Two Crowns for America

by Katherine Kurtz

  “I see.” Simon glanced around the rest of the room. “Where is Arabella?”

  “She’s changing her clothes. I believe you’ll approve of the overall effect—but I don’t want you to see her until he does. I’m depending on you to bolster him.”

  Simon nodded. “And what about you? Is it going to work?”

  Andrew gave him a sly smile. “Come and watch,” he said. “We’re about ready, otherwise. You’ll still have a few minutes with the General, while we light the candles.”

  So saying, he headed slowly toward the far end of the room, where Ramsay and Lafayette had finished arranging the Masonic altar, with the square and compasses laid atop the open Bible in proper configuration for a Master’s Lodge. The three candles now burned along the back edge of that altar.

  As Lafayette retreated to a chair on the left side of the room, and the prince took up the Sobieski sword and went with Ramsay to the right side, the library door opened briefly and Arabella entered, muffled in a dark cloak. En route with Andrew, Simon glanced in her direction, but he could see only the pale oval of her face. As she took a seat at the back of the room, mostly in deep shadow, he caught a glimpse of a flag propped in the corner nearest her, identifiable only by its cascade of dark and light stripes.

  “Sit beside Gilbert,” Andrew murmured, gesturing toward the empty chair beside the marquis.

  As Simon obeyed, Andrew settled into the Master’s chair and set his hands on the chair arms to begin composing himself. After a moment he took the moonstone pendant between his fingers, holding it so that one of the altar candles could be seen through the milky lens of the stone. He stared long at it, his breath slowing, his eyelids drooping, until finally his eyes closed. After another few breaths the moonstone slid slowly to rest on his chest, his head nodding slightly. Then he slowly raised his head and opened his eyes.

  Or—the Professor, Saint-Germain, opened his eyes. For Simon had no doubt that it was, indeed, Saint-Germain and not Andrew who cast his gaze over the setting laid out before him, then turned to look directly at Simon.

  “Simon, my son, it has been far too long.”

  Simon felt a quiet joy surge within him as he rose and came to kneel before the Master’s chair, taking the hand the other offered and briefly dipping his head to touch it to his forehead. Though the others had worked with the Master directly over the past few years, some of them repeatedly and dramatically, Simon had accepted less direct service at home—entrusted with work of the utmost importance, gently guiding Washington onto the Master Tracing Board, but perforce outside the Master’s presence. He found himself trembling with long-suppressed emotion, with relief that, even for a time, another had taken on the burden of responsibility for what was unfolding. He had to steady himself with both hands against the arm of the chair before he could lift his head to answer.

  “It has, indeed, been far too long,” he whispered. “How I have missed your counsel.”

  “And I, yours,” Saint-Germain replied. “But you have served the Great Work in ways you may never know. Go now to your pupil and prepare him. We will require perhaps five minutes to ensure that all here is in readiness, but he may have more time, if he requires it.”

  With a duck of his head Simon got to his feet and retreated to the entry hall, pausing for a moment to compose himself before he stepped outside to alert Justin that they were nearly ready to begin. The General’s staff back at headquarters had been informed that Washington was holding a private supper for Lafayette that night—the Commander in Chief dared not simply disappear for several hours—but the duty aide had instructions not to allow any interruptions except in case of dire emergency. With luck, there would be none.

  “We’ll be starting very shortly,” Simon said to Justin, glancing out into the night. “Any activity?”

  Justin shook his head. “Very quiet. We’ll hope it stays that way. Good luck.”

  Smiling, Simon clasped a hand to Justin’s shoulder, then went back into the house. Though he knocked lightly on the parlor door before entering, he found the General on his knees in a far corner where the candlelight barely reached, powdered head bowed over the hilt of his sheathed sword.

  The image recalled that night in the snow, not so very long ago—and then Justin’s description of that day when Washington had realized that he was about to be nominated as Commander in Chief; how the General had fled to the solitude of the little library in the Philadelphia statehouse, there to kneel in prayer, his head bowed against the hilt of his sword.

  It was for this moment, and the hour that would follow, that Washington had begun that road nearly five years before. Out of respect for that truth, Simon, too, dropped to one knee just inside the door, to wait until the General should be ready to end his meditation.

  He waited for perhaps five minutes, his hand on his own sword hilt, silently asking for strength to be what Washington needed him to be, praying that they had not misjudged the man. At length Washington sighed deeply and raised his head, glancing back at Simon sidelong and then getting to his feet. He had removed his spurs and put on his apron in Simon’s absence, and had unbuckled his sword belt to wrap it around the scabbard, for he had been told he would be required to surrender it at the start of the ritual. As he turned to face Simon, who had risen as he did, his knuckles were white where they gripped the scabbard beneath the hilt.

  “Is it time?” he asked quietly, his face very still and taut.

  Simon inclined his head. “If you’re ready.”

  Washington closed his eyes briefly, then conjured an attempt at a smile. “I know of nothing further I can do to prepare,” he said softly. “Let us begin.”

  Bowing, Simon turned to open the door, falling in at Washington’s left side when they had gone through into the entry hall. As they came before the library door and halted, Washington glanced at Simon in question.

