Tam Sinclair’s voice was little more than a murmur, but all three of the men standing with him turned their eyes to look where he was pointing.

The bearded, barrel-chested sergeant called Mungo MacDowal hawked and spat cleanly over the side. “We’re on Eilean Molaise,” he said, his voice little more than an elongated grunt. “It’s a holy place, folk say, so they’ll be monks, friars mair likely. There’s aey three or fower o’ them up there, livin’ in caves like wild beasts. They’ll no’ bother us.”

“Not even when we land?” This was Will Sinclair, and Mungo barely favored him with a glance.

“No’ even if we kill them,” he growled, moving away to the ship’s rail, where he continued peering up towards the distant watchers.

Will turned with a lopsided grin to Admiral de Berenger, who stood slightly behind him. “Did you understand that?”

De Berenger blinked. “I heard the grunting of a boar. Should I have understood?”

Sinclair’s grin grew wider. “Mungo was saying that the men up there are friars, monks without a community, living as they can. The islet here is called Eilean Molaise, Saint Molaise’s Island, in honor of a Celtic saint who once lived here. He says they live in caves up there, like wild beasts, but they will offer us no ill.”

The admiral cleared his throat. “I shall accept that . . . the recommendation of one wild beast concerning another. I find it hard to believe the man is one of our sergeants.”

“Aye, well he is, and has been for two decades, earning himself his captain’s trust sufficiently to hold officer’s rank for more than twelve of those. He knows his work, and he knows these islands and their people. I do not. And he speaks Scots by choice because he is with Scots today and has not had the opportunity to speak it for many years.” Will grinned again, to take the potential sting out of his next words. “Show him some tolerance, Edward, and try not to be so disdainful when you look at him. He is a good man, merely uncouth by your standards.”

De Berenger nodded. “You like the fellow. Very well, then, I shall take you at your word and be more tolerant. When do you want to move on?”

Will’s face grew pensive. “Not yet, I think.” He turned to gaze up to where the men on the hill yet stood, clearly illuminated by the rising sun. Between them and him, however, closer inshore, the sea mist still hung thick above the water, obscuring the land. “We could be up there in an hour or two,” he mused, “given that we had a place to land. From the top, we would have a clear view of what’s over there, behind the bay on the far side.” He raised his voice. “Mungo, could we see the Arran mainland from the top?”

“Aye, ye could count the deer. It’s no’ even a mile across the bay.”

“Excellent, then that’s where we’ll go. Is there a beach ahead of us where we could land?”

“No, it’s sheer cliff, but there’s a slopin’ beach further back, on the edge we passed comin’ in.”

“Edward, can you find us a place to land and still remain hidden from the main island?”

“No, but my captain will.” De Berenger called over his newly promoted subordinate and began issuing instructions to bring the galley under way, and as he did so Will glanced back to where Tam Sinclair and Mungo stood beyond earshot, talking together in a blend of Scots and Gaelic, and again a half-formed grin plucked at the corner of his mouth.

Mungo MacDowal had turned out to be a treasure beyond price, for Tam had been wrong in thinking the man came from the MacDowal territory of Galloway on the mainland. He had spent time there as a boy, but he was a native Islesman, born on Arran itself. He’d traveled widely throughout the Isles before his father’s death, after which, at the age of fourteen, he had moved with his uncle to the mainland. His gruff, surly façade was no more than that, and once he had accepted Will as a worthwhile companion—mere worldly rank had no significance for him—Mungo had lent himself willingly to their endeavors, proving his value immediately.

He it was who had suggested that they conceal the entire fleet on the southeastern side of a tiny islet called Sanda, itself off the southeastern tip of the headland called the Mull of Kintyre, where it might remain for weeks or even months without being seen from the headland. There, he had pointed out, the fleet would be close enough to Arran to reach it quickly, in less than a day, but anyone on Arran would remain unaware of its presence. Seeing the good sense in his proposal, Will had instructed de Berenger to take his ships north and then east around the coast of Ireland, taking care to steer well clear of the island of Rathlin, off the northern Irish coast, and had they anchored unseen, they believed, in the shelter of Sanda. They had been joined there within the week by Captain de Lisle and three more midsized galleys, each of thirty-two oars, that had sailed to Finisterre from Marseille, the sole members of the Templar fleet to survive from that part of France.

As soon as the newcomers were safely gathered, Will had wanted to proceed with a small squadron to Arran, but once again it was Mungo who had offered the best advice on that. Take a single galley, he had said. The biggest one, to inspire respect and discourage interference yet prevent the inhabitants from flying into a panic thinking they were being invaded. There was a sheltered anchorage on the southeast side of Arran, he had added, a place called Lamlash Bay, and an island offshore, less than a mile away, that could serve the same purpose for them as Sanda had for the fleet, concealing them until they were ready to approach Arran under favorable conditions. Will had followed the man’s advice precisely, marveling at his own readiness to do so, yet trusting him instinctively.

Before leaving Sanda, however, and probably to the lady’s great displeasure, Baroness St. Valéry and her women had changed galleys, going to occupy the quarters formerly held by Will and Tam, while those two transferred all their possessions aboard the admiral’s larger galley for the journey to Arran. The treasures were now split the wrong way—the Baroness’s specie in Will’s care, while the Temple Treasure itself remained with the Baroness—but there was nothing Will could do about that for the time being.

Tam and Mungo were looking at him now, plainly expecting him to say something, and he pointed up towards the top of the hill. “The admiral’s taking the galley back to the beach you mentioned, Mungo, and I’m thinking of taking a wee climb up there, to see what’s to be seen. I hope you both feel well enough to come with me. How long, think you, will it take us to get to the top?”

Tam tilted his head back and looked up at the slope on the flank of the hill as the galley began to turn within its own length, propelled into a sharp spin by the skilled oarsmen. As the ship revolved, Tam turned against its swing, keeping his eyes on the hilltop. The oars on both sides bit into the water, stopping the vessel’s turn and then driving it forward, slowly at first but gathering speed with every stroke. Tam turned back to Will. “We should be there by mid-morning, if we land and strike out without wastin’ time. We might go quicker, but I’m recallin’ the fight you had to make it to the top of the cliff above the bay that day Sir Charles changed ships. You could hardly catch your breath after that, and yon climb was nothin’ compared to the wee stroll ye’ll be facin’ up there.”

Will kept his face expressionless, stifling the urge to laugh at the familiar insolence, and looked at Mungo, tipping his head sideways to indicate his kinsman. “Would you listen to the man’s ravings. I practically had to carry him that time, he was so weak in the legs and wind. Too much time at sea and too little drill to keep him fit. I’m going to get ready. See you if you can find us some food to take with us. I’ll meet you here when I’m done.” He walked away, grinning openly as soon as his back was turned, and hearing Tam muttering behind his back.

A short time later he was back on deck, wearing a long, heavy cloak of dark green wool over a plain but quilted knee-length tunic and a leather jerkin, his only weapon a single-edged dirk in a sheath by his side. His legs were wrapped in thick knitted leggings, and he wore heavy campaigning boots, tightly laced to mid-calf. The other two were waiting for him, similarly dressed and armed, since there was little likelihood of trouble on the Holy Isle and they had no wish to appear belligerent, even to the watching friars up on the hill. Tam carried a worn leather satchel slung across his chest.

“Food,” he said, when he saw Will glance at it.

“Fine. We’ll be hungry when we reach the top. Did you find us a boat?”

“There’s not much moving over there.”

“No, but that doesna mean there’s nobody there. It’s a fine mornin’, so there’ll be somebody about sooner or later. It’s a bonny sight, though, is it no’?”

“Aye, Mungo, it is. How long has it been since you were last here?”

“God! It’s been a while . . . I was just a bit o’ a boy when I was last here, didna even ha’e a beard. So that’s a score o’ year, at least, afore I lost count. Mind you, I dinna think I’ve ever set foot on Eilean Molaise afore now. But seein’ this, I canna think why.”

Sinclair felt no urge to argue that point.

Arran island, he had known, was approximately egg shaped, its narrow end now stretching on their left, sloping gently down to the sea. Directly across from them, on the far side of the bay, shelving beaches led up to a crescent-shaped plateau that stretched inland for what looked like a couple of miles, rising gradually north and west into what appeared to be high moorlands on the horizon. Farther north yet, on their extreme right, the ground sloped more severely until the gentle hills became high, distant mountains, several of them snow capped from the early-winter storms.

He turned to his left, staring at the southernmost point of land, straining to see signs of the fortification they had passed the previous night on their way in. They had made the approach in darkness, using oars and keeping well out from the shoreline, their great sail lowered to prevent any reflection that might betray their passing, and they had seen several balefires flickering in the night as they passed by. Mungo had said they burned on the heights of Kildonan, a natural cliff-top stronghold that had been occupied continuously since men first came to Arran. A stone tower was being built there now, he said, started by the Norwayans decades earlier, before King Alexander had defeated them at the Largs fight and ended Norway’s rule in Scotland’s west, but the place had always been used as a defensive point. Gazing in that direction now, Will could see nothing and assumed the tower, if such it was nowadays, lay out of sight, around the promontory.

He turned back to the view ahead of him, thinking of how peaceful it appeared and wondering how many men might be concealed there.

“Can either of you see any signs of life?” he asked, knowing that if they could they would already have said so. He was surprised when Tam spoke up.

“Aye, and close by—one of yon holy caterans is coming over here.”

