Powerstone (20 page)

Expecting him to apologise and
withdraw, Irene was not sure how to respond when he merely smiled.

‘I can suggest these,’ the
jeweller continued as if nothing had been said. He produced a tray of silver
brooches, each one a variation of the same pattern. Two love hearts
intertwined, some topped with a crown, others bare. ‘We call them the Luckenbooth
brooch. My great-great-great-something grandfather made one for Mary Queen of
Scots, and we’ve been making them ever since.’

‘Mary Queen of Scots?’ Irene
looked closer. ‘That was James V’s daughter.’

‘Aye. Contrary Mary that got her
head chopped off,’ the jeweller looked up. ‘The intertwined hearts are meant to
signify a romantic attachment, so it would be a perfect gift to bring you both
back together.’ He glanced at Patrick. ‘If you’re sure that’s what you want.’

The third man stepped forward,
lifted a brooch and placed it in Irene’s hand. The silver watch on his wrist
looked old but expensive. ‘The original brooches were given to the shopkeepers
of
Edinburgh
to prove they had the right to
have a locken, or locked booth. That was what they called the shops in
Edinburgh
in the old days. They only became
romantic when Kenny’s ancestor made one for Mary, which she gave to Henry Darnley,
her man. That’s why some have a crown.’

‘Can you keep quiet?’ Kenny the
jeweller sounded irritated. ‘I’m telling the story. I don’t get much chance to
talk to good looking women so let me enjoy it.’ He looked up and winked at
Irene, who wondered if his customer care was perhaps better than she had
thought. ‘Aye, Drew’s right, though. The Luckenbooth brooches became popular in
Edinburgh
, with couples exchanging them
when they became engaged. They also kept bad spirits from babies, so I’m told.’

Irene examined the brooch that
Drew had selected. It was one of the simplest in the tray, Sterling Silver
topped by a crown, but lacking the amethyst or cairngorm that adorned the
centre of others. ‘I like this one,’ she said, ‘you have good taste.’

‘I like this one better,’ Patrick
picked out the most ornate brooch in the display and handed it to Irene. She
could have resisted the contrition in his eyes, but was determined to patch up
their relationship.

‘So do I,’ she said, immediately
aware of his pleasure at her agreement. She granted him a smile and some
mellowing in her eyes. ‘We’ll have it,’ she told the jeweller.

Drew frowned. ‘If you’re sure,’ he
said, ‘but the other is less ornate. It would complement your appearance,
rather than distract from it.’

‘Let the lady make her own mind
up,’ Kenny pushed an elbow into Drew’s ribs. ‘You ignore him, hen, and choose
whichever you like best. What do men know about jewellery anyway?’

‘I’ll wear it now,’ Irene said,
and allowed Patrick to pin it in place. His hand brushing her breast had a new,
strangely forbidden thrill.

Kenny stepped back, his head to
one side as he looked over his customer. ‘Aye, no’ bad,’ he said. ‘It suits
you.’ He nodded. ‘You’ll be wanting my card for your next visit?’ Reaching
under the counter, he produced a simple business card with
Kenneth Mossman,
Jeweller to the Scottish Royalty
written on it.

Drew examined the card. ‘He likes
to boast of his family’s royal connections’ he said, ‘even though they ended
centuries ago.’ He exchanged a glance with Irene, scribbled something, and
handed her the card. Their eyes locked for a second, and then she looked away.
When she glanced back, he was still watching her.

‘Centuries don’t seem to mean much
over here,’ Irene said quietly.

‘We can be patient when we need
to,’ Drew said, ‘but very impatient for what we want.’ He was not as tall as Patrick,
but every bit as broad, with challenging eyes and a face whose colouring
betrayed a life spent mostly out of doors.

‘And what do you want?’ Irene
asked. She saw Drew lift his choice of Luckenbooth brooch and produce his
wallet, but Patrick had stepped closer. He paid Kenny and guided her out of the
shop, into the comparative brightness of the Grassmarket. This time when he
reached for her hand, Irene could not shrink away; she still needed him.

