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I did his brother and Jay."
"To expose him would only do the Temple more harm," Arnault replied. "And at least with Jay gone, it
should no longer be necessary for us to conceal our identities. This schism in the Order is at an end.
"But I think we must ride now, before more English come. Having saved Wallace once, I do not relish
the thought of having to do it again today."
The Scots knights were grouped together in subdued celebration of at least this small victory on a day of
defeat, exchanging banter with the remaining spearmen they had rescued, none of whom seemed to bear
any ill will toward those who had deserted them earlier. Wallace and the Stewart were deep in
conversation, the Guardian with his hand on Stewart's shoulder-and from the grief in the latter's face, it
was evident that he had been told of his brother's death at the hands of the English knights.
As Arnault made his way toward them, knowing he must urge them back to their horses, to be away
from here, he knew that James the Stewart was not the only one who would have cause to mourn this
day at Falkirk.
Chapter Twenty-nine
TO RISE AND BEHOLD THE DAWN WAS LIKE WATCHING CREation at work, which was why
Arnault had risen somewhat before it to make his morning devotions. The birth of a new day was a
recurring promise of new beginnings that was sorely needed by the men encamped in the hills to the west
of Perth. Three days after Falkirk, the Scots were still licking their wounds as they contemplated a future
now bearing little prospect for hope.
Ragged remnants of the Scots army had collected here, numbering scarcely more than a thousand
men-enough, at least, to carry out ongoing punishing raids, and ensure that the English would not have the
leisure to bask in the glow of their victory-but that was small enough consolation. Wallace's other troops
were either dead or scattered, the survivors hiding in cottages and thickets or crawling homeward to try
to sleep off memories of the carnage.
Word had filtered back that the Scottish nobles had halted their precipitate flight and established
themselves in the north. Already John Comyn was playing the patriotic leader, drawing up plans for
continued resistance and blaming Wallace for the defeat. According to their own account, Comyn and his
friends had rescued the Scottish cavalry from a disastrous and ill-planned confrontation, and were now
prepared to bear the burden of leadership that they believed had been thrust upon them.
No, the prospects were not bright at all; and though Wallace's premature and futile death had been
averted, at least for the moment, it was by no means certain that the ultimate battle could be won. As
Arnault knelt before his sword, facing the east, he could almost sense Jerusalem out there, beyond the
visible horizon, tugging at his soul like a spiritual lodestone: the Temple of Solomon, the hill of Calvary,
and all the other holy places now lost to Christendom. Many still spoke of a new crusade, greater than
any that had gone before, but Arnault knew in his heart-and had known since his vision in Cyprus-that
the Knights of the Temple were now men in exile, like the people of Israel, and must likewise find their
Lord in new and unexpected places.
Surely this place was among the more unlikely. Nothing in this wild and verdant northern land resembled
the baked plains and yellow crags of Palestine. Yet Arnault still believed that he and his brethren were
being led here to establish themselves anew, for purposes that were still hidden in the mind of God.
Where clarity of vision failed, it was necessary for faith to light the way. Though this country was not his
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own, Arnault tried to share the simpler faith of the defeated soldiers he saw around him, most still
wrapped in slumber, their sleep haunted yet by dreams of fallen comrades and kinsmen, but also the
dream of freedom for their land.
Concluding his prayers, Arnault crossed himself and got to his feet, shaking the stiffness of the chill
morning out of his legs before sheathing his sword. Normally, he would have confessed his weariness of
soul to Torquil; but he had sent the younger knight off the previous day to bear word of the Scottish
defeat to Luc de Brabant-for le Cercle must know of it as soon as possible, especially those details that
could never be recorded in any conventional report of the battle.
Soon both of them must return to Paris for further instructions-and with Brian de Jay's vindictive pursuit
now at an end, they could even move openly as Templars again- but for just now, he sensed that the
struggle for Scotland's independence had reached a crucial turning point, and that he must be on hand a
while longer to guide the Guardian through the crisis. Exactly how, remained to be seen, but Arnault was
content to trust the intuitions that had always stood him in such good stead.
He cast his gaze toward the last place he had seen the Guardian before turning to his devotions, then
started slowly in that direction. Even in the gray light of early morning, the tall figure of Wallace was
unmistakable, leaning on the tumbledown wall of a ruined field at the edge of the camp, twiddling a stalk
of weed between his fingers. Something about the way he was silhouetted against the dawn sky
emphasized the man's immense dignity and, at the same time, lent him an air of loneliness, like a single
strong oak rising out of a deserted landscape.
Arnault slowed as he drew nearer, for Wallace was staring out across the empty field with yearning eyes,
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