Knights Templar - Temple And The Stone Part 10

"This cup represents both life and death in a single draft," the Master said, taking it from Arnault and holding it before Torquil. "If any evil or falsehood taints your heart, that evil will turn to poison in your belly, and strike you down in the fullness of your pride. But if you have no reason to fear the judgment and mercy of the Lord, take and drink. For if your heart is truly pure, no harm will come to you."

Torquil took the cup. The liquid it contained had no discernible odor or color. Silently commending himself to the intercession of the angels, he briefly closed his eyes and raised the cup to his lips, drinking it down in a single swallow.

His first taste was, indeed, bitter. That bitterness, however, evaporated swiftly on his tongue, to be replaced by a pervading numbness that filled the inside of his mouth. He ventured to speak, but found his lips sealed, his jaws frozen. Someone took the little chalice from him, guided both his hands to rest lightly on the edge of the altar.

One by one, his other sensibilities abandoned him. The fragrance of the incense faded from his nostrils and his ears went deaf. A deadness laid hold of his extremities and spread throughout his body. A shadow darkened his vision, so that he could no longer see.

The loss of all outward sensation left him floating in a void. Even so, he remained curiously unafraid. The surrounding emptiness was charged with expectancy, like the darkness of the abyss awaiting a divine act of creation. And he himself was at one with that abyss, a virgin soul waiting to be born into a new world.

With new-made eyes, he watched the dawning of the world's first day. Shining images sprang up around him, brought to life by the coming of the Light, and he found himself at once standing on a mountainside in the midst of a circle of peaks. Flanking him were figures he vaguely sensed were Arnault and MaArtre Jean, clad in robes of astonishing whiteness.

A breath of wind swept across them. As it enveloped Torquil, his deaf ears were quickened by the sound of a voice singing, seeming to come from the cloud-wreathed mountaintop that towered above them.

Enraptured, he began to climb, seeking the source of the singing. Close behind him he could sense Arnault and the Master following. When they reached the lower fringes of the cloud, Torquil began to catch the subtle scent of roses. The fragrance grew stronger as he continued upward through an enveloping mist. When he emerged above it, he espied before him a shining pillar of fire atop the mountain's summit.

Here, too, the air smelled of roses, burning sweet and pure. Heedless of the heat, drawn by the sweetness, Torquil let his feet carry him closer to the flames. The scent was intoxicating. Without pausing to think, he stepped forward into the heart of the blaze.

The fire enfolded him in a shimmering, roseate embrace. In that instant he was swept aloft. The flames that bore him upward had tongues of melody, lifting his soul in sheer delight. Then the perfumed tide receded, leaving him kneeling before the entrance of a great temple.

Arnault and MaArtre Jean were there beside him. Looking down at himself, Torquil saw that he now was clothed in white robes like theirs. Advancing to the doors, Arnault laid his palms flat against the paneling.

At his spoken Word, the doors swung inward to the chamber beyond.

At the far end of the chamber stood an enormous tabernacle veiled in crimson silk. Together the three of them approached it to kneel in homage. Certain beyond doubt that he was in the presence of holiness, Torquil kept his gaze averted as Arnault's voice echoed amid the aery vaults above their heads, speaking from beside him with merely human lips, but also resounding on some higher plane.

"Glorious Michael, Captain of the Hosts of Heaven, we here present one whom we would admit to the fellowship of the Sacred Circle, that he may better serve the Lord our G.o.d. May he be found worthy."

A stir of movement whispered through the hall, bringing with it a sense of nearing presence, unearthly and yet not wholly unfamiliar. Daring to lift his eyes, Torquil beheld the curtains drawing back from the tabernacle, revealing the presence of a mighty throne.

The throne was sculptured out of ruby fire, studded with blazing orbs like peac.o.c.k eyes. But more glorious than the throne itself was the princely Presence who presided there, royally mantled-or winged-with a sweep of blazing peac.o.c.k feathers; with hair like living flame and eyes like twin, newborn suns, and shining armor that reflected the swirling galaxies. The eyes burned deep into Torquil's soul, holding him transfixed. A voice made itself heard, mingling harmony and unity in a single utterance.

"Torquil Lennox, be touched by the benison of that Name that is above all other names. What gifts dost thou bring to the Temple of the Lord?"

