CHAPTER Fourteen

BRYCAN WROTE NO more in the diary until he felt it was safe. Should it fall into the Inquisition’s hands it would show only events that happened in France and no Templars in Scotland would be compromised. By now, the diary had become as much a part of him as his sword.

In mid-April of 1314, scores of dispatch riders carried a message to all fugitive Templars. They were invited to join King Robert Bruce against the invading army of King Edward of England. Word passed swiftly, true to the saying “Good news makes fast horsemen.”

When the Templar Order was destroyed in France, Scotland ignored the papal edict and gave sanctuary to all Templars. Now many were repaying the favor by joining Scotland against the English. As they passed through the countryside, no one suspected their identity, for they dressed as ordinary knights and common soldiers.

Brychan arrived in June at Falkirk, the rally site. They numbered about a hundred and forty knights, sergeants, and troopers, all cavalry. The Templars, as customary, made their camp separate from Bruce’s main army. Brychan found the delicious aroma of brewing kahveh in the thick humid air.

“Scotsman! Do ye still fight naked to terrify the enemy with your ugly arse?”

Brychan turned to see the grinning face of Brother James McGill. They embraced with the boisterous laughter that had gotten them in trouble as novitiates. James offered his flagon of steaming kahveh, which they shared as they talked.

No longer a gangling youth, James had fleshed out to a strapping warrior with a few scars of which he might boast. “And what of Ursus, the Great Bear?”

“Fallen.”

“Ah! I wot he took a host with him.”

“A sherif, two archers, and four foot.”

“The Zealote way,” James said, and crossed himself.

“What trouble have you been brewing in Scotland?”

“I’ve taken me a wife—a bonny, bonny Scot’s lass. Brychan, I am a wolf tasting blood!” he said with a laugh. “What a price we paid to be monks. No women! Is it any wonder Saracens think us crazy? In battle ’twas not us they feared, but catching our madness!” James playfully tapped him on both shoulders in a mock dubbing. “Now, Sir Knight, how did ye come to answer this call to arms?”

Brychan did not mention Sara. She was biding with a peasant family where a gold besant guaranteed her stay. Instead, he told James of the Inquisition being after him.

Jamie raised his fist in approval. “Good for ye! The Scots army is as good a place to hide as any. As they say, ‘hiding among kin is a fortress of many stones.’”

With lively exaggeration James spun a tale of escaping France after King Philip’s raid on the Templars. In Scotland he took service with a baron whose chief joy was border-raiding for cattle. James saw the coming war with the English as a blessing from God. He was among the first to answer Robert the Bruce’s call.

“Brother Brychan, ’tis me curse to go from bad to worse. I joined Bruce to fight for glory. Yet, for weeks I dig in the ground like a peasant making ditches in a swampy bog, then covering them with sod. I may as well be in a monastery spreading sheep-shit on cabbage.”

“Penance for your worldly pride, Jamie.”

“Ye’ve joined a doomed cause, Brychan. The English invade like locusts, with infantry, archers, and a great host of cavalry. Ye could feed all our cavalry horses with three bushels of oats and a dozen sour apples.”

“Then why did you join?”

“Why, man! ’Tis the only battle left.”

“Are rumors of the English numbers true?”

“Aye! So large they are supplied by sea with ships that follow them along the coast. Though Edward be not the general his daddy ol’ Longshanks was, even he cannot lose with this army. Ye recall that back when Longshanks invaded, he brought his own bard to celebrate his victories?”

“The great poet Andrew Baston.”

“King Edward has brought the same bard to versify his own victory over the Scots.”

“Baston is with Edward’s army?”

“That he is.” James laughed. “Brother, we shall die in battle but be legends in verse.”

Andrew Baston, Carmelite monk, Oxford lecturer, and bard to two kings, sat writing by candlelight in his campaign tent. It was pitched within calling distance of King Edward’s tent pavilion. Baston was making notes on events of the day, which he would dictate in verse to Timothy, a novice and his scribe. He was surprised when Timothy entered again, for he had been sent for wine.

“Brother Baston, you have a visitor. A Franciscan.”

“Franciscan?”

“He says he knows you.”

Baston stood as Brychan entered wearing a brown Franciscan robe. The old monk stared astonished, then both roared with laughter, hugging and pounding each other.

