a plague-a plague set upon us by our enemies!" he whispered, signing himself in blessing. "And it must be contained before it spreads to every soul within this camp."

From the folds of his robe he produced the Brecbennach reliquary. This he touched reverently to his lips before setting it on Fionn's chest, laying his hands ?at upon the peaked lid to hold it in place as he offered up a pet.i.tion for a.s.sistance from the one whose relics were contained therein.

"Father Columba, again we have need of your aid. Speak for us in the councils of heaven. From ?ood and ?re, From wind and rain, From woundings and fevers, Deliver this, your servant."

The others joined their prayers with his. Just when Arnault feared they must surely fail, he suddenly felt the breath of a fresh and fragrant breeze brush past his cheek. An unearthly brightness suffused the air in the clearing, and a s.h.i.+mmering Presence took shape.

Or rather, two Presences.

In the lesser of the two, Arnault sensed the luminous likeness of Brother Ciaran. The greater Presence he recognized with awe as Saint Columba, who had presided over Bruce's mystical enthronement. As Ciaran looked on, the saint stooped gracefully over Fionn's ravaged body. Hands translucent as pearl reached out in a gesture of welcoming summons.

Like a child awaking to the sound of a loving voice, Fionn's soul arose from its corporeal frame. Graceful as a dove, it ascended into the embrace of its summoner, who received it with a kiss of peace. A fragrance like roses ?lled the glade, erasing the corruption of disease. The next instant, a s.h.i.+mmering blaze of white ?re descended and enveloped Fionn's mortal remains.

A blinding light ?lled the glade, masking the spiritual forms of Columba and his disciples. The blaze scoured the ground and puri?ed the air, forcing all present to avert their dazzled eyes. When the light abated, there was nothing left of Fionn's corpse but a feathery tracery of harmless ash.

From their encampment on the edge of the Ca.r.s.e, Bartholeme sensed the sudden change in the air and knew, in that instant, that their attack had been thwarted. With a curse, he ordered his men to leap back from the boundaries of their working triangle, himself remaining only long enough to hurl a nullifying alchemical powder over the circle of ?re.

The next instant, a blast of invisible energy came searing down like a thunderbolt. The disease-ridden corpse of their prisoner vanished in a rainbow ?ash of raw power.

Like a blast from a furnace, the same cleansing power roared outward to the boundaries of the enclosing circle, sweeping away the last of Bartholeme's enchantment. The knights nearest the center of the explosion were bowled off their feet. When the air stopped ringing, they found that their working ground had been scorched to the bare earth.

Shaken, Rodolphe turned to confront Bartholeme, who was picking himself up off the ground.

"It seems you underestimated the resources of our enemies."

Bartholeme shrugged, brus.h.i.+ng ash from his clothing and stilling the trembling of his hand. "If we fell short of the success we hoped for, we still had the best of the encounter: The Templars and their allies have lost at least a few lives they could ill afford to spare. And we are still at full strength."

"What are your plans for tomorrow?" Thibault asked.

Bartholeme's eyes narrowed, and his teeth showed in a feral grin. "To let the English chivalry bear the brunt of the battle. And then, when the time is ripe, we will strike at the very heart of the Scottish army: Robert Bruce himself."

Chapter Forty-three.

June 24, 1314 A FEW FAINT STARS LINGERED AS THE BRIEF SUMMER NIGHT faded into dawn and the Scottish soldiers were roused from their rest by the insistent voices and boot prods of their captains.

When the men had eaten a frugal morning meal of oat bannocks washed down with ladles of stream water, they began arming themselves to prepare for battle.

It was Saint John's Day, the true deadline for the English relief of Stirling Castle. Here and there, the priests who marched with the army celebrated Ma.s.s for soldiers and camp followers alike, the former already in their harness. In the slender ranks of the Scottish cavalry, while the army prayed, saddles were ?ung over the backs of the horses as they fed.

Amid the encampment of those close to the king, Arnault and Torquil also roused in the predawn hour, groggy from all too little sleep, to douse their faces with cold water and arm before hearing Ma.s.s. Joining Bruce for a last brie?ng while they broke their fast, neither Templar said much, for both were grimly conscious of what had happened the night before, and what was expected of them today, not only by Bruce but also by their absent Templar brethren.

Breville joined them when they had nearly ?nished eating, returned from scouting along the forward lines.

"They're arming, as one would expect, but I didn't note anything out of the ordinary," he reported, drawing the two aside. "What are your orders for today, Matre?"

Touching the bulge of the Shard beneath his mail, Arnault glanced back at the king, who was arming for the day's affray. "Be our eyes and ears, Armand," he said quietly. "The Black Knights have struck at us twice now. A third blow, the heaviest of all, is sure to follow. Torquil and I must be at the king's side, come what may-for if he falls, all is lost, for us as well as for Scotland."

"I'll not fail you," Breville vowed.

