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But for Bruce and his inner circle of advisors, the successes of the day were overshadowed by a matter
of grave uncertainty.
"Brother Ciaran has disappeared," Torquil reported grimly. "We've searched the battleground three times
over without ?nding any trace of him, alive or dead."
"The last anyone remembers seeing him was just before that dust cloud swept the battleground," Ninian
said. "Whatever has befallen him, it seems to have happened then."
"Which does not bode well for Ciaran," Breville said. "Most assuredly, that cloud was conjured up by the
Knights of the Black Swan."
"Why would they bother to capture a monk?" Torquil said.
"I doubt that was their original intent," Arnault replied. "If they took Ciaran prisoner, it was probably only
as an afterthought, when their main gambit failed."
"Either that, or this Lord Bartholeme has deduced the af?nity between the Templars and the Columbans,"
Breville said.
"So what are we to do?" Torquil asked.
"Pray," Bruce recommended curtly.
"Surely that isn't all, Sire?" Fionn blurted.
"I understand and share your fears," the king said, "but the painful truth is this: If Brother Ciaran has been
taken prisoner by the Black Knights, the only folk who might be able to aid him are those I can least
afford to spare."
Ninian seconded this view. "His Majesty is right. We can't risk throwing everything away for the sake of
one man-however dear to us he may be."
A bleak silence set in. All present knew only too well the crucial stakes for which this war was being
waged.
"Can we not at least try to make mystical contact with Ciaran?" Fionn begged.
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Arnault shook his head. "Too risky. If Ciaran has been captured by our enemies, they will try to use him
as a weapon against us."
"Ciaran would never consent to betray us!" Fionn protested.
"Consent will not have entered into the matter," Breville warned grimly. "From this point onward, we
must be doubly on our guard against sorcerous attack."
***
Uncertainties of an entirely different order dominated the spirits of the English nobility. Exhausted and
sweating, still reeling from the shock of their losses, they retired from the ?eld to rest and regroup as best
they could. Scouts were dispersed to search for a suitable camping place.
Selection fell upon a spread of level ground a few furlongs to the north of the abandoned peasant village
of Bannock, encompassed on either side by branching tributaries of the burn giving the village its name.
The streams offered not only ample water to refresh the army's thirsty cavalry mounts and dray animals,
but also a protective barrier against the threat of a night attack.
Rude bridges of planks, plundered from the village, were ?ung across the southern branch of the burn to
afford safe transit for the English horses and baggage wagons. Company by company, the various
contingents of the army ?led across. Tents and cook ?res sprang up. All but one of the bridges were then
withdrawn, leaving the English host encamped in bristling isolation, like castaways on an island set in
monster-infested waters.
While he waited for his servants to prepare his evening meal, King Edward listened sullenly as Gloucester
and the other nobles discussed their various failures and setbacks of the day.
"I remind you, gentlemen, that in seven hundred years, no king of England has met defeat on Scottish
soil," he said at last.
"Nor shall it happen tomorrow, Sire," Gloucester vowed. "We shall array our forces to overwhelm and
destroy these rebels. And there will be no quarter given."
The long midsummer twilight set in, bringing some relief from the earlier heat of the day. The English
chivalry spent the evening resentfully contemplating the morti?cation they had suffered earlier in the day.
The English infantry were similarly restless and uneasy. Many resorted to drink and ribaldry in an effort to
fortify their spirits, but only added a further element of discord to the already-unsettled atmosphere.
Far on the northern fringe of the encampment, Bartholeme and the other Knights of the Black Swan
established their own enclave, their pavilions erected in a semicircle overlooking the burn-a deployment
designed to shield them from view of the rest of the camp. With full night still
an hour away, Bartholeme called Mercurius to his side.
"How is our prisoner?" he asked.
The dwarf's misaligned features twisted in a malignant grin. "Wishing with all his heart he was back in his
holy sanctuary."
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"And what does our little man of God have to say for himself?"
"He doesn't respond very well to direct questioning," Mercurius admitted, "but it's clear he's had dealings
with the Templars in Bruce's camp. I could smell it on him, the moment you brought him in."
"Were you able to gain any impression of their numbers?"
Mercurius nodded. "There are not many of them. But those who remain have considerable power at their
command."
"That was made manifest earlier today," Bartholeme snapped, though he reined in his temper. "Keep
questioning the little monk. At the very least, it would be useful to know what relics our enemies hold in
reserve. But be careful not to kill him. Even if he refuses to play the role of informant, he can still serve as
a Judas goat."
A little later, hearing what their leader had in mind, both Rodolphe and Thibault registered strong interest
in the proposal.
"You certainly don't lack invention," Rodolphe acknowledged.
"Not only that," Thibault pointed out, "if we're successful, the results should win not only the battle, but
the war itself! It will appear that Bruce and his companions have been struck down by a hand of
judgment."
"Precisely my intention," Bartholeme replied. "Come. We have preparations to make."
He nominated Rodolphe, Thibault, and Mercurius to serve as his acolytes, though all of the Black
Knights save those on watch would witness and support the working. Before beginning, each of them
donned a protective amulet to render them immune to their own destructive enchantments.
On the space of open ground in the midst of their pavilions, the men marked out a sorcerous triangle,
?xing its points with staves of ashwood. This was circumscribed, in turn, by a shallow circular trench into
which the alchemists set shallow containers of incendiary oils.
The long twilight deepened. As the sun ?nally dipped toward the horizon, they carefully noted its
vanishing point.
"The light of the world has departed!" Bartholeme ?nally proclaimed, on a note of predatory satisfaction.
"Fetch the prisoner! We must make the most of our few hours of darkness."
Wrists trussed behind him and tied to his bound ankles, the captured monk lay shivering in the corner of
Mercurius's tent, his white habit besmirched with blood and hanging in tatters about his wiry frame.
Chuckling under his breath, Mercurius ?ung a halter of braided rope around the prisoner's neck and, with
the help of two of his master's men-at-arms, dragged his victim outside into the open air.
Bartholeme beckoned them toward the alchemist's circle. Ignoring the prisoner's feeble resistance, his
handlers carried him across the trench into the middle of the triangle, where they tethered him by his neck
halter to an iron stake driven into the ground at the center of the con?guration.
The halter was secured by a loose slipknot that tightened sharply when the captive attempted to struggle,
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