Stunned that he was known by name, Torquil pondered the question, but his heart was too enraptured to reply. A part of him sensed and accepted that the Master was serving as vehicle for the words, but his soul wept with joy at the angelic blessing.

Leaning forward, the Archangel plucked a coal of fire out of the surrounding air and touched it to Torquil's lips. The flame unlocked his tongue, and he was able to speak again. But the only words that came to him seemed poor and uncouth.

"Nought have I to offer but myself," he said to the Archangel in all humility. "All that I am, however, I pledge with all my heart!"

He bowed his head, bereft of further words, but his silence was abruptly broken by a peal of music, like the clear ringing of crystal chimes. Astonished, he realized that it was the sound of angelic laughter.

That laughter filled the hall with a joyful brightness. Through a haze of radiance, Torquil heard the angel's voice again-but no longer filtered through the human medium of either of the men standing beside him.

"No man could offer more, Torquil Lennox. Such was the gift of G.o.d's own Son unto the world. When thou lookest upon His likeness, be forever sealed unto the fellowship of His eternal Light."

The tabernacle and its furnishings melted away in a blinding shimmer of incandescence. When Torquil's vision returned, he was standing once more in the underground chapel, flanked by Arnault and MaArtre Jean, dazed and all but overcome. He managed to make his dry throat swallow as the Master turned to him.

"Now stand with awe and trembling, and cleanse your heart and mind of all worldly reflections," the Master said, "for what is about to be revealed to you is precious beyond any earthly comprehension: an object worthy of our most profound veneration-and one which your own efforts a.s.sisted in bringing safely out of Acre. Its presence in our keeping is a closely guarded secret-a secret which you must now swear upon your life to protect and preserve.

"Let all the angels and saints and all the company of heaven bear witness to the oath you are about to take. And may that oath be to you ever afterward a light unto your feet, a shield upon your arm, and a guard upon your soul."

With these solemn words, the Master turned to open the right-hand aumbry again. Reaching deep within it, he slid back a panel to reveal a secondary recess cunningly concealed behind the first, using his remaining key to unlock this secret safe.

Torquil felt a sudden p.r.i.c.kling of excitement at the back of his neck as the older man reverently lifted out a flat, rectangular object wrapped in white silk, perhaps twice as long as a man's forearm and half as wide. The shallow box that was revealed as he unwrapped it was less than a hand's breadth in thickness, clad in gold and studded with gems along its edges-clearly, a reliquary of astounding worth, whatever it might contain.

What it did contain, Torquil could not have conceived in his most sweeping flight of imagination. All at once, the chapel seemed flooded with a lively brightness, as if the sun itself had come into their midst, though it was not light in any earthly sense. As MaArtre Jean bent to kiss the reliquary, then lifted it to prop oblong against his left shoulder, Torquil could see that the lid of the golden box had been fashioned with an openwork of latticed grille. And behind that grille, imprinted on a yellowed linen cloth, was the image of a man's face, battered and b.l.o.o.d.y, but serenely triumphant.

"Dear Lord."

The words whispered from Torquil's lips even as he realized what he was saying. As Arnault bent reverently to brush it with his lips, then turned to Torquil, the younger man understood that he was being invited to do the same. The prospect set his knees quaking so that he could hardly hold himself upright, but he obeyed. The touch of his lips to one of the jewels studding the edge of the reliquary was part shock, part ecstasy, threatened to bring him to his knees, and only Arnault's strong grasp under his elbow kept him from collapsing under the weight of emotion.

"Place your hand upon this relic of Christ's most holy Shroud," MaArtre Jean said quietly, waiting until Torquil had brought himself to rest his fingertips to the outermost rim of the grille revealing that Face.

"By the authority of Saint Michael himself, you have been deemed fit to join the ranks of our company, the inner brotherhood of le Cercle Sacr," he said. "Here before G.o.d, I require you now to pledge your unswerving allegiance to that fellowship, binding yourself by all things holy in heaven and on earth to give faithful service unto our Lord, even unto death. Do you so swear?"

Torquil's voice was the merest thread of sound. "I so swear."

"And do you likewise swear to honor and obey those who are set in authority over you?"

"I so swear."

"And do you swear to serve only that Light which is Christ, now and forever?"

