15th December 1307, Aberdeenshire, Scotland
On a cold and misty morning in mid December, Galeren de Massard, Gerard de Villiers, and Bertrand le Roux, arrived at the Peel of Strathbogie. With them were the Preceptors of Faxfleet, Balantrodoch and Maryculter; William de la Fenne, Walter Clifton and William Middleton. The earth and timber castle sat in the heart of the Aberdeenshire countryside, its large circular motte rising up impressively before them, forming an excellent vantage point from which to admire the beautiful green landscape but also, and more importantly, to spot approaching enemies. Within it waited Robert the Bruce, the King of Scotland and the Templars’ potential ally.
The Templar migrants had left Temple Bruer preceptory several weeks before and journeyed to Scotland. Those from other preceptories in England and Ireland, who had decided to seek sanctuary, also made their way to the two main preceptories there; Balantrodoch, just south of Edinburgh and further north to Maryculter in Aberdeenshire.
Only a few knights, who were werewolf kind, remained at their preceptories. Some of these knights were ill or too old, and were unwilling to leave the homes that were to become their final resting places. Some that stayed were preceptors, prepared to remain at their posts for ceremony along with many more servants and chaplains, who, not being of werewolf blood, knew nothing of the real reason behind their superiors’ flight to Scotland. These members of the Temple were still certain that the Pope would dispel the lies and accusations that were abound and absolve the Order.
The werewolf brethren were not callous in their abandonment of the other members of the Temple. They were certain that the Pope would not allow any harm to come to those who’d served the Order, but were not of supernatural being. Clement was not cruel and while he would be bullied by Philip to hunt down and destroy the monstrous knights, he would not allow the innocent minions of the long and loyal serving order to suffer.
Most preceptories had now been stripped of their valuables and this would give the wayfaring Templars finance for survival and funds to build a future, but also it served to keep their most treasured possessions out of the greedy hands of Kings. The Templars were unsure how Edward II would react to the Pope’s Bull, but even though the English King did not appear to be in any hurry to arrest his country’s Templars, his sentiments could not be counted on, seeing as he was Philip’s future son-in-law.
Many Templars had travelled up the coast with the Templar fleet, boarding ships that had docked at Dunwich, while others had journeyed overland. Prior to their departure, a letter had been sent to Robert the Bruce requesting an audience with him to discuss the future of the Templars in Scotland. The Bruce had recently fallen ill which was thought to be a result of his relentless and lengthy campaign against the English, but his reply was encouraging and he was willing to meet with those who now constituted the remaining hierarchy of the Temple.
Those who had been selected to go and speak with the Scottish King had made their way from Maryculter to the Peel of Strathbogie, where Robert was currently a guest of the Fife of Strathbogie while he recuperated from his exertions of battle. It was likely that the services of all the able bodied Templars of the British Isles would soon be retained by the Bruce, for this is what they planned to offer him. King Robert was passionate in his quest for Scottish independence and also no fool. He was not concerned with the King of France’s whims and schemes and having been excommunicated by Clement only the previous year for the murder of John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch, his rival to the Scottish crown, he would care even less for what the Pope commanded of him.
Instead he may be only too keen to have Templars in his retinue, for who would not wish to have the loyalty of such a formidable fighting force? In return they would require a guarantee of perpetual sanctuary, out of the reach of papal condemnation and the scorn of the Kings of Christendom. With assurance from the Bruce, they would at least have breathing space to watch Europe and plan for the next chapter in Templar history.
As the men drew near to the gate of the bailey, it immediately opened and they were quickly surrounded by foot soldiers. Though dressed immaculately in Templar attire, it was clear that the Bruce took nothing for granted and had many enemies, which may or may not include English Templars. A man on horseback approached them.
“State your names and business at Strathbogie.” The captain of the guard said.
Gerard de Villiers cleared his throat and after announcing all who were in his company first, he concluded, “and I am Gerard de Villiers, former Master of the Paris Temple. We have been invited to speak with Robert the Bruce on Temple business.”
The captain looked at the Templars and nodding his head, satisfied that he had heard the names he was supposed to, he motioned for his men to stand down. He then waved for the Templar Knights to follow him into the bailey.
The Peel of Strathbogie was a modest but nevertheless striking fortress and immaculate in its presentation. In the main hall, a fire was roaring and the warmth of it gave the Templars confidence in their mission. Upon the dais table had been placed a feast and the smell of hot food and spiced wine increased their faith further.
“We’ll have to swear fealty to the Bruce,” Gerard remarked to Galeren.
“Instead of the Pope?” he replied, his tone indicating that he was happy to remove their allegiance from a man who had been happy to abandon them.
“Clement hardly had a choice. Do you think the Bruce would protect us if he knew the truth as the Pope does?” Gerard pointed out, raising his eyebrows.
“I think he may turn a blind eye if we were to help with his cause but after it was achieved, who knows? ’Tis the very reason I believe our future lies far from these shores and away from any overlord, Pope or King.”
“Mmm,” De Villiers brooded, “still, we are not yet at that fork and need time to implement such ideas. For now we must take sanctuary where it is offered.”
He looked up as the oak doors of the main hall opened and the Bruce strode confidently inside, flanked by several guards. He fiddled with the sleeve of his tunic as if only recently dressed and stopped before the Templars and smiled. He was about Galeren’s age, though his features appeared more wizened than the werewolf knight’s. This was probably owing to his tumultuous rise to power and his relentless feats on the battlefield.
The Bruce was reputed to be an excellent swordsman and did not shy away from the thick of the battle, rather wishing to be in the brutal centre of the fray. He was nevertheless handsome, his beard was cropped neatly and his dark hair pushed back from his temples. His eyes were a pale blue and showed that he was a man of both experience and intelligence.
“Welcome,” he said with genuine sentiment. “I hope you are hungry. I am sure you broke your fast after matins, but this damned fever I have had has been hard to shake off and has made me slovenly. I would be happy if you would join me for a late breakfast or early lunch, as you prefer.”
He opened his hands in welcome and pointed to the dais which he then continued towards. The Templars followed him and seated themselves at the table, wine was poured and the Bruce gestured for them to take advantage of the delicious spread. He appeared to be in no hurry for the meeting to commence not until, it seemed, he had gotten some hot food inside him. Galeren and the others weren’t complaining, it had been a cold journey and the meagre portion of bread and honey that they had scrammed down before setting off from Maryculter had done little to sate their hunger. This feast was therefore well met.
When the Bruce appeared to have stilled his hunger pangs, he looked at all the impressive looking men sat before him and said,
“Which of you came from France?”
“I did,” De Villiers replied, “with many others.”
“You were amongst the lucky ones then,” the Bruce said, “it is not a good time to be a Templar in France.”
“Indeed,” Bertrand agreed, feeling Galeren stir uncomfortably beside him, “and how about in Scotland?” Bertrand asked boldly.
The Bruce smil
ed slowly, “I have no argument with the Temple. You are all welcome in my country.” There was an emphasis on my and he raised his cup of wine as if to reinforce the statement.
“We thank you,” Bertrand said.
“Your coming here is timely. I have heard that mandates relating to your arrests and seizure of Templar properties have been dispatched to county sheriffs in England.”
“Edward has no quarrel with us but with pressure from both his future father-in-law and the Pope, we could not count on his support, but we pray we can on yours.” Bertrand bowed his head respectfully.
“Templar presence has always been minimal in Scotland and of what there has been, has been debatable as to whether or not it was in Scotland’s favour.”
Bertrand looked at the others, grimacing in turn at the mention of their unsavoury reputation in Scotland.
“Brian de Jay was a –” Bertrand began fervently in their defence but the Bruce cut him off.
“I know all about Brian de Jay and his renegades and I care not. It is in the past and what is important here is the future, yours and Scotland’s. I will not beat about the bush and spend hours exchanging cryptic conversion with you, it is not my style. Instead, I will tell you how you can help me.” The Bruce paused and took a swig of his wine. He licked his lips and continued.
“You will not be ignorant of my desire to have an independent Scotland. Edward the first gave us little to celebrate over the years, but his son does not have the same mettle as he did. If Templars need sanctuary then let it be in Scotland. I guarantee your safety here. In return I would ask that your best and most able knights stand by my side when called upon and until then, train the rest of my army in the combat skills that you have made your name with.
I have neither care for, nor fealty to the King of France and, as you know, the Pope excommunicated me not a year ago, so I have no need to bend to his commands. We can serve each other well. However, I see that most of you here are English, how do you feel about spilling the blood of your own for a Scottish cause?”
“We are Templars first and as such do not care for nationality. French, Spanish, or English matters not to Templars, it is a brotherhood and it is that which we wish to preserve, not our individual identities.”
It was true what Bertrand said, but of course he did not mention that the brotherhood was one made up of werewolves, not religious warriors. But as his sentiment was genuine, the Bruce accepted his explanation and nodded satisfied.
“I understand, but do not abandon me, even if the Pope does decide to save your hides from Philip. By allowing your presence in Scotland, I have already adhered to my part of the bargain, as of now you owe me.”
“You have our word and our swords. A Templar has never broken a vow he has made with a true heart.” Bertrand said.
“I believe that.” The Bruce said and proposed a toast to their alliance. They drank and their cups were refilled.
“Now,” the Bruce said, looking straight at De Villiers, “tell me of your escape from France.”
With their business over and quickly so, the Bruce was keen to enjoy the company of his new allies. It seemed that Robert was fond of tales of bravery and heroism in the face of adversity and it was clear that he planned to carve out his own legend, as his desire for independence was achieved.
They stayed drinking in the main hall long after their late breakfast had been cleared away and the lunch, which had then been provided a few hours later, had also been cleared. After the reason for their visit had been stated and their alliance cemented, they had found each other’s company enjoyable and informative. The Bruce was dandy and determined and was not willing to step lightly on matters that were of concern to him. His very nature made the company of Templars secure in their pact with him. They could at least, now relax a little and watch how things in France progressed.
The freezing fog had lowered and now held onto the ground with bitter determination. Galeren was by the stables leaning against the timber door frame staring into the mist. Earlier, the Bruce had finally taken his leave of them to attend to other more pressing matters. He bid them stay for the night and enjoy the Fife’s hospitality, while he tried to rest and shake off the remnants of the bout of fever that had battered him over the last few weeks. He would not see them again, not on this occasion in any case, but plans for another meeting to discuss the Templars’ new role in Scotland had already been laid. He knew where they were.
“Pining for that lady of yours?” De Villiers asked, as he approached Galeren.
Galeren smiled slowly. “She is in my thoughts, yes. I admit I was not comfortable leaving her at Maryculter alone.”
“She is hardly alone Galeren! Richard and Parsifal won’t let her out of their sight and the preceptory is bursting at the seams with Templars.”
“I know, but still,” he shrugged, “I need not have come.”
“Always brooding, aren’t you?” Gerard shook his head. “I know De Floyran haunts your thoughts and also the fate of our brothers in France but you were needed here today, even if you thought not. You are now one of the Templar council, your opinions matter and it is you that may lead us to a new world and life.”
“I suppose you are right.” Galeren admitted.
“Indeed I am. Now we can concentrate our efforts on determining our future and helping our brethren.”
“Don’t forget we have a Scottish army to train.” Galeren reminded ruefully, tilting his head. He was concerned that, with sanctuary granted and a new commitment to be fulfilled, the quest to save their brothers in French prisons may be put off, its priority fading with the passage of time.
“There are plenty of men for that task, brothers who are only too keen to feel the weight of steel in their hands once more. It is the council that must decide on our future and what is to be done about the French prisoners.”
“Well, then I pray that the council has the courage for it.”
“How do you mean?” Gerard frowned.
“It would be easy to settle here and slip into new roles. We may have to wait a while for a prime opportunity to rescue our brethren, people forget that which is far from their sight and faded in their memory.”
“Not I!” Gerard said, “I have you to thank for my son’s life. I will walk away from a comfortable hearth and into the fray to help our kind in an instant, you need only ask.”
“I know I can count on you Gerard and Richard will be only too willing to race headlong into the fire. I understand we must make a strike when it is most advantageous, but I fear we will lose more of our brothers before we get the chance to help them.”
Gerard nodded as he caught a sense of what was really eating at Galeren. “You are growing impatient my friend. You don’t really want to wait; you want to strike while the iron’s hot and fresh in everyone’s mind.”
Galeren sighed. “You know me too well. I don’t want to be hasty but I have a bad feeling about things. We don’t really know what is happening in France. It is hard for me to sit and wait when our kind are suffering in putrid gaols.”
“I agree, but we must be patient Galeren, however hard it may seem. We could strike now but we may only be partially successful and we would have lost the element of surprise.” He shrugged and then added. “Does this have anything to do with De Floyran?”
“Of course, but don’t think I would put anyone in jeopardy for my personal vendetta. De Floyran concerns me for other reasons. The longer we leave him to his own devices the more dangerous he becomes for all of us. I sense he is up to something.” Galeren shrugged. “Arghh, I don’t know. Perhaps, I am just being impatient but Christ Gerard, we are werewolves!”
“In a man’s world,” he pointed out regretfully.
“Precisely! We have greater power and intelligence, if our nature is known to these bastards then let us show them the full force of it and then we can disappear while they are left reeling.”
Gerard patted his friend on the back. “Your passion will lead us to
a prolific future, but do not let your impatience be your folly. We will show them our force but when the time is right. Nobody will forget what needs to be done and it will be done, I promise you that. But we must wait.”
Galeren nodded as he tried to still his blood and cool his fervour. He knew Gerard spoke sense and that he would, against his very nature, have to learn patience. He could not do it alone and needed the support of his peers, if he was to help his brothers and destroy De Floyran.
“We will need to find spies then.” Galeren said and noted a slight wave of concern cross his friend’s face. “I did not mean Ourri.” He said in reassurance, certain that Gerard would not be keen to have his son back in the lion’s den. “They will have to be human, of course.”
“I know,” Gerard said. “Ourri would not hesitate to play his part though; he is as reckless as you.”
“He is young,” Galeren said, “and I am not reckless. Would you not wish to be in the thick of it, rather than sit in the dark at home?”
“You know I would.” He sighed and then smiled shaking his head. “What a world we live in? I pray for better times, freedom to think and do, to love and celebrate. I look with hope to your new world.”
“It will bring its own hardships but those that with spirit and determination we can overcome.”
“Come back to the fire and drink some wine. Let’s let our troubles go for a time. Practice patience my brother, you have already done much for your brethren. You will have the support of many when the time comes, but only when that time comes.” Gerard reassured him and smiling, with a feeling of half met satisfaction, Galeren returned with him to the warmth and comfort of the keep.