Shortly thereafter, the army began forming up on the edge of the camp. Cooks, servants, and those too in?rm to ?ght were placed to the rear in the shadow of c.o.xet Hill. To guard them, Bruce had appointed a band of Highland ghillies, wild warriors from the far north who were too headstrong and undisciplined to be part of the highly trained schiltrons. Shock-haired and brawny in their rough plaids, they ?ngered their weapons and muttered among themselves as Bruce's standing army marched out to take to the ?eld.

Once again the Scots were arrayed in four divisions. This time the king's brother Edward Bruce had the vanguard, with Randolph off his left ?ank and James Douglas as the third forward unit.

Robert Bruce himself, mounted on his favorite gray pony, commanded the rear guard, from which point he could best discern where and how to commit his men. Posted among the members of the king's personal retinue, Arnault and Torquil had likewise taken to horse for this second day of ?ghting. The remainder of the lightly mounted Scottish horse had been placed behind them as a reserve, well back in the trees, with orders to attack only on Bruce's direct order.

Standing in his stirrups, Bruce cast an approving eye over his followers.

"They've sharpened their weapons as best they can," he said to Arnault and Torquil. "Now it's time to sharpen their hearts."

Followed by the pair of them, his battle-axe ?rmly in hand, Bruce rode down into their midst. Abbot Ninian had already gone among them with the Brecbennach, imparting its blessing, and held it aloft for Bruce to touch before addressing the army. Behind them, Edward Bruce stood beside a man who held a banner of Saint Andrew, white saltire on a blue ?eld, and another bearing the rampant Scottish lion.

"Men of Scotland," Bruce cried, "you who are accustomed to enjoy that full freedom for which, in times gone by, the kings of Scotland have fought many a battle! For eight years and more, I have struggled with much labor for my right to the kingdom and for honorable liberty. I have lost brothers, friends, and kinsmen. Your own kinsmen have been made captive, and bishops and priests are locked in prison. Our country's n.o.bility has poured forth its blood in war."

He gestured toward the cl.u.s.tering tents and smoky ?res of the English encampment, so large it was clearly visible from the wooded slope. The sheer size of the enemy army was only too apparent, but Bruce radiated an infectious con?dence born of the righteousness of his cause.

"Those barons you can see before you, clad in mail, are bent upon destroying me and obliterating my kingdom-nay, our whole nation," he continued, his voice rising in challenge. "They do not believe that we can survive. They glory in their warhorses and equipment.

"For us, the name of the Lord must be our hope of victory in battle. This day is a day of rejoicing: the birthday of John the Baptist. With our Lord Jesus as commander, Saint Andrew and the martyr Saint Thomas shall ?ght today with the saints of Scotland for the honor of their country and their nation. If you heartily repent of your sins, you will be victorious under G.o.d's command. As for any offenses committed against the Crown, I proclaim a pardon, by virtue of my royal power, to all those who ?ght manfully for the kingdom of our fathers."

With those last words Bruce swung his axe aloft in salute. The army returned the gesture with a cheer that shook the branches of the trees. After their king's example of personal valor of the previous day, they were ready to follow this man wherever he chose to lead.

Flanked by Arnault and Torquil, the king rode back to his own brigade, waiting in the trees. Marching orders were given, and the four brigades moved out of cover in disciplined formation, starting down the slope toward the enemy.

"You know that you're giving up the advantage of the high ground," Torquil said to Bruce, as the three forward brigades pa.s.sed off the slope onto the ?at.

"Aye," Bruce said. "Yesterday we held our ground. Today, we'll take theirs."

"This is no small risk, Sire," Arnault said.

"And it is no small victory we seek," Bruce replied. "Today everything hangs on this one ?ght, and it will be no chivalrous ?eld of honor." He gripped the haft of his axe with renewed determination, and continued on a lower note.

"I have told you before, my friends: forward is the only way left open to me. It will be a b.l.o.o.d.y day, one way or the other. But at its end, I will have driven our enemies from Scotland-or I will lie dead upon the ?eld. It is in G.o.d's hands."

He drew rein with them to watch the banners advancing. Ahead of Edward Bruce's brigade, they could see the banner of Saint Andrew, and Abbot Ninian beside it with the Brecbennach in his hands. When the whole Scottish army was arrayed on the ?at, a prearranged signal brought them to a halt where, as one man, they fell to their knees and bowed their heads, planting their spear b.u.t.ts on the gra.s.s. Then, in voices rough, n.o.ble, and humble, they recited the one prayer they all knew best.

"Pater noster, qui est in caelis."

Even the wind seemed to hold its breath as the words of the Lord's Prayer whispered in the morning stillness and mingled with the gentle stirring of the banners above their heads. As well as decent, honest men, the Scots army had its share of rogues, drunkards, and cattle thieves; but in that instant, the best part of every soul among them was kindled to a blazing ?re, touched by Bruce's courage and the Spirit of the G.o.d Whose protection they now relied upon to bring them victory over the host that opposed them.