The Adept Book 3 The Templar Treasure (16 page)

She raised her hand and inclined her head with an answering smile.

“You needn’t explain, and I’m not offended,” she said. “Come this way, then, and perhaps I can tempt you to tea
after
you’ve seen Great-Grandfather. He’s waiting for you out in the gazebo. He thought you wouldn’t mind, since the day is so fine.”

A pair of French doors let them out onto a sunny terrace commanding a wide view of well-manicured formal gardens. Near at hand, the close-clipped lawns were interspersed with beds of lilac and roses. Beyond lay a boxwood maze. Above the hedge tops at the heart of the labyrinth, the domed roof of an ornamental gazebo gleamed white in the sunlight.

Glancing back to be sure they were following, Caitlin led them briskly down a flight of dressed-stone steps onto grass cut smooth as a bowling green. Keeping pace with her as they made their way toward the entrance to the maze, Adam remarked, “It was very good of Sir John to agree to see us at such short notice.”

“Well, you
did
intimate that the matter might be one of some urgency,” she replied. “Fortunately, tonight’s a full moon, so if you intend to do any serious work with the Dundee cross, tonight is the absolute best time.”

Adam managed to mask his own surprise, but he sensed McLeod stiffening behind him, and caught Peregrine’s faint but audible gasp.

“Oh, you needn’t worry,” she went on with a slight smile. “We know who you are, and very shortly, you’ll know who we are. These days, Great-Grandfather rarely sees strangers unless he’s checked them out first. He’s ninety-two, you know.”

As she continued blithely on ahead of them to open the gate to the maze, Adam glanced back at his colleagues in reassurance. Her comment confirmed what he had already suspected—that the lovely Caitlin Jordan, though young in years, had been an initiate in many past lives as well as this one, but it was still a little disconcerting to be told that he and his had been “checked out.” The impending meeting now assumed a more momentous weight. Adam Sinclair might be Master of the Hunt in Scotland, but Sir John Graham clearly was Master here. Though that realization carried no threat of danger, not knowing what to expect could not but make him slightly apprehensive as they paused at the gate to the maze.

“This is the entrance to our maze,” Caitlin said, smiling brightly as she opened the gate and stood aside with a gesture of invitation. “If you keep always to the right, you can’t go wrong.”

It might have been a simple piece of advice, but after her earlier comments, Adam was prepared to look for additional meanings. In esoteric terms, references to the right referred to the Right-Hand Path, or the path of Light, as opposed to the path of Darkness. Hence, the comment might have been meant as reassurance. All the same, as he and his companions entered the labyrinth, Adam found himself fingering the band of his signet ring, and was glad to have McLeod, in particular, at his back. It also would be interesting to see how Peregrine perceived the maze, being junior of the three of them and having less experience.

Peregrine himself, meanwhile, was wondering why their host should have chosen to receive them out here in the open air rather than inside the house. It also seemed curious that the lovely Caitlin had abandoned them to find their way without a guide. The maze itself did appear almost childishly simple in comparison with others he had seen, such as the famous Tudor maze at Hampton Court Palace. At the same time, however, as they ventured deeper among the close-clipped hedges, he seemed to sense an underlying pattern of invisible energies held in dynamic suspension. It was almost as if the external form of the maze were but the outer shell of some complex lock, awaiting only a fine adjustment to the mechanism to set its inner forces free.

The air inside the maze seemed preternaturally still, the country sounds of birdsong and the sough of breeze among leaves oddly muted. The thrum of disciplined power in the air was like the throb of a distant dynamo. The deeper they penetrated the maze, the more difficult Peregrine found it to concentrate. His physical vision remained unaffected, but his thinking seemed sluggish, lethargic.

“Adam, what kind of a place is this?” he whispered, setting a hand on Adam’s sleeve.

Adam paused and turned, though he did not look particularly concerned. McLeod’s expression was unreadable.

“I thought you might have guessed,” Adam murmured. “It’s a magical maze—a formal pattern for storing and directing psychic energy. I’ve seen them before. I don’t think the pattern we’re walking is meant for working—more likely, a protective pattern, perhaps a screening device. Is it bothering you?”

Peregrine gave his head a dazed shake, not in negation but in an attempt to clear his senses. His physical vision was still clear, but his inner perceptions were becoming oddly blurred, almost as if he’d been dosed with a narcotic.

“Yes, it is,” he managed to say. “Are we—in any danger?”

“Not at all,” Adam assured him. “The energy here is certainly benign. Having said that, however, even benign energy can have a distracting effect on those not familiar with the patterning. Try putting on your ring. That should help you stay focused as long as we’re subject to the maze and its influence. I suspect the effect will go away once we reach the center.”