  “You are to announce your presence with three distinct knocks,” Simon said quietly.

  Exhaling audibly, Washington squared his shoulders and knocked three times on the door.

  The knock was answered from the other side, after which the door opened inward. The room was a blaze of light compared to the dim entry hall. Silhouetted against that blaze was Prince Lucien de Rohanstuart, in the uniform of the French Army and wearing the breast star and dark green riband of the Order of the Thistle, lifting the tip of the Sobieski sword to Washington’s throat.

  “You are expected, General Washington,” the prince said. “But if you would pass, you must first surrender your sword. May it be the last time you will ever surrender it.”

  Looking past the prince, Washington set his gaze on the man he knew as the Professor, sitting motionless in the chair far in the east. To him he lifted his sword under the hilt, for the Professor clearly was Master in this place.

  “Sir,” he said, “I surrender my sword to the Divine Wisdom I believe you represent.”

  The Master inclined his head.

  “I accept your sword in trust, General, and will return it in due time. Please deliver it to Brother Lafayette.”

  At this cue the marquis stepped out from behind the door, apron-clad like the others, to bow and receive the General’s sword. He then turned to walk slowly toward the circle of candles behind the prince, the sword across both hands, passing easily between the candles and across the circle to lay the sword on the altar on the other side. Watching Washington, Simon saw his eyes widen as his gaze followed Lafayette’s path and finally registered the designs painted on the floor cloth.

  “You see before you a part of the Master Tracing Board upon which you were set some years ago,” the Master said. “Advance, if you would be instructed.”

  The prince had lowered his sword as Washington surrendered his, and now stepped slightly aside to gesture with it, indicating that the General should approach to the edge of the circle. Washington obeyed, apprehension yielding to fascination as he came closer, eyes restlessly searching the symbols painted in the center of t
he floor cloth, straining to read the mottoes painted in the band outside the stars. He halted with a start as the prince laid the flat of the Sobieski sword against his chest to bar his way.

  “Look now and learn, General,” the Master said. “Much of what you see before you has come to pass; much is still to come. Annuit Coeptis, He hath prospered our undertakings. And Ex Pluribus Unum, Out of many, one. You see before you the thirteen stars representing the thirteen colonies, now the thirteen states. The Great Architect hath, indeed, prospered what has begun. And here, before His All-Seeing Eye, building upon the sure foundation of liberty, shall you pledge your faith.

  “Your brethren charged you to be America’s defender when they named you Commander in Chief. Dux bellorum have you become—this nation’s war leader. But to be confirmed as champion of her liberties, and eventually to wear the victor’s laurel crown, you must understand what it is you take upon yourself. For the victor may claim his crown only by declaring his faith upon the Master Tracing Board.”

  He indicated the center design, which Simon now could see displayed the All-Seeing Eye and a very literal foundation—a partially built pyramid of thirteen courses, with the Roman numerals spread across the bottom course: MDCCLXXVI, the year of declaring an independence that had yet to be won.

  Both symbols held powerful associations among Freemasons. The All-Seeing Eye in a radiant triangle had been one of the first devices to be proposed as part of the Great Seal, immediately after the Declaration of Independence, though no design had yet been finalized, nearly five years after the fact. Simon recalled seeing another All-Seeing Eye engraved on a golden plate that lay atop Joseph Warren’s coffin. Remembering Warren, Simon fancied he caught just a fleeting impression of Warren’s presence with them tonight, though a part of him dismissed the notion, for only Andrew had ever seen Warren’s shade.

  “Do you understand, General?” the Master asked softly, cutting off Simon’s further speculation.

  “I understand what has gone before,” Washington said. “I seek no earthly Crown, but only the laurel crown of victory, which comes when Britain has set aside her claim.”

  The Master inclined his head in approval. “You have spoken well, Dux bellorum. Advance now into the fuller presence of The Great Architect and kneel to be invested with the symbols of your leadership, by which you shall come to your goal.”

  At his words the prince stepped in front of Washington, lifted the Sobieski sword to a position of salute, and did a precise about-face to lead the General into the circle. At the same time Ramsay brought in the kneeling chair and set it on the courses of the unfinished pyramid painted in the center of the circle, he and the prince both fading back then as the Master approached and Washington knelt before him.

  “I first present to you the banner under which you have fought, and under which victory shall be obtained,” the Master said.

  From behind them, moving along the left side of the room, outside the circle of candles, Lafayette brought forward the Continental flag, under which five of those present had fought, and whose design had taken shape half a decade before under guidance of the man presiding and the man who knelt before him. Like the interim banner the General had hoisted on a long-ago New Year’s Day in 1776, the present flag had been crafted by Arabella Wallace.

  The white of the stripes and the thirteen stars seemed to shimmer in the candlelight as the marquis paraded the flag behind the Master’s chair, then turned to process directly toward his Commander in Chief, halting at the Master’s left side. He started to dip it to the floor in salute, but Washington suddenly caught up an armful of red-and-white stripes before it could touch the floor, bowing his head to touch it to his lips. A moment he remained thus, then straightened enough to pull it closer and lay his right hand on the blue of the union, with its circle of thirteen white stars.

