Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2)

by Mark Chadbourn

  After breakfast they washed the pots in the river and packed up the tent with a meticulousness that suggested they were both playing for time. Eventu ally they had no choice but to pick their trail back along the glen until they reached the steep path up to the bridge.

  Ten minutes later they stood outside the chapel compound trying to get a glimpse of the building, but it was obscured by trees and high walls as the current custodians intended. The mist collected even more tightly around them, so it was impossible to see beyond the perimeter of the small, stoney car park outside the visitors’ centre. It had the odd effect of distorting sounds so that at times they felt someone was approaching, only for the noise-whatever it wasto materialise yards away. They waited and listened, but after a while they had to accept there was no one else in the vicinity.

  “I guess we climb over the wall,” Laura said tentatively.

  Shavi nodded, rubbing his chin introspectively.

  “But what then? Where do we even begin to start looking for …” She glanced over her shoulder uncomfortably, as if she had sensed someone standing there “… that thing we’re looking for?”

  “The chapel is consistently described as an arcanum, a book in stone. The carvings that cover the building are a code designed to be pondered upon. They may offer religious guidance, or fables-“

  “Or they may tell us where the prison cell is.” Laura hugged her arms around her. “Okay. Now don’t get me wrong-you’re a mustard-sharp guy, Shav-ster. But if people have been trying to decipher this place for centuries, what makes you think you can waltz in and do it in a few minutes?”

  Shavi wagged a finger at her, smiling. “I never said I could decipher it in minutes. But we have two things denied the searchers who came before us.”

  “Yeah? And what’s that?”

  “Firstly, we know what we are looking for.” He took the wagging finger and tapped the side of his nose. “And secondly, intuition.”

  “A shaman’s intuition, you mean. You going to be doing some more of your funny stuff?”

  His smile grew enigmatic as he looked towards where the chapel was hidden. “I intend to allow the building to speak to me.”

  “Well, give it my regards.” She turned and walked towards the compound wall. Shavi heard her mutter, but obviously loud enough for his benefit, “You nutter.”

  She gave him a leg up on to the wall and he pulled her up behind him. A second later they had dropped into the chapel grounds. The building lay just a few feet away across the wet grass, a grim, Gothic pile that looked like it had been designed for some thirties Expressionist movie; it was breathtaking, despite the ugly, silver scaffolding that clung to it. An oppressive, brooding aura rolled off the building, dampening their spirits, almost physically forcing them to bow their heads. It was both threatening and frightening, Laura decided.

  “You know that supercharged feeling we got at all the other sacred sites, whatever the religion? I don’t get it here.” She could see Shavi felt the same.

  Slowly they advanced on the chapel, as if it were sleeping, as if it could turn on them and bite. Despite his growing anxiety, Shavi marvelled at its intricate design. Rows of spired columns ranged around three sides like sentinels, or missiles waiting to be launched: the last defence against an uncaring higher power? Towards the west end, a towering wall separated the baptistry from the rest of the chapel. It seemed oddly out of place, like a shield to repel invaders from the west; Shavi could tell from its design that from above, each end of the wall was shaped like a cross.

  “A bit over the top, isn’t it?” Laura ventured. “I know these old piles were thrown up to show the glory of God and all that bollocks, but this is even more ornate than York Minister. And it’s just a tiny chapel in the middle of nowhere.”

  “It is special,” Shavi replied distractedly. “But the architecture itself is a message, or many different messages. Everything has been included for a reason, every stone, every tiny carving.”

  “Well? Is it talking to you yet? Because I’d really like to get out of here as soon as possible.”

  “What are you doing?” The stern voice made them both start. They whirled to see a man standing near the door into the visitors’ centre. He was in his sixties with a pale, wrinkled face and thinning silver hair, and he was wearing a dog collar beneath an unsightly purple anorak.

  “Shit. Rumbled.” Laura hissed to Shavi, “You better do the talking. He’ll probably think I’m Satan incarnate.”

