The iron lance

BOOK IV

January 21, 1899: Edinburgh, Scotland

As I think on it now, I am convinced that I was chosen to replace Angus. In saying this, I do not mean to degrade my own selection, or belittle my worthiness to accede to the honour and status granted me by my initiation into the Brotherhood. I mean, simply, that if Angus had lived, in all likelihood I would never have been asked to join the Benevolent Order in the first place.

The plain truth is that Pemberton was Angus' friend, not mine. I believe the old gent had been grooming him for several years; I have no doubt that in due course, Angus would have made a tremendous contribution to the Brotherhood. I know I have missed his boundless enthusiasm, his easy nature, his wit and loyalty. But life is rarely predictable; destiny scorns even the best intentioned plans. Angus was taken, and I was left behind.

In a way, one might say Angus passed his birthright on to me through our friendship. Upon his death the Brotherhood began the search once more; because of our close affinity, I suppose, they happened to light on me as a possible successor. Or, perhaps I am mistaken, and there is more to it than that.

Be that as it may, the night of my initiation I returned home with my cape and blackened fingerbone, and knew beyond any doubt that my life had once more undergone a deep and profound change, the effects of which I could not fully imagine or anticipate, but would, in due course, discover.

Indeed, it would be years before I began to appreciate the sheer scale of the Brotherhood's interests and involvements throughout the world, and yet more years before I fully understood them. Nor did I realize that, far from having arrived, I had merely embarked upon the first few halting steps of a long and eventful journey-a pilgrimage of phenomenal lengths.

Nevertheless, I returned home to Gait and the children that night feeling as if I had downed a keg of burning pitch. I was aflame with an excitement I could not contain. I did not sleep.

Instead, I paced the floor from hall to den and back, clasping my hands and murmuring a babble of half-remembered prayers and liturgies. It was all I could do to keep from running through the streets, shouting at the top of my lungs. One moment I was laughing, and the next would find me dissolved in tears-the one emotion as wholly surprising and inexplicable as the other.

All I know is that something had taken place during the initiation, something genuine and rare, extraordinary and unique-perhaps 'sacred' is the word that best conveys my feeling. For when I knelt to kiss the sword and don the cape, God help me, I did feel as if a crusader's mantle had been draped over my shoulders. I felt as if I had joined a circle of fellowship that stretched back and back through the centuries to the first rough knights who had taken the cross and pledged their lives to champion Christ's name. I had joined their number and could no longer look upon the world in the same way.

In that sacred instant, I glimpsed, however imperfectly, the shape of the sacrifice required of me. I saw the burden to be borne, and without hesitation accepted it. I had come so far already, to turn aside would have been not only an act of low cowardice, but betrayal as well. When so many before me had given all to the Brotherhood, could I refuse? Could I hold my life higher than theirs, and still think myself an honourable man?

I could not; neither could I forsake the trust that had been placed in me by those who had shielded me and supported me over the years. Thus, I gripped the naked blade in my hand and kissed the swordhilt with my lips-the ancient sign of knighthood taking on the burden of the cross-and in doing so, took my place beside those worthy knights of ages past.

Upon receiving the cape and talisman, I had succeeded to the First Degree. There was no way, of course, that I could have known there were six more degrees of fellowship to attain; each following grade was guarded with such secrecy as to prevent anyone who was not already a member learning anything about it. In retrospect, and at long remove, I can say with absolute certainty that no more than half the members of the Brotherhood ever understood that there were higher degrees of any sort at all.

I hasten to point out that the secrecy was not employed in order to create an elite-as is sadly so often the case-but for the protection of those whose lives would be endangered by the knowledge. For each initiation was accompanied by greater revelation, and therefore greater risk. While I have no wish to sound melodramatic-like some beetle-browed hack of the penny dreadfuls-it is a plain fact that the enemies of the Brotherhood are legion, and it only stands to reason one cannot betray a secret one does not possess.

My first year as a new initiate was taken up with study. I learned much about the many involvements of our Order, and the subtle ways in which we brought our influence to bear. I learned the lore and teaching of the Temple and a few of its secrets. Sadly, the very nature of the secrets we protected often meant that we were not at liberty to reveal our full powers, nor could we interfere with the natural course of events in the world at large.

