Katherine Kurtz - Knights Templar 02 - The Temple and the Crown

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The Temple and the Stone

Edited by Katherine Kurtz

Tales of the Knights Templar On Crusade: More Tales of the

Knights Templar

The Temple And The Crown

KATHERINE KURTZ AND DEBORAH

TURNER HARRIS

part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any

electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and

retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher,

except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

For information address Warner Books, 1271 Avenue of the

Americas, New York, NY 10020.

Aspect® name and logo are registered trademarks of Warner Books,

Inc.

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WA Time Warner Company

ISBN 0-7595-6236-9

A mass market edition of this book was published in 2001 by

Warner Books.

First eBook edition: April 2001

Visit our Web site at www.iPublish.com

To Ken Fraser, recently retired as Head Research Librarian at St.

Andrews University, with profound thanks for putting your

encyclopedic knowledge of Scottish history, culture, and folklore at

our disposal. We couldn’t have managed without you!

1306: A Historical Foreword

IN THE SPRING OF 1306, THE CROWN OF SCOTLAND HAD

but recently been vested—precariously, to be sure—in Robert

Bruce. He was the survivor in a dynastic wrangle among no less

than thirteen contenders for the crown brie•y intended for a child

called Margaret, commonly known as the Maid of Norway,

granddaughter and only direct heir of the last Canmore King of

Scots.

On the strength of a childhood betrothal agreed in treaty but never

consummated by even a casual meeting of the two principals—the

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Maid and the Lord Edward of Caernarvon, son and heir of

England’s Edward Plantagenet— King Edward had used the

premature death of the little Maid as license to adjudicate the

Scottish succession, with an eye toward at last absorbing young

Margaret’s kingdom into the realm of England. A client king, John

Balliol, had been chosen from among the contending thirteen—

deposed but three years later, when he dared to assert Scotland’s

independence.

Then had come Sir William Wallace, hailed by some as an

Uncrowned King—of common blood, but one whose life and death

had given new hope to the Scottish nation and enabled the present

king to come forth: Robert Bruce, in whose veins, by way of distaff,

also ran the ancient blood of the Canmore kings. Not only had

Bruce at last risen up against King Edward, but against inhuman

forces that might have charted an altogether different course for

Scotland.

Behind and at the bedrock of this struggle had been an ancient and

powerfull artifact called the Stone of Destiny, or sometimes the

Stone of Scone, for the place where it was kept: mystical palladium,

sacred altar-stone, relic of Jacob and of the saintly Columba—the

high seat of Scotland’s high kings since the time of Kenneth

MacAlpin, nearly five hundred years before. Earmarked for seizure

by King Edward’s men, its power waning, the true Stone had been

spirited away and a lesser copy left in its place, saved through the

agencies of men who wore white robes: tonsured servants of the

gentle Saint Columba, who followed a form of Christianity

predating the supremacy of Roman pontiffs and practices, and

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crusader Knights of the Temple of Jerusalem, whose Inner Circle

guarded secrets harking back to the wisdom of King Solomon

himself, who had built that Temple in the land where Christ later

walked.

Upheld by these seemingly disparate allies, the Uncrowned King

had laid down his life and so reempowered the Stone—the Stone

upon which Robert Bruce subsequently had undergone a mystical

enthronement that had wedded him to the Land by ancient Celtic

rite, bracketed between two public inaugurations upon a lesser

throne.*

*Related in the novel The Temple and the Stone.

But being crowned king and actually being king were not

necessarily one and the same, as Robert Bruce would soon learn.

And not only Edward of England would be seeking to destroy him,

as the deed became known. Enemies of the Temple had long been

searching for ways to bring it down. Discovery of the Knights’

involvement in Scotland’s struggle for freedom was likely to place

both the Temple and Scotland in grave danger… and also

Scotland’s new king…

Chapter One

Late April, 1306

“GOD SAVE KING ROBERT! HAIL, THE BRUCE, KING OF

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Scots!” The roof beams of the smoky great hall in Castle Cupar

reverberated with the cheers, and shadows leapt on the lime-washed

walls, as men rose from their benches and lifted their tankards in

honor of their liege lord, who occupied the seat of honor at the high

table.