Fortingall Perthshire, June

‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ Meigle
indicated the village that straggled along one side of the narrow road. Apart
from the church and the hotel, there were a score of houses facing onto open
farmland, with a wooded ridge growling down in the rear. Meigle reached into
the boot of his BMW and withdrew a walking stick and a leather case. ‘The name
stretches beyond antiquity,’ he said, ‘Fortingall, the fort of the strangers.’

Where MacPherson looked suitably
impressed, Andrew shrugged. He had grown up in and around Perthshire so one
more village, however picturesque, did not interest him. ‘Why are you showing
us this?’

‘You’ll see,’ Meigle told him. ‘It
is part of your introduction to the Society.’ He led them the few steps from
the car park to the kirk yard and stopped beside a walled enclosure that held a
massively battered yew tree. ‘This is the famous Fortingall yew.’ He looked to MacPherson,
‘you’re a tree man,
Lachlan
. What do you think of this one?’

MacPherson surveyed what remained
of the tree. ‘It’s old,’ he said. ‘Very old, I would say, but not much use for
timber. If it was on my patch I’d get rid of it for something more useful.’ Meigle
shook his head, ‘Oh, the pragmatism of the
New World
. This is reputedly the oldest tree in
Europe
, maybe five thousand years old. That means that it was
ancient when Christ was a boy. You might cut it down,
Lachlan
, but holy men have taken saplings
from this tree and planted them at
Glastonbury
and Roslin Chapel and
Scone
.’ He glanced at MacPherson. ‘These are all religious sites,’ he
explained.

Andrew looked surreptitiously at
his watch.

‘Why? I mean, what’s the religious
significance?’

MacPherson asked. Sliding over the
wall, he touched the bark of the yew, and then grinned. ‘I thought there might
be some sort of feeling, but it’s just a tree.’

‘They say that Christ’s cross was
fashioned from a yew,’ Meigle said, ‘and the Druids were said to have
worshipped them.’

‘What worshipped them?’ MacPherson
looked confused.

‘Celtic holy men,’ Andrew
explained. ‘To them, certain trees and rivers were sacred. The Druids are
supposed to have harvested great quantities of knowledge. A bit like the First
Nation shamans of
Canada
, but in long white robes.’

‘So they say,’ Meigle nodded, ‘but
I think most accounts are second, or even third hand. If you look over there,’
he indicated the ridge that dominated the village, ‘you are looking towards the
site of Dun Geall. When this tree was only middle aged, around 3000 years old,
Dun Geall was the home of a chief, perhaps even a king, known as Metallanus. So
they say. Come with me.’

It was years since Meigle had been
in Fortingall but his feet found the path without difficulty, panting up the
hill a few steps ahead of the two younger men. Refusing offers to relieve him
of the weight of the case, he stopped twice for breath while MacPherson
tactfully admired the view.

‘This is Dun Geall,’ Meigle said
at last. ‘You don’t think that it’s very impressive, do you? Yet a dun was a
fort, and at one time this Pictish settlement was so important that the Romans
sent an emissary here.’

Andrew looked around him. The
hillside was bare of any trace of fortification, with neither stone wall nor
battlement. ‘Why?’

‘It was Roman policy to send an
ambassador to tribes that bordered the Empire. They made alliances, secured
trading treaties, assessed the tribal strength and extracted tribute. Most
Empires do something of the sort.’ Meigle eased himself onto a suitably rounded
boulder and waited for MacPherson to join him. He placed his case on the
ground, with the walking stick on top.

‘The Picts were an unusual people
in that their women had equality in just about every respect. They certainly
had great sexual freedom and one woman became very friendly with the Roman
envoy. So they say.’

‘Talk about the boot being on the
other foot,’ MacPherson grinned. ‘In
Canada
, the Scottish backwoodsmen slept with every native woman they could
find.’

Andrew laughed as Meigle
continued.