“Brychan! My lad!” He grabbed Brychan’s robe. “What is this Franciscan rag? You are Cistercian!” Baston turned to his scribe. “That will be all, Brother Timothy.”

The novice, with a curious glance at Brychan, left the tent.

“What madness made you leave Cistercian scholars for Franciscan beggars?”

“I’m neither.” Brychan lowered his voice. “I am a Templar.”

“Dear heaven, no!”

“And a fugitive. I neither surrendered to King Philip nor joined another order.”

“Heavenly host! What a loss,” he said. His eyes glowed, remembering. “When you were a child, I predicted your verses would exceed mine.”

“Then you are a better poet than prophet.”

“Your mother wrote me two years ago. Lady Gwynn only said that you were a monk in France; I should have sensed something dire when she didn’t say more.”

“She disapproved of my choice. But I think my father, the old warrior, was not displeased.”

“I was sorry to hear of his passing.” Baston crossed himself, then added, “Do you still write verse?”

“Scribblings. But you! Composing for yet another king! I knew this would be my last chance to see you.”

Baston grasped both his arms. “Stay with me! After the battle, we’ll go to England. I’ll have you writing such verse that your name will sing before every fire.”

Brychan was moved. But for a fateful turn of events this great poet might have been his mentor. “My dear friend, I cannot.”

“Brychan, you must not fight in this battle! You are a scholar.”

“I’m a Scot.”

“Jesu! That’s no reason! King Edward has more troops than William the Conqueror.”

“Yes, yes. So, everyone says.”

“You’ve not heard the half! The English have both cavalry and foot from crown vessels in England and Ireland, and scores of archers from Wales. Infantry from France and Flanders, and Gascogne heavy cavalry! King Edward even has Scots from Cambria and Connaught, whose clans bear old hatreds against Robert Bruce. This army is battle-ready! If old Longshanks had it, he’d have conquered half of Europe.”

“Edward is not Longshanks. He’s a joke among the Templars.” Though Brychan had not heard this, he wanted to rile Baston.

“King Edward is no fool,” he argued, “despite his bed favoring men.”

“Edward will be at the mercy of his poor commanders,” Brychan said.

“Poor? They are among the best! The Earl of Hefford and Earl of Glouster, both seasoned commanders. And Sir John Saint John with his own cavalry.”

“Yes, twice our numbers.”

“Thrice more! We know your army—peasants armed with long spears, some archers, and a hundred fifty or so cavalry.” Baston laughed. “In my verse I will have to give the Scots a few thousand more to appear more evenly matched.”

“Would that we had them on the ground.”

Baston’s tone turned serious. “Hear me, Brychan. Few will survive Bruce’s folly. Tomorrow, when an English unit cuts off the south road to Stirling Castle there will be no escape. If you fight, you die.”

“I shall die anyway.”

“Why do you—ah.” The old monk suddenly understood. “The sight—the same as your mother. I never knew a more gifted seer than her ladyship.” Arguing against the sight was pointless. “With her vision and your verse, what a bard you would have made!”

Brychan was deeply moved. “I came to beg you to write Lady Gwynn. She will be happy that we talked one last time.”

“’Tis is a hard grief she will bear.”

“My dear friend.” Brychan took his arm in farewell. “Now I must go before I’m discovered by some drunken sentry.”

Baston’s eyes brimmed. “It is a bitter time when we send poets off to war.”

“And have our greatest bard celebrate their slaughter.” Brychan hugged him and whispered, “Make us immortal, Brother.”

Baston tried to answer, but could only shake his head. After Brychan left, he called angrily to Brother Timothy for wine.

“Where is this fool who visits the English?” Prince Edward Bruce bellowed. He was the younger brother of King Robert and appeared late at the Templar camp; the midnight sentries had long been posted. When Brychan returned from seeing Baston, he reported everything to the senior Templar, William Saint Clair. A messenger was immediately dispatched to Edward’s pavilion.

Brychan looked Prince Edward over critically, noting his slovenly dress. Under his cloak he wore a filthy night shirt with mud-caked boots. He was attended by two glowering knights.

Sir William introduced him with a ready grin.

“Sire, this is Sir Brychan Houston. A Templar from France, but never fear—a pure Scot.”

“Houston? Clan Howistean?”

“Yes, Sire.” Brychan had heard the many rumors about Edward. King Robert Bruce was thirty, making this Edward two years younger. Where Robert was said to be of moderate temper, this Prince Edward was a raging hothead. Yet even his severest critics agreed that none exceeded his courage in battle.