Robert Bruce, lately lord of Annandale and only a month ago

acclaimed as King of Scots, returned the salutes of his followers

with a •ourish of his wine cup. As the cheering subsided to good-

natured banter, he rose and turned to his host, seated at his right

hand: the venerable and ever-faithful Robert Wishart, Bishop of

Glasgow. Gradually, a semblance of order settled on the hall.

“My lord Bishop,” Bruce declared, bowing slightly to Wishart and

pitching his volume so that all could hear him. “I present my

compliments again on your newly discovered skills as a man of war.

In wresting this keep from English hands, you once again have

proved yourself one of Scotland’s staunchest champions.”

The men signi•ed their endorsement of this declaration by thumping

cups and beefy hands against tabletops, and Wishart’s gray head

bowed in gratitude. For two tumultuous decades and more, since

well before the time of John Balliol, he had spearheaded the legal

and political battle to secure Scotland’s independence. Now owning

more than seventy years, he had only lately taken to arms in the

•eld, with a degree of daring and initiative that would have done

credit to a man half his age.

He gave a droll grin to the Bruce. “While you’re handing out

commendations, Sire, let us not neglect Edward of England, who so

thoughtfully provided us with the means to breach the castle’s

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defenses.”

A roar of laughter rose from the hall, for the bishop’s statement was

precisely the truth. Having received a grant of English timber to

repair the bell tower of his cathedral, Wishart had ordered the wood

converted into siege engines, which he then had turned to less

pastoral employment than the ringing of bells. Following a

successful assault on the fortress at Kirkintilloch, the bishop had

marched next on Castle Cupar, in the ancient kingdom of Fife,

whose English garrison had offered only token resistance before

surrendering, utterly daunted by the prospect of heavy

bombardment.

“Well said, Bishop,” said Christopher Seton, Bruce’s close friend

and brother-in-law. “But it doesnae hurt to have a pair of

engineering experts on hand, either.” He cast an admiring glance at

the two white-clad men seated beyond Bruce and Wishart. “It seems

to me that the good Sir Arnault and Sir Torquil also merit no small

vote of thanks for their parts in our recent success.”

A murmur of approbation rippled through the hall as all eyes shifted

toward the two men named, both of them bearded and white-clad in

a room full of mostly clean-shaven men dressed in the harness of

war. The elder of the pair merely smiled and inclined his head in

acknowledgment, but the younger, a Scot called Torquil Lennox,

grinned self-consciously as he raked a big-boned hand through

short-cropped red hair going gray. Though the two customarily

went about in well-worn leathers and mail like those around them,

tonight they had donned the distinctive white livery of their true

vocations as Knights of the Temple of Jerusalem, in honor of the

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day’s success. The crusader crosses splayed across the left

shoulders of their white mantles much resembled splashes of blood.

“Och, anybody can build a catapult,” Torquil said with a self-

deprecating shrug. “Besides, Brother Arnault and I have been doing

it for a long time.”

“That’s as may be,” Bruce allowed, “but we haven’t. Once you’ve

built a siege engine, the trick is getting it to hit what you aim for.

For that, we are much indebted to your crusading expertise—both of

you.”

Arnault de Saint Clair, the second Templar, chuckled good-

naturedly. He also made light of their contribution, his manner

much at variance with the pride and hauteur displayed by some of

his more worldly Templar brethren.

“If the truth be known, my own experience lies more with

trebuchets,” he said easily. Though •uent in Scots and English and

half a dozen other languages less useful on this island, he had never

lost the accent of his native Brittany. “Fortunately, the principles of

range-•nding are pretty much the same. Consider any debt

handsomely offset by Bishop Wishart’s hospitality—and by the

luxury of having a roof over our heads for tonight!”

“I thought you Templars made a virtue of sleeping rough under the

sky,” said Thomas Bruce, one of the king’s younger brothers.

“Aye, but it doesn’t rain much in Palestine,” Torquil pointed out,

“and never the way it rains here.” He grinned. “Why do you think I

joined the Temple?”

Hearty laughter greeted this rejoinder, followed by another round of

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toasts in honor of the king’s Templar allies, and then more toasts to

the future they all were seeking for an independent Scotland.

