Powerstone (21 page)

‘He took the stone with him, and
we have proof of that.’ Opening the case, Meigle extracted two slim files and
handed one each to Andrew and MacPherson. ‘Open these.’

There were photographs inside. The
first was of a worn Roman coin, depicting a crooked staff. ‘The coin was struck
in
Judea
during the reign of Pontius
Pilate,’ Meigle said, ‘and the staff is a lituus.’

‘Of course it is,’ Andrew said,
shrugging. ‘And what is a lituus?’

‘The wooden staff carried by
augurs, holy men,’ Meigle explained quietly. ‘They used it to proclaim their
authority, a bit like a bishop’s crosier. Pilate was the only known Roman
Governor of Judea, or anywhere else come to that, who used the lituus as the
only
object on the face of his coins. It meant something to him personally, as
well as being an insult to the Jews, who were very much opposed to augurs or
any other fortune tellers.’

Lifting the photograph, Meigle
pointed to the centre of the lituus, where the staff curled around on itself.
‘Now look closely and tell me what you see?’

‘There’s something in the centre
of the loop,’ MacPherson said. ‘Another object?’

He studied the picture. ‘It’s
something round.’

Meigle produced two magnifying
glasses from his case. ‘Try these.’ He was smiling, but his eyes were watching.

‘It’s like a stone. Is it the Powerstone?’
MacPherson looked up. ‘Is that the druidic stone that Pilate’s mother gave
him.’

‘So we believe,’ Meigle said. He
sat down on a recumbent tombstone and invited them to join him.

‘That is the Stone of Power. When
Pilate called Christ into his presence to be questioned, he had the lituus and
the stone with him. The Society believes that Christ would have touched both.’ Meigle
waited for the information to settle in. ‘And when Pilate was recalled to
Rome
, he took the lituus with him.’

‘So where is it now?’ MacPherson
looked at the case, as if expecting Meigle to pull the lituus out like a
conjurer producing a white rabbit.

‘I presume that the lituus
disintegrated with time, but the Stone returned to
Scotland
. You see, Metallanus had a son, a
man named Mansuteus. He was a bit of a wanderer and when he visited
Rome
he naturally enquired about his
stepbrother. He heard that Pilate was in
Gaul
and sought him out. Most legends claim that Pilate committed suicide,
but we think that Mansuteus brought him back here, to Fortingall, and the Stone
of Power came with him.’

‘I think I can guess what’s coming
next,’ Andrew said.

Reaching across, Meigle flicked
over the second photograph, an image of the Sceptre of Scotland. The third
photograph was a close up of the polished globe of crystal that topped the
sceptre. ‘The Powerstone,’ Meigle said quietly. ‘This is the stone given by his
Druid mother to Pilate, and the stone which was in his lituus. This is the
stone that returned to
Scotland
to be used by the Arch-Druid of
the kingdom, and which the kings and queens of Scots took as their own.’ Meigle
allowed his voice to drop further, so that Andrew and MacPherson had to strain
to hear him.

‘With this stone, the Scottish
monarchs had power over the druids. Without it the throne could fall. We know
it as the Clach-bhuai.’

Only the wind brushing through the
branches of the yew disturbed the silence, until MacPherson spoke.

‘That’s the stone that you were
speaking about at the Society meeting.’

‘That’s the stone that the Society
was created to defend.’ Meigle said. ‘So from this day onward your lives will
have a different focus.’ Rising from his seat, he nodded toward his car. ‘Now
come with me and I’ll tell you about the current threat.’

Driving fast down the A9, Meigle
was back in
Edinburgh
in an hour and a half, pulling
into the double garage of his detached Victorian house.

‘Is that you Alexander?’ Anne Meigle
thrust her head around a corner as Meigle guided his charges toward his office.
Paint dotted her blue overalls and she wiped at the speck on her glasses,
succeeding in smudging it further.

