The Adept Book 3 The Templar Treasure (12 page)

Last of all came the Grand Prior, together with the bearers of his personal standard and his sword, escorted by eight mantled knights with drawn swords. The dignity of the procession was heightened by the slow, silent tread of the participants, the panoply of the bright banners, and the sweep of white mantles over the multi-colors of the kilts, settling to an expectant hush when the last person had filed into place in the chancel and lower choir stalls.

The service began with an opening hymn—most fittingly, “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” Lifting his voice with all the rest, Peregrine was struck by the singular fitness of the third verse:

Like a mighty army moves the Church of God.

Brothers, we are treading where the Saints have trod.

We are not divided, all one body we,

One in hope, in doctrine, one in charity . . . .

The words, at once simple and rousing, seemed to underline a truth Peregrine had already come to realize in his own vocation as a Huntsman—that there was an essential unity among all those called to the service of the Light, defying all external accidentals of form.

“Just as all the colors of the spectrum are unified in a beam of pure light,” Adam once had said, “so are all souls of good and noble intent brought to resolution by Light Divine. Thus every man who serves that Light is at one with us, and we with him.”

The kinship evoked by that unity was strong in Peregrine’s mind by the time the hymn swelled to a close. As the organ accompanied the final
Amen
and everyone was seated, he found himself overtaken by a sense of wider reverberation, as if the voices of this gathered assembly had wakened echoes beyond the range of normal sound. Like the full range of harmonics generated by the plucking of a single harp string, the resonances seemed to linger in the air, felt rather than heard.

The texture of echoes seemed all at once rich and deep, denser than it had any right to be from this relatively small, select congregation. It was a texture Peregrine associated with packed assemblies of singers—echoes from a cathedral crowded to capacity, not three-quarters empty as this one was at the moment. All the same, he could not shake off the odd feeling that the cathedral was somehow fuller than it looked. He even glanced back toward the doors at the far end of the nave, half expecting to see a whole crowd of late-comers come spilling across the threshold; but beyond the confines of the choir stalls and sanctuary, there was nothing to be seen but empty chairs. The sense of imminent presence continued to haunt him throughout the ensuing prayers and Bible readings.

That sense of imminent presence teased at the edges of Adam’s perceptions as well, intensifying as a stir among the unmantled postulants signalled a shift into the actual ceremony of investiture. As the first of the five candidates was escorted forward to kneel and receive the knightly accolade, head bowed before the Grand Prior and hands resting on an ancient volume of Sacred Scripture, Adam felt within him the stirrings of a kindred affirmation that had its roots in memories of a deep and distant past of his own.

Without the aid of a properly focused trance, which was inappropriate in his present circumstances, the past itself was beyond the immediate reach of his conscious mind, but its sensory resonances played about him like breezes blown in from the incoming tide, striking a resonance in his very soul as the sword was lifted in the Grand Prior’s hands and flashed downward to dub the kneeling candidate on each shoulder and on the head.

“Sois Chevalier, au Nom de Dieu. Avances, Chevalier . . .”
Be thou a Knight, in the Name of God, Arise as a Knight . . .

As the neck cross was fastened around the neck of the new-made knight and the mantle was laid about his shoulders, Adam briefly knew the weight of a similar mantle on his own shoulders, and felt the grip of a sword hilt within the compass of his right hand. Unbidden, his heart rose in martial response to a distant call of arms. Though only its echoes reached his outward senses, those echoes were enough to hold him spellbound, like a rumor of distant battlesong.

Suspended on the threshold of trance despite his intentions, Adam was aware of being suddenly one of a great company stretching back many centuries. Though he turned no physical gaze from the new knight now retiring to be replaced by the next candidate, he found himself suddenly aware of a veritable sea of mailed and white-robed forms that shone before his eyes and all around him, like mist in sunlight. The knightly host was so vast that it filled his vision, as if the cathedral’s interior, by some mystical transformation, had been somehow enlarged by their presence. It was as if all the Knights Templar who had ever lived were somehow manifested here today to welcome these newcomers into their ranks.

When the last new chevalier had received the accolade, Adam closed his eyes and made his will one with their predecessors in offering up a communal prayer for the welfare and guidance of these new-made champions of the Light. His prayer was compounded by the solemn reading of the ancient oath of fealty of the knights of the Scottish Temple. Tradition held that the oath had first been administered to knights of the Scottish Priory in the year 1317, three years after fighting alongside King Robert the Bruce at the Battle of Bannockburn. Though the language of the text had since been updated, that oath had never been rescinded, either by papal bull or by order of any Grand Master. The knight who read it now for the affirmation of the incipient new knights did so in fellowship with thousands who had gone before them:

“Inasmuch as the ancient Realm of Scotland did succor and receive the Brethren of the most Ancient and Noble Military Order of the Temple of Jerusalem, when many distraints were placed upon their properties, and many heinous evils upon their persons: the Chevaliers of the Order do here bear witness.