Will stifled a groan, for sure enough, one of the watchers from earlier was standing no more than fifty paces distant, staring at them from a fold in the ground that concealed all but his chest and head.

“Well, so much for your saying they would not bother us.”

Mungo grunted. “Pay him nae heed and he’ll go awa’. As Tam says, he’s just a cateran, half mad, mayhap mair . . . ye’d have to be, to live up here.”

The watching friar, or whatever he might be, stood motionless, staring at them, and it occurred to Will that Mungo’s description of him as a cateran, a wandering ragamuffin, might be an accurate one. Ignore him, Will thought, or approach him? The fellow, half mad or not, might have information they could use, and if he had, then learning of it would be far from a waste of time.

He straightened up and turned to face the man directly, catching his eye and holding it in silence, making no other move or gesture. The fellow tilted his head slightly to one side in an unmistakable inquiry. Will nodded and beckoned him forward, then watched in growing amazement as the stranger approached. The man was enormously tall, Will realized as he breasted the rise that had concealed him, and as he drew closer, it became clear, too, that he was old enough to be considered ancient. He was also incredibly ragged and indescribably filthy, his hair and beard a matted, singular tangle that had known neither water nor comb for years, and his only clothing an ankle-length black robe so tattered and torn that large patches of skin were exposed on his chest and legs. He carried a tall walking staff of blackthorn, its thick end towering above his head, and a single, empty-looking leather pouch or scrip hung from the frayed old length of rope that served him as a girdle. His enormously long legs were bare and skinny, and his feet were thrust into two much-scuffed flaps of what might once have been goat skin, bound into place with strips of leather thong.

The visitor stepped forward slowly, advanced to within two paces of where Will stood and stopped short, meeting him eye to eye. He did not acknowledge the presence of Tam and Mungo, both of whom, Will knew, were gazing at him wide eyed.

Will nodded to the old man. “A fine morning,” he said in Scots, not knowing what to expect.

The apparition nodded in return, and then turned his head to look down to where their galley floated offshore at Will’s back. When he spoke, it was in flawless French. “It is, a fine morning indeed. What brings the admiral of the Temple to Eilean Molaise?”

Will was stunned for a moment, taken aback as much by the purity of the liquidly fluent French coming from such a raddled hulk of a man as by the question he had asked, and all he could think to say was, “You are familiar with the Temple?”

The ancient’s deep-sunk eyes, dark and strangely brilliant beneath their bushy, unkempt brows, swung back to him. “I was, upon a time . . . familiar enough to recognize the admiral’s baucent. But that was long ago.”

“And how . . . whence came your familiarity?”

The old man nodded and shrugged at the same time. “From involvement. I belonged once, until I perceived it for what it was.”

“You . . . perceived it . . . the Temple . . . for what it was.” Will could hear himself being banal and fought to recapture his self-possession. “And what, sir, did you perceive?”

“A whited sepulcher, rotting from within.”

There was no rational response to such a statement, but Will took a deep breath, searching for words with which to continue this bizarre conversation. “You say you . . . belonged . . . In what capacity?”

“I was a knight. But as I said, that was long ago.”

“A Temple knight? What is your name, sir?”

The aged features cracked in a smile, revealing toothless gums behind the riotous hair that masked much of the gaunt face beneath. “My brethren call me Gaspard.”

“No, I meant, what was your name when you served the Temple?”

“That is of no import. It was a former life and I have abandoned it.”

“You left the Temple . . . you mean you broke your vows? You are apostate? How then—?”

“I broke no vows. I merely walked away. I was sworn to poverty, chastity, and obedience and so I remain—in poverty, as befits a seeker of the Way, in chastity, which has never been threatened, and in obedience to my superior, the abbot of our small community here.”

Sinclair frowned. “A seeker of the way. What way is that?”

The old man looked at him, quirking one eyebrow. “There is only one Way.”

Will Sinclair shivered, unwilling to countenance the outrageous thought that had formed within his mind, but once it had occurred to him, he had no other choice than to pursue it, yea or nay, no matter how outlandish or incredible it might appear. He glanced towards Tam and Mungo, then jerked his head, indicating that they should move away. As they obeyed, looking mystified, he reached out his right hand to the old man, who took it in his own and met grip with counter-grip, the strength and confidence with which he did both surprising Will. This eldritch, tatterdemalion apparition was a member of the Brotherhood of Sion. Will kept hold of his hand and gazed at the old man, shaking his head and smiling in amazement.

“Well met, Brother,” he said eventually. “I would never have believed I would find one of my brethren here, in such a place . . . I hope now that you were not referring to our brotherhood when you spoke of whited sepulchers.”

“One of your elder brethren,” the other answered wryly. “And no, I was not referring to our own, solely to the Temple, another creature altogether. An edifice, built to the glory of God, that has not merely forgotten its own roots but denies its God in its daily mercantile activities. The Temple was built by men, in unseemly haste and for purposes of gathering worldly wealth and power. Small wonder that its members have become as corrupt as their commerce . . . But you still have not told me what brings the Temple to Eilean Molaise.”

“I will, but first you must tell me your name and what brought you to speak to us.”

“How old are you, Brother, and what is your name?”

“I am William Sinclair of Roslin, and I am six and forty years old.”

“Well, William Sinclair of Roslin, the man I once was died while you yet lacked the use of reason, and his name died with him. Even were I to tell you who that man was, it would mean nothing to you. Suffice to say that I wandered for years thereafter, before I found this little island, more than thirty years ago. I have been here ever since, and here I shall die, someday.” He tilted his head. “It was when I mentioned the Way that you began to think me what I was, was it not?”

“Aye, it was. But what led you to approach us? I have the feeling you speak to few folk nowadays.”

The old man smiled again. “Curiosity. After all this time, I still cannot restrain it. Are you the admiral?”

“No, Brother, not I.”

“But you have influence, I think. You are no simple knight. What brings you here?”

“Need,” Will answered. “My companions, as you will have guessed, are not of our brotherhood, but they themselves have heard you say you were a Temple knight, so if you would like to break bread with us, we may talk of matters that contain no secrecy. Will you eat?”

The man called Gaspard tilted his head to one side again, in what Will took to be an unconscious gesture. “Aye, and gladly. Goat’s milk and ground oats grows tedious after thirty years. I hope you have some meat?”

Will was tempted to ask how he would chew it with no teeth, but he turned instead and waved Tam and Mungo forward again, then introduced them. “Brother Gaspard here will share our noonday meal with us, for we have much to talk about, I think. What have we to eat?”

“No’ much,” Tam said. “Some bannock, dried venison, a bite o’ cheese.”

Will looked at the old man, who nodded eagerly, and Tam began unpacking the food from his leather satchel, while Mungo arranged some stones for them to sit upon while they ate.

In the event, the toothless old man had no trouble eating the dried venison, chewing it with gusto between hardened gums and making small noises from time to time with the pleasure of it, and while he did so, Will told him all about the events of the previous month in France. Gaspard showed no surprise, merely grunting and nodding in acknowledgment; it was the natural ending of a whited sepulcher, from his viewpoint, an inevitability that might have been postponed, but not for long. What then, he wanted to know, did Will and his friends seek to achieve in Scotland?

When Will told him he had been charged personally with the safety of the Order’s Treasure, the old man’s eyebrows rose in genuine surprise. He offered no comment, however, since he knew, but could not say so in front of the others, that the Treasure was the Treasure of their own Order, protected by, but never really belonging to, the Order of the Temple.

“So what will you do now?” he asked when they had finished eating. “Whom do you seek?”

Will sniffed. “We seek the King of Scots.”

There was a long silence during which the old man stared at Will, then glanced slowly at each of the others before asking, “You seek the King of Scots on Eilean Molaise?”

Will laughed. “Well, no. Not here. We are hoping to find safe anchorage in Arran. From there, we will cross to the mainland to seek the King.”

“You will leave your galley here? How then will you cross over?”

“We’ll take this galley, but we have other ships with us. At present they are awaiting word from us, off the Mull of Kintyre at an island called Sanda.”

“I see, and you now wish to know who, and with what force, might be on Arran?”

“That is correct. Can you help us? Have you been there recently?”

“To Arran? I was there two years ago.”

“Two years ago?”

The old man spread his hands. “I have little need to travel.”

“But surely you must go there for food and supplies?”

“Why surely? God supplies us with all the food and goods we require, right here. We have sheep, goats, and birds and their eggs, water aplenty for drinking, oats in our little field, and the sea is full of fish. What more could we need?”

There appeared to be no answer to that, and Will shrugged. “So you can tell us nothing?”

“I did not say that. I said I was there two years ago. There were English soldiers there, building a fortification not far up the coast from here. You see the other bay there, to the north?” All three of his listeners turned to look where the old man was pointing and saw the spur of land jutting out into the sea, concealing another, deeper bay behind it. “That is where they were, scurrying about like ants, building a motte and bailey. Mind you, the motte was there before they came—a flat-topped knoll of stone atop the cliff. But they were fortifying it, erecting palisades and digging a defensive bailey in the soft ground to the fore, above the beach. It would be a strong place, I thought, when they were done.”

“How many were there? Are they still there?”

“There were a hundred men, perhaps more. I took no time to count them and I spoke to none of them. But they are not there now. A fleet of galleys attacked them and burned their ships a year and more ago. In the late summer or early autumn. We saw the galleys come at dawn, and then we heard the sounds of a great fight carried on the wind. We saw much smoke, and no English ships sailed out of the bay afterwards, so that made us think the smoke came from burning ships.”