‘I’ve got company,’ Meigle told
her. ‘This is Lachlan MacPherson from
Nova Scotia
, and Andrew Drummond, James’s son.’

Tall and dignified behind the
paint, Anne Meigle held out her hand to each. ‘Pleased to meet you both,’ she
said. ‘Is it business, Alexander?’

‘Business,’ Meigle confirmed.
‘We’ll be an hour or so.’

‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ Anne
produced a professional smile and disappeared.

‘That was my wife,’ Meigle said,
unnecessarily. ‘She never enquires about the Society. It is best that you keep
the same secrecy.’

Meigle’s office was situated on
the third floor, with splendid views over the adjacent Botanic Garden toward
the Castle and Arthur’s Seat. ‘I often use this for Society business,’ he said,
‘please take a seat.’

There were four to choose from,
deep green leather armchairs that crouched around a highly polished table. An
old-fashioned roll top desk stood against one wall, with a state of the art
computer on the other and a television with integrated DVD at its side. Three
filing cabinets and shelves of books filled the remainder of the room.

‘Now listen.’ When both Andrew and
MacPherson refused his offer of a cigar, he sat on one of the unoccupied seats.
‘The Society has survived for centuries, but most of the time we don’t have to
do very much. We know where the Clach-bhuai is, and that it is safe, and that
is enough. However, sometimes we have to act.’

‘When?’ MacPherson leaned forward.

‘The Vikings were a bit of a
threat when they burned Dunkeld in 903. At that time we held the Clach-bhuai in
the church there, so it was a quick dash over the hills to safety.’ Meigle
grinned, as if he had been personally responsible for the move. ‘Then we had to
act again when Edward Longshanks of
England
came on his plundering expeditions. Historians will tell you that he
was after the Stone of Destiny, but he actually sought the
Stones
,
plural. That’s why he came back to
Scone
again and again; he was hopping mad that we whisked it away from
him.’

MacPherson laughed. ‘I’ve heard
all about Longshanks. My mom used to scare us with horror stories of Edward of
England.’

‘Yes?’ Meigle nodded. ‘Your mom
was a sensible woman. He would have given Hitler a run for his money.’

‘But why?’ Andrew asked. ‘Why was
the Clach-bhuai so important to Edward?’

Meigle lifted his head, smiling,
as the buzz of a vacuum cleaner sounded from below. ‘That’s Anne busy, then.
Never stops, that woman. You remember that a later English king, Edward III, I
believe, fastened the garter of the Countess of Salisbury around his knee and
formed the Order of the Garter? Well, legend states that the Countess was also
the reputed high witch of
England
,
and by wearing the garter Edward was safe from witchcraft. Edward Longshanks
wanted the Clach-bhuai for the same reason. He knew that he could not conquer
Scotland
until he possessed the spiritual
symbols of the nation as well as the castles.’

Meigle shrugged. ‘In the event, of
course, he failed in both.’ He smiled to Andrew. ‘It’s difficult to defeat
Scotland
when there are men of the calibre
of your father. The next real threat was Cromwell.’

MacPherson nodded, listening
eagerly.

‘He defeated us at Dunbar Drove
and sent his uglies north, so the Society had to bury the Stone at Kineff in
Aberdeenshire. Then there was the
Union
, and threats to carry the Honours to
London
.’ Meigle shook his head. ‘That took some bargaining, but
we got there. The English were so desperate for a Scottish union that they
threatened war and economic blackmail, they used bribes and threw dukedoms at
the Scottish commissioners like confetti, but in the end they got what they
wanted. Security for
England
, Scottish soldiers for their wars
and political control over
Scotland
.’

‘And what did we gain? I mean
Scotland
.’ MacPherson was leaning forward
in his seat.

