Chapter Six
IT WAS more like half an hour before Peregrine arrived, with an oversized art book and large manila envelope cradled in one arm and a look of eager anticipation on his face. Humphrey followed him with the dark green bottle of vintage port in its straw basket, bearing it with a stately reverence usually reserved for holy relics.
“Ah, there you are,” Adam said, smiling as he rose to shake the younger man’s hand. “And I see that Humphrey has been entrusted with the grave responsibility of carrying the port. Shall we allow him to do the honors?”
“By all means,” Peregrine said with a grin, depositing his own burden on the table before the fire, where Adam was clearing a space. “And pour one for yourself as well, Humphrey.”
“Thank you very much, sir,” Humphrey replied, a pleased smile touching his usually impassive features.
As the butler retired to deposit the port on a Jacobean sideboard and began assembling the necessary requisites of corkscrew and crystal glasses, Peregrine settled in the chair opposite Adam and set aside the manila envelope and a slender booklet on paintings housed in properties owned by the National Trust for Scotland. Taking up the large art book, he ducked his head to search for the place he had marked.
Peregrine Lovat was a slender, fair-haired young man of middling height and graceful carriage. At just thirty, he had already carved out a niche for himself as one of Scotland’s most important young portrait artists, with increasingly prestigious commissions coming his way. His attire reflected an artist’s instinct for color and texture—a nubby Fair Isle sweater in muted greys and creams over a cream silk shirt and tan slacks, subtle foil for the pale hair worn longish in the front. The hazel eyes behind gold wire-rimmed spectacles shone with a joy and sense of purpose that had grown and emerged steadily in the year since he and Adam first had met.
For Peregrine Lovat also possessed the gift of Sight, the ability to focus his artist’s eye on a scene of past psychic intensity and bring images to mind—and to sketch or paint those images while in trance. Such visions had been disturbing enough, before he learned to control them; but far more devastating had been the emergence of a parallel talent for sometimes seeing into the future—a shattering experience when it involved glimpsing the deaths of some of his sitters.
Despondency over one such death was what had driven him to seek Adam’s help in a professional capacity, almost a year ago. Since then Adam had helped him learn to channel his gifts, so that they now emerged only on command, and mainly when working with Adam and McLeod as a very special kind of forensic artist. The ability to catch glimpses of prior events at the scene of a crime was of inestimable value when teamed with the unique sort of law enforcement in which Adam and McLeod—and now Peregrine—were so often engaged.
“Here we go,” Peregrine said, opening the book to a full-page color plate and turning it for Adam’s inspection. “I think that’s the one you’ll want.”
Adam nodded and pulled the book onto his lap, studying the man who gazed back at him from the page. The face in the picture, somewhat stylized in the manner of all late seventeenth-century portraits, was that of a dashing cavalier gentleman swathed in brunette silk-velvet, with full white shirt sleeves, a bunch of lace at his chin, and the gleam of an armor breastplate just visible at his waist. The oval face, handsome and refined, was framed in lustrous auburn curls, the sensitivity of the finely modeled mouth effectively countered by the challenge lurking in the heavy-lidded dark eyes. The legend beneath the plate identified the subject as John Grahame of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee, by Sir Godfrey Kneller.
“That one’s more commonly known as the Glamis Portrait,” Peregrine said, “on account of it being part of the collection housed at Glamis Castle. It was painted in London, only two years before his death. I found a print of another one that’s kept at Fyvie Castle,” he went on, opening the smaller booklet and laying it atop the first book. “This is a pretty small photo, and it’s in black and white, but you get the general idea. I’ve seen the original. It’s by a relatively obscure Scottish artist named John Alexander, who copied it from an original by Sir Peter Lillie. I couldn’t find any further mention of the Lillie portrait in what I’ve got at home, but if it’s important, I can always go into Edinburgh tomorrow and take a poke about in the arts section of the university library.”
Adam turned the second reproduction to a better angle in the light. It showed a slightly younger version of the same face surmounted by a painted wreath in the shape of an oval. Of the two versions, the second was less polished in terms of technique, but more human in its limning of the features.
“No, these are sufficient, I think,” he murmured, sitting back in his chair as Humphrey came bearing a silver tray with three ruby-filled glasses shaped like crystal thistles. “Neither shows what I was really looking for. And the Melville portrait, which I’ve already seen, is far too young. Ah, thank you, Humphrey,” he added, as the butler offered the tray first to Peregrine, then to Adam, himself taking the third and tucking the tray under his other arm as Adam raised his glass.
“May I offer a toast?” Adam asked Peregrine.
“Please do.”