  “May I speak?” he whispered as his eyes sought the Master’s.

  At the Master’s nod Washington straightened, both hands now resting gently on the mass of bunting before him.

  “I realize now that your guidance helped to shape this flag,” he said, clearly addressing the Master, not merely the Professor. “Nor is it any ordinary flag that you have given us. In other lands the country’s colors belong to its king, and his subjects dip it to the ground in his honor. But these United States derive their sovereignty from the people. Americans abase themselves before no man, so it is not fitting that their colors should ever touch the ground.”

  The Master gazed at him for a moment, expressionless, then inclined his head, controlling a smile.

  “Your observation shows great insight,” he said quietly. “Have you a pledge to make concerning this flag? If you have not the words, I can direct you.”

  Inhaling deeply, Washington shook his head and drew a handful of red-and-white stripes to press against his heart.

  “I make this solemn pledge, here in the presence of The Great Architect of the Universe: that I shall strive to bring only honor to this symbol of the nation I have sworn to defend. And while there is breath in my body, I shall never allow it to come to disgrace.”

  When he had bowed his head to kiss it again, Lafayette slowly raised the flag at a gesture from the Master and circled around to stand behind Washington and slightly to his right. The General kept an edge of it in his hand as the marquis moved, as if to ensure that it should remain close by, releasing it only when Lafayette grounded the staff and let the flag hang close beside him, still within reach, if he should wish to touch it. The General’s gaze was ardent and wholly focused as he lifted it again to the elderly, dark-clad man standing before him.

  Smiling faintly, the Master inclined his head in a slight bow, then turned to approach the Masonic altar, where he picked up Washington’s sheathed sword in both hands, lifted it briefly to the east as if in oblation, then returned to stand once more before the Commander in Chief. As he did so, the prince brought the Sobieski sword from the west of the circle, where he had been guarding at Washington’s back. Simon, too, moved forward, to stand between the Master and the prince, between the two swords. He had been given no precise words beforehand, but he knew what he wanted to say to Washington, and what must be done before he laid a sword across the General’s hands.

  “General George Washington, Commander in Chief of the Armies of these United States,” he said quietly. “It is given that a champion must have a sword. Had you chosen to accept an earthly Crown, you would have been invested with this ancient and honorable sword as a symbol of sovereignty.” He glanced toward the sword in the prince’s hands. “The Sobieski sword has served anointed kings over many generations and presided over great victories, and presently has been sent for precisely this occasion, with the hopes and best wishes of a man who should have worn a Crown, for a man who has set aside his own wants and desires in the service of a greater good.”

  As he turned his glance to Washington’s sword, the Master slowly unsheathed it and sank to one knee, gently laying the scabbard on the floor as the prince likewise knelt to Simon’s other side. As the Master offered Washington’s sword between Simon and the General, hilt to the left, supporting it from below, the prince proffered the Sobieski sword in like manner slightly below it, hilt to hilt, blade to blade, parallel but not touching.

  Drawing careful breath, Simon extended his hands above the two swords, the left hand above the hilt of the Sobieski sword, the right hand over Washington’s blade. His eyes closed as he began to speak.

  “Here, in the presence of The Great Architect of the Universe, I invoke the spirit of victory with which this ancient sword has been imbued, over years of honor and valor.” His left hand sank to rest lightly on the hilt. “From this sword I call forth an echo of these virtues, and with them I consecrate this younger sword to valor, victory, and honor.” His right hand dropped to Washington’s blade, stroking lightly down it as he opened his eyes, feeling the power move beneath his hand. “May it be a potent weapon in the hands of him who shall wield it
, an echo of the celestial sword of the legions of heaven.”

  As Lucien quietly withdrew the Sobieski sword, Simon’s left hand shifted toward the hilt of Washington’s weapon, both his hands now overlapping the Master’s, where they supported the sword. He stiffened slightly at the new surge of power that coursed beneath his hands, but he set his focus to channeling it through the sword, feeling serenity gradually replace his own tension, feeling the power permeating every inch of shining steel and gilded hilt.

  He knew when the work was finished, felt the Master’s acknowledgment of the completion as he pressed the sword upward into Simon’s hands and then withdrew. Drawing slow breath, Simon closed his eyes briefly and gathered his next words, praying that the General could contain the power about to be placed in his hands. Lucien had set the Sobieski sword before him with the hilt like a cross, his head bowed before it, and even the Master’s head was bowed. Washington’s eyes were wide with awe, staring at him in question, and at Simon’s nod he slowly extended his open hands.

  “Receive the sword of victory,” Simon said, lifting it slightly before the General’s eyes. “May you wield it in justice and honor and mercy.”

  With those few words did he lay the sword across Washington’s hands. The General stiffened as the metal touched his flesh, bewilderment flickering in the gray-blue eyes. As his fingers closed reflexively around the blade and Simon released it, Washington gave a little gasp, weaving a little on his knees. Simon watched him carefully until the reaction passed, though no one touched him, then took the scabbard that the Master passed to him.

  “Know when to use the sword,” he said, now presenting the scabbard to the General, “but know also when to sheathe it. This is the mark of the true defender.”