“How many galleys did you see?”

The old friar thought for a moment. “Seven went in. Five came out again afterwards.”

“So there may still be two crewed galleys there? Who owned them, could you tell?”

“How would I tell such a thing? They meant nothing to us. But the fact that they were galleys, in this part of the world, means they would have come from the Isles, to the northwest. As to whether they are still there, I know nothing. They might have sailed away at any time, unknown to us. But two more craft—perhaps the same ones—sailed in about a week ago and have not come out since. We seldom look at such things, you understand, and we pay attention only if something takes place that we can see openly. Otherwise, we tend to our beasts and our prayers.”

“Aye, of course.” Will sat silent for a spell, then sighed. “Well, Brother, thank you for telling us. I suppose we will have to go and find out for ourselves if any remain.”

“Aye . . . This King of Scots, who is he? King Alexander died long since, I know, and we heard once of a new King called Bailleul, something French-sounding, but that was some years ago, and he had already gone by then, I think. Or does he still reign?”

“King John Balliol. His name was French once, like my own and many others. No, he no longer reigns. He lives in exile in France, a prisoner of King Philip for all intents and purposes. He abdicated the throne when he could not dispute the dominance of England’s embittered King, Edward, who died this year.”

“Edward Plantagenet is dead? He was a great man.”

Will raised an eyebrow. “Aye, so I have heard said of him, when he was young. Men named him among the foremost knights of Christendom. But as he grew older, he grew vicious, I am told, laying claim to Scotland as its liege lord. You will hear few Scots speak highly of him.”

“Few common Scots, you mean, I think?”

“Do I? I believe I disagree with you there. What did you mean by that, Brother?”

The old man clawed at the thick hair on the back of his head. “What should I mean?” he said, scratching harder. “Edward’s claim to Scotland was a just and dispassionate one in the eyes of many. He demanded allegiance from the Scots nobles, most of them of Norman descent and holding their lands and titles from the English Crown. Where is the vice in that? Their allegiance was to him, as King of England, and had been so since the first Norman landholdings were granted here. And until recently, before the death of King Alexander, it was freely paid. That is the way of the world, Brother William. The feudal code takes precedence over all, and the Scots nobles have been ever bound by it. If they fight against it now, it is for venal reasons of their own—a lust for power, the whitening on sepulchers.”

Will cleared his throat. “I hope you will forgive my saying so, Brother Gaspard, but for a man who claims to have forsaken the profane world you are most well informed.”

The elder let out a delighted cackle. “Blame that curiosity of mine again. It might be a sin of pride, but I seem unable to keep my mind from being inquisitive, and thus when I meet someone who can converse beyond a series of grunts, I listen and I learn.” He cackled again. “And from time to time, I even speak, like now!”

Mungo, whose French was less fluent than the old man’s but perfectly adequate to understanding, could sit quiet no longer. “That’s a’ very well,” he growled in Scots, “what ye were sayin’ about the English claims, but we had kings in this land while the English were still worshippin’ emperors in Rome. That was then, and this is now. The Scots folk dinna want foreign Englishry in Scotland,” he growled.

“Ah, the Scots folk . . .” The old monk’s face sobered and he turned to Mungo, including Tam in what he was to say with a lift of one bushy brow. “That is another matter altogether. The Scots people are like any other. If they do not own land, they have no voice—they are chattels, dependent upon the landholders for what little they may have. Faceless and lacking identity or cohesion, they are therefore weak and worthless for anything in the way of protest. And as long as they cannot unite, they remain constantly at risk from those to whom they are beholden.” He drew himself erect and inhaled a great draft of air, and at that moment no man there saw him as old or impotent. “Unless and until they organize themselves, the common folk of any land will count as nothing in the affairs of kings and noblemen.”

He paused to allow that to sink home, then went on. “There was a man called Wallace of whom we heard, even here on Eilean Molaise. He, and some others like him, organized the Scots people as never before and united them against their oppressors for the first time in memory. But he and his people saw their oppressors not only to be the English but the Scots nobility as well. And the Scots nobles regarded him as they would vermin, naming him brigand and outlaw.”

“How do you know so much about Wallace?” Will asked.

“Three of his supporters sought refuge with us here, some six, perhaps seven years ago. That was when we heard that King Balliol was gone. They were being hunted by their own lords, as well as by the English. One of them, a knight called Menteith, who I suppose was a renegade against his own kind, was well spoken and possessed a keen mind. I spoke often with him during the month or so they remained with us, but I know not what became of him thereafter . . . nor of the man Wallace.”

“Wallace is dead,” Mungo growled. “Eight years ago. Sold for English favor. They took him to London and hanged him there, for the pleasure of the crowd—cut him down alive, then gutted him and burned his entrails while he watched. Then they cut off his head, arms, and legs.”

Will was looking curiously at Mungo. “And how do you know so much of Wallace, master mariner?”

The sergeant shrugged. “We were in Leith a while ago, on business wi’ the Temple in Edinburgh. We couldna go anywhere beyond the port, for the English armies were everywhere, but I heard folk talkin’ about it in the taverns in the toun. It was the Bruce, they said—the young earl, no’ the old man—who dubbed the Wallace knight, so that he could be Guardian of the Realm, but he did it to spite the Comyns, rather than to honor Wallace . . . At least, that’s what folk were sayin’. It was the Bruces and the Comyns and the others like them, the noble families, as they ca’ themsel’s, who brought Scotland to where she fell and forced the Wallace to do what he did. Them and their bickerin’ and girnin’, changin’ sides frae day to day—now for Edward, now against him, but for themsel’s at a’ times . . . Oh, aye, they’re for themsel’s without pause.”

He spat, eloquently, and Will, spurred by a sudden thought, added, “It is the Bruce who rules in Scotland now, did you know that?” Seeing the flaring disbelief in the other man’s eyes, he carried on. “No, it’s true. The young Bruce, former Earl of Carrick. He seized the throne last year, in the name of the realm of Scotland. He is now King Robert, first of that name.”

Mungo stared back at him, unimpressed, to judge by his lack of expression. “Oh aye,” he said, his tone turning the statement into a question. “That must have pleased the Comyns. And does he rule there still, d’ye ken?”

Will shook his head. “I know not. I cannot even say if he is still alive. That is what I have to find out.”

Mungo folded up the clasp knife he had been using on his meat and slipped it into his tunic before wiping his hands on his leggings and moving to stand up. “So mote it be,” he said. “Ye’ll no find any o’ that out if ye keep sittin’ here. Are we awa’?”

The veteran monk was already rising effortlessly to his feet, and Will and Tam rose with him. “It would appear we are,” Will said. “Can we land in the bay by tonight?”

“We can land there by the middle o’ the afternoon, ’gin we start now.”

Will thanked Gaspard for his information and hoped that they might meet again, and the old man smiled and nodded.

“May God be with you across the bay,” he said. “I will be watching, but I can be no help to you. But if you do find anyone over there, they will be Scots, and they may be able to tell you what you need to know about the King. Farewell, and walk in God’s Way.”

Admiral Edward de Berenger grunted, glancing up at the billowing sail with its enormous black Templar cross. “If they did, it makes no difference—we’ll be around the headland before they have a chance to warn anyone.”

Taking advantage of the straining sail, the oarsmen in the waist of the ship were rowing at attack speed, driving the large galley over the waves at its top speed, a pace no other ship in their own fleet could match. They had swept along the entire length of the bay of Lamlash, where they had first thought to anchor, and were now bearing down on the point of land that stretched out ahead of them, separating them from their new objective. Will Sinclair took note of the speed with which the point was approaching and grunted, deep in his chest.

“As soon as we round the point you’ll need to make some quick decisions, Edward. How big is the bay, and how deep? And if there are galleys there, as the old man said there might be, whether there be two or four, how far away from them should we remain, without leaving ourselves too far from land or vulnerable to attack? Thank God you are the mariner, for I would not even know where to begin any of that.”

De Berenger’s normally stern face cracked into a grin. “Put your mind at ease, then. I’ll do nothing to endanger us. This is my ship, after all. I have no intention of risking it to chance. Now . . .” He raised one arm high. “Get ready!” he shouted to his shipmaster, a stolid but dependable Norman called Boulanger.

The great galley hissed by within spitting distance of the rocks at the tip of the point, and as it did so de Berenger lowered his arm, the signal to Boulanger and his waiting crew to lower the sail. As the billows of heavy cloth were lowered and restrained by skilled seamen, the oarsmen maintained their driving rhythm, propelling them towards the closest point, where the entire bay would lie open to their sight. The basin was larger than Will had expected, cutting farther into the land than its neighbor, and from the color of the water, it was deeper, too, but it was less than half as wide as the Lamlash inlet and its shoreline shelved more steeply. Two galleys lay at anchor close inshore, sails furled and spars lashed down at an angle, no signs of anyone aboard them, and from perhaps one hundred feet above the water’s edge, on a flat-topped but natural outcrop of stone, a fortification glowered down upon the entire anchorage from behind a palisaded wall of logs. The place was far from being enormous, but it looked formidable, and the incomplete earthworks in front of it, exposing newly scarred rock and even streaks of fresh clay, proclaimed its newness.