“To Sir Matthew Fraser, then—the giver of the gift,” he said with a smile, “and to Peregrine, whose artistry undoubtedly deserved it, and whose generosity prompted him to share it.”
“And don’t forget Janet, Lady Fraser, whose beauty inspired the art,” Peregrine added gallantly.
“Hear, hear,” Adam agreed. “To everyone who had a hand in bringing us this excellent wine—even Humphrey, who poured it. Slainte mhor! To your very good health, gentlemen!”
All three of them sipped it appraisingly, contented expressions telling of their pleasure, after which Humphrey glanced at Adam and raised his glass in query.
“If there’s nothing further, sir, I’ll leave you and Mr. Lovat to your work. And may I add, sir, to your very good hunting?”
“You may, indeed, Humphrey. Thank you,” Adam said.
They drank to that; and when Humphrey had gone, leaving the bottle on the tray at Adam’s elbow, Peregrine glanced at his mentor expectantly, taking another sip of his port.
“So, what’s Dundee’s connection with this missing Seal?” the young artist asked. “And is it true that the Seal realized enough in pawn to finance the entire Peasants’ Revolt?”
Adam raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Does Nathan connect the Seal with the Peasants’ Revolt?”
“He certainly does.” Peregrine tapped the manila envelope. “That’s what part of this document is about. Didn’t Noel tell you?”
Adam shook his head. “I don’t think he’d had a chance to really read any of it in depth yet. Tell me more.”
“Well. Your friend Nathan talks about a theory that secret survivors of the Templar dissolution had formed an underground of some kind, and were the driving force behind the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381. There’s evidence to suggest that the revolt was not at all spontaneous, and that many aspects were well planned in advance.”
“What makes him say that?” Adam asked, setting his glass aside and drawing the manila envelope toward him.
“Apparently, a number of things. As just one example, many of the rebels wore livery, almost a uniform of sorts—a white hooded shawl with a red tassel. In one town alone—Beverly, I think it was—he mentions five hundred men wearing these. Think about what that alone would involve, even today. And six centuries ago, when all cloth had to be made from scratch, first spinning the yarn, then weaving the cloth, then assembling the things, sewing them by hand. And he points out the interesting similarity between these ‘hooded shawls’ and the white mantles with red crosses worn by the Templars.”
Adam had been opening the manila envelope as Peregrine spoke, and now he held up a hand for the artist to pause a moment while he pulled out the printout and began to leaf through it. He was reasonably familiar with the general background of the Peasants’ Revolt. In June of 1381, overburdened by high taxes and unjust labor restrictions, the peasantry of England had risen up against their oppressive government and set the countryside ablaze with rebellion, led by a dissident priest named John Ball and another man of uncertain origins known only as Wat the Tyler. The peasant army had marched on London and taken it by storm, and might well have gone on to overthrow the English monarchy had Tyler not been treacherously slain during a parley with the young King Richard II and his ministers.
This was the gist of the usual history of the rebellion. But as Adam skimmed over what Nathan had written, making a mental note to check Nathan’s source, a book called Born in Blood, by one John J. Robinson, a further interpretation began to emerge—that Templar technical advice and guidance had backed the rebellion, and Templar funds had bought equipment and information. The theory of intervention by successors of the Templars made sense, for no former Templar establishments had tasted the wrath of the marching peasants—though the men had gone out of their way to bum and loot holdings of the Knights Hospitaller, who had profited by the Templar dissolution and acquired many former Templar properties. And as for Nathan’s Seal providing the funding—”
“It does make sense,” Adam murmured, lowering the pages. “We already know that Graeme of Templegrange, who pawned the Seal, held land that formerly had belonged to the Temple. If there was still an underground organization of former Templars and their descendants, and Graeme of Templegrange was part of it, it follows that he might have had orders from his superiors to pawn the Seal in order to raise the cash for a last attempt by the Templars to regain their former prominence.”
Peregrine nodded. “Nathan seems convinced that was why the Seal was pawned—and why it was never redeemed, since the Peasants’ Revolt failed. Our Graeme of Templegrange may have been killed, and no one else knew where the Seal had been pawned. Or they might not have been able to raise the money. And that’s how it came to be in the keeping of Nathan’s family all these years.” He sighed. “But that still doesn’t explain why the Seal should be so valuable, then or now. What is it? And what does it have to do with Grahame of Claverhouse?”
Adam settled himself more comfortably in his chair and laced his long fingers together, choosing his words with some care, for he was still working out much of it in his own mind.
“That last, I can’t answer,” he said. “Claverhouse apparently was a Templar, but I can’t yet make any connection between him and the Seal. As for the Seal itself—” He glanced thoughtfully at the young artist.