"I so swear."

At this declaration, the Master's solemn expression yielded unexpectedly to a smile that was almost luminous in its wakening joy.

"Torquil Lennox, I am privileged to accept this triple oath of yours in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. May G.o.d prosper that good work which you have begun in Him today, and keep you ever in His loving protection."

Reverently he turned to replace the relic of the holy Shroud on the altar.

"I greet you as a brother of le Cercle and salute you with a holy kiss, which binds us in fraternal love, one to another."

He leaned forward and touched his lips lightly to Torquil's in a chaste and holy kiss of peace. It was the last thing the young Scottish knight remembered before, overcome at last, he sank into a swoon.

Arnault caught him as he crumpled and eased him gently to the floor. MaArtre Jean reverently rewrapped the reliquary and returned it to its hiding place before crouching beside them. Arnault's face was drawn with weariness, but his expression was one of profound satisfaction.

"I told you he was ready," he murmured, smiling over Torquil's slack form in his arms.

"He still has much to learn," the Master said. "Now his training must begin in earnest-and to do that, I must take him from you for a while."

"Is it not your will, then, that he should return to Scotland?" Arnault asked.

MaArtre Jean shook his head. "In time, but not yet. For now, I wish him to remain here in France. Only here may he receive the instruction he requires, if he is truly to fulfill the destiny which has been laid on him."

Part II

Chapter Thirteen.

DURING THE CHILDHOOD OF THE YOUNGER JOHN COMYN, his father had thrilled him with many a tale of the ancient times: tales of the lost pagan kingdom that once had flourished here, centered on their own lands of Badenoch. Those tales of valiant battles and terrible G.o.ds had enthralled him as a boy; but as he grew to manhood and the world's realities, he had sadly decided that those days were little likely to return.

Now, however, as father and son rode toward the ancient fortress of Burghead, the younger Comyn could see soldiers manning the weather-beaten ramparts, and banners aflutter in the cold north wind, defiantly declaring that here, at least, a vestige of that past still survived. Whether it could, in fact, be restored, as was his father's dream, remained to be seen, but if ever that was to happen, John Comyn had to admit that this seemed a fitting place.

He had come to Burghead only twice before. Though he had no recollection of his first visit, his father claimed to have brought him as an infant, to dedicate him to the service of the old G.o.ds. He did have memories of his second visit, not long after his thirteenth birthday-disjointed images of a fearsome, tumbled ruin, haunted by shadows and strange whispers-but in the decade since then, Burghead clearly had undergone a radical transformation.

Naturally defended on three sides by the cold North Sea, the landward approach had once been fortified by two broad ditches and a gated rampart wall. The ditches had been filled in long before young John first came, but the wall still towered twice as high as a man, its lichen-studded facade showing patches of new stonework. Seeing it now, through the eyes of a man, the younger Comyn found himself half believing that perhaps they could succeed.

And if they did, it was likely to be through the sheer force of will of the dour man riding at his side.

Holder of half a dozen lordships in addition to Badenoch, and brother-in-law to the king, the man known as the Black Comyn was the single most powerful n.o.bleman in all Scotland, though his actual exercise of that power had yet to match his aspirations. Today, however, he was bringing his son and heir for initiation into the greater mysteries of their shared heritage-and into that destiny, which, one day, might grant to the son the glories long yearned for by the sire.

A sudden gust of wind brought the tang of the sea beyond, frisking the horses, and Comyn laughed aloud as he and his son let the animals have their heads. Briefly, as they galloped through a shallow dip in the gra.s.sy track, the tumbled ruins of a former church obscured the view of the distant fort. The Black Comyn spat his contempt as they skirted past it-leveled by distant ancestors for the impudence of having been built so close to a place where the old G.o.ds still held sway.

They continued on to the crest of the next hill, where both Comyns reined in at the elder's signal to survey this new aspect, which spread itself before them in the broadening morning light. The Black Comyn's eyes lit with pride and pleasure as he swept a gauntleted hand before him.

"Behold, the last stronghold of the Pictish kingdom," he declared, exercising the prerogative of a patriarch to reinforce old lessons for a neophyte's instruction. "When Norse raiders attacked the coastal settlements of Dalriada, in the west, the Scots who lived there fled eastward into Pictland, seeking safe haven among the domains of our forebears.