There were men everywhere: on the beach and its approaches, on the hillside among the earthworks, and on the walls or parapets of the fortress itself, and even as Will began to absorb the sight of them, he saw them, in turn, becoming aware of his ship. Where before had been industry and hard work there was now stillness as men straightened up and turned to look at the apparition in their quiet bay. And then, in the blinking of an eye, everything changed as a concerted roar went up and men scrambled everywhere in search of weapons.

Behind Will, de Berenger gave the order to ship oars, and the galley’s momentum slackened immediately as the dripping sweeps rose in unison, leaving the vessel to drift to a halt. Another order brought the oars back down into the water, but this time with the intent of holding the ship in place, against the tug of the current.

De Berenger stepped to Will’s side. “Well, my friend, they know we have arrived. What now?”

“We wait, Edward. We have made our announcement and caught them flat-footed, it appears. Now we must simply wait and see how they choose to respond to us. The response, in itself, will give us some estimate of the worth of whoever turns out to be in charge. How many men did you count?”

“At least a hundred but probably closer to two hundred . . . They were too spread out for accuracy.”

“That’s much as I thought, close to two hundred. But there might be others inland, out of sight. So, we wait. I will be in my cabin. Call me when something begins to happen.”

He barely had time to shrug out of his green woolen cloak before Tam knocked on his door and thrust his head inside. “Ye’re wanted on deck, Will. There’s somebody comin’ out, a party o’ three, wi’ a white flag.”

Back on deck, Will walked directly to join de Berenger and Boulanger the shipmaster, who were standing side by side, observing the events on the shore. The narrow strand was crowded with armed men watching a small boat fighting its way out towards their galley, six oarsmen pulling hard against the current. Three men stood in the stern of the boat, behind the rowers, one of them holding aloft what was probably a spear, with a white cloth attached.

“A parley,” Will murmured to the admiral. “Well, that tells us at least that the leader here is no hotheaded fool, whatever else he might be . . .”

They watched the boat approach in silence after that, crossing to the entry port in the side rail only when the small craft disappeared beneath their own side. The rowers shipped their oars, and the man at the prow snared the dangling rope, all eyes looking up to where Will stood with his companions. Finally, one of the three standing men, a red-bearded bantam of a man shrouded in the single, voluminous garment that the Gaels called a plaid, tilted his head back and called out in execrable French, “Is this a Temple galley?”

Will leaned forward over the rail. “It is. Who asks?”

“I am Alexander Menteith of Lochranza, Chieftain of Arran. I bring greetings and invite you to come ashore in peace.”

Will hesitated for a mere moment, then called, “Greetings from whom, Master Menteith? You said you bring greetings, rather than offer them as your own, so on whose behalf do you speak?”

Menteith pointed backwards with his thumb. “I am sent by Sir James Douglas, King Robert’s custodian in Arran,” he shouted back.

Will fought down the urge to look at de Berenger beside him, for fear of betraying that the name meant nothing to him. He had heard of one Sir William Douglas, a noted knight with a reputation for gallantry and hotheadedness, but had never heard of a James Douglas. Perhaps his son? But William Douglas was not an old man, and therefore any son he had must be too young, surely, to be a King’s officer.

Awaiting an answer, Menteith glanced at his companions before shouting again. “Will ye come?”

Will had no choice; this was what he had been hoping for. Surely the King’s custodian would know where the King was to be found. He nodded. “We will. Tell Sir James we will follow you. How many men may we bring?”

The question clearly surprised the Scot. “As many as you like,” he shouted back, then gave an order to the leadsman, who released the gaff and sat down at his oar again, using it to push the bow off strongly from the side of the galley until his fellow crewmen could lower their oars into the water again.

Will turned to Edward de Berenger. “Will you come with us?”

“If you want me to. Is it important?”

Will sniffed and wiped a bead of moisture from his nose with the back of his hand. “It might be . . . Could be. Tell me, do your sergeants have surcoats?”

“They do, but they are kept in storage at sea. In chests.”

“Can you retrieve them easily? I want your oarsmen to look like Templars when they take us ashore, so have them uniformly dressed, if you will—black or brown, it makes no difference, so be it they are all the same.” Without waiting for an answer he turned to where Tam Sinclair stood listening. “You too, Tam. Put on your surcoat and bring Mungo with you, in his. But first ask Captain Boulanger to prepare the admiral’s boat for launching.”

As Tam turned away to obey, Will spoke again to de Berenger. “Edward, it’s mantles for us. Full regalia and all decorations—surcoats, belts, swords, and shields . . . but no mail, I think. We may be asked to lay aside our weapons, but I think I would rather not be pent up in chain mail all the time we are here. But comb your beard, for Heaven’s sake. You are supposed to be a Temple knight, an admiral, not a seaborne hermit.”

As the boat crunched into the gravel of the shore, the four lead oarsmen leapt nimbly over the sides, waited for the next incoming wave, then hauled the longboat bodily up and onto the shelving beach. The remaining oarsmen leaned sideways to permit Will and his party to walk forward and leap down to the pebbled beach dry shod. Will was in the lead, and as his feet struck the land, the crowd ahead of him parted, opening a lane to where the chieftain called Menteith stood waiting for them, flanked by three others, one of whom, tall and broad shouldered, wore the same kind of single garment as Menteith, wrapped about him from neck to knees.

The other two members of the group, a man and a boy, he decided, were much different, dressed in tunic and leggings, the elder of them wearing a shirt of much used chain mail beneath a plain brown cloak that was thrown back over his shoulders to leave his arms free. He stood watching Will approach, his face inscrutable, idly flexing the fingers of his right hand, the palm of which rested on the end of a short, heavy battle-axe hanging from his waist. Will’s eyes missed nothing, his mind racing as he sought to identify and rank the men before he reached them.

The plaid-wrapped man on Menteith’s right towered over the Arran chieftain, his bulk emphasizing Menteith’s slightness, and he was a picture of barbaric splendor, so that Will immediately suspected this might be the King’s custodian, Douglas. His plaid was the color of fresh honey, and he wore it kilted like a tunic to just above the knees and then wrapped about his upper body to hang down his back from his left shoulder. It was held in place at the waist by a heavy belt of intricately fashioned silver links, and at the shoulder by a massive, ring-shaped brooch of hammered silver. He wore a loose cap of some kind on his head, arranged to one side, another silver ring brooch gleaming at the left temple and securing a large, decorative eagle feather, and his feet were encased in leather brogans, the straps wound crosswise about his long, bare legs. Beneath the tight, leather-bound brim of the cap, the eyes were bright and challenging, a pale, luminescent yellow-brown that was enhanced by the color of his clothing. The long hair that spilled down to his left shoulder from beneath the cap was golden red, as were his eyebrows and beard, the latter close-trimmed, and the entire face was defined by high, cleanly chiseled cheekbones. Clearly a leader and a man to be reckoned with, Will thought, and then eyed the last of the waiting quartet.

This was a man, too, he could see now, and not the boy he had taken him to be at first. He, too, was set apart by his dress and bearing, but even more so by his youth. He wore a plain but rich and costly quilted tunic of bright blue, cinched at the waist with a heavy leather belt from which dangled a plain, unadorned dirk. There was an emblem of some kind on his tunic, still too far away to be discerned, but clearly embroidered in white upon the left breast. His legs, solid and muscular, were encased in thick, knitted leggings of a paler blue than his tunic, and were wound about with black leather bindings that rose up from heavy, thick-soled boots. He wore no cloak, this one, and he stood comfortably on spread feet, brawny forearms exposed by the elbow-length sleeves of his tunic, his hands loosely clasped about the cross-guards of a large broadsword sheathed in a highly decorated scabbard.

Will and his party halted just short of the four and Will inclined his head courteously, the gesture one of equality containing no hint of subservience. “I bid you good day, gentlemen,” he said, allowing his voice full resonance. “I am William Sinclair, Knight Commander of the Order of the Temple in France. My companion here is Sir Edward de Berenger, Admiral of the Temple Fleet.”

Menteith nodded, graciously enough. “Welcome to Arran, so be it you come in peace.” His French was so poor that his words were barely understandable, which made his next question almost inevitable. “Sinclair, you say? Do you speak Scots then?”

Will smiled. “I do. Sir Edward does not.”

The young man in the blue tunic cut in before Menteith could say anything more. “Then we will speak in French, through common courtesy—those of us who can—lest we embarrass an honored guest. Sir Edward, you are welcome here in Scotland, as knight, if less so as admiral. May we ask what brings you here? Forgive me. I beg your pardon. Here is no place to be asking such questions. Will you come with us up to the fort? We can scarce call it a castle yet, since it is incomplete. But there, at least, we can be comfortable . . . and private. Not to mention warm. An ill wind is rising, and it looks as though we are about to rained upon.”

De Berenger glanced at Will, who nodded, and then both men looked up at the clouds; thick and angry looking, they were lower and more menacing than they had been earlier in the day. “Yes, sir, we will,” the admiral said.

“And what of your men? Do you wish us to send them back to your galley? They can return later.”

The admiral barely hesitated, then called to the lead sergeant on his boat, which was still drawn up on the strand less than fifteen paces behind them. When the man had run up the slope and snapped smartly to attention, de Berenger instructed him to return with his crew to the galley and await his further summons, and then he turned back to his hosts. “My thanks,” he said, smiling easily. “The men will be far more comfortable aboard ship.”

“They could have stayed here,” the young man in the blue tunic said. “They would have been welcome to eat with our own men.”

“True, sir, but they might have been uncomfortable . . . as might your own. My men do not speak your language.”