  Shavi walked forward, smiling, proffering an open hand. The cleric eyed it suspiciously. “We apologise for the illicit entrance, but time is of the essence,” Shavi said.

  “The chapel doesn’t open until 10 a.m.,” the cleric said in his mild Borders accent. “I’ll have to ask you to leave until then. And to be honest, you’re lucky I don’t summon the police.”

  “We are not tourists,” Shavi continued. “We are on a mission of vital importance-“

  “We get a lot of strange types round here,” the cleric interrupted, “and they all say they’re on some kind of mission or other. The legends that surround the place seem to attract all sorts of unsavoury types and, frankly, many of them are distinctly unbalanced.” Despite his words he seemed to be eyeing Shavi a little more thoughtfully; he made no further attempt to move them on, as if he was waiting to hear what Shavi had to say.

  “We would like to meet with a Watchman.” Laura could tell Shavi was shooting in the dark, but his words seemed to have an effect.

  “What do you know of the Watchmen?”

  “I know they are the secret guardians of places like this. We met one of their number in Glastonbury. He helped us in our mission.” Shavi paused. “Are you a Watchman?”

  “I may be. What would you be wanting?”

  “You know of the change that has come over the world?” The cleric nodded. “Your traditions talk of five people who will fight to save mankind. At least that is what the Watchman in Glastonbury told us. We are two of the five.”

  The cleric’s gaze flickered briefly towards Laura. “You don’t look like much.”

  Shavi held up his hand to silence Laura before she let forth a stream of bile. “Nevertheless, we are a Brother and Sister of Dragons, and we are here at a time of great peril.”

  “A Brother and Sister of Dragons, eh?” The cleric smiled disbelievingly, although they could see the name resonated deeply with him. Shavi spent a further ten minutes convincing him of their credentials until they saw his expression become confused, then troubled. “Perhaps you are who you say. Then what has brought you here to Rosslyn?”

  “You know why this place is?” Shavi turned to face the building. “You know what it hides?”

  “I know some of it. Stories, traditions. It is hard to pick truth from myth sometimes. And every tale has a different meaning, depending which mouth tells it.” The cleric walked over and peered deeply into Shavi’s eyes. “You know,” he began with a new seriousness, “I believe you actually might be who you say you are.” He suddenly appeared flustered. “Then this is an important time. I’ve been remiss. To be honest, I never really expected this to happen in my lifetime.” He caught Shavi watching him intently. “I never expected it to happen at all,” he backtracked. “When you get as old as I am and you don’t see any sign of all the things you’ve been taught, you start to lose your …” He made a gesture with his hand to fill in the missing word. “But how would you know the traditions of the Watchmen, if there was no substance to all I’ve been taught?”

  He was obviously finding the psychological and philosophical repercussions of the sudden revelation troubling. Shavi recognised his growing anxiety and held out his hand once more to deflect the cleric’s thoughts. “My name is Shavi. This is my companion Laura. We would appreciate any help you can give us.”

  This time the cleric took the hand. “Seaton Marshall. Of course I will give you any help I can. But what can Rosslyn offer you?”

  “There is trouble in Edinburgh. We a
re doing what we can, but we are not strong enough. We were told there was power here that could help us, if only we could locate it.”

  “Power?” Marshall looked puzzled. “Really? Well, I always wondered … You know, I’ve been coming here on my rounds at this time every day since I took on the responsibility of the Watchman thirty years ago, and never once have I encountered a soul. It was such a surprise to see you, such a surprise.” He was clearly overjoyed at this exciting break in routine. “Then the stories are true? That’s amazing, that truly is. Come.” He took Shavi’s arm and led him towards the North Door. “Let me show you one of the most puzzling and marvellous buildings on God’s earth.”