“Chevaliers of the Order do undertake to preserve and defend the rights, freedoms, and privileges of the ancient and sovereign Realm of Scotland. Further, they affirm that they will maintain, at peril of their bodies, the Royal House of the Realm of Scotland, by God appointed.

“Chevaliers will resist with all their might, attempts by any person, or bodies of persons, wherever or however authorized outwith the Realm of Scotland, to take unto themselves the ancient Realm of Scotland, or any portion thereof.

“As we Chevaliers do fear the perils to our immortal souls, upon our Knightly Honours, we attest the foregoing, and before God we so swear.”

“We so swear,” the assembled knights repeated in unison, newly made and veterans alike.

Affirmed by them all before the altar, in the presence of the Grand Prior and all the assembled company, the oath set the seal upon their dedication to serve sovereign and country. By extension, it was also a promise to serve a higher realm and a higher order of sovereignty, for the ultimate Master of these earthly knights was God Himself, and all these were sworn in His service.

The deeper meaning of the oath touched Peregrine too, standing at Adam’s side, and he glanced obliquely at his mentor as the oath concluded. The image that met his eyes startled him almost into crying out, and did drive him back a step, for in that split instant of perception, Adam appeared to him not as a modern-day Scottish gentleman but as a bearded knight in chain mail, wearing the white surcoat and scarlet cross of a Knight Templar.

It was not the first time that Peregrine had Seen Adam take on a historical change of aspect. But on those previous occasions, the historic imaging had been semi-transparent, like a photographic negative superimposed on a fully developed print. This time, the visual transformation was all but complete—as if, rather than donning a costume, Adam had unconsciously lowered his mask of the present to allow a hidden aspect of himself to shine forth. In a sudden glimmer of insight, Peregrine realized that the emergence of Adam’s Templar persona must be in direct response to the investiture ceremony itself.

It was a striking demonstration of the evocative power of ritual. At the same time, it was indicative of the strength of Adam’s historical bond with the Order. Whether or not Adam was consciously aware of the change that had come over him just now, Peregrine had the feeling that it might be worth remembering. As they sat, the oath completed, he took a fresh grip on his pencil and again began to draw . . .

Chapter Twelve

THE INVESTITURE
service concluded with a succession of prayers for the welfare of the Order and the world at large and then a final hymn. Afterwards, a rousing organ postlude accompanied the knights’ recessional back down the center aisle and up the north side, where the participants dispersed.

When Peregrine had put the finishing touches to his last sketch and zipped up his portfolio—Adam had drifted down into the aisle to chat with an acquaintance—the two of them headed back into the nave, where Stuart MacRae was deep in converse with a stout, rosy woman of indeterminate years, with a shelf of lace on her ample bosom. Her sturdy, strong-minded appearance put Adam very much in mind of one of his great -aunts on his father’s side of the family, and the green and blue tartan of her long kilt skirt convinced him that she could only be the redoubtable Miss Morrison.

This supposition was confirmed when MacRae performed the introductions. She offered a firm handshake, first to Adam and then to Peregrine, inspecting both of them with her shrewd, bespectacled gaze.

“Yes, you
are
who I thought you were, Sir Adam,” she observed with a smile, her bifocals winking up at him. “Oh, we’ve never met, but you’re a supporting member of the Royal Scottish Preservation Trust, aren’t you?”

Raising an eyebrow in some surprise, Adam smiled at his interrogator and said, “Guilty as charged, Miss Morrison. May I take it that you likewise have an interest in the Trust?”

“I have, indeed,” said Miss Morrison. “I make it a point to attend their sponsored lectures whenever I can. You spoke at Gleneagles last year on the relationship between intuition and archaeology.”

“I hope you enjoyed it,” Adam replied, genuinely impressed. “You have an excellent memory.”

“It was a memorable lecture,” she countered. “One of the most interesting I can recall offhand. I was intrigued by your central thesis, that intuition is a valid tool for archaeological research.”

“Well, I’m very pleased to hear that my rather cockeyed ideas were well received in at least one quarter,” Adam said with a chuckle. “I’m afraid quite a few of the Trust’s more conservative members are inclined to regard me as something of an eccentric.”

“More shame to them, then,” Miss Morrison said stoutly. “If it’s being eccentric to take an interesting new angle on some of the issues and problems related to historical research, then all I’ve got to say is that we could probably do with a bit more eccentricity in our ranks.”