The young man nodded. “True. That had not occurred to me.” He paused, then gestured to his three companions. “Some names, gentlemen. Menteith, here, you know already. The other fellow there, the big, fierce one, speaks no French at all. He is Colin, son of Malcolm MacGregor of Glenorchy, chief of Clan Alpine, and he likes to claim that his race is royal, directly descended from Kenneth MacAlpin, first King of Alba.” He was smiling as he spoke, and the MacGregor, having heard his own name mentioned, inclined his head, his face unreadable. “Beside me here is Sir Robert Boyd of Noddsdale, who accompanied me here on the King’s business, and I am James Douglas, son of Sir William Douglas of Douglasdale. I am nominally the King’s custodian in Arran, but for the past year I have been more than glad to leave the running of the place to Sir Alexander here, who is hereditary chieftain of the Menteiths of Arran.” As he finished speaking, a gust of chill wind blustered around them, and he raised his eyes to the clouds overhead. “As I thought, and just when expected. Let’s away from here, my friends. Others you will meet later. Come, if you will.”

He turned and walked away without another word, swinging his sheathed sword up to rest over his right shoulder. And they followed him, the four Templars flanked by the MacGregor and Menteith on one side and Sir Robert Boyd on the other, and the entire assembly, some two hundred men, tailing after them in an undisciplined herd, albeit a noisy, talkative herd now that it seemed the formalities were dealt with.

Will walked in silence, his eyes on the man ahead of him, surprised for the second time that day by finding fluent, mellifluous French spoken where he had least expected such a thing. James Douglas was young, indeed—Will guessed his age as barely twenty, if he was that old—but the young man’s self-assurance was nothing short of astonishing, and nothing about him, other than his youth, suggested to Will that he might be unworthy of holding the post of King’s custodian. Now, as he followed Douglas up the steep slope to the motte, watching the lithe, easy step so similar to his own at the same age, he found himself wondering where and how the young nobleman could have learned such flawless French, for there was nothing of the guttural Norman accent—the accent of most of the English and Scots descendants of the Conqueror—in his voice.

The motte was crowned by a large, rectangular building, the massive-walled ground floor built of heavy stones. Windowless and fireproof, it was intended purely for defense and storage, the only means of entrance being a heavy portcullis of wrist-thick wrought-iron latticework set into a tunnel-like doorway, more than two paces deep, that had been cut through the wall itself. The portcullis, Will knew, would be controlled from the winding room in the hall overhead. On each side of the portcullis entrance, heavy, serviceable wooden stairs led up to the great hall above, which appeared to have been built from alternating panels of stone and heavy logs, although the gable walls at either end were of solid stone, too, rising from the walls of the storage rooms beneath and chimneyed to hold flues. Moments later, climbing the sturdy wooden stairs and seeing the collection of men awaiting them beyond the hall’s open doors, he realized that the formalities that he had assumed were over had barely begun.

Leaving de Berenger deep in conversation with a couple of French-speaking Scots who had engaged him, probably because they enjoyed the opportunity merely to speak the tongue, Will took advantage of a temporary lull to look around the room more carefully than he had before, scanning the gathering as a gathering rather than as a chain of unknown faces. Several men present among the throng had impressed him, a few of them favorably, and he watched two of them now from across the hall. One was a Highlander, the chief of Clan Campbell of Argyll, whose first name had escaped Will for the moment, and he was deep in conversation with one of Douglas’s commanders, a tall, broad-shouldered fellow with a close-cropped beard who was evidently a cousin of the knight Boyd, since both men bore the same name. The Robert Boyd on the beach had been Boyd of Noddsdale, and the one talking to the Campbell was Boyd of Annandale, another Robert. Will had met him some time close to the start of all the greetings, and he had been struck by the fellow’s eyes: the sheer brightness of them, a blazing, silvery gray, and the way they bored like augers into his own. They had not said much to each other on meeting, but Will had believed the man when Boyd said he would look forward to speaking with him later, when there would be more time and space.

“You are deep in thought, Sir William. Should I banish everyone?”

Will turned, startled, to see James Douglas standing by his side, and he felt himself flushing because he did not know how long the young knight had been standing there, watching him.

“Your pardon, Sir James, I was woolgathering . . . It is a habit of which I ought to rid myself.”

“Oh, I would not do that, if I were you.” Douglas’s smile was open and sincere. “The ability to lose yourself in thought among so many clacking tongues is an uncommon one . . . valuable. I think were it my fortune to have such a gift, I should treasure it.” He tilted his head to one side, his eyes narrowing as he tried to gauge Will’s expression. “What is it? Come, walk with me as far as the door. The rain may have stopped by now and the fresh air will be cool and welcome.”

As they picked their way through the crowd towards the doors, the Scots knight glanced sideways at the emblem that hung about Will’s neck.

“That is a pretty bauble,” the young man said. “And plainly it’s a potent one, judging from the look and heft of it. What does it represent?”

Will fingered the piece, looking down his nose to where it dangled heavily on his breast. “It is my badge of rank within the Order, probably the best known but least seen symbol of the Temple. Some members may live full lives and die without ever setting eyes on one of these.” He grasped the emblem between fingers and thumb, feeling its thick, solid, highly polished smoothness. “This is the emblem worn by serving members of the Governing Council of the Temple—the Inner Temple, as some call it. But in reality it serves no other purpose than to set its wearer visibly apart and mark him as the entitled representative and deputy of the Grand Master.”

They had stopped, and Douglas was leaning forward, gazing at the medallion, and Will knew it was worth gazing at. It hung suspended from his neck by a thick chain of intricately carved, S-shaped links of solid silver, each one a thumb’s length and thickness, carved to represent a thick cable of rope. The emblem itself, of thick, glossy enamel, was mounted on a heavy silver oblong lozenge that hung suspended from two of the lowest links and portrayed the cross pattée on a square field of white, surrounded by another field of brilliant red, the color of the Savior’s blood worn for so long by the Temple knights. He waited patiently, allowing Douglas to gaze his fill, and the young knight reached out a hand as if to touch the emblem, but he stopped at the last moment and lowered his hand, dipping his head quickly to one side in a nod of admiration.

“Beautiful piece” was all he said.

“I have been marveling, Sir James—evidently too openly—at the way you speak. Your French is perfect—flawless—and I was wondering where you learned it.”

Douglas laughed. “In France, of course. Can you think of any better place to learn it? I spent five years in Paris when I was a boy.”

It was on the tip of Will’s tongue to point out that the young knight was still little more than a boy, but he thought better of it and allowed Douglas to pull the doors open for him, waving aside the guards who stepped forward to attend him.

“We’ll go down to the wall, there.” He pointed and moved on, leading the way down the wide wooden stairs for a few paces before stopping halfway and looking about him. The rain had stopped long since, although a cold wind was still blowing fitfully from the northwest, but the few remaining clouds were scattered now, glowing pink and golden in the late-afternoon sun, and both men inhaled the clean, briny air.

The young knight continued where he had left off. “I came home three years ago, just before my eighteenth birthday.”

“What sent you there, may I ask?”

“Not what, Sir William—who. Edward Plantagenet did. He liked to call himself Malleus Scottorum, the Hammer of the Scots. And he did not like the idea of my remaining alive after the death of my father.” He glanced sidewise at Sinclair and his face twisted into a humorless grin. “Another Sir William, my father, and a rebel, dyed in the wool. Sir William Douglas was no man’s puppet. He died in London’s Tower, some say of grief at being caged. Others say he died demented. And there are others, well placed and of good character, who have told me Edward had him murdered. I may never know the truth of that. But the truth in force at the time led to my family sending me to France, for my education and safety, and there I spent five formative years in the household of William Lamberton, Archbishop of St. Andrews and Primate of Scotland. Do you know the Archbishop?”

Will shook his head. “I have heard his name spoken, but have never met the man.”

Douglas set off again, down the steps to the courtyard of packed earth and across to the earthen parapet that backed the fronting palisades of recently hewn logs. There were others about, talking in twos and threes, but none of them paid the two newcomers any attention, and Douglas kept moving to where they could stand alone on the top of the defensive wall, their view over the bay uninterrupted. Will laid one hand on the sharpened top of one of the heavy log palisades, then turned from the sea to look about him.

“Where did the trees come from?”

“The English cut them and hauled them here from the uplands above the moor on the west side of the island. There’s a forest there on the slopes—or there was, before they cut down all the biggest trees. They must have shipped the logs down around the south coast . . .” He fell silent, crossing his arms on his chest, then looked at Will speculatively. “So tell me, Sir William, how does a Knight Commander gain superiority over the admiral of the Order?”

Will smiled. “It is all a matter of degree, Sir James. I am a member of the Governing Council of our Order, and was sent here by our Grand Master, Sir James de Molay himself.”

“Which means you stand high in the Master’s esteem, even if it says little else that I can understand.” Douglas inclined his head, then asked, “Why are you here, Sir William, in King Robert’s Scotland, accompanied by the admiral of the Temple fleet? You may speak plainly, for we are alone here and I command on Arran.”

Will looked at the young man, pondering his next words, and Sir James Douglas seemed content to let him take his time. “I will tell you, bluntly,” Will said eventually. “But before I do, I would appreciate your courtesy were you to answer several questions that you might think impertinent.” The younger man cocked his head. “How come you to hold the command in Arran?”