  The interior of the chapel was illuminated only by subdued lighting which had obviously been installed for the benefit of the tourists; it smelled of damp, stone and candles. It was also small, which added to the sense of claustrophobia; gloom collected in the roof and corners like bats. It took a second or two for Shavi’s and Laura’s eyes to adjust to the shadows, but then they were instantly hit by the true wonder of the place. Everywhere they looked there were intricate carvings in the stone: grinning devils, beatific angels, Green Men peering from the foliage, daisies, lilies, roses and stars, too much to take in. As Shavi slowly surveyed the amazing detail, though, he began to get a sense of the allegories and messages coded in the stone. Books get lost, parchments turn yellow and crumble, but here was something that would carry its meaning for centuries; and how important was that meaning if such a place had to be constructed at such great cost and effort to preserve it?

  He felt a frisson that could have been excitement or unease when he realised how many of the carvings translated to their own experience: the Green Men that were everywhere, peering down with the terrifying beneficence of Cernunnos, the angels and devils that bore a disturbing resemblance to the Tuatha De Danann and the Fomorii. He stopped and caught his breath. There, at the foot of a pillar, was the image with the greatest resonance: a dragon, so out of place in any church, yet at the foundation of the great edifice, as the blue fire and the dragons that represented it were at the root of everything. “Amazing,” he whispered. It was all there. Stories and legends, teaching and warnings. It was nominally a Christian place, but here it was speaking of things that were potent long before Christ walked the earth. What did it mean; for them; for all the great religions that sprang from that time?

  “Ask me any question you want,” Marshall said. “I know the history of this place back to front. I’ve mulled over every carving until my head hurt, trying to understand what Sir William St. Clair meant when he had the place built. Sometimes I think I’ve got it. I see God in the great scheme of it all, but-“

  “But the Devil is in the detail,” Laura said coldly. Shavi was surprised; she was normally at best silent and at worst openly virulent in the face of religious authority.

  Marshall coughed uncomfortably. “Not quite what I meant to say, but, yes, I do get a sense of great unpleasantness in certain areas.”

  “And that’s not what I meant,” Laura replied, but her attention had already been drawn by the disturbing iconography.

  “Why did Sir William decide to build it?” Shavi asked. “There must be some records.”

  “Many of them went missing in 1700 after a cleric drew on them to write a history of the St. Clair family,” Marshall said. “Just one of the mysteries that surround the place.”

  “Perhaps he uncovered something that others wanted to remain hidden.”

  “Perhaps. But it may have been that the St. Clairs remained Roman Catholics instead of giving in to the Reformation. The religious divide has always remained strong in Scotland and many Catholics have suffered persecution down the centuries. The desire to remain secure in such a volatile atmosphere has led both the truth and the history to be obscured.” His eyes were bright and intelligent; he seemed to have been transformed by boyish enthusiasm at the hope that some of the mysteries might finally be unveiled. “But the St. Clairs also had very strong links to the Freemasons, who guard their secrets jealously. And, some say, to the Knights Templar. And the Rosicrucians. It has been said that the true history of the world is the history of secret societies and if that is true, then all history converges here at Rosslyn.”

  “Are you going to keep me in the loop or carry on speaking in this foreign language?” Laura asked tartly. “In which case I’m going off to find an icon to kick.”

  In the Middle Ages there were many stories about the existence of Enlightened Ones,” Shavi explained patiently, “the Rosicrucians, an intensely secret society whose leaders were only known to an innermost circle of adepts and the great and good leaders of society who protected them. They were supposedly highly advanced alchemists who were former members of the Knights Templar.” Laura gave a weary sigh and made a hand motion for him to continue.

  But it was Marshall who carried on: “The Knights Templar were the warrior priests of Christianity, established to protect pilgrims travelling to the Holy Land. Experts at fighting, but also intellectually superior. As well as armourers and knights, their number contained cartographers, navigators, doctors and learned clerics. But the Church became jealous of their growing power and turned on them in 1307. They were accused of taking part in blasphemous rituals-“

  “That sounds interesting.” Laura’s smile was a challenge Marshall chose to ignore.