“I know of your father Lord Creighton.” Edward’s tone was taunting. “Is it true that the Houstons always fight on the wrong side?”

“Hopefully not this time, Sire.”

“Isn’t your family estate nearby?”

“About two hours ride from Stirling Castle.”

“Then your knowledge of this terrain could be useful.” His tone was accusing. “What were you doing in the English camp, Templar?”

“Visiting their royal bard, Brother Baston, a family friend. He tried to dissuade me from fighting due to their superior numbers.”

“Oh, yes! We know their numbers, Sir Knight.”

“Good, my Lord. Then you also know that by morning an English detachment moves to cut off the south road leading to Stirling Castle which will outflank the Scots left.”

Edward frowned suspiciously. “And did this bard also conveniently reveal to you their commanders and strength?”

“Only that we are greatly outnumbered.”

“The south road to Stirling? How far from here?”

Brychan sensed what he was thinking. “If you force march, you could get there before dawn.”

Edward looked at his two companions. “Then we could cut the English off at the south road!”

Both knights smiled at the prospect. Edward turned to Brychan.

“If the English do not appear on that south road,” he said, “you are a traitor. You’d better pray that your bard is right. If he’s wrong, your head will be on my lance leading our next charge.”

•••

After a three-hour night march just before dawn, Brychan found himself in Prince Edward’s unit stretched along the south road awaiting the English advance. He was deeply disappointed. The main body of King Robert’s army was at Bannockburn in position to engage the main body of the approaching English army. That was where the main battle would be. This small detachment was making a tactical move to prevent the English from outflanking the Scots and marching on Stirling. As he waited, Brychan carefully checked his surroundings; the thick morning fog was heavy as his mood.

From his division, Edward Bruce had selected a modest force of infantry and fifty cavalry to ambush the English. He could risk losing no more. If the English arrived while the fog held, the Scots’ force would seem much larger. But if the fog lifted and exposed their inferior numbers, the English ambush would quickly turn into a slaughter of Scots.

As Brychan sat on Dragon waiting, he watched Edward, who yawned in boredom. The prince had first earned his spurs when he and Robert Bruce rode with William Wallace against Longshanks’ last invasion. Now as he evaluated their position, Brychan was impressed by Edward’s daring tactic: he had placed his infantry well hidden in a narrow line along the road. Their ranks were thin, with surprise their single advantage.

“Templar!” Edward growled. “Where are your English?”

Brychan peered into the misty brume nearly thick as smoke. Where were the English?

As if an answer, there was the sound of a horse. Through the swirling haze a knight appeared and saluted Edward. “The north road, Sire.”

“Their formation?”

“In column, four wide.”

“No outrider scouts riding reconnaissance?”

The knight laughed. “Their left flank is naked as a French whore.”

Edward turned to his commanders. “The fog makes their archers useless. Our infantry will assault their infantry front. Our cavalry will charge on the English right. ”

The infantry commanders saluted and rode away. Edward addressed the cavalry commanders that he would be leading. “Stagger ranks. Ten lengths between. In the fog, we will appear to be coming in waves.”

Brychan watched as the men quickly made the alignment. He could see that this was a common maneuver for them.

“Templar!” Edward yelled above the confusion. “The English just saved your head. Let’s see if they’ve left you enough stomach to fight. Stay near me.”

Instead of drawing his sword, Brychan selected the mace, curling the strap tightly around his wrist. It had been Ursus’; with its extra-long shank and oversized head it was perfect for chopping down infantry. Settling his weight on Dragon, Brychan firmly pressed his heels down in the stirrups. He felt both a strange calm and a hollow ache; Ursus would not be fighting beside him. It was why he chose Ursus’ mace.

Suddenly, without giving a command, Edward spurred his steed and the troop followed. Brychan did not have to urge Dragon, who in a few strides, was at full gallop. The rushing ground ahead was barely visible in the fog.

Breaking through the mist, Brychan was amazed at his first sighting of a Scots schiltrom formation. Each soldier had a twelve-foot spear, their ranks close, with shields touching. When attacking infantry, the long spears kept them well beyond the enemy’s reach. If charged by cavalry, they leveled at the horses. If the ranks held, this “hedgehog” was all but impenetrable.

