Powerstone

by Malcolm Archibald

  ‘Every chance I get,’ the man replied. ‘They’re the most interesting kind.’

  Expecting him to apologise and withdraw, Irene was not sure how to respond when he merely smiled.

  ‘I can suggest these,’ the jeweller continued as if nothing had been said. He produced a tray of silver brooches, each one a variation of the same pattern. Two love hearts intertwined, some topped with a crown, others bare. ‘We call them the Luckenbooth brooch. My great-great-great-something grandfather made one for Mary Queen of Scots, and we’ve been making them ever since.’

  ‘Mary Queen of Scots?’ Irene looked closer. ‘That was James V’s daughter.’

  ‘Aye. Contrary Mary that got her head chopped off,’ the jeweller looked up. ‘The intertwined hearts are meant to signify a romantic attachment, so it would be a perfect gift to bring you both back together.’ He glanced at Patrick. ‘If you’re sure that’s what you want.’

  The third man stepped forward, lifted a brooch and placed it in Irene’s hand. The silver watch on his wrist looked old but expensive. ‘The original brooches were given to the shopkeepers of Edinburgh to prove they had the right to have a locken, or locked booth. That was what they called the shops in Edinburgh in the old days. They only became romantic when Kenny’s ancestor made one for Mary, which she gave to Henry Darnley, her man. That’s why some have a crown.’

  ‘Can you keep quiet?’ Kenny the jeweller sounded irritated. ‘I’m telling the story. I don’t get much chance to talk to good looking women so let me enjoy it.’ He looked up and winked at Irene, who wondered if his customer care was perhaps better than she had thought. ‘Aye, Drew’s right, though. The Luckenbooth brooches became popular in Edinburgh, with couples exchanging them when they became engaged. They also kept bad spirits from babies, so I’m told.’

  Irene examined the brooch that Drew had selected. It was one of the simplest in the tray, Sterling Silver topped by a crown, but lacking the amethyst or cairngorm that adorned the centre of others. ‘I like this one,’ she said, ‘you have good taste.’

  ‘I like this one better,’ Patrick picked out the most ornate brooch in the display and handed it to Irene. She could have resisted the contrition in his eyes, but was determined to patch up their relationship.

  ‘So do I,’ she said, immediately aware of his pleasure at her agreement. She granted him a smile and some mellowing in her eyes. ‘We’ll have it,’ she told the jeweller.

  Drew frowned. ‘If you’re sure,’ he said, ‘but the other is less ornate. It would complement your appearance, rather than distract from it.’

  ‘Let the lady make her own mind up,’ Kenny pushed an elbow into Drew’s ribs. ‘You ignore him, hen, and choose whichever you like best. What do men know about jewellery anyway?’

  ‘I’ll wear it now,’ Irene said, and allowed Patrick to pin it in place. His hand brushing her breast had a new, strangely forbidden thrill.

  Kenny stepped back, his head to one side as he looked over his customer. ‘Aye, no’ bad,’ he said. ‘It suits you.’ He nodded. ‘You’ll be wanting my card for your next visit?’ Reaching under the counter, he produced a simple business card with Kenneth Mossman, Jeweller to the Scottish Royalty written on it.

  Drew examined the card. ‘He likes to boast of his family’s royal connections’ he said, ‘even though they ended centuries ago.’ He exchanged a glance with Irene, scribbled something, and handed her the card. Their eyes locked for a second, and then she looked away. When she glanced back, he was still watching her.

  ‘Centuries don’t seem to mean much over here,’ Irene said quietly.

  ‘We can be patient when we need to,’ Drew said, ‘but very impatient for what we want.’ He was not as tall as Patrick, but every bit as broad, with challenging eyes and a face whose colouring betrayed a life spent mostly out of doors.