Only then did Peregrine take in the fact that both Adam and McLeod were already wearing their rings. He nodded mutely and drew out his own ring from his trouser pocket. Its sapphire was emerald-cut rather than oval like Adam’s, set in a plain bezel on a wide band carved with Chinese dragons. When he slipped it onto his finger, the effect was like a switch being thrown.

“Better?” Adam asked.

Peregrine nodded. “Much.”

The fog had lifted from his inner vision, but the low thrum of unseen power persisted as a background accompaniment as they continued on into the maze.

The last turning of the maze led into an open area paved with flagstones. At its center lay the gazebo itself, an elegant structure of white trellises overgrown with roses, in whose arched doorway stood an erect, silver-haired figure in black, silently waiting.

From his war record, they had known that Brigadier General Sir John Graham must be over ninety, and his great-granddaughter had confirmed ninety-two, but there was nothing about his appearance to suggest either infirmity or decline. On the contrary, the upright length of his lean frame proclaimed an enduring vigor, and the canted hazel eyes were keen as an eagle’s in his still handsome face—a face lined more by care, Adam judged, than by years. He was dressed entirely in black, from the black polo-necked sweater and slacks under his well-cut black blazer down to the silver-headed ebony walking stick resting beneath his clasped hands.

Added to what Adam had already perceived, the stark visual image immediately conveyed to him both the authority vested in his host and the esoteric tradition he represented. By the symbolism of Britain’s Old Religion, ancient long before Christianity reached these shores, the figure of the Man in Black was the direct representative of the Horned God, who was consort to the Great Mother, the Lady of the Moon. Together, the Lord and the Lady constituted a duality of Deity that had guarded the welfare of the Island of Britain and ensured its fertility since time immemorial. Such guardianship was held to have protected the Island of Britain from foreign invasion more than once, most recently during the Second World War. It even occurred to Adam to wonder whether Sir John might have had a hand in that, for he certainly was of an age to have done so.

In any case, General Sir John Graham quite obviously was a very senior Man in Black, perhaps subordinate to none other in England. The tight-leashed power contained in the upright figure was formidable, easily a match for Adam himself, if differently focused. Nonetheless, Adam sensed more to their reception than a mere show of strength—a growing conviction that, in choosing to present himself in his rightful guise, Sir John was also paying his guests the ultimate compliment of acknowledging them as companions in the same service of the Light, even if they chose to approach that Light from different perspectives.

It was a heartening gesture of courtesy, but it suggested an awareness of their real intentions and function that could not be explained by two brief telephone encounters, one of them with the always discreet Lindsay. Caitlin had spoken of them being “checked out,” and Sir John Graham was known to be a former intelligence officer; but unless the general was far more perceptive than even Adam’s skills might suggest on a parallel level, there was no way he could know exactly who and what they were. And yet, as his eyes met Adam’s, he seemed to
know.

“So,”
he said, smiling. “You’re Philippa’s son. I’m very pleased to finally make your acquaintance. Please enter, and be welcome.”

Chapter Fifteen

THE MENTION
of his mother’s name clearly startled Adam, but apparently it also defused any uncertainty he might have had about the hint of a ritual bidding phrase Peregrine thought he caught in the general’s invitation. Without looking at either of his companions, Adam inclined his dark head in graceful deference and mounted the four steps up to the gazebo entrance, at the same time making a small movement that might have been a screened gesture of his right hand.

“The invited guest always honors the rule of the householder,” he stated quietly, lifting his gaze unflinchingly to that of their host.

A firm handclasp met him and drew him inside, hazel eyes meeting his in unspoken approval. As Adam turned to call his colleagues to him with a glance, McLeod moved forward, Peregrine following behind him.

“Sir John, may I introduce my Second, Noel McLeod,” Adam said, in a display of candor that surprised Peregrine, based on so short an acquaintance. “And this is Mr. Peregrine Lovat—among other things, an artist of rare talent.”

The general’s handclasp was sure and firm as he drew Peregrine from the last step and bade him welcome with an enigmatic little smile. In the hazy shade beyond lay a glass-topped round table of white-painted wrought iron surrounded by four matching chairs with cushions of flowered chintz. The sunlight filtering through the rose-twined trellises of the gazebo’s supporting walls laid patterns of shadow on the floor like a covering of forest leaves. The sheltering shade provided the same sort of easy sanctuary as a forest glade. The dynamo thrum at the back of Peregrine’s awareness had ceased as he crossed the threshold.

“A formidable Hunting Party,” Sir John remarked, still smiling faintly as he swept a hand toward the chairs. “Please be seated, gentlemen.”