She cut herself short with a cluck of her tongue. “But, listen to me, wittering on when what you’re really interested in is this ring of mine! Here, let me get it out and show it to you.”

So saying, she snapped open the sporran-like purse on her arm and took out an embroidered white handkerchief wrapped around something small and lumpy. As she unwrapped it, Peregrine wordlessly sidled closer to look on over Adam’s shoulder. Light from the chandelier overhead reflected richly off a heavy gold ring, which she laid expectantly in the hand Adam extended to receive it.

The design of the ring, together with the size of its band and its weight of precious metal, suggested that it had been fashioned to be worn by a man rather than a woman. The band was broad and plain, supporting a cabochon oval of transparent rock crystal mounted on a solid bezel. Beneath the crystal, pressed flat against the gold of its backing, was a tightly wound lock of dark hair. After giving it a moment’s close scrutiny, Adam passed the ring to Peregrine for his comment.

“It certainly seems to be of the period,” he said, as Peregrine likewise inspected it. “What can you tell me about its provenance?”

“Well, it’s been in our family for about a hundred years,” Miss Morrison said placidly, as Peregrine narrowed his gaze, hoping to catch a telltale flicker of ghostly resonance. “Traditionally, it’s been the legacy of the eldest son, but there were only girls in my generation, so my father—God rest his soul—passed it on to me. He knew, you see, that I was the one most interested in historical artifacts and curiosities.”

“A hundred years,” Adam said, as Peregrine handed the ring back to him with a faint shake of his head to indicate that he had picked up nothing from it. “That’s a fairly long time, but it doesn’t begin to take us back to Dundee’s days. How did your family happen to come by the ring in the first place?”

“Oh, that’s simple enough. My great-great-grandfather acquired it with the contents of a house he purchased up in Huntly. That was in the 1880s. I should perhaps mention that the previous owner of the house had been an elderly gentleman by the name of Mackintosh, supposedly of the same branch of the family that fought alongside the Duke of Argyll in the 1715 Rebellion. It was family tradition that a Mackintosh brought the ring to Scotland from France at that time. Remember that it hadn’t been that long since Killiecrankie. Plenty of people in those days would have regarded such a ring as a luck-token, since it contained a lock of the hair of the famous Bonnie Dundee.”

For just an instant, Adam flashed vividly on the drawing Peregrine had done at Blair Castle, of James Seton, the Earl of Dunfermline, tearfully cutting a lock of his slain friend’s hair for the sake of remembrance. It could well have ended up in a memorial ring, as a lucky talisman. But so far, there was still ample room for doubt.

“Forgive me if this next question sounds impertinent,” he said apologetically to Miss Morrison, “but I find myself obliged to ask what grounds you have for accepting that the lock of hair under the crystal is truly Dundee’s—aside from family tradition.”

Miss Morrison pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Well, for one thing, the ring is mentioned in a number of wills pertaining to this particular family of Mackintoshes as ‘Dark Johnny’s Taiken.’ You won’t need me to remind you that Dundee’s Highlanders liked to refer to the viscount as their ‘Dark John of the Battles.’ Beyond that, the dating on the wills confirms the family’s ownership of the ring at least as far back as the period between the ‘15 Rebellion and the Rebellion of 1745. Admittedly, some professional historians might regard the evidence as a trifle soft. Speaking for myself, however, I’m prepared to go along with my intuitions and assert that the ring is a genuine artifact.”

Adam did not immediately respond. As he turned the ring this way and that to examine it from all sides, he was simultaneously aware of a tingling sensation in his fingertips. The sensation grew more pronounced the longer he held the ring in his hands. It seemed to him almost as if his personal touch might be activating some hitherto dormant resonances associated with the ring’s history. And yet, Peregrine had indicated no particular reaction to the ring.

The apparent contradiction was enough to whet his curiosity to a cutting edge. Masking his true level of interest, he returned the ring to the handkerchief Miss Morrison handed him and summoned a smile.

“If you’re going to invoke intuition, I see I’m in danger of being hoist on my own petard,” he said lightly. “I can hardly challenge your position without compromising some of my own arguments.”

Miss Morrison gave an appreciative chortle. “If I invoke intuition, Sir Adam, it’s only in the nature of giving credit where credit is due.”

“I shall take that as the compliment I hope is intended,” Adam said with a chuckle. “Tell me, do you suppose I might impose on you so far as to borrow the ring for a few days? Besides taking some photographs for the article I’m writing, I’d like Mr. Lovat here to study the ring in greater detail and make an artist’s assessment of the workmanship.”

All at once Peregrine found himself the target of a disconcertingly penetrating pair of blue eyes.

