The Wild Baron (Baron 1)

“And that means a church,” Phillip said. “There was a church in Dunkeld. Why didn’t he simply get some holy water there?”

“Because he knew we’d be right behind him,” Rohan said. “He didn’t want to take the chance. Let me think. All right, we’re nearly to the coast. Just up ahead is the small town of Monfieth. He’ll think it’s safe for him to stop there and steal some holy water.”

“We haven’t much time,” Susannah said, kicking her mare in the sides. “Hurry! We can’t let him drink from the Grail.”

There wasn’t a church within Monfieth. There was an ancient abbey just away from the town lying on the cliffs overlooking Buddon Ness. The sky was lighting, the moon faded away now. It was nearing dawn.

As they came around the bend of the narrow, rutted road, the air was strong with the smell of water. Then suddenly they saw the old abbey, standing tall, most of it in ruins atop a small promontory, backing to the very edge of the cliffs. They saw Tibolt’s horse, its reins loose, feeding from the brothers’ garden.

There were no lights in any of the abbey windows.

Then, Susannah saw Tibolt, carrying the cask under one arm and a beaker filled with water in the other hand. He was racing toward the ruins that held the highest ground. He turned then and saw them.

They heard him laugh. “Come,” he shouted to them. “Come!”

Their horses joined Tibolt’s in the brothers’ garden. Rohan and Phillip pulled out their guns as they ran after him.

He was standing atop a fallen beam. They watched him pour the holy water into the goblet.

“No!” Susannah shouted. “No!”

Tibolt raised the filled goblet, laughed in triumph, and drank it down.

34

THEY SLOWLY WALKED TOWARD HIM, KNOWING THERE was no hope now. He’d won. The world had lost.

“Oh, God,” Phillip said, staring at Tibolt, who was standing tall and silent, waiting, just as they were waiting. “What will he do?”

Then suddenly Tibolt began to tremble. He quickly set the Grail on the stone. He was shaking so hard that the glass beaker fell to the rock-strewn ground. He cried out, clutching his chest, then slammed his palms against his ears. Susannah took a quick step toward him, but Rohan grabbed her arm, pulling her back. “No,” he said. “Don’t move. Oh, God, what has he done? What is happening?”

Tibolt raised his trembling arms wide, staring up into the sky. “God, I have drunk from the holy chalice. Grant me power. Grant me immortality.”

He stopped trembling suddenly. Now he shuddered, his body heaved. He seemed to draw in on himself. He yelled into the silent heavens, “Grant me my rightful power!”

They moved closer, slowly, very slowly, not taking their eyes off Tibolt.

The horizon was a vivid pink with slashes of blue and gray in the sky above. The sun was just beginning to rise behind him, beams of light coming through the ancient ruins of the abbey.

Suddenly he became utterly still, as if h

e were a stone, as if he were frozen in place. Slowly, slowly, he began to change. He began to shudder again until his whole body was dancing with the power of the convulsions.

Then Tibolt was no more. Shadows and light played over him, seeming to erase him. It was as if a giant hand were molding him, then remolding, pressing here, pushing out there. He was changing.

Suddenly they were staring at Susannah. Tibolt had turned into Susannah. It made no sense. It was terrifying. “No,” Rohan whispered at the ghastly image of his wife, weaving back and forth on the beam in front of them. “No.”

The false Susannah said from where she stood on that rock, “Now I know how you got out of the catacombs. All that power you had with just a few drops of holy water from the Grail. Now I see it clearly.”

The false Susannah suddenly began to choke, her hands clutched at her throat, but she began to change again, now slowly becoming a very old man dressed in one-hundred-year-old garb. His voice sounded as ancient as the rock upon which he stood. “I must give the Holy Grail over to you. Guard it well, bishop. Guard it well. Tell no one what it really is. Call it the Devil’s Vessel. Tell everyone that whoever drinks holy water from it will die a horrible death.”

“The old Knight Templar,” Phillip whispered between frozen lips.

Then the old knight was gone and in his place was a vigorous man in his prime, dressed oddly, and there was a crown on his head. His head was thrown back, his voice rang out proudly. “Aye, I accept the Grail. I will guard it with my life. I will take it home to Scotland. No one will ever find it there.”

“Macbeth,” Susannah whispered. “It is surely Macbeth accepting the Grail from Pope Leo IX.”

“He is becoming everyone who touched the Grail,” Ro-han said, not wanting to believe it, but even as he stared at the ancient king of Scotland, he was changing, changing yet again. He was an old man now, dressed like figures in a drawing Rohan had seen of the ancient disciples. He was garbed all in white. Sandals were on his feet. He wore a long beard.