At least a start had been made in the four weeks since Bruce’s

inauguration as King of Scots, duly af•rmed by a Ponti•cal high

Mass on Palm Sunday. Immediately thereafter, he had dispatched

messengers throughout Scotland, proclaiming his kingship and

calling upon all loyal Scots to pledge fealty to their new liege. He

and a fast-mounted escort had followed in their wake, defying the

rough weather of uncertain spring to make a royal progress through

the northerly reaches of his kingdom.

With so much ground to cover, and the speed of an English

response uncertain, the company had been obliged to press forward

at a grueling pace, rarely halting anywhere for more than one night.

But the hardships of the journey had been well repaid by the loyalty

of the townsmen and villagers who •ocked to greet their new king.

Now, after a brief sojourn in Aberdeen, Bruce was on his way south

again, to rendezvous with friends and allies and make preparations

for the inevitable reaction from the south, once Edward of England

fully comprehended what they had done.

Tonight, however, the bloodless taking of Cupar Castle had left

everyone in a festive mood, and the •relit hall buzzed with eager

banter as heaped platters of beef, bread, and cheese, and pitchers of

ale passed from hand to hand. Farther down the table, another of

Bruce’s allies, Sir John of Cambo, sampled the claret just poured for

him by a kitchen boy and lifted his cup in the direction of Bishop

Wishart.

“My lord Bishop,” he called, “there canna be doubt that you have

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got the better part of the bargain, by letting the English garrison

march away unmolested in exchange for leaving us the castle stores.

I can assure ye that the castle cellars are particularly •ne! I say we

set ourselves the task of doing justice to this noble vintage, and

drink to Scotland’s freedom!”

This toast was heartily seconded by all, amid much whooping and

further pounding of •sts on tables. But neither Bruce nor those

closest to him had lost sight of the very real dif•culties that still lay

ahead.

“Well enough, to speak of Scotland’s freedom,” the new king said

to Arnault, Torquil, and the others close around him, as the uproar

subsided to convivial converse and serious feasting resumed. “But

we need time to consolidate our position. I had hoped Edward

would be dead before I made my move. God willing, he will prove

too weak to make us much opposition—and the son is not half the

man his father is. But we cannot count on that.”

“Indeed, not,” said Bishop Wishart. “I’ll not be surprised if we hear

that the news has killed him—but if it has not, we must be

prepared.”

“Aye, the English won’t stay away forever,” said Edward Bruce, the

king’s eldest brother. “We’ve done well in securing the support of

the folk of Aberdeenshire—we mostly control the approaches to the

Firth of Clyde, in the west. But as long as the south remains

divided, we’re vulnerable there. It will be dif•cult to defend the

border.”

“Best not forget about Galloway, either,” Seton observed sourly,

“and that’s well within our borders. Despite everything we’ve done,

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that district is still a hotbed of support for the Balliols and the

Comyns.”

Mutters of agreement bracketed Bruce from either side, sprung from

varying degrees of knowledge of the true extent of danger from that

quarter. Both families had been powerful contenders for the crown

he lately had taken up. John Balliol, head of the Balliol clan, had

managed to wear the crown of Scotland for only two years before

being stripped of his titular sovereignty by Edward of England.

Though he had since retired to comfortable exile in France, vowing

never to return, some of his adherents still cherished the illusion that

he—or his son—might one day be induced to a change of heart.

The Comyn link was even more dangerous, and came, in part, from

the marriage of one of Balliol’s sisters to the father of the Comyn

slain by Bruce a few months before at Dumfries Abbey—a Comyn

whose alliance with infernal forces had nearly cost Bruce his life

that day. As it was little known that the Comyns, father and son, had

dabbled in the black arts, or that they had based their bid for

Scotland’s crown on an alliance with certain demonic entities out of

Scotland’s pagan past, the majority of Comyn supporters simply

viewed the killing, within the supposed sanctuary of a church, as

sacrilegious murder.

No matter that it had actually been self-defense, and Bruce had been

absolved of the killing within days. Comyn loyalty would always

back the assertion that Bruce, and not John Comyn, had been the

aggressor, violating sanctuary; and absolution by a bishop known to

be a Bruce supporter was hardly to be accepted. Small wonder that

Galloway, long loyal to Comyn interests, continued to be

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