Brychan saw a wall of dead and injured horses impaled before the Scots line—the first to attack. English cavalrymen, having fallen on the ground, were being slaughtered by killing squads that charged out from the schiltrom formation.

The Scots cavalry now hit in waves of ten. Surprised, the English cavalry scattered to regroup in their rear. Instead of pursuing as would be expected, in a perfect show of maneuverability, the entire Scots cavalry wheeled and turned back on the English infantry, now unprotected by cavalry.

In full charge, Brychan raged in a fury of bloodlust, slashing all in reach of his mace. English soldiers scattered or deliberately fell to escape his ferocity. The entire English unit had scattered quickly at the first charge.

With no one left before him, Brychan reined Dragon sharply and looked around to find an English knight for single combat. At the same moment, the two knights saw each other.

The English shield bore three gold lions with the helmet crowned by a coronet, marking a count or baron. His lance broken, the Englishman dropped the truncheon and drew his sword, waving it in challenge to Brychan.

Brychan looped the mace on the saddle pommel, drew his sword, and charged.

The first clash was swords against shields. They passed; both swung quickly around. There was another pass and clash. And another.

With each turn, Brychan was instantly upon the knight. Ursus had trained Dragon so that horse and rider were a ton of single warrior. The Englishman, slightly slower, was vulnerable for an instant after each turn. At the next clash, Brychan landed a solid blow on his opponent’s back armor and another on his shield.

As the knight was turning again, Brychan’s blade slammed his helmet. The Englishman wavered then fell from the saddle. Brychan spun Dragon around for the kill.

The knight lay on his back, helmet gone, head bloodied. His hand slowly raised in surrender. Brychan lowered his sword.

Prince Edward rode up accompanied by two knights.

“You have a prisoner, Templar,” he said. He noted the lions on the crest of the English shield. “Baron of . . . Salisbury, is it not?”

“It is,” the man answered and looked up at Brychan. “Who has bested me?”

“Brychan, clan Howistean,” Brychan answered with a courteous nod.

“Your blade is fierce, Sir Brychan.” The man shakily got to his feet. Now he appeared very old for a warrior, nearly fifty years.

Brychan looked at Edward. “Sire, I do not want a prisoner.”

“Very well, Templar.” Edward turned to the knight. “Baron, you are now King Robert Bruce’s hostage.” He turned to his attending knight and said, “Escort him to my pavilion.” Edward then ordered that they follow the command in the Book of Proverbs: “If your enemy is hungry, feed him.”

In the quickly fading mist, Scots were stripping the English dead of desperately needed weapons. Watching them, Edward said to Brychan, “You fought well, Sir Knight. I would grant you a boon.”

“Will the English attack again tomorrow?”

“Providing they do not defeat us today. ”

“Then, I beg the boon. Some of us wish to fight openly as Templars.”

“Glorious!” Edward laughed. “’Tis the perfect insult to the new Pope. The last one excommunicated King Robert.”

Brychan saluted, accepting the boon. “Sire, I beg permission to join the Templars with King Robert’s division.”

“Granted. I have received a messenger from King Robert. The main body of English are advancing slowly to Bannockburn field on the old Roman road. If you ride fast, you can get there in time.”

During the ride to Bruce’s division, Brychan’s thoughts flooded with gory images of the morning’s skirmish. He could not shake a sick feeling of shame: he found combat exhilarating, greater even than making love. God forgive him!

Once again came the realization that he did not know himself. What scholar feeds on bloodlust? What warrior-monk forgets that his duty is to slay the enemies of Christ but to take no joy in the killing? Now he feared for his soul: in this battle lay the prophecy of his own death.

A few hours later, when he arrived at King Robert’s camp, he was surprised to discover the King had positioned most of his army hidden in the woods, in the hunting preserve at the top of the hill. From its position they would await the first English units, which were still marching on the Roman road several hours away. Only one troop of Scots schiltroms edged the woods. The arriving English would look uphill into the sun and see only a single Scot’s unit. The rest of King Robert’s division was hidden in the woods behind.

Brychan dismounted and joined Brother Jamie McGill and ten or so Templar cavalry. Once again, he was disappointed. He was with the reserves, which would only be used as a last measure depending how the battle went. From here he would have a fine view of the battle below; he could only watch and wait.

Eleanor Harbin was awakened by the phone at 6:00 am.

“I must see you,” Thomas said.

“Of course, Mr. Bardsey. The office opens at nine.”

“This can’t wait.”

Thirty minutes later, Eleanor, in pink curlers and wearing a chenille bathrobe of fading violet, answered her front door. She greeted Thomas and Kate cheerily and led them into the kitchen. They were surprised to see tiny Imogen in her blue bathrobe. Obviously, they were a couple. Kate gave Thomas a warning look. For all his sophistication, he was a monk.

“Tea or coffee?” Imogen offered.

“Eleanor,” said Thomas, “I’ve made a stupid mistake. I was working from a medieval verse that referred to three warriors standing before a cross.”

“Yes. So you said.”

“Last night I came to a different interpretation. Now I believe they’re not statues, but three stone monoliths with a cross nearby. Is there anything like that near Bannockburn?”

Eleanor and Imogen exchanged a look.

“Check the brochures, would you, dear?” said Eleanor.

Imogen went into the next room, which from the doorway revealed a wondrous glut of photographs, books, and papers like a paper-hoarder’s cache.

Eleanor pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Mr. Bardsey, it is I who must apologize. I should have made the connection—three statues, three stone steles. Imogen, bring the Royal Engineer ordnance map.”

With an impatient sweep of her hand, Eleanor cleared the table, sending books and papers flying to the floor.

Imogen spread the map. The scale was one inch to five miles, showing considerable ground detail.

Eleanor put on her glasses and with her thumb followed a ley line on the map. “Here, within your circle. Two standing monoliths.”

“Two, not three?”

“A third has fallen, so I think of two standing.”

“How did it fall?” Kate asked.

“Bloody vandals,” Eleanor sneered. “A stone monument will stand for thousands of years, then some stupid sod will destroy it for fun. I believe these monoliths are sacred, the same as any temple or church. Stele, dolmen, or megalith, their purpose is still unknown—holy site? Sacred burial? If one falls, when it’s restored, sometimes it’s impossible to get the balance and alignment right. Yet the people who built them didn’t have iron or math, just muscle and imagination.”

Thomas smiled. “That’s quite poetic, Eleanor.”

She blushed. “Sometimes, I rave on a bit.”

“A bit?” Imogen muttered.

Thomas tapped the map. “How far is this from Bannockburn?”

“Thirty miles—a place called Whitley. In the woods about a hundred or so yards off the road.”

“But there is no cross,” Imogen reminded him.

Carver had dialed Leo’s number repeatedly. There was no answer, not even from Victor. Carver would have to report to Leo that they followed the monk and cop to Paris and lost them. His team was still searching.

When Leo finally phoned, his tone was blunt as a hammer. “Yes, Carver?”

Carver stuttered. “F-for some reason, sir, we can’t f-f-find . . .”

“They’re in Scotland,” Leo interrupted. “Edinburgh or Glasgow. Our sources think Edinburgh. The monk may be checking various tourists’ offices.” He paused. “I’m very disappointed in you. Shall I try other means?”

Carver felt a rumble in his bowels. Before he could reply Leo hung up.

“My name is Nathanson, Special Agent, Interpol.” The man presented his credentials to Eleanor. The second man also flashed his. They had arrived at Eleanor’s office as if ready to make an arrest.

She was startled. She had never been questioned by the police, much less Interpol. “Yes? May I help you?”

Carver gave her an official smile. The forged credentials had arrived by Leo’s courier just two hours before. He showed Eleanor a grainy surveillance photo of a man. “Do you know him?”

“My goodness. Isn’t that Mr. Bardsey?” She looked at Imogen, who nodded wide-eyed.

“Bardsey?” Carver repeated. “That’s one of his names. Also, Bentley and Aikens. He’s an American; he may be traveling with a woman.”

“They were here early this morning,” Eleanor said.

“What’s he done?” Imogen asked.

“Confidence. Real estate scam. Preys on elderly investors.”

Steiner added, his German accent intentionally thicker, “Der scam involves phony treasure, und archeology zites. Who vould belief anyvone could be so easily duped?”

Imogen frowned at Eleanor. “I told you there was something strange about them.”

“What did he want to see you about?” Carver asked.

“He was looking for a specific prehistoric site.” Eleanor added nervously, “I’m afraid I told him about one.”

“That’s understandable. He has fooled a lot of people.” Carver unfolded a map and held it out to her. “Where did they go?”