“I hold command in all the southwest, at King Robert’s pleasure. But as to Arran, I took it in January of this year—both the island and the title. We came to steal supplies, but the garrison of Englishry here was busy building the fort. We threw them out, then captured the ships that came to reprovision them and declared Arran ours, a part of the realm of Scotland. Merely reinforcing a point . . . Arran has been a possession of the house of Bruce since King Alexander defeated Haakon and his Norwayans at Largs, forty years ago. The English may come back, but we’ll be ready for them, and they’ll be less confident than they were before. The King has made some notable advances here in the south these past few months, and elsewhere as well.”

“So where do you keep your prisoners?”

“What prisoners? We have none.”

“I—” Will caught himself. He chose his words carefully. “You sent them home? To England?”

“No. There were no prisoners.” He saw the disbelief in Will’s eyes and added, “We took none.”

“You . . . took none.” Will could think of nothing more to say for several moments, but then he cleared his throat. “This may offend you, my lord Douglas, but it seems to me you are very young to be so . . .”

“What, cynical?”

‘I was about to say merciless.”

“Ah. Merciless.” The young man grinned again, the same humorless grin with which he had spoken of his father’s rebelliousness. “How long have you been gone from Scotland, Sir William?”

“Many years, now, more than twenty.”

“And in France throughout that time?”

“Most recently, yes. But I served throughout the world before that . . . before we lost the Holy Land.”

“And how closely informed have you been about matters in Scotland during that time?”

Will shrugged. “Barely at all. My duties and my concerns have been with the Temple throughout, in accordance with my vows. My sole source of information has been a younger sister. She writes to me sometimes. Those letters, I fear, contain my entire knowledge of the state of affairs in Scotland, their contents filtered through a woman’s eyes.”

“I see . . . Well, sir, believe me when I tell you Scotland has seen savagery during those years the like of which was seldom seen in the Holy Land, even at the sack of Jerusalem. Unforgivable savagery, right here in this small kingdom, meted out against helpless folk by a man once known as the foremost knight in Christendom. Edward of England taught me and mine all about mercy and its uses. And his barons and their armies refined my education. We Scots are small in numbers and at the mercy of the English when they choose to march against us, as they have these past ten years and more. And in the years to come, more than ever and despite the death of the Plantagenet, they will come for us again, in ever greater strength and with ever greater hatred.

“You think me merciless. Well, I admit I am now. For I have learnt, in a hard and bitter school, that showing mercy to these enemies gains nothing for us but contempt, and ultimately death. The Englishry, be they king, barons, or earls, have no regard for us as people, let alone as a race. To them we are vermin, and they treat us as such, burning, raping, hanging, and plundering, slaughtering our folk wholesale without regard to their own humanity or ours.”

He held up a restraining hand, although Sinclair had made no attempt to interrupt. “I know what you are thinking, because I myself once thought the same way . . . long ages ago, when I was eighteen. You believe I am defiling the knightly code. Well I, too, once thought that way—jousting and tilting in the lists, making grand gestures, living my life according to the code. But once I returned to Scotland, England and its minions quickly taught me the error of my ways. There is no knightly code in Scotland today, my friend—certainly not among the English in Scotland. Oh, they all pay it lip service, and it fuels the fires of their outrage against what they call our atrocities.” He flung up his hand again, this time to interrupt himself. “Ach! There is no point in talking of such things. It only makes me angrier.”

He fell silent for a space of heartbeats, his young face dark and scowling, then resumed. “Let me say but one thing more, and then I will leave off. I have released English prisoners before—men of good birth and fair repute—and I have seen those self-same men come back and vent their spleen on helpless innocents, women and children and old men too spent to fight. And I have known whole towns, like Berwick, razed to the ground and all their burghers and their people slain, scores of them burned alive, walled up within a church where they had sought sanctuary. And all of this for no crime other than jeering at the Plantagenet when he brought his armies to their walls. So, if it please you, speak no more to me of mercy and the lack of it.”

He spun on his heel and glared at the small number of curious onlookers attracted by his raised voice, even though they understood not a word of what he had said. Abashed by his obvious anger, they scuttled away guiltily, and he turned back at length to Sinclair, who had barely moved. But Douglas had mastered himself by then, and the grin he offered this time was genuine, if rueful.

“I know what you are thinking, sir, and I acknowledge it. I am young.” He spoke in Scots now, as though that language were more suited to a gentler mood. “Hotheaded, King Robert says. But I swear to you, Sir William, I am bent on learning better.” He squared his shoulders suddenly, raising his head as though dismissing such intimacies. “Now, it strikes me we have business to conduct, you and I, and here I have been wasting your time. My question to you was, why have you come to Scotland, with an admiral at your command?”

Will turned away from the sea and leaned back against the palisades, crossing his arms over his chest, and he, too, spoke in Scots, keeping his voice low. “I come in search of your King, in hope of finding sanctuary.”

Douglas’s mouth fell open, and it was clear that nothing William Sinclair had said could have surprised and confounded him more. But before he could find words, the hall doors opened above them and noisy men came spilling out, among them the knight called Robert Boyd of Noddsdale. Facing them as he was, Will saw immediately that although the men around him were gone in drink, the Scots knight was sober, and his eyes found Douglas immediately.

“Sir James,” he called. “A word with you.”

Douglas beckoned him forward, and Boyd came down the stairs, nodding to Will as he arrived. He was concerned, he informed them, that instructions to the cooks should be issued now if, as he suspected, Sir James was to entertain his guests that night. Douglas agreed, and issued crisp instructions to dismiss the crowd above, bidding them return that night to eat as usual, and then to offer his apologies to the admiral and explain that he and Sir William would return very soon now. In the meantime, he added, Boyd should also ask the admiral if he would care to invite his men ashore, to share in the food and festivities. He watched Boyd hurry away, then turned to face Will again. The knot of men who had left the hall with Boyd were now drifting down to where Will and Douglas stood, and they were followed by others, voices raised in good-natured argument. Douglas ignored them, confident that they would not interrupt him.

“Sanctuary. You seek sanctuary in Scotland. Amid a civil war. Are you mad? And from what would the Temple require sanctuary?”

“It is a long story, but quickly told, once we have rejoined Sir Edward and the crowd has broken up. Where may I find His Grace the King, do you know?”

Douglas shook his head, glancing at the crowd. “That I cannot tell you. The King finds little comfort in his own realm nowadays. There’s a price on his head, and he has more enemies among the Scots, it seems, than among the English. He has been campaigning in the north, east, and west these past few months.”

“Against the Comyns.”

“Yes and no. Not yet against the Comyns, though their time is coming. And yet yes, against the Comyns and their ilk, John MacDougall of Lorn and the MacDowals of Galloway among them. The MacDowals are cowed for now, but not yet finished. Their land of Galloway is a smoking ruin, but they might yet rise again. Part of my task is to make sure they do not. His Grace spent much of his time in the past avoiding them while trying to raise an army with which to fight them, but he is ever sore pressed for funds and ye canna buy many good men with mere promises. But for much of the past autumn the MacDowal lands have paid the price of treachery.”

Will made a quick decision. “Aye, well I might help him there, could I but find him.”

Douglas was instantly alert. “What mean you, help him there? In Galloway?”

“No, with funds. I have a treasure for him, aboard one of my ships.”

“One of your—?” But Douglas had already jumped forward in his mind to the meat of what he had heard. “What kind of treasure?”

“A substantial one, of the kind that will buy men and weapons. Six chests of gold, in bars and coin, and five of silver, likewise divided, brought to him by one of his most leal subjects, the Baroness St. Valéry, youngest sister to Sir Thomas Randolph.”

“The King’s nephew? That cannot be. Sir Thomas is in England, captured at Methven fight last year—” He shook his head. “But he has no younger sister old enough to be a baroness.”

“No, sir, you are mistaken. Sir Thomas is my age, perhaps five years older. He was never nephew to Bruce and he has a brood of sisters.”

“Ah! Two different men. That Sir Thomas is dead, I fear. His son is now Sir Thomas Randolph.”

“His son? Then he cannot be much older than you.”

A smile flickered at the corner of Douglas’s mouth. “Younger, I believe. I have never met him, but I’ve heard tell he is a young man with the spirit of chivalry burning pure in him. You’ll never find him refusing mercy to an enemy.”

Will was unsure how to respond to that, so he ignored it, saying instead, “Sir Thomas the elder. He had a younger brother, Edward. Know you ought of him?”

Douglas looked at him with raised eyebrows. “Aye. He, too, is dead. Killed at Methven.”

“Ah!” There was pain in the soft exhalation. “Then Peggy is alone . . . My sister. She was Sir Edward’s wife.”

“So, I am the bearer of bad news again then, even unwittingly . . .” It was clear from his saddened expression that he was thinking of a number of other times when he had delivered similar tidings to women awaiting word of their menfolk.

Will cleared his throat and changed the subject. “You speak of this Methven fight as though I should know of it. But I know nothing. What happened at Methven?”

Douglas’s blue eyes met Will’s eyes squarely, and it occurred to Will that here was a singularly honest young man, who could accept his own shortcomings and proceed with what he had to do in spite of them.

“You know nothing of Methven? Forgive me if I appear to disbelieve you, but it seems incredible to me that there could be a knight alive, let alone a Scots knight, who has never heard of the Methven Fight. Plainly I was wrong . . . Well, we received a lesson in English honor, chivalry, and the knightly code there. Do you know the place?”

“No.”