The open identification of who and what they were gave Peregrine a moment’s pause, but neither Adam nor McLeod seemed concerned. As Sir John shifted one of the chairs slightly and prepared to sit, Adam chose the one to their host’s right and directed McLeod to the one at
his
right, leaving Peregrine to take the remaining one, at their host’s left hand.

“So,” Sir John said, settling himself with his walking stick resting on the floor between his feet, hands clasped atop the silver head. “I see no reason to continue sparring, since we all know, at least in general, who and what we are. Perhaps I ought to clear up one mystery before we go any further. Adam—if I may presume to call you by your Christian name—you’re no doubt wondering how I came to be acquainted with your mother.”

“I confess to a certain curiosity,” Adam said, carefully neutral.

“Don’t worry, my boy. I’m not about to reveal any hitherto unknown details of a sordid past,” Sir John said with a smile. “Without violating any confidences, suffice it to say that your mother and I had business in common during the war—a matter of gravest national security. Philippa was only young then—not even as old as Mr. Lovat here—but I had good cause to respect her courage no less than those other abilities of hers which I suspect you have inherited in full measure.”

“You’re very gracious, sir,” Adam murmured, a little taken aback.

“No, I acknowledge simple truth,” Sir John said with a slight inclination of his silver head. “At my age, one does not waste energy on platitudes. Without Philippa’s contributions, on a variety of levels, the war might have gone quite differently than it did. The next time you speak with her, I hope you will convey to her my warmest regards.”

He had not asked, Peregrine noted, whether Adam’s mother was still alive or not; once again it seemed clear that Sir John Graham knew more about some things than one might have expected, even of the senior Adept he obviously was. At Adam’s silent nod of acknowledgement and agreement, the general continued.

“Thank you. On to business, then. When we spoke on the telephone on Thursday evening, you very wisely refrained from detailing the precise nature of your interest in the Templar cross which I now have in my keeping. However, now that we appear to have established our bona fides to one another’s mutual satisfaction, perhaps you would care to elucidate. I’m intrigued that our paths finally should have crossed, and I’d be delighted to help you in any way I can.”

“I think neither of us can fault the other’s display of caution,” Adam said, more relieved than he hoped showed.
“I
am certainly entirely satisfied. I only hope that your cross can, indeed, provide the help we need. Otherwise, all of us may end up involved in remedial action after the fact, rather than preventive medicine now.”

He went on to furnish a concise account of the theft of Solomon’s Seal and all the information he and his companions had been able to garner since embarking on their investigation.

“By now, I have no doubt that the Seal is an artifact of power,” he said at the conclusion of his narrative. “My friend Nathan Fiennes had become convinced that its misuse could activate a particular and deadly danger, but we don’t know what that danger is, or the Seal’s specific function, or what else may be involved. I begin to suspect that Solomon himself may have had a hand in the original structure of whatever power the Seal controls.”

He told him then about his dream of Solomon and the Crown, and Peregrine’s corroborating evidence of a crown connected with John Grahame of Claverhouse. Sir John did not bat an eye at the revelation regarding Peregrine’s artistic talents.

“The Crown may be a second part of whatever binds this power or evil or whatever it is that the Seal controls,” Adam finished. “Peregrine’s vision also tends to support our theory that knowledge of the Seal and the burden it represented once resided in the Masters of the Knights of the Temple, and came here with the Seal and what it guarded when members of the Order fled to Scotland. After that, we believe that the secret was passed to subsequent Scottish Grand Priors until it apparently was lost with the death of John Grahame of Claverhouse, who was wearing your cross when he died.”

“I see,” Sir John said. “Then what you hope to do with the cross is to use it as a link and focus to do what? To contact the spirit of Claverhouse?”

“That’s correct. We have some experience in this sort of thing. Noel is a first-rate medium. It’s our hope that through him, we may be able to bring Claverhouse through for long enough to find out directly from him what the Seal guards and how, not only so that we know what we have to fear, but also so that we have some idea what countermeasures to take.”

Nodding, Sir John briefly considered what he had just been told, then turned his gaze on Peregrine.

“This ring with the lock of hair—you’re certain it’s Dundee’s?”

“As certain as I can be, under the circumstances, sir,” the artist replied. “I’m confident that my vision of the burial was accurate, based on prior experiences of this sort. Obviously, I have no physical proof that the lock of hair in the ring and the one I saw cut are one and the same—but I believe that they are.”

“Then why do you think the resonances were confused when you examined the ring?” Sir John asked Adam.

“Believe me, I’ve asked myself the same question,” Adam said. “My guess is that the ring itself generates stronger resonances than the lock of hair, which is shielded behind a piece of rock crystal. I considered trying to remove the crystal, to gain direct access to the hair, but the ring isn’t mine to tamper with. I would be breaking faith with its owner if I risked damaging it.”