“I gather that Noel filled you in on some of the story regarding the death of Nathan Fiennes. What he may not have told you—and what apparently didn’t come through in what you read—is that the Seal of which we’re speaking is no ordinary archaeological artifact. Nathan seemed convinced that it is the very Seal of Solomon himself.”
Peregrine blinked and gave a low whistle. “Good Lord, do you think it really is?”
“That remains to be seen,” Adam said grimly. “Nathan spoke of a great power and a great danger, and described the Seal as, ‘A key to keep a deadly evil locked away from the world’. He also intimated that the Seal is somehow bound up with a secret responsibility that, at one time, was the burden of the Knights Templar. He believed that the Seal possesses certain arcane powers.”
“What—kind of powers?” Peregrine asked hesitantly.
“That also remains to be seen. Nathan was killed before he could find out. Based on a dream I had last night, little would surprise me. Esoterically speaking, however, I can tell you that there has always been a tradition that King Solomon had authority and control over evil spirits. If that’s true, and Nathan’s Seal is literally the Seal of Solomon, I hesitate even to think what it might have been made to bind, that its keeping should have been guarded through so many centuries—and what might be lurking, ready to wreak havoc, if someone were to loose what it binds. I simply have no idea.”
“And the guardianship of the Seal and its secret was given to the Templars?’ Peregrine asked after a few seconds.
“So it would appear. Let me read you a short passage from one of Nathan’s diaries.” Nathan’s briefcase was sitting on the floor beside his chair, and he pulled out one of the volumes and opened it to a place marked by a slip of paper.
“This is a reference to a document purported to be part of a deposition by one Renault le Clerque, a witness for the French Crown testifying against the preceptors of the Knights Templar in Paris. Nathan got it from someone with the initials ‘H.G.’, whom Noel and I believe is Henri Gerard, one of Nathan’s researchers. The police are trying to locate him for questioning. Anyway—” He turned his gaze to the text before him.
“ ‘H.G. arrived this morning,’ “ he read, “ ‘bringing with him a copy of the promised manuscript fragment relating to the Renault le Clerque deposition. In the main, Renault merely gives evidence in support of those oft-repeated allegations that the Templars practiced the usual vices of idolatry, the Osculum Infame, sodomy, devil-worship, and the all-encompassing sin of heresy. But there is one tantalizing piece of new information—to wit, an assertion that the preceptor general of the Order had made contracts in writing with evil spirits, formalizing those contracts with a bronze seal of great antiquity, bearing an arcane symbol’.
“ ‘The accusation itself is fantastical, but nevertheless would seem to contain one significant grain of truth,’ “ Adam continued to read, glancing at Peregrine to be certain he was listening—and he was. “ ‘Though Renault does not describe the seal in any great detail, there seems little doubt that the Templars were keepers of an ancient seal of some kind. Taking into account everything I have been able to find out since embarking on this investigation, I am increasingly convinced that the Seal my ancestor obtained so long ago from Graeme of Templegrange is the same one referred to in Renault’s deposition, brought here with other Templar treasures when the Templar fleet departed La Rochelle shortly before the arrests of 1307.’
“ ‘Which still leaves us with many intriguing questions remaining yet unresolved. What was the original purpose of the Seal? What did it guard? If the Seal did not originate with the Templars, where did it come from? And how did these military monks come to be its keepers?’ ” Adam looked up.
“He goes on to tell about how Gerard proposes to send a metal sample from the Seal for testing—and I actually found a copy of the letter he got back from the Sorbonne on this, and it does support the antiquity of the Seal. Of course, it proves nothing about whether it did, indeed, belong to Solomon,” he concluded.
As he closed the notebook and set it aside, Peregrine gave a soft sigh and shook his head.
“Well. That puts the entire matter far beyond simple burglary, doesn’t it?” he said. “It could certainly explain the Templar link. But where does Dundee fit in?”
“I keep asking myself the same question,” Adam said. “Other than the fact that Dundee apparently was a Templar, there’s a three-hundred-year gap between him and the Seal that I haven’t yet been able to bridge.”
He went on to render a brief account of what he had learned from MacRae concerning Dundee and the Templar cross he had worn into his last battle. By the time he had finished, Peregrine’s hazel eyes were wide as an owl’s behind his gold-framed spectacles.
“There’s nothing about any of this in the material I read,” he said. “I wonder if Nathan was even aware of that connection.”
“I’d guess that he was at least heading in the right direction,” Adam said. “He certainly believed that Dundee figured in the puzzle somehow. Even if it weren’t for all of this”—he indicated the printout with a gesture—”his last words had to do with Dundee somehow being or having the key. At the time, I thought he meant the town. Come to think of it, there is a castle in Dundee that’s associated with him: Claypotts Castle.”