“It is close by the town of Perth, the first English-held stronghold King Robert challenged after his coronation. You’ll have heard of Perth, I hope?” Will nodded, but the younger man was being facetious and had not waited for a response. “Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke and commander-in-chief of the English in Scotland, was occupying the town and was caught unprepared for our arrival. He had been harrying the countryside in a punitive campaign and had merely stopped at Perth in passing and hence was in no great condition to withstand a siege. We arrived in front of the town on a Sunday afternoon to find it shut and fortified against us, and the King, in the spirit of the knightly code, rode forward alone and challenged de Valence to come out and fight. De Valence declined, since it was the Sabbath, but said he would meet us on the following day. His response was reasonable, and we withdrew as far as Methven, about five miles away, to set up camp for the night . . . And as we were settling down, our horses unsaddled and in picket lines, our army preparing for sleep, the English attacked in the dark—a full cavalry attack. It was a rout and the attack was dastardly, devoid of any trace of honorable conduct or the knightly code. We lost hundreds of good men, and King Robert, sorely wounded, barely escaped alive, carried out by a few others and myself.”

“Where did you go, with the King wounded?”

“We ran into the forest. Once we were assured the King would live, we spent the next three weeks making our way north and east in secret, towards Inverness.

“Why Inverness? That is a long way from Perth.”

“Aye, but it was also a long way from Aymer de Valence. But the King had made arrangements to meet his womenfolk there.

“His womenfolk?”

Douglas nodded. “Aye. The Queen was there, and the King’s daughter Marjory, along with his sisters Mary and Isobel, the Countess of Buchan, who crowned King Robert when her brother the Earl, whose duty it was, refused to do so. He is a Comyn, of course. The Countess herself is a MacDuff, of the ancient lineage who crowned the kings of Scotland since the days of Kenneth MacAlpine. Aye, we had a dozen women in our train after that day.”

“That surprises me . . . that the King should take his women with his army, I mean.”

Douglas looked at him wide eyed. “What else could he do? Where could he leave them in safety, when all the southern regions of his realm were either in English or in Comyn hands? The only place they might be truly safe was by his side.”

Will nodded, beginning to have an inkling of what Douglas had been saying earlier about the conditions in the land. “I see. So what happened then?”

“Folly, treachery, and more dastardy. Less than two weeks after Inverness, we rode into a trap in the Valley of Glenfillan, near Glen Dochart in Macnab country at a place called Dal Righ. Alexander MacDougall of Argyll, good-brother to the Comyns, had sent a thousand men there from his own lands to gut us, with the blessing of Macnab, whose land it was. But we fought our way out, though it lost us four-fifths of our strength. Suffice it to say that we split what was left of our small party after that. The King and a dozen others of us took to the heather afoot. The Queen’s party, much larger and stronger, took the horses and rode north and east to safety in Kildrummy, in the earldom of Mar, escorted by the King’s brother, Sir Nigel Bruce. With them went David, the Bishop of Moray; John de Strathbogie, the Earl of Atholl; Sir Robert Boyd; and divers others.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Last July. More than a year ago.”

“And what has the King being doing since then?”

“He played the cateran among the Isles last winter, raising support from the Islesmen, living off the land and fighting to consolidate his kingdom. And all the while straining to stay unbowed while new burdens afflict him daily.”

“Burdens such as what?”

Douglas looked away, clasping his hands about his upper arms, so that Will thought he was not going to answer, but no sooner had he thought that than the young nobleman spoke. “Oh, the loss of three of his four brothers, Nigel, Alec, and Thomas, all of them betrayed by Scots nobles and sent to Edward in England to be hanged, drawn, and quartered like brigands. And the capture of his wife, Queen Elizabeth, his daughter, Marjory, his sisters Mary and Christina, Countess of Mar, and the Countess of Buchan. All of them taken and sent to England likewise, this time by John Comyn, the Earl of Ross. The Queen, we have been told, is being held prisoner somewhere in the north of England. The Princess Marjory, at thirteen, is forbidden to be spoken to by anyone and is hung in an open cage from the outer wall of London’s Tower. The Lady Mary Bruce, the King’s sister, hung in a similar cage from the walls of Roxburgh Castle. The lady Christina of Mar, his other sister, locked up in a nunnery. And Isobel, Countess of Buchan, hangs in another cage from the walls of Berwick.”

“Good God! And this was Edward’s doing? But surely, now that he is dead—”

“Nothing has changed. Nor will it. Edward of Caernarvon is not the man his father was, but he hates just as hard. He left this land last August, with nigh on two hundred thousand men in his train. We thought for a while he would march north in search of us, for that would have been the end of everything, but thanks be to God his coronation had been scheduled for September in London. He had dallied too long without striking at us and marched away leaving us with the knowledge of the size of the force he had fielded. Two hundred thousand men, against our three thousand. They came and they left, but they’ll be back one of these days, though we have had word from England, from a trusted source, that he has problems enough with his own barons to keep his mind away from us for a spell.

“And that gave King Robert opportunity to turn to cleaning his own realm of turncoats and traitors. He took the MacDowals first, in Galloway, and gave them a taste of what treason entails. And then he turned to the MacDougalls in Argyll, and wrung a truce from them, from their chief ’s son, Lame John MacDougall of Lorn. The father, old Alexander, can no longer march or fight, so Lame John rules there in all but name now. But the King made a truce. No more hostilities between now and June of next year. I fear he should have finished it then and there, but he was loath to risk losing too many men in formal battle. We are not yet strong enough for that. But then he headed north and east, marching along the Great Glen, and took the castle at Inverness—the first such victory he has won since taking up the crown. All the other castles in the realm remain in English hands.”

Sinclair struggled to encompass the enormity of what he had been told, trying to imagine the effect such a progression of family catastrophes must have had on the man Bruce. How had he managed to survive such things without losing his ability to function as a man, let alone a king? He shook his head, trying to clear it, and Douglas spoke again, quietly, as if he had read Will’s thoughts.

“His family’s losses hit him hard, but they strengthened him too. A lesser man would have been beaten to his knees. I know I would. But not King Robert . . . Even so, I sometimes wonder how he restrains himself from hunting down his enemies, one by one, and killing each one privily, in person. But he will not do so. He sees himself as Monarch first, responsible for his people, and only after that, his duty done, as family man, responsible for kinsmen and friends.

“And yet, within these past few months, we have seen signs that the tide is turning. Not sufficiently, not yet. But there is hope, increasing all the time. We have won a few tulzies, and folk are coming to our cause more and more all the time—not the great nobles, but the common folk—and we have more strength now than we have had since Methven. But King Robert will not hear of set battles, not when he can field less than three thousand men against English and Comyn hosts of tens of thousands . . . But that will change, once he carries the fight to the Comyns.”

“Then how come you to be here, in Arran, Sir James? I would have thought your place is with the King.”

“No, my place is here, holding the southwest and maintaining it against the King’s return. I have it safe for now, but every castle in the land is still manned by English garrisons. Above us, to the north and east, the MacDougalls and the MacDowals still swarm like maggots in Lorn and Galloway, nursing their hatred. We are safely based here on Arran, for the time being, but that could change with the next sail that comes over the horizon . . . Speaking of which,” he added, taking a new tack, “you said ships when you spoke of your treasure—one of your ships. I see but one, so plainly you have others.” Will pursed his lips and nodded, and Douglas’s eyes came close to squinting. “How many, and where are they?”

“They are nearby, awaiting word from me. I told you I came seeking sanctuary, but I knew not how I might be received or what, if anything, I might find here. I left my ships behind, in a safe anchorage, whence they might come or go without hindrance whatever we found.”

Douglas was nibbling on his upper lip now, deep in thought as the noise and horseplay nearby swelled in volume. But then he straightened and drew a deep breath. “Come you with me, if you will. There are others who should hear what you have to say . . . and many others who should not. So mind you, guard your tongue henceforth until I give the nod. Will you agree to that?”

Will Sinclair smiled widely, unable to resist his inexplicable liking for this dark-skinned young man with the brilliant and expressive blue eyes. “Happily,” he said, and then followed Douglas back across the wide forecourt and up the flight of sturdy wooden steps to the castle hall.

The place was new, and crudely but strongly built, its wooden beams still showing the fresh cuts of axe and adze, but already he saw signs that carpenters had been at work, smoothing and finishing the main surfaces, particularly the wall that fronted the upper space reserved for the commander. A fire blazed in a great, open stone fireplace against the rear wall, too, between the two flights of steps, and by just looking at it and smelling the gently drifting haze of smoke from it he could tell that it was freshly lit. Along the walls to his immediate right and left, a small army of men was starting to prepare tables and benches for the coming feast, manhandling them from where they had been piled on end in the far corners and carrying them out into the middle of the floor, laying them out in rows from there.

All of this he absorbed in moments, along with the awareness that the place now seemed to be full of large dogs—lean, rangy, spike-coated hounds that he remembered from his boyhood but had seldom seen in France. Three knots of men, the largest of them a quartet, were talking quietly in various parts of the main room, each far enough away from the others to remain unheard. De Berenger was there, too, standing about ten paces ahead of Will in the middle of the floor and turning to look at him. He had been talking to one of the Scots knights Will had met earlier, although the man’s name was long since beyond recall, and as Will focused on the stranger he felt Douglas place a hand on his elbow.

“Come, I see your admiral has met Bishop Moray. I will leave you with them for a while, with your permission, for I have things to do before we can continue.”

He started to move forward, but Will restrained him with a touch on his arm and a question. “Bishop Moray. Is he the same one who rode north with the Queen and her ladies?”