  ‘And what do you want?’ Irene asked. She saw Drew lift his choice of Luckenbooth brooch and produce his wallet, but Patrick had stepped closer. He paid Kenny and guided her out of the shop, into the comparative brightness of the Grassmarket. This time when he reached for her hand, Irene could not shrink away; she still needed him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Fortingall Perthshire, June

  ‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ Meigle indicated the village that straggled along one side of the narrow road. Apart from the church and the hotel, there were a score of houses facing onto open farmland, with a wooded ridge growling down in the rear. Meigle reached into the boot of his BMW and withdrew a walking stick and a leather case. ‘The name stretches beyond antiquity,’ he said, ‘Fortingall, the fort of the strangers.’

  Where MacPherson looked suitably impressed, Andrew shrugged. He had grown up in and around Perthshire so one more village, however picturesque, did not interest him. ‘Why are you showing us this?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ Meigle told him. ‘It is part of your introduction to the Society.’ He led them the few steps from the car park to the kirk yard and stopped beside a walled enclosure that held a massively battered yew tree. ‘This is the famous Fortingall yew.’ He looked to MacPherson, ‘you’re a tree man, Lachlan. What do you think of this one?’

  MacPherson surveyed what remained of the tree. ‘It’s old,’ he said. ‘Very old, I would say, but not much use for timber. If it was on my patch I’d get rid of it for something more useful.’ Meigle shook his head, ‘Oh, the pragmatism of the New World. This is reputedly the oldest tree in Europe, maybe five thousand years old. That means that it was ancient when Christ was a boy. You might cut it down, Lachlan, but holy men have taken saplings from this tree and planted them at Glastonbury and Roslin Chapel and Scone.’ He glanced at MacPherson. ‘These are all religious sites,’ he explained.

  Andrew looked surreptitiously at his watch.

  ‘Why? I mean, what’s the religious significance?’

  MacPherson asked. Sliding over the wall, he touched the bark of the yew, and then grinned. ‘I thought there might be some sort of feeling, but it’s just a tree.’

  ‘They say that Christ’s cross was fashioned from a yew,’ Meigle said, ‘and the Druids were said to have worshipped them.’

  ‘What worshipped them?’ MacPherson looked confused.

  ‘Celtic holy men,’ Andrew explained. ‘To them, certain trees and rivers were sacred. The Druids are supposed to have harvested great quantities of knowledge. A bit like the First Nation shamans of Canada, but in long white robes.’

  ‘So they say,’ Meigle nodded, ‘but I think most accounts are second, or even third hand. If you look over there,’ he indicated the ridge that dominated the village, ‘you are looking towards the site of Dun Geall. When this tree was only middle aged, around 3000 years old, Dun Geall was the home of a chief, perhaps even a king, known as Metallanus. So they say. Come with me.’

  It was years since Meigle had been in Fortingall but his feet found the path without difficulty, panting up the hill a few steps ahead of the two younger men. Refusing offers to relieve him of the weight of the case, he stopped twice for breath while MacPherson tactfully admired the view.

  ‘This is Dun Geall,’ Meigle said at last. ‘You don’t think that it’s very impressive, do you? Yet a dun was a fort, and at one time this Pictish settlement was so important that the Romans sent an emissary here.’

  Andrew looked around him. The hillside was bare of any trace of fortification, with neither stone wall nor battlement. ‘Why?’

  ‘It was Roman policy to send an ambassador to tribes that bordered the Empire. They made alliances, secured trading treaties, assessed the tribal strength and extracted tribute. Most Empires do something of the sort.’ Meigle eased himself onto a suitably rounded boulder and waited for MacPherson to join him. He placed his case on the ground, with the walking stick on top.

  ‘The Picts were an unusual people in that their women had equality in just about every respect. They certainly had great sexual freedom and one woman became very friendly with the Roman envoy. So they say.’


  ‘Talk about the boot being on the other foot,’ MacPherson grinned. ‘In Canada, the Scottish backwoodsmen slept with every native woman they could find.’

  Andrew laughed as Meigle continued.