“Well, I think it’s clear that he meant the person,” Peregrine said.
“Probably true,” Adam agreed. “But let’s follow this Templar association further. If Dundee was Grand Prior of Scotland at that time, it follows that he might have had knowledge—perhaps even sole knowledge—of the Order’s most privileged secrets. If those secrets included any information relating to the Order’s collective office as guardians of the Seal of Solomon—or what it guarded—then our Bonnie Dundee might, indeed, have the answers we’re looking for.”
“Are you thinking to attempt contact with the historical persona who was John Grahame of Claverhouse?’ Peregrine asked.
Adam nodded. “That’s the most direct approach that occurs to me—though that, in itself, presents something of a challenge. As you know, the most efficient way of approaching such a proposition is via some material focus to link us into Dundee’s personal past.”
“Like, for example, the Templar cross Dundee was wearing when he died.” Peregrine made it a statement.
“Or, failing that, some other personal object closely associated with Dundee,” Adam agreed, gesturing toward the open books. “That’s partly why I wanted the portraits: to see if there was anything—some piece of personal jewellery or item of equipment—which Dundee might have favored wearing at all times. Unfortunately, as you can see for yourself, the three portraits show no common features of that kind.”
“But surely a man of his stature must have left something behind, in the way of personal mementoes,” Peregrine said.
“Agreed,” Adam replied. “But what? I know of two, if we don’t count the Templar cross—which may not even exist anymore. A breastplate and steel morion cap alleged to be Dundee’s are kept at Blair Castle. I’ve seen them several times. Unfortunately, the original items were stolen from his grave within a few years of his death. Eventually, they were recovered, but their provenance was broken. Hence, it isn’t altogether certain that the artifacts now on display at the castle are genuine.”
“I see your point,” Peregrine acknowledged with a grimace. “What about other items that might have been associated with him? Is it possible we might be able to locate the Templar cross you mentioned?”
“That’s a good question,” Adam said, leaving his chair to head for the telephone. “To answer it, I think we need the advice of someone intimately acquainted with the world of British antiquities and their collectors.”
Whomever Adam was calling, Peregrine noticed that he didn’t need to refer to his address book before tapping in the number. After a brief double chirrup of the line ringing came a muted click, followed by the remote murmur of a woman’s voice. Adam’s resigned expression indicated that the call was being handled by an answering machine, as did his tone as he spoke briskly into the receiver.
“Lindsay, this is Adam. I’m trying to track down any personal relics you may know of that are associated with John Grahame of Claverhouse, more commonly known as Bonnie Dundee. I’m especially interested in finding out what may have become of a Templar cross which Dundee supposedly was wearing at the time of his death. Does such a cross still exist, and if so, who is now its keeper?
“Failing information concerning this particular artifact,” he went on, “I would welcome news of any other related items you may know of. I’m already aware of the breastplate and motion at Blair Castle. Please get back to me on this matter as soon as possible. I believe the matter may be of some urgency.”
He returned the receiver to its cradle and went back to his chair by the fireside. Peregrine had picked up the book with the Kneller portrait and was gazing thoughtfully at the serene face of Bonnie Dundee.
“I’ve been thinking,” he announced, as Adam reclaimed his seat. “Your Lindsay may take a while to report back, and even then, there may be nothing to report. Why don’t I drive up to Killiecrankie tomorrow and have a look around the battle site? Who knows? I might be able to pick up some visual resonances centering on Dundee, maybe even verify whether he was wearing a Templar cross that day. I could use one of these portraits as a focus.”
Adam considered the offer, then shook his head. “I have a better idea,” he said. “You’re on the right track regarding technique, but let’s focus it on St. Bride’s Church at old Blair. That’s where Dundee was buried. It’s in the grounds of Blair Castle. If we could be sure of the exact spot at Killiecrankie where he died, that might be the better choice—but even then, I’d tend to be wary, because of the general residuals of a major battle like that.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Peregrine allowed.
“Only because you didn’t know where he was buried,” Adam said with a smile. “If you like, we can have a look at the breastplate and morion, since we’ll be there anyway. In either event, whatever images you might pick up there are apt to be far more controlled and specific than any you’d be likely to encounter at Killiecrankie itself.”
Peregrine was nodding avidly. “All right, Blair it is. How early would you like to be off in the morning?”
His unabashed enthusiasm made Adam chuckle in spite of himself.
“Steady on. Some of us have morning rounds to make, before we can go anywhere. Remember, I’ve been away for two days. Besides that, I’d like Noel to come with us, if he can get away. Let me check with him just now and see what his schedule’s like for tomorrow. We can rendezvous here for lunch before heading off, whether or not he’s able to join us.”