We could but stand aside and watch as the manifold catastrophes of man and nature wreaked havoc great and dire upon the world. In this, I began to learn something of the heroic patience of the saints. To stand aside and watch while the worst mistakes were made again and again – and always, always to the cost of those who could least afford it – was almost more than I could take. Often was the time I sought retreat, sickened in my soul over the inhumanity rampant around me.

I watched and learned, and slowly mastered the arcane history of our clandestine Order. The years passed, and Annie and Alex grew, attended school and, eventually, flew the nest to begin families of their own. Gait and I continued in all happiness, and looked forward to grandchildren, in good time, and a leisurely life as a couple once more.

Meanwhile, I advanced in the Order, passing on from one unknown level to the next until arriving at the Sixth Degree, which I erroneously assumed was as high as one could attain. At each stage of this long journey, there were fewer companions. For example, when first inducted into the Benevolent Order, I learned there were upwards of seventy thousand members in various Temples throughout the world. Upon becoming a member of the Brotherhood, I discovered there were only seven hundred First Degree brethren; when I attained the Second Degree, that number diminished by more than two hundred, and so on. With each ascending rung of the invisible ladder, the numbers decreased accordingly. No more than thirty members ever hold a Sixth Degree membership at any time.

The reason for this is, again, protection. The fewer the number of people who know a secret, the greater the security. Until three weeks ago, however, I could never have imagined that the magnitude of the secrets guarded at the highest level increased astronomically. That is to say, what was shown me but a few nights ago in the Inner Temple has convinced me beyond all doubt of the necessity for our secrecy. In this I am utterly sincere.

How then, you might ask, is it possible for a man who believes in the righteousness of his cause, and the crucial necessity of secrecy to protect and advance it-how is it possible for that man to reveal its most confidential information? How is it possible for that man to divulge the very secrets he has sworn to protect with his life?

Allow me to reiterate: I would gladly suffer death a thousand times rather than betray the Brotherhood, or endanger the Great Work.

How then, this document? The answer is that, as the most recent initiate of the Inner Temple, and therefore the most receptive to the remarkable methods employed in the dissemination of the knowledge I have lately acquired, I have been given the task of chronicling the development of the Order from its very beginnings.

The purpose of this task is twofold. In committing to paper all that has been vouchsafed to me, I will gain greater mastery over it. Secondly, the Inner Temple has, in its wisdom, foreseen the day when the preservation of that which we hold so jealously at present will best be served not by secrecy and stealth, but by outright proclamation. One day, they say, the surest way to protect a secret will be to shout it from the housetops.

If this seems a ludicrous paradox, I can only say that the particular circumstances which make this extremity of purpose necessary, though not yet fully apprehended, are drawing inexorably nearer. Friends, we live in troubled times. The day is coming when the whole world will be tried in the crucible of war.

By God's will and by his hand, we may emerge from the fiery furnace. But if we are destroyed, then this record may be all that is left of our illustrious order, and it will fall to those who come after us to complete the Great Work we have begun.

Thus, in the very first days following my Seventh Degree initiation I began the occupation which has been urged upon me. I confess I have written in haste; my chief desire has been to capture the bright images just as they appeared to me in the white heat of the vision. Loath to let the dream fade, or allow time to cloud my memory, I have secluded myself in my study at the top of the house, and I have not stirred, save for infrequent meals. Scarcely have I rested.

Dear Caitlin fears I am losing my sanity. 'Far from it,' I tell her, 'I am rescuing sanity's last remnant.' And that is true. I do believe that if I desisted even for a day, the chaos of my thoughts would overwhelm me. So long as I work, I make sense of the strange double life I have acquired. If I lose myself in these pages, it is only so that I may find myself again. Thus, I have no choice. I dare not stop until my work is finished.

Even so, the end is in sight.

If my poor chronicle should in future find any readers, I would like it known that I have, in so far as possible, striven for the truth in every particular. Any triumph belongs to those whose story is here related. Any failure is my own.

It is the story of the Sanctus Clarus, yes, but it is also the story of the men and women who strove to keep that Holy Light burning through the ages. I ask you to remember this when weighing out our failings. We are but flesh and blood, and not angels after all.