‘
Scotland
got access to an extensive trade network that probably prevented
mass starvation,’ Meigle said frankly. ‘We had lost some of our main trading
partners because of the 1603
Union
of
the Crowns, and we had just come through a shocking famine.
Scotland
needed trade to live, and the
1707
Union
supplied it. Within fifty years
we were beating the English at their own game. We exploited the
Union
with
England
, gentlemen, just as they
exploited us. Don’t ever get the idea that we were victims. We’re not that
weak.’

‘It was a marriage then, and not a
takeover bid?’ Andrew asked.

Meigle smiled. ‘Call it a shotgun
marriage, where the English groom expected a compliant bride, but instead found
that he had married a thistle. The wife had her own ideas.’ He shrugged.
‘However, I have not brought you hear to discuss politics, gentlemen, but to
inform you of the current threat to the Clach-bhuai.’ He waited until he had
their attention. ‘We know that somebody wants to steal the Honours of Scotland,
but we do not know who. We also know that somebody has organised a criminal
group who intend to snatch the Honours when they are carried between the castle
and the Parliament building on the 12th July.’

‘Criminals? Surely the police can
handle that, then,’ Andrew said.

‘Certainly. We can send the police
some information, but we prefer not to. After all, they might ask awkward
questions, like who we are and how we know. We are a small and very secret
group, remember, and we exist to protect the Clach-bhuai, not to guard the
Crown Jewels, however pretty they may be. As far as I am concerned, the thieves
can have all the rest of the Honours and good luck to them, but the Clach-bhuai
is our concern.’

‘
How
do we know?’ MacPherson
wondered.

‘We have a man within their group.
Quite by chance, I may add. We do not possess an all-seeing eye or anything,
but the Scots are a far travelled people, so we do have members in many parts
of the world.’ Meigle smiled to MacPherson, ‘even in
Nova Scotia
. Now; it’s four o clock by our
time, so he should be up and around.’ Meigle spoke to himself, and then woke up
his computer. ‘I have a video link with various people,’ he explained, ‘so I
can see to whom I am speaking.’

After a few minutes a face
appeared on the screen. ‘Is that you Mr Meigle?’ The voice was distorted by distance,
but it was plainly Eastern European.

‘It is. I have two new members
here. Andrew Drummond, and
Lachlan
MacPherson.’
Meigle leaned back. ‘Say hello.’

The face on the screen nodded.
‘Hello.’ He stared at them, expressionless.

‘He doesn’t say much.’ Meigle
excused him. ‘But he’s as dedicated to the Clach-bhuai as we are.’

‘They are pushing ahead with the
arrangements,’ the man said, his voice distorted by distance. ‘What do you want
me to do?’

‘Just go along with them,’ Meigle
said. ‘I don’t want you to upset anything. Indeed, I want the operation to be a
success.’

‘Why? I could stop them anytime.’

‘Not yet,’ Meigle said. ‘I want to
find out who is behind this threat. If it is something official, then there
might be big trouble, but if it’s only some thief, there’s no real problem.
We’ll let the Clach-bhuai reach its final destination and then get it back.’

‘So I help these people?’

‘That’s your job,’ Meigle agreed.
He stepped back as the screen faded.

‘He did not sound Scottish,’ there
was a question in MacPherson’s voice.

‘We are a world wide Society,’ Meigle
explained. ‘One of our past members was a mercenary soldier in
Russia
, and like many other Scots, he
settled there. Stefan Gregovich is his descendant.’

New York City
, June

Irene had examined her plan
thoroughly. She had inspected the ground from every angle, on foot and by car.
She had spoken with every member of her team until they could recite their part
perfectly, and she had held brainstorming meetings where everybody was invited
to seek out flaws. As she had expected, Mary was the most critical, but some of
her ideas had proved useful and Irene had accepted the minor modifications.
Neither of them mentioned Patrick.

After two weeks in
Edinburgh
, they had flown back to
New York
with all the arrangements made
and nothing to do but wait. Irene was glad to wash the dye from her hair and
dispense with the spectacles, to eat American food again and bask in the
atmosphere of the city at the hub of the world.