The Adept Book 3 The Templar Treasure (11 page)

Declining his butler’s offer of tea, he went upstairs to his bedroom and sat down on the bed. He gazed for a moment at the bedside telephone, then impulsively reached for the receiver. A quick tattoo of his fingertips over the buttons elicited the sound of a telephone ringing on the far side of the North American continent.

He let it ring three times, then abruptly forced himself to hang up. Just now, there were more urgent priorities at stake. Indulging a loneliness that could not be satisfied, at least at present, would only blunt his edge for the confrontation to come—and there
would
be a confrontation with whoever had stolen the Seal. He only hoped that he and his could find the thief before irreparable damage was done, both to that individual and in a larger sense. The potential for disaster, if Nathan’s Seal really was the Seal of Solomon, and guarded what Adam feared it might, was so awesome as to be almost unthinkable.

Chapter Eleven

THE SATURDAY
of the Templar investiture dawned fair, but by noon, as Adam was completing his hospital rounds, a wind had picked up and the clouds had rolled in, bringing with them a dour possibility of showers to come. The uncertainty of the weather was reflected in a general mood of restlessness among Adam’s patients, but with gentleness and the skill of long practice, he was able to allay the signs of disturbance where he found them. After a quick lunch with two of his fellow consultants, he was able to quit the hospital in good time to drive back to Strathmourne for a fast shower and a change into attire more appropriate for the afternoon’s activities.

The measure of the rest of the day’s success was going to depend on the Dundee ring, and whether or not Miss Morrison could be prevailed upon to loan it to them. This presumed, of course, that the lock of hair preserved in the ring had, indeed, been cut from the head of Dundee. If so, since hair came from the actual physical body occupied by a soul during a given lifetime, the lock would provide one of the most potent possible links for attempting to make an esoteric contact across the abyss of the astral void. Only blood was more potent—and obviously impossible to procure, since the body once known as Dundee had been dead more than three hundred years. Still, the prospect of utilizing such a relic presented the most immediate and likely means for possibly gaining access to whatever knowledge Dundee might have had of the mysterious Seal of Solomon and what it guarded.

And if Miss Morrison declined to let the ring out of her custody? That would complicate matters, but they still might salvage
some
insight. Whether or not they gained private access to the ring, Adam’s backup plan called for Peregrine to examine the ring on the spot with his Sight, and later draw whatever resonant images might come to light. At least that was a procedure not likely to elicit unwelcome attention or comment-though if the artifact proved to be genuine and they
were
denied useful access, that made the Dundee cross even more important in their reckoning.

He was considering such alternative plans of action as he headed down to the gate lodge to collect Peregrine. Since the weather was not yet totally deteriorated, he had left the Jaguar’s soft top down for the drive into town. A greyed tweed daywear jacket and vest muted the red of the Sinclair tartan of his kilt, and a Balmoral bonnet with a red and white diced band confined his hair, twin eagle feathers behind the Sinclair cap badge proclaiming his status as a chieftain. Close by his right hand, tucked into the top of his grey kilt hose, the pommel of his
skean dubh
sported a pale blue stone the size of a pigeon’s egg. The
skean dubh
itself was a common enough accoutrement to be worn with Highland attire, but this one was also a familiar working tool of his esoteric vocation, as was the sapphire signet ring on his right hand.

He tapped on the horn as he drew up beside the door of the gate lodge, and the door opened almost immediately.

“’Lo, Adam,” Peregrine said cheerily, tucking a zipper portfolio under one arm as he pulled the door shut behind him.

He cut a dapper figure as he came down the steps, impeccably turned out in a tan tweed daywear jacket and vest with his kilt of brown Hunting Fraser tartan. After tossing his portfolio into the backseat, he dropped his door keys into his brown leather sporran, then opened the car door and eased himself into the passenger seat.

“Well, I see that I’ve chosen the correct uniform of the day,” he observed with a grin, as he shifted briefly to adjust his kilt pleats under him.

“You have, indeed,” Adam replied. “There’s a cap behind the seat, if you want it. We’ll put the top up before we go in, but it seemed a shame to lose what may be the last nice afternoon for a while.”