“So you’re an artist, are you, Mr. Lovat?” Miss Morrison observed. “I’ve just remembered that you were at Sir Adam’s lecture too. I was rather wondering if you might be a psychic of some kind.”

Peregrine just missed letting his jaw drop. “I hope you’re not disappointed,” he said, summoning his most ingenuous smile.

“Only a little,” she replied. “I’ve often thought it would be interesting to hear what a psychic would have to say about this ring of mine.”

“I can arrange that, if you’re really serious,” Adam said with an easy chuckle. “I know a psychic or two. In the meantime,
would
you be willing to part with the ring for a few days?”

“Oh, I think so, since it’s you,” she said. She watched as Adam took a pen and business card out of his pocket and began writing out a receipt. “I’d need it back before next Saturday, though. Could you really introduce me to a psychic?”

Smiling, Adam handed her the card.

“Of course. Let me think about it a few days. And I promise you shall have the ring back before next Saturday. If I can’t return it in person, my valet will act as my courier.”

“That would be splendid,” said Miss Morrison. “Actually, you or your man could save either of us a round trip between here and Inverness if you deliver the ring to the National Gallery here in Edinburgh. They’re doing a special exhibit of Jacobite memorabilia, and I’d already agreed to let them include the ring in their display.”

“Well, then, I’ll have it delivered back to the National Gallery no later than—say—Thursday,” Adam said, tucking the ring and its handkerchief into a jacket pocket. “Will that suit them?”

“Oh, I’m sure that will be fine,” Miss Morrison replied. “And you won’t forget about the psychic?”

Adam restrained a grin far better than Peregrine, who had to cover his own amusement with a feigned cough.

“Oh, I shan’t forget,” he assured their benefactress. “We’ll make the arrangements after the exhibition is over.”

After parting company with Miss Morrison, he and Peregrine stayed on long enough to let Stuart MacRae introduce them to the Grand Prior and some of his officers before taking their leave. As they made their way back to the car through a light mist, Peregrine could hardly contain himself.

“Good God, that was almost too close to home for comfort!” he exclaimed with an owlish glance over his shoulder. “Do you suppose Miss Morrison had any inkling of the truth?”

”I’ll certainly grant her more than a fair share of intuition,” Adam said with a faint smile. “For what it’s worth, that fact probably worked out to our advantage. Still feel up to working this evening?”

“Of course,” Peregrine said. “I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to get, though. Not much was coming through before, but that may have been because Miss Morrison was there, and I didn’t really feel confident opening up.
You
were looking a little odd, though.”

“Was I?” Adam said.

“Oh, not that anyone else would notice,” Peregrine assured him, as they got back into the Jaguar. “I didn’t know you were able to pick up things from objects.”

“Ordinarily, I don’t,” Adam replied. “I’m not even sure I did just then. But we’ll see what
you
pick up first, when we get home. And maybe I’ll give it a try as well.”

They arrived back at Strathmourne shortly after six o’clock. Adam learned from Humphrey that McLeod had phoned from London in their absence, but the news was disappointing: still no sign of the elusive Henri Gerard. Suppressing his frustration at the thought of what the Frenchman might be up to, Adam led the way into the library, shedding his jacket and loosening his tie as he gestured Peregrine to his customary chair before the fireplace.

It was too warm for a fire, but Adam moved a candlestick from the mantel down onto the rosewood table Peregrine set in front of his chair, lighting it before retrieving the Dundee ring from his jacket pocket. He avoided touching it as he unwrapped it from its handkerchief and set it on the table at the foot of the candlestick. Peregrine had already begun to compose himself in silent meditation, sketchbook on his lap and eyes closed behind his gold-wired spectacles, but he stirred slightly as he sensed Adam sitting in the chair to his left, his eyes opening to fix immediately on the candle flame.

“I can see that you’re already one step ahead of me,” Adam said, quietly assessing his subject. “Are you ready to go deeper?”

With a faint nod, Peregrine murmured, “Yes.”

“Take a good deep breath, then”, Adam said, and reached out to lightly touch Peregrine’s left wrist.

Impelled by that now-familiar signal, Peregrine let go his hold on present time and place and slipped effortlessly into trance. As always, the change in his perceptual orientation brought with it a sense of immanent depths. All at once he was aware of dimensions beyond the normal apprehensions of his conscious mind, through he was not yet quite deep enough to See them.

He never came this far without feeling like an archaeologist poised at the entrance to an unexplored pyramid—half-afraid, half-exhilarated, at the prospect of plumbing the unknown. He took an unhurried moment to calm and center himself, drawing another deep, relaxed breath and then slowly exhaling. As his heartbeat and respiration slowed and steadied, Adam’s resonant baritone intruded from the borders of normal perception.