  ‘Anyway the couple had a child, and when the envoy returned to Rome, he took his son with him. The mother, naturally, decided that she should also travel with him. According to the story, Metallanus, the Pictish king, also gave the envoy rich jewels as a gift to the Emperor and the Roman Gods.’

  ‘And I’ll bet the woman made sure that she had her share,’ Andrew said.

  MacPherson laughed. ‘Of course she would. She had her son to take care of.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ Meigle agreed. ‘In time the Roman, his woman and their son settled in central Italy, a province known as Samnium, and the boy became accepted into the family. When he reached maturity he wore the Pilateus, which was a felt cap worn by freedmen, and he used his father’s name of Pontii. Or so they say.’

  MacPherson frowned and looked up. ‘Pontii?’

  Meigle nodded. ‘I think you know where I am headed. Put the names together and you get Pontii Pilateus: Pontius Pilate.’

  ‘Christ!’ MacPherson blasphemed.

  ‘They knew each other,’ Meigle agreed. ‘But the story is getting even more interesting. From this point on we are on firm historical ground. Pontius Pilate made a very good marriage to Caudia Procula, who was the grand daughter of the Emperor Tiberius. She was illegitimate, but the connection was strong enough to ensure Pilate’s advancement.’

  ‘Royal patronage, eh?’ Despite himself, Andrew was listening. He moved closer.

  ‘Imperial, indeed. With his wife to guide him, Pontius Pilate became an Equus, a knight, and so one of the privileged. Lucius Sejanus, the Prefect of the Imperial Guard became his mentor and in AD 26 Pontius Pilate became governor of Judaea.’

  ‘That’s the infamous Pilate eh?’ Andrew shook his head. ‘Trust Scotland to get involved in things that don’t concern us.’

  ‘I’ve not finished yet.’ Meigle said. ‘As we know, Pilate was a hard man. He ruled Judaea for around ten years, and there were many complaints about his severity. Around AD 33 he agreed to have Christ crucified, after a personal interview. That incident was eventually to make him one of the baddest of the world’s bad men, but at the time it hardly raised a ripple in Rome. It certainly was not the cause of his removal from office. However, three years later he suspected a group of pilgrims of being terrorists and had them all killed. That’s when Rome got rid of him.’

  ‘So what happened to him, then?’ Perhaps it was the atmosphere of Fortingall, but Andrew found himself listening. A rook rustled past, croaking loudly.

  ‘What usually happened to inefficient Roman officials. He was found guilty and exiled to Vienne, in Gaul, and there he disappears from official records.’ Meigle shivered as the wind picked up. He stared toward the hills of Glen Lyon, pushed himself upright and walked slowly downhill. ‘Come with me.’

  ‘Is this story relevant to us?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘If it was not, I would not be speaking,’ Meigle told him. ‘So far there is nothing secret in what I have told you. You can find the legend of Pilate’s birth in a hundred books, and his later career is well known. What I am now about to tell you is not known outside the Society.’

  Andrew looked politely impressed. MacPherson just looked impressed.

  ‘Pilate’s mother was not just anybody. As you would expect, the best quality women sought out the Roman envoy, and it was a Druidess who eventually claimed him as her man. When Metallanus gave the envoy precious jewels, the Druidess carried her own stone all the way to Italy.’

  Meigle climbed slowly over a stile, with MacPherson carrying his walking stick. He did not relinquish hold of his case.

  ‘When Pilate was sent to Judaea, his mother came to say goodbye for the last time, and she gave him her stone.’

  ‘For luck?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Something like that, but a bit more. It was a Druidical stone, a sacred stone.’ Meigle reclaimed his stick back and crossed the final field to the village. ‘It was a stone of power.’

  Andrew grunted. ‘It did not do him much good, did it?’

  ‘Perhaps there was more than just Pilate at stake,’ Meigle said quietly. He entered the churchyard and again stopped in the shelter of the yew. A blackbird sang somewhere nearby.

  ‘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.’