"But the Scots brought with them the accursed religion of Columba and the White Christ, and these new beliefs weakened the warrior resolve of our ancestors. Those who accepted the new faith betrayed the ancient bargains they had made with the old G.o.ds, by which they had prospered in these lands. These treacherous Scots undermined the Pictish throne by intermarriage and bribery-and when they had accomplished all that they could by guile, they crushed out the last embers of resistance by force of arms."

As he spoke, his gaze roved the ramparts of the distant citadel. His voice held a note of brisk immediacy, as if he were recalling events he had witnessed in person, rather than repeating accounts pa.s.sed down through generations.

"It was here at Burghead that a loyal remnant of Pictish n.o.bles made their stand," he went on, though the younger Comyn well knew the story. "But Malcolm Canmore's army of Scots overran these ramparts, and thought to slay the last of the royal bloodline, intending that no Pictish king should ever again challenge the Canmore claim to Alba's throne. A few, however, escaped that slaughter, and have since kept to the old ways, awaiting the day when they would be strong enough to return in force."

He exhaled on an antic.i.p.atory sigh and leaned his elbows on the high pommel of his saddle. "That day now is nearly upon us, my son. In our veins flows the blood of those ancient kings, and in their veins flowed the blood of the G.o.ds who gave birth to our race. That blood is the pact which binds the two together, G.o.ds and men. With the last of the Canmores now nearly seven years in her grave, we have it in ourselves to invoke the pact and bring freedom back to our land."

John heard his father out in silence. He had been bred on such tales extolling their family's pagan past.

Always before, however, he had a.s.sumed such sentiments to be mere nostalgic yearning for the glories of bygone days. But now it seemed that the elder Comyn was speaking of the present-and the future-wholly in earnest.

"I shall do my best to be worthy," he said dutifully. "Not of our king, John Balliol, but of you, Father."

Comyn gave his heir a pleased and approving look and rubbed at his grizzled beard. In a few days' time, the younger John Comyn would be riding south to join the Scottish earls mustering an army near Carlisle-but only incidentally in support of the craven John Balliol.

Since his election four years before, Balliol had been bullied and humiliated repeatedly by Edward of England, undermined at every turn, treated as va.s.sal, not as fellow king, his resistance beaten down as much by Edward's ferocious words as by any actual force. When, the previous year, Philip of France had attacked Edward's possessions in Aquitaine, the English king had prepared for war, commanding Balliol and the Scots to provide troops for his army.

Once again failing to provide the bold leadership the Scots had hoped for, Balliol had made a mealymouthed acquiescence; but the Scots n.o.bility had delayed following Edward's instructions with every excuse they could think of, until finally, goaded beyond endurance at last, they had formed a Council of Twelve to take charge of the nation as Balliol had failed to do.

The Black Comyn was prominent among those Twelve, and had been instrumental in forming an alliance with France. As part of this agreement with Philip, the Scots were now preparing to march against Edward themselves-and in doing so, hoped to pay him back for the insults and injustices the nation had suffered at his hands.

"Balliol," Comyn muttered, almost making of the name an epithet. "Better him, I suppose, than any of the Bruces. And when I married your mother, to bind him to me, I knew he was malleable.

"That is why I lent him our family's support-so that he could be bent to our cause! Certainly Edward had to be appeased in the beginning, until he lent his weight to a final judgment of all claims; we dared not risk civil war, by any after-dispute about the succession. Little did I dream that Balliol would prove so much a man of straw that he would continue to bend the knee to Edward, like a dog running to his master's whistle!"

He spat aside, as though the recollection of those humiliations had left a vile taste in his mouth.

"But it will profit him little," he went on. "Now that Edward is beset with war in France, we have bypa.s.sed this supposed king of ours, and will make our own war on England. Let the weak Balliol fall where he will, if he cannot play both king and warrior.

"Then shall we vanquish our foes, and pave the way for the restoration of that ancient kingdom that once was ours! Our long-neglected G.o.ds will rise from their resting places in the lochs and caverns to sit once more upon their mountain thrones, dispensing both justice and vengeance to mortal men. And we, my son, will be at their side-kings of this land by their favor!"