‘Anyway the couple had a child,
and when the envoy returned to
Rome
, he
took his son with him. The mother, naturally, decided that she should also
travel with him. According to the story, Metallanus, the Pictish king, also
gave the envoy rich jewels as a gift to the Emperor and the Roman Gods.’

‘And I’ll bet the woman made sure
that she had her share,’ Andrew said.

MacPherson laughed. ‘Of course she
would. She had her son to take care of.’

‘Perhaps so,’ Meigle agreed. ‘In
time the Roman, his woman and their son settled in central Italy, a province
known as Samnium, and the boy became accepted into the family. When he reached
maturity he wore the Pilateus, which was a felt cap worn by freedmen, and he
used his father’s name of Pontii. Or so they say.’

MacPherson frowned and looked up. ‘Pontii?’

Meigle nodded. ‘I think you know
where I am headed. Put the names together and you get Pontii Pilateus: Pontius
Pilate.’

‘Christ!’ MacPherson blasphemed.

‘They knew each other,’ Meigle
agreed. ‘But the story is getting even more interesting. From this point on we are
on firm historical ground. Pontius Pilate made a very good marriage to Caudia Procula,
who was the grand daughter of the Emperor Tiberius. She was illegitimate, but
the connection was strong enough to ensure Pilate’s advancement.’

‘Royal patronage, eh?’ Despite
himself, Andrew was listening. He moved closer.

‘Imperial, indeed. With his wife
to guide him, Pontius Pilate became an Equus, a knight, and so one of the
privileged. Lucius Sejanus, the Prefect of the Imperial Guard became his mentor
and in AD 26 Pontius Pilate became governor of
Judaea
.’

‘That’s the infamous Pilate eh?’
Andrew shook his head. ‘Trust
Scotland
to get involved in things that don’t concern us.’

‘I’ve not finished yet.’ Meigle
said. ‘As we know, Pilate was a hard man. He ruled
Judaea
for around ten years, and there
were many complaints about his severity. Around AD 33 he agreed to have Christ
crucified, after a personal interview. That incident was eventually to make him
one of the baddest of the world’s bad men, but at the time it hardly raised a
ripple in
Rome
. It certainly was not the cause
of his removal from office. However, three years later he suspected a group of
pilgrims of being terrorists and had them all killed. That’s when
Rome
got rid of him.’

‘So what happened to him, then?’
Perhaps it was the atmosphere of Fortingall, but Andrew found himself
listening. A rook rustled past, croaking loudly.

‘What usually happened to
inefficient Roman officials. He was found guilty and exiled to
Vienne
, in
Gaul
, and there he disappears from
official records.’ Meigle shivered as the wind picked up. He stared toward the
hills of Glen Lyon, pushed himself upright and walked slowly downhill. ‘Come
with me.’

‘Is this story relevant to us?’
Andrew asked.

‘If it was not, I would not be speaking,’
Meigle told him. ‘So far there is nothing secret in what I have told you. You
can find the legend of Pilate’s birth in a hundred books, and his later career
is well known. What I am now about to tell you is not known outside the
Society.’

Andrew looked politely impressed. MacPherson
just looked impressed.

‘Pilate’s mother was not just
anybody. As you would expect, the best quality women sought out the Roman
envoy, and it was a Druidess who eventually claimed him as her man. When Metallanus
gave the envoy precious jewels, the Druidess carried her own stone all the way
to
Italy
.’

Meigle climbed slowly over a
stile, with MacPherson carrying his walking stick. He did not relinquish hold
of his case.

‘When Pilate was sent to
Judaea
, his mother came to say goodbye
for the last time, and she gave him her stone.’

‘For luck?’ Andrew asked.

‘Something like that, but a bit
more. It was a Druidical stone, a sacred stone.’ Meigle reclaimed his stick
back and crossed the final field to the village. ‘It was a stone of power.’

Andrew grunted. ‘It did not do him
much good, did it?’

‘Perhaps there was more than just
Pilate at stake,’ Meigle said quietly. He entered the churchyard and again
stopped in the shelter of the yew. A blackbird sang somewhere nearby.