With a nod of thanks, Peregrine retrieved the indicated cap and put it on, adjusting it to a rakish angle in the mirror on the visor and then buckling up as Adam eased the Jaguar out onto the road, heading for the motorway several miles away.

“So,” Peregrine said, as he settled down with one arm braced along the top of the doorsill. “I’ve never been to anything quite like this before. Any pointers on protocol I should hear before we get there?”

“Not really,” Adam said, smiling. “It’s basically a church service, as I recall—all pretty straightforward.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the zippered case. “I see you’ve come prepared.”

Peregrine grinned. “That’s only the official arsenal. I’ve also taken the liberty of squirrelling away a pocket sketchbook and a couple of pencils in my sporran. I wasn’t certain whether it might put people out of countenance if I sketch during the investiture itself.”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Adam said with a chuckle. “It’s certainly no more obtrusive than taking photographs—less, actually—and I don’t think there’s any problem with that. Besides, I know you’ll be discreet. Quite frankly, most of the knights of my acquaintance would take your artistic interest as a compliment.”

“Good, because aside from the serious work we have to do, events like this are a treasure trove of inspiration for an artist,” Peregrine said. “It’s like stepping onto the stage of a historical costume drama, and all in living color!”

“I suppose one
could
look at it that way,” Adam agreed.

They went on to discuss the general game plan for the afternoon as they sped across the Forth Road Bridge and on along the sweeping curve of the Queensferry Road, mostly ignoring the good-natured glances they attracted en route—for the sight of the open sports car bearing two attractive Scottish gentlemen in traditional dress invariably turned heads and occasionally elicited waves from appreciative ladies of all ages.

A light mist had started to descend by the time they threaded their way southward into Palmerston Place, which fronts the Gothic splendor of the Episcopal Cathedral of St. Mary. They were fortunate to find another car just pulling out of a choice parking space in an adjoining side street, and Adam waved an appreciative half-salute in the other driver’s direction before whipping the Jaguar into the space just vacated.

Tossing their caps into the back of the car, he and Peregrine made short work of putting the top up and locking up the car, then headed briskly back toward the cathedral’s front porch. Peregrine, with his zipper case under his arm, was already in his element, happily noting details of attire of the other guests arriving. Almost all of the men were kilted, but many of them sported Highland finery of earlier times, recalling the real history underlying such romances as
Rob Roy
and
The Master of Ballantrae.

They strode up the main steps under a grey sky increasingly threatening serious rain. As they entered through the great doors, passing through the narthex into the cathedral’s spacious interior, Peregrine immediately became aware of a sense of reverent expectancy charging the air with unseen energy, different from any of his previous visits to the cathedral. Off to his left, in the receding shadows of the north aisle, he could see the beginnings of a procession forming up. He decided that the handful of men and women who formed the leading ranks of the procession must be postulants, for they wore no regalia as yet. But behind these, he caught glimpses of other figures moving to and fro in a shifting panoply of white mantles emblazoned at the left shoulder with the red Templar cross—members of the Order’s existing chivalry.

He slowed in his tracks, intent on catching a better look, but at that point, a big barrel-chested man appeared around the corner of the choir screen and hailed them with a wave of a meaty hand.

“Ah, there’s our host,” Adam said, heading them in that direction. “Come and let me introduce you to Stuart MacRae.”

MacRae, Peregrine decided, would have made a striking subject for portraiture. Tall above average, and stout as an oak tree, he wore the red tartan of his clan with the informal assurance of a born Highlander. The effect was further heightened by the fact that his grizzled chestnut hair was pulled back in a queue, in the style of a Jacobite laird, tied with a velvet ribbon. White teeth gleamed in a broad smile through a luxuriant thatch of chestnut beard as he came forward to pump Adam’s hand.

“Ah,
there
you are!” he said heartily. “Welcome, Sir Adam! Glad you could make it!”

“So am I,” Adam responded. “Stuart, I’d like you to meet Mr. Peregrine Lovat, one of my associates. He’s also a very fine artist, and hoping to find some inspiration here today. Peregrine, Stuart MacRae.”

“Well, then, welcome, Mr. Lovat,” MacRae said, offering Peregrine a hearty handshake. “I think I’ve heard your name before.”

“Only good things, I hope,” Peregrine responded, smiling. “I’m very glad that Adam let me tag along. I’ve been looking forward to it.”

“Well, I hope we don’t disappoint you,” MacRae said cheerily. “In any case, I’m always happy to meet a friend of Sir Adam’s. He did tell you, I hope, that the date of this investiture commemorates a very special Jacobite connection to the Templars?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Peregrine replied, glancing at Adam, who shrugged minutely.

“Ah, well then. On September 27, 1745, Prince Charles Edward Stuart received Scottish Knights of the Order of the Temple at a special reception in the Palace of Holyrood, at which time the Prince himself became a Templar. There’s a braw painting in one of the Queen’s galleries that I like to think was meant to depict the event. Being an artist, ye may know it, Mr. Lovat. It shows the Prince flanked by Lochiel and Pitsligo, the Chiefs of Clan Cameron and Clan Forbes—a broody, darkling picture.”

“If it’s the same one I’m thinking of, I know it well,” Peregrine said. “The artist was John Pettie. It’s one of the more dashing paintings I’ve ever seen of the Prince, but as an artist, I’ve always been more intrigued by the other two faces. The background is very dark as you say, but there they are—loyal and stalwart at their Prince’s back. The faces are intriguing.”

“Aye, that’s the one,” MacRae agreed. “Ye
do
know it! Anyway, we’ll be holding a formal reception later this evening to commemorate that event—the Soirée of the White Cockade, it’s called. We do it every year. You’re both welcome to come along, if you like.”

“I’d like to, Stuart, but I’m afraid we’ll have to pass,” Adam said easily. “Mr. Lovat’s just gotten himself engaged to a most attractive young lady, and I’m trying to wind up some research for an article I’m writing. Which reminds me, I’m supposed to meet a Miss Fiona Morrison here. Could you point her out to me, and perhaps introduce us?”

“Och, aye, but I think it’ll have to wait until after the service,” MacRae said. “She’s back in the vestry, giving some last-minute help with decorations and mantles and the like, and it’s nigh on time to start.”

“So it is,” Adam replied with a glance at his pocket watch. “Perhaps we’d better go claim our seats, then. We’ll catch her afterwards.”

“I’ll see that she doesna get away,” their host agreed.

MacRae’s summons produced a white-mantled usher, who conducted Adam and Peregrine to choice seats in the upper choir stalls, far over to the right. Perhaps two dozen people were already seated in the choir facing the center aisle, mostly friends and members of the families of those present to be invested. The seats farther forward, in the chancel itself, remained empty, reserved for the participants about to enter. Peregrine had just time enough to get himself settled with pencil and pad in his lap when there was a heightened stir on the far side of the choir screen, back where the procession was forming up in the north choir aisle.

A current of unspoken excitement swept through the body of the cathedral, like a rising gust of wind. Touched by the breeze as it passed, Peregrine experienced an unlooked-for thrill of mystery along with anticipation.

The service commenced in solemn silence as the white-mantled column passed quietly along the long north aisle toward the back of the church, then turned to process down the center aisle. The waiting congregation rose to acknowledge and receive the procession as the first knights mounted the two steps onto the choir level—the Order’s swordbearer, carrying a great claymore, followed by the paired standard-bearers of the various Templar commanderies all over Scotland.

Next came the processional cross of the Order, followed by a knight bearing a case containing what appeared to be a badly rusted spur and a blackened bit of metal that might have been part of a sword blade—Templar relics belonging to the Order, Adam guessed, at Peregrine’s glance of query. Clergy of half a dozen different religious denominations followed the relics, preceding five solemn-looking postulants who shortly would receive the accolade, the sign and seal of knighthood. The three men wore kilts, the two women kilted skirts. The looks of rapt intent on the five earnest faces reminded Peregrine of the occasion of his own initiation into the ranks of the Hunting Lodge, not yet a year ago, though his had been on a slightly different scale from this. Marching by twos after the postulants came the chevaliers themselves, forty or fifty of them, men and women alike, arrayed in their white mantles emblazoned with the red cross of the Order.