“I understand,” Sir John said. “May I see the ring?”

Wordlessly Adam delved into a pocket of his suit coat and brought out the Dundee ring, setting it on the table in front of Sir John. The general laid his stick alongside his chair, then donned a pair of silver-rimmed reading glasses from the breast pocket of his blazer and bent down to inspect the ring from several angles.

After a moment, he picked it up and turned it to and fro, looking especially at the lock of hair imprisoned under the piece of rock crystal, then enclosed it in his right fist and briefly closed his eyes. When he opened them, he looked at the ring again, then set it back on the table’s glass top.

“Interesting,” he remarked, removing his glasses and returning them to his pocket. “See what you make of this.”

So saying, he reached into another pocket and brought out a flat black jeweller’s case about four inches square, which he set on the table before Adam. At a gesture of encouragement from their host, Adam picked up the box and opened it. Inside, pillowed on a bed of black velvet, was a cross
formée
of red enamel over gold, obviously of some antiquity, perhaps three inches long and with a small ring at the top end to take a chain or cord or ribbon.

“I can assure you that this is the cross worn by Dundee at the time of his death,” Sir John said confidently. “An ancestor of mine received it from a French priest named Dom Calmet, who’d gotten it from Dundee’s brother David. My ancestor was from a collateral branch of the family, of course; neither Claverhouse nor his brother left any heirs. There’s family tradition that it was used in 1745 to invest Prince Charles Edward Stuart as Grand Prior of Scotland, when he was received into the Order of the Temple at Holyrood Palace; but knowing it was a precious relic, if only of Dundee, and knowing that he was about to set out on a gruelling campaign in which it might be lost, he returned it into the keeping of the then guardian, Sir Malcolm Grahame. But, by all means, feel free to make your own additional assessment.”

“Thank you,” Adam said. He picked up the cross briefly to examine it, then passed it in its box across to Peregrine. “What do you think?”

Peregrine stared at the cross but did not touch it. “It certainly looks like the one I’ve been seeing,” he told his superior, passing it on to McLeod.

“Noel?”

The inspector adjusted his aviator spectacles for a closer look as he brought the box to eye level, but also did not touch the cross.

“It does look old,” he offered. “But I’ll refrain from any close contact until I can handle it in a ritual setting. I wouldn’t want to blunt whatever punch it’s got for helping us bring Dundee through.”

He set it back on the table in front of Sir John and met his gaze directly.

“Will you permit us to try that, sir?” he asked.

“Of course,” the general replied. “My only condition is that the cross not be taken from these premises.”

“That’s understood, of course,” Adam said.

“I can certainly provide you with a suitable place to work,” Sir John went on, “if you’d care to acquaint me with your requirements. Naturally, I should like to be present, if only as an observer, but I will certainly understand if you require privacy for what you intend.”

Adam had already been impressed with the protection he had sensed around the gazebo, even without a formal warding being worked. He had come to Oakwood with no preconceptions, but it was an unlooked-for benefice to discover that he both liked and—more important—trusted the formidable figure in black seated beside him. The discovery that he and Philippa had worked together during the war—and Adam was quite certain that the claim was true—only served to confirm that he and Sir John were working toward a common unified goal, sanctified by the Light, even though their respective traditions might differ according to practice.

“Actually,” Adam said, “I would welcome your advice and support for the work I have in mind. Noel is one of the finest trance-mediums I’ve ever encountered, and very good at what he does, but up until now, most of our experience in this area has had to do with facilitating contact with entities already desiring to communicate. That’s a fairly passive process. In this instance, we’ll be attempting to summon a specific soul who may not be expecting or welcoming our call, depending upon its present situation. For that matter, we don’t even know if the soul in question is presently incarnate.”

Sir John’s gaze strayed briefly to the cross in its box on the table before them, his expression deeply thoughtful. When he lifted his head, his hazel eyes held a new warmth that had not been there a few moments before.

“Philippa must be very proud of you, my boy,” he said with a smile that shattered the former sobriety of his demeanor like a shaft of sunlight cleaving through cloud. “I’d be honored and delighted to assist you. If I may, however, I’ll suggest that we postpone the actual work until later this evening. Since, as you’ve pointed out, we don’t know whether or not the spirit of Claverhouse is presently in incarnation, we stand our best chance for success if you attempt to make contact at a time when we can reasonably hope that any present body will be asleep. That assumes, of course, that a present incarnation lives in roughly the same part of the world, and therefore, in a similar time zone,” he added wryly. “If not, and if any complications should happen to arise, we of course would be morally bound to break off and await a more appropriate moment.”