Order in Chaos tt-3

by Jack Whyte

  “Not someone, Sir Charles. There’s no question of identity here—no doubt concerning who is responsible. It was William de Nogaret himself who sent these people. Tam and I saw him talking with the Englishman Godwinson in Paris not two weeks ago.”

  “Then may God damn his black and grasping heart to Hell. But it makes no sense. Why would he do such a thing? He would have arrested de Thierry and me tomorrow anyway, if what you say is true.”

  Sir William returned to his chair. “True enough. But it makes grim and frightening sense to me when I consider the fact that La Rochelle is the strongest commandery in France, and it houses the fleet. And consider that no battle plan ever devised has gone unchanged after battle begins. Things go wrong. But if you and the preceptor had been killed tonight, what kind of chaos would have reigned here inside the Commandery? Discipline would have gone by the board, confusion and fear and speculation would have been rampant, and there would have been no organized resistance to tomorrow’s coup.”

  “Aye, I take your point. Pardon me then, for a moment, while I read my orders.”

  For the next quarter of an hour the only sounds in the vast room were the roaring crackle of the fire and the occasional slither of paper as St. Valéry shifted the pages in his hands. Finally he sat up straight again and waved the papers in the air, looking at William Sinclair with a speculative expression on his face. “Do you know everything this contains?”

  The younger man shook his head. “No, sir. The Master told me what he believed I needed to know, no more than that.”

  “Aye, well … you may learn more tomorrow, but let us hope that won’t be necessary.” He brandished the papers in his hand again. “In any case, my deputies must know of this, de Berenger and Montrichard. Guard!”

  When the summoned guard stepped into the room, the admiral sent him to find the two deputies at once. As the man closed the doors behind him, St. Valéry hesitated and turned back to Sir William.

  “What would you have done had I been killed tonight? Would you have delivered the Master’s instructions to de Berenger?”

  Sir William nodded. “Of course. And to the other man, Sir Arnold’s deputy Montrichard. They would have assumed command immediately, and so the orders would have applied to them.”

  “You have been very tactful, Sir William, but it is clear that I am now your subordinate. Only a member of the Governing Council would be entrusted with the safety of the Treasure.”

  Sir William merely inclined his head in response to that.

  St. Valéry pursed his lips slightly. “May I be curious, then, while we await the arrival of the others? Where do you intend to go when we leave here? Where will you take the Treasure for safety? Do you have orders from Master de Molay?”

  “No, Sir Charles. At this moment, all I know is that we will go to sea, and I am still hoping against hope that this is all some kind of elaborate hoax.” He held up his hands to indicate that he knew nothing more. “To sea. That is all I know. Master de Molay originally wished me to sail to England, to the court of Edward Plantagenet, but word reached us while I was in Paris that King Edward died several months ago, on his way to invade my homeland again. So that changed everything, since Edward’s son is manifestly not to be trusted.”

  “The King of England is not to be trusted, even before he assumes the Crown? How so? And how can I know nothing of this? Am I so insulated, here in La Rochelle, that I know nothing of the outside world?” St. Valéry’s voice betrayed genuine surprise.

  Sir William looked directly at the older man and shrugged his wide shoulders. “The Order is your world, Admiral. You have had no time to waste on lesser things, and the nature of the new King of England is not something that would interest you at the best of times. The fellow is unnatural, sir. A pederast who would rather play the woman than the man. He flaunts his deviance openly in front of his barons, uncaring what they think, and he is notoriously indiscreet in matters of state. He parades his lovers shamelessly, showering them with gifts and privileges and bestowing rank upon them that they are not qualified to exercise. His barons have neither respect not tolerance for the man, and it is anticipated that he will not be long for this life unless he mends his ways. In the meantime, he is certainly of no value to us in this affair of ours.”

  “I see. Then be equally blunt about this, if you will: where will you go, should things come to pass as you predict? You must have some idea.”

  Sinclair straightened his shoulders and pushed himself up from his chair, drawing himself up to his full, imposing height. “To Scotland,” he said, as though issuing a challenge.

  A long silence followed his words as the admiