The Knights in the Chapel

A short story

The patrol had been waiting for them, attacking so suddenly that even the vanguard didn’t have time to yell out a warning.

Travelling as far to the north of Stirling Castle as they could, so as not to alert the English garrison, Bruce and Douglas had hoped to use the nights low mist, which had thrown a damp smothering blanket over the landscape making even the horses hooves muffled and dull, to make their approach to the chapel as secretive as possible.

Douglas had decried the fog an ill omen for business such as this. What they were about did not sit easy with him.

“Foul weather for foul deeds,” he grumbled.

Bruce, for his part, tried to explain they would need every man ready to fight for Scotland in the upcoming war, no matter their background or faith. He did not challenge the other man’s superstitions. If any of his party knew of the spectre that kept pace with them, they would flee in terror into the surrounding woods.

Now all those plans had gone to hell.

The clatter of steel and the screams of men filled the surrounding gloom as he spurred his horse into the melee. The familiar cry of “Douglas! Douglas!” told him that his friend was with him.

Breaking through the mist, to where the battle was joined, both men pulled up short.

Their guard was surrounded on all sides by a much larger force and fighting valiantly to somehow break through. Even in the murk, Bruce could already see the slumped shapes of bodies lying on the ground and riderless horses running wild. This couldn’t just be a standard patrol, Bruce thought frantically. It was a carefully laid trap.

Suddenly one of them was on him. A dark figure thundering across the moor, swinging a howling flail above his head. Bruce ducked out the way of the crushing blow, and slashed his sword into the knight’s face hacking through teeth, bone, brain and life, turning his face into a gore drenched ruin. The dead man didn’t even have time to scream as he fell from his horse. Bruce plunged back into the carnage.

There was just too many of them. He could see Douglas fighting like the madman he was, but others were being surrounded and picked off. It was only going to be a matter of time.

Then, somewhere to his left, a cry went up that he did not recognise and turning to see what new grim challenge was arising, Bruce stared in awe as a vision from distant lands arose in the night. The bishop had indeed spoke truly.

A phalanx of cavalry drove into the enemy troops scattering them from Bruce and his men. The king looked up to see knights with red crosses emblazoned across their white surcoats turn the battle into a bloody rout. In what seemed only minutes the English were wiped out, their corpses cleaved and strewn across the battlefield.

Silence enveloped them then, such a kind that only comes after death and slaughter. Steam rising from cooling corpses, and the plume of horses breath, mingling with the encircling mist that began to close in once again after being driven back by the inferno of battle, made for a hellish funk.

Bruce looked around, gasping for breath, but the knights had gone. Disappeared like phantoms back to their tombs. Douglas rode up alongside him, his face unreadable in the gloom.

Shaking his head, with nothing more to say, he simply muttered, “To the chapel.”

The streets of Dunblane were deserted at this hour, but after the ambush Bruce wasn’t taking any chances. Proceeding cautiously and wincing at the echoing clatter of the horse’s hooves, the exhausted party made their way past the small houses and towards the tall towers of the church that loomed protectively over the town.

Bishop Wishart opened the door almost immediately upon his soft knock and ushered the men inside.

The old man leaned heavily on his staff. His once strong body now wizened and bent. There was a young priest at his side guiding him forward and Bruce realised with sadness that, during his imprisonment by the English, he had gone blind. His eyes now milky white under heavily lined brows.

“Don’t look on me with pity, my king,” the old man said with a tired smile.

King Robert covered his surprise by hugging the bishop close. This man had helped him too many times to count over the last few years. He would not be still drawing breath without his interventions.

“I am just surprised at how fat you have got, my friend,” Bruce said with forced jollity.

The young priest gasped, but Wishaw let out a roaring laugh, hammering on Bruce’s back even as his chuckles descended into a coughing fit. “Still a cheeky bastard,” he managed when he got his breath back.

“Always,” the king smiled, and then grew serious. “We were ambushed. The knights saved us. Are they here?”

Wishart nodded and signalled for his young helper. “Come. Let us meet our guests.”

Walking between the pews, with the high stone arches lurking darkly on either side, Bruce could feel Douglas tensing next to him, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

“Be still James,” he hissed. “If I trust these men then you should too.”

A sigh was all the got in response.

As they approached the alter, two men stepped out from the shadows and stood waiting for them. One was tall and broad with white hair and beard. His clothes were simple cloth and he carried no weapons. The other was younger and clad in the armour they recognised from the battlefield. A long sword was strapped to his waist and the bright red cross still prominent on his tunic. The two Scotsmen shared a glance and continued towards the strangers.

Silence descended then as the four men watched each other. Bishop Wishart was led to one of the seats. He sat with a sigh.

“Get on with it then. I’m an old man and need my sleep. Saving the nation is tiring work.”

Bruce tried to cover his smile, but stepped forward as the older knight began to speak.

“I am Gerard de Villiers. I knew your father, young Bruce. We served together in the Holy Land. He was a good man. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. This is Hugues de Chalon.” The other man nodded but his face was expressionless. He remained watchful. “We are well met under the safety of this church.”

“Well met indeed,” Bruce began. “My thanks for your intervention on the moor. Those actions risked much for you and your knights. Not only in battle, but if you were exposed, your lives would be forfeit.”

De Villiers raised an eyebrow. “You know who we are?”

“I have heard the stories. My advisers are wise men. They serve me well. What brings you to my country?”

The knight frowned at the last comment but didn’t question it.

“After so many of our order were destroyed by treachery, lies and falsehoods, the last of us fled anywhere we could for safety. I have friends and family who reside near Roslyn in Edinburgh and aim to seek them out.”

At this point de Villiers sighed and looked keenly at Bruce.

“You may have had issues with Longshanks, but he was always loyal to us. We thought the same with his son, yet it is clear the new king twists and turns with the breeze, so he too has condemned us. Scotland will only be safe for us if King Edward and England are driven from its land. At Bannockburn this will be your chance. Our chance.”

It was Bruce’s turn to look surprised, but he let it go.

“When I am recognised as the true king of Scotland, I promise you will be safe here under my protection.”

De Chalon, who had stayed silent up to this point, sneered. “I’m sure we will, ‘my king’, but we carry something with us that is beyond the power of all mortal rulers and the lands they constantly fight over. A relic that could create a whole new world for those that follow it’s teachings. Will you be able to keep that safe?”

“I knew it,” Douglas interrupted sharply. “The stories are true. It’s the devil work!”

Both men immediately went to draw their swords and things may have gone awry if, once more, Bishop Wishart hadn’t intervened.

“Chuck it!” he shouted with furious anger. “I grow tired in so many ways. You need each other. Move past this and do it now.”

Bruce placed his hand on his friends arm. “Be still, James. I sense no evil from these men.” As he said these words, his eyes flicked to the phantom that stood in the gloom of the grand stone pulpit, and then back to de Villiers who was watching him closely.

Douglas relaxed and removed his hand from his sword but his gaze never left the armed knight.

“Hugues,” was all the Grand Master had to say to make de Chalon drop his hand and step back. But he too kept his eyes locked on the grim faced Scotsman who still seemed so eager to cross steel with him.

“If I can have a moment my Lord Bruce,” de Villiers said stepping into the aisle.

With a final glance back, Bruce followed him, intrigued by this turn of events.

“Oh for the tempestuousness of youth,” de Villiers sighed with a thin smile. Bruce nodded but then noticed the older man had turned serious and was staring back to the area of the alter again. “He doesn’t know what haunts you, does he? I imagine none of your men do.”

Robert the Bruce felt his blood run cold. The intensity of the mans pale blue eyes were like nothing he had felt before.

“The spectres of our past mistakes are doomed to follow in our footsteps until we make amends. We all must sometimes seek solace in the fury of battle. I hope for both our sakes that happens at Bannockburn.”

With a nod the man turned and strode from the church with de Chalon following close behind.

Douglas walked over to his friend who was still standing in the aisle, staring into space.

“What was that all about? Can we trust them?”

Bruce shook himself from his reverie.

“We can trust them enough,” he said simply.

His friend who fought in many battles by his side, and knew he would fight many more, looked skeptical, but then shrugged and laughed.

“Oh well, the more the merrier, I suppose. The time for blood and battle draws close. We must be on our way Robert.”

The once and future king of Scotland nodded. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

Bishop Wishart was being led back to the rectory when he suddenly turned.

“Everything alright, Robert?”

“Fine,” he replied gruffly. “Go and get some rest my friend. I’ll see you soon.”

The two men would never meet again.

As the old man shuffled to bed, Bruce took a final look to the ghost of Wallace that stood watching him implacably and shuddered. Not in fear of this woe begotten wraith but of the knights who had just left.

As de Villiers had taken his leave he had nodded once, not at Bruce but at what watched them from the shadows, and Robert had stared in horror as the nod had been returned almost respectfully by the scarred and bloodied phantom of the last protector of Scotland.

Robert the Bruce knew he needed these men to win the battle of Bannockburn, and thereafter his kingdom, but whatever else became of them, one thing was clear to him now. He never wanted to see them in Scotland again.

Douglas was right. They had the devil in them.

---

I haven’t written one of these Scottish stories for a while and this one had been sitting in my drafts for a wee while before I figured out how to get back to it, but I had a lot of fun finding my way. Here’s the previous tale that also concerns Robert the Bruce : -

The King in the Cave

Most folks probably know that The Battle of Bannockburn was where Bruce defeated the English and gained independence for Scotland. However, the battle was going badly until a group of armed knights appeared midway through and turned it in the favour of the Scots. These were supposedly reservists, but there is also the story that they were Knights Templar who had fled Europe after their persecution and sided with Bruce again Edward II who was trying to get his hands on some of their treasure. It’s very probably a myth but makes for an interesting story idea.

All the characters in this story, including the two Templar knights, actually existed, but whether they ever met in Dunblane Chapel (now a cathedral) is left to the readers imagination.

This tale is also a nod to a book I was writing 20 odd years ago concerning the Templars, Oak Island, Rosslyn Chapel and a mysterious treasure brought back from the Holy Land, when I was involved in a bad car accident and broke both my legs. Whilst I was recuperating, my wife brought a copy of The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown to the hospital, and that’s when I realised my novel wasn’t going anywhere!

Anyway, hope you enjoyed it.

Thanks for reading. Until next time.