"First we must claim the victory," John reminded him pragmatically, "and that we surely must do by force of arms."

"Such a victory is easily won, and easily thrown away by those who give no credit to their G.o.ds," Comyn retorted. His eyes once again roved the ramparts of distant Burghead, as if seeking glimpses of earlier times.

"In ages past, we denied the G.o.ds of Rome and, in doing so, drove their armies from our borders, with the Dark Mother before us and her arch-priest Briochan at our side. So fierce were we then in the ways of war that the Romans built a mighty wall to keep us back, and cowered behind its ramparts like frightened mice. This was the northern bastion of the ancient G.o.ds, their stronghold against all invasion.

"But now they are long abandoned, and in consequence do we face the domination of a foreign king. If compelled to bow before his throne, we likewise will be forced to share his faith, unless we cast aside all such weakness and clasp once more the ways of old, that hurled back the legions of Rome's emperors!"

"Those were brave times, Father," John agreed, shortening his rein to keep his horse from straying toward a tempting tuft of gra.s.s.

"You do not yet truly believe," the elder Comyn noted evenly. "But that is because you have not seen.

Today that will change, for you shall receive the blessing of the Dark Mother, to guard you in the battles to come."

So saying, he spurred his horse forward and started down the hillside toward the fort, not looking back.

John followed with somewhat less alacrity, sourly wondering what forgotten rituals his father had prepared to impress him this time. Having but little patience for any faith, and eager to join his counterparts mustering in the south, he could conjure little enthusiasm for this particular pa.s.sion of his father's. But there was no denying the Black Comyn; and his eagerness to include his heir in his intrigues was as irresistible as the tide beating upon the rocky promontory beyond.

When they reached the newly reconstructed gateway, the guards saluted their arrival and opened the port to admit them. The sky above was overcast, and the steely light bathing the far ramparts gave John Comyn the fleeting sense that he was pa.s.sing out of the world he knew and into a realm where time had been arrested, even reversed, and ancient days had risen anew in defiance of the centuries.

The gates closed behind them as they dismounted within the first yard, handing their horses into the care of a man in a blacksmith's leather ap.r.o.n. Elsewhere in the yard, he could see half a dozen other workmen at various tasks. The air was redolent of salt brine, peat smoke, and the pungent aroma of horse droppings, and seemed to conjure up images of bare-legged warriors making battle preparations.

"Come," his father said.

Now grave of mien and even a little tense-looking, the Black Comyn led his son through a secondary gateway, pa.s.sing into the fort's inner ward. Before them lay the citadel, dark against the sky, atop a man-made mound of earth. Nearer at hand, guarding the approach to the fortress, two immense standing stones overshadowed everything else in the yard.

"These I had brought here from far to the north, where they had lain neglected for five long centuries,"

Comyn declared, with no little satisfaction.

The younger Comyn halted to stare up at the monoliths in some wonder. The ma.s.sive slabs of sparkling gray rock reared more than twice as high as a man, frowning across the western wall like grim sentinels.

On one had been carved the powerful, stylized image of a charging bull, prominent genitals declaring its virility. The other stone bore the more primitive likeness of a female form rising out of the sea, hair like writhing serpents, broad of hip and heavy of thigh, with what looked like a skull suspended between her swollen b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Painted around both figures, in vivid, garish colors, were abstract symbols indicative of elemental invocations-complex patterns of spirals and rods, zigzags and circles, very like those adorning other Pictish stones to be seen dotted all over this part of the country.

"Siohnie and Gruagagh, the G.o.ds of our land," Comyn said, indicating the Bull and the Woman respectively. "In scarcely a handful of places all across Scotland are their names even remembered-and we have been paying the price for that negligence, both in Canmore dominance and now, under the yoke of England's slavery."

While his father was speaking, John became aware of a sibilant murmur in his right ear-like someone standing at his shoulder, whispering seductively. He glanced around sharply, but there was no one to be seen. Instead, he found his eyes drawn to a stone stairway descending into a black slot in the earth. He realized at the same time that he and his father were alone in this second courtyard.

"Ah, you have heard Gruagagh calling you," Comyn said with some satisfaction, noting his son's reaction.

"That is good, but it is not yet time." He set a hand on John's shoulder. "Let us proceed."