  “The penalty for helping them was excommunication. That is an example of how seriously the Church attempted to eradicate them. It is rumoured that an entire fleet of Templars fled to Scotland, where they went into hiding. There is a village near here called Temple which owes its name to their presence.”

  “There was much more to it than that, though, was there not?” Shavi said.

  Marshall nodded. “It was rumoured the Templars had learned great secret knowledge in the Holy Land which terrified the Church, which threatened belief in the entire religion. And they were supposed to have brought that knowledge back here to Rosslyn and secreted it somewhere within the chapel.” He paused. “And some even say what they brought back was the preserved head of Jesus Christ himself.”

  “Oh, gross!” Laura made a face.

  “And the Templars were linked to the Rosicrucians and the Masons. And the St. Clair family had close links with the Masons,” Shavi noted.

  “This is all rumour and hearsay,” Marshall stressed. “Writers have built an edifice of proof by linking disparate and fragmentary evidence.”

  “We have learned there is truth in all legends, and the constant truth here is that the chapel hides something of great importance. I feel we have come to the right place,” Shavi said.

  “Is there any way I can help?” Marshall asked excitedly.

  “Yeah, a coffee would be nice.” Laura nodded towards the door.

  Marshall’s brow furrowed for a moment, but if he felt her antagonism, he suppressed it. He nodded and slipped out.

  “You should not treat people so harshly,” Shavi cautioned. “There is no malice in him.”

  “The way I see it, anybody who stands up for the Church is some kind of hypocritical bastard, so that makes them fair game.”

  She wandered away from him, not wishing to discuss it further. When he caught up with her she was staring at the stained-glass windows above the altar which depicted the Resurrection. The one on the left showed three women arriving at the sepulchre; in the right window two angels sat, one holding a scroll which read: “He is not here but is risen.” She shivered.

  “It’s true what he said about secret societies,” she noted thoughtfully. “Not just the ones that you said, but the Watchmen, that freakish geek the Bone Inspector’s people, all this shit going on behind the scenes. You can’t get any thing straight any more. They teach you one history at school like that’s all there is and then you find out there’s a whole ‘nother load of crap going on.” She shook her head, the thoughts suddenly coming fast and furious. “You know, you can’t even trust your eyes any more.
Everybody sees the so-called gods differently, all those magical items we found-it’s like nothing is real. So what can you believe in?” She turned to him. “How can you go on when you can’t trust anything at face value? When you don’t have any idea what’s real or not? What’s important or not?”

  He shrugged. “Faith.”

  “In what?”

  “That is the question, is it not?” He slipped an arm around her shoulders and she rested against him briefly before pulling away.

  Marshall walked in with two steaming cups of coffee. “There’s a little cafe section in the visitors’ centre,” he said. “But there’s no fresh milk at the moment, unfortunately.”

  Laura thanked him, a little curtly, but with no real sharpness.

  “Can you show us some of the things of interest?” Shavi asked the cleric.

  “Certainly.” He took them over to the south door and pointed to the top of a pillar. “See there. A lion and what appears to be a unicorn. The lion’s often linked to the Resurrection. The unicorn is symbolic of Christ. Yet the two are fighting. What do you think that means?”

  “I do not know,” Shavi replied thoughtfully.

  “It seems like a warning,” Laura noted. “Fighting, you know. Not a good thing. Christ fighting against the Resurrection.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Marshall said.

  He led them around to the north aisle and pointed out the burial stone of William St. Clair, which contained both a Templar insignia and the carved outline of the Grail; Laura glanced at Shavi, but he gave no sign that it was important. Two more dragons; an angel with a scroll. “There are carved images of open books everywhere,” Marshall explained. “One line of thought is this is supposed to refer to the Book of Revelation and the Day of Judgment. I could see the dead, great and small, standing before the throne: and books were opened.”