“The same.”

“And is he one of those you trust, or no?”

Douglas grinned, a flash of brightness in the gloom. “David is one to trust, believe me.”

He led Will forward then to join the other two, introducing him again to the Bishop, who looked less like a bishop than any other Will had ever seen or known. David de Moray, Bishop of Moray, was not a tall man, but he was enormously broad and deep across shoulders and chest, and he was self-evidently a practicing member of the Church Militant, armored from head to foot. The open skirts of his calf-length coat of rusting but still pliable chain mail clearly showed three bright scars where they had recently been struck by hard-swung weapons. Beneath the coat he wore leggings of the same mail, and his feet were covered by sturdy, well-worn boots with thick, many-layered soles. His head was covered by a close-fitting hood of felted wool, the bindings at its chin undone, and the mailed cap that would cover it dangled between his shoulders. A long, plain-hilted dirk hung from a sheath at his waist, and a broad belt slung across his chest from his right shoulder supported a heavy broadsword in a scuffed scabbard.

“I am glad you’re here, David,” Douglas said, speaking in French again and nodding to the admiral as he did so. “Sir William has been asking me about the state of King Robert’s realm today. But I thought it better he should speak with you, to hear the Church’s reasoned view of things, rather than my bloody-handed version of what is going on and who deserves to die.” He turned to Will. “David has been one of our King’s staunchest supporters since the beginning. He can tell you all you need to know—things I could not tell you. He is less priest than fighter, as the dints in his mail will attest, but priest he is, nonetheless, with views more sober and long-headed than mine, so I will leave you with him.” He pointed at one particularly bright slash of silver on the Bishop’s rusted skirts. “You were lucky with that one, David. That could have taken your leg off.”

“It almost did,” Moray drawled, smiling. “But God was watching at the time, even if I was not.”

“Of course He was. I’ll leave you to it, then, and be back as soon as I can be.”

Moray turned to Will. “Well, sir, what think you of our young Jamie?”

Will watched the younger man bound up the stairs leading to the upper floor two steps at a time. “A remarkable young man . . . and very young, it seems, to hold the trust he evidently holds.”

The Bishop laughed. “Granted, he’s young indeed, but Jamie is a Paladin. For all his youth, he’s one of our best commanders, and if he lives, he will become the best. The lad learns quickly and he never makes the same mistake twice. But he has grown from boy to man in desperately short time, and it shows on him to those of us who know him. He is also become one of the King’s closest and most trusted friends and advisers, despite his having been unknown to any of us until last year. King Robert knighted him in person upon meeting him, the day before his coronation at Scone.” His hand fell naturally to toy with the dirk at his waist. “So, you have questions. Ask away, then, and I will answer them as well as I may.”

“Thank you, my lord Bishop. I scarce know where to begin.”

“Begin by calling me David, then, and go forward from there. As Jamie said, I am become more fighter than bishop these past two years, and outside the chancel, away from my cope and miter, I find I prefer my name to my title . . . Mind you, it took me months before I could convince Jamie Douglas to call me by name. What do you need to know most?”

“About the King and his status. He is excommunicate, I heard.”

“Hmm. In the eyes of some, he is. But there is more of politics than of theology in that belief. Within the Church in Scotland, there are those, thank God, who can see things from another viewpoint, and prime among those are our Primate, Archbishop Lamberton, and Bishop Wishart of Glasgow, who is second in seniority and influence after the Archbishop. These two, in good conscience and for the good of the realm of Scotland, believe sincerely that the Holy Father has been misinformed about what came to pass between the two guardians that day in the chapel at Dumfries. They believe that His understanding of the situation has been warped and twisted by advisers desirous of promoting their own visions. Pope Clement passed his judgment in absentia, far removed from Scotland and its troubles, and it is the devout hope of the Archbishop that the Holy Father may be convinced of this someday soon and lift his interdiction. In the meantime, the Primate has refused, still in good conscience, to prosecute the excommunication . . . and that, in turn, permits the King to govern the realm in its time of sorest need.”

Will frowned. “Think you, then, that Archbishop Lamberton might know where the King is to be found?”

“No. On that I can be definite. The Archbishop is in England, a prisoner of the English, as is Wishart of Glasgow. Once again, betrayed and sold by fellow Scots. We are told they are well enough treated, as befits their station, but they are held fast nonetheless.”

“I see. And what of the other bishops of the realm? Is all the Church in Scotland united behind the Archbishop?”

Moray snorted in disgust. “No. As I said, there’s more politics here than theology. The bishops who support the Comyn faction stand against the King, united in treason. They hope still to see him overthrown and their own candidate anointed in his place.”

Will nodded, accepting the Bishop’s explanation. “I have already told Sir James Douglas this, but no one else. I am a member of the Governing Council of our Order, appointed to my current task by our Grand Master, Sir Jacques de Molay, and I am entrusted with a large sum of gold and silver, although not from the Temple’s treasury, intended for King Robert’s use. Did you know Sir Thomas Randolph, the former Sir Thomas?”

“Tom? I knew him well. Why?”

“Knew you then his youngest sister, the lady Jessica?”

“Aye, but not well at all. I met her but once, long since. She was wed to a Frenchman . . . a baron, I believe.”

“The Baron Etienne de St. Valéry. He is dead, too, but he amassed a sum of wealth ere he died, and through a long chain of circumstances it was entrusted to our keeping in the Temple. His widow, the Baroness, is here aboard one of my ships, at anchor off the isle of Sanda, on Kintyre coast, and she wishes to donate this treasure to the King of Scots. And if ever we can find him, we will deliver it.”

The Bishop scratched his beard. “How large is it?”

“Large enough to buy an army. Six chests of gold and five of silver.”

“That is a great treasure . . .” Moray’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Depending, of course, upon the size of the chests. Yet I find myself wondering whether it be large enough to warrant accompaniment by a Knight Commander and the admiral of the Temple fleet?”

Will had trusted Douglas instinctively, and now he decided to trust this bishop, too. “You have not heard all of it—nor yet one-tenth of any part of it. We barely managed to bring the treasure out of France ahead of King Philip’s grasping fingers. And the reason we were able to do so was that we were warned in advance.”

“You were warned that the King of France was coming for the Baroness’s gold?”

“No. The Baroness’s gold was already in La Rochelle. Our saving it was mere good fortune. We had received warning that the King’s chief lawyer and first minister, William de Nogaret, planned to attack and interdict the Temple in France on the morning of October thirteenth.”

The silence that followed seemed long, and Moray’s face was a picture as he grappled with what he had heard. Finally he shook his head. “Tell me that again. What exactly did you say?”

“At dawn on the morning of Friday, October thirteenth, mere weeks ago, the French army, acting under the instructions of William de Nogaret, the chief lawyer of France, moved concertedly against every commandery and every Temple installation in the country. All the occupants—knights, sergeants, brethren, and lay brethren—were arrested and imprisoned. All of them, at one swoop.”

The Bishop’s mouth was hanging open. “That is . . . that is inconceivable. But how then come you here?”

“I have said—we were warned. Our Master, Sir Jacques de Molay, had word of it more than a month before. He scarce believed what he was told, but he took steps to safeguard the fleet against such treachery, should it be true. At the last moment, in the increasing belief that it might be true, he sent me to La Rochelle, to warn the garrison and make preparations to secure the fleet and take it safely offshore the night before the threatened raid.”

“And it came to pass?”

“We stand here as witnesses. From all we understand, the Temple in France no longer exists.”

“That defies belief. The Temple no longer exists?”

“Not in France, at least not for the time being. That is what we believe. We did not linger long enough to verify the extent of the attack, but we saw what we saw in La Rochelle, and that was the Order’s operational headquarters in France.

“We have been through all the explanations we can think of—that it might have been a misunderstanding of some kind, that it might be no more than a gambit by the King to frighten the Order into making funds available to him, that whatever the root cause, negotiations will follow and all will be resolved . . .”

“But you believe none of it.”

Will’s headshake was barely noticeable. “No. I do not. I believe King Philip did what he did deliberately, with malice aforethought, and with the precise intention of seizing the Order’s wealth for himself. And I do not believe he will relent. In truth, he cannot. He owed the Temple too much money and he was bankrupt. With the Temple gone he will be solvent again, debt-free and with money to do whatever he desires. The Temple in France is finished.” He glanced at de Berenger, whose face was unreadable. “Forgive my bluntness, Edward, but the truth of that has just come home to me.”

De Berenger nodded. “No forgiveness required, my friend. I agree with you. But that leaves the question, what do we do now?”

Moray was still thinking about what Will had last said, his face wrinkled in perplexity. “Such blatant aggression would require papal sanction, at least, if not outright support.”

“Aye, it would,” Will agreed. “And as you said, Pope Clement is not the strongest of the strong. He is a vacillator, notoriously weak and open to manipulation, and in France, under Philip the Pope-maker, he is but potter’s clay in the King’s hands.”

Moray drew in his breath with a hiss, straightening up to his full height, but before he could say anything more Sir Robert Boyd of Noddsdale, whom Will had seen descending the stairs mere moments earlier, appeared at de Berenger’s shoulder.

“My lord Bishop,” he said to Moray. “Sir James requires your presence. You are to come with me and bring these two gentlemen with you.”

Moray looked from de Berenger to Will. “Were I not a bishop I might be inclined to wager that the two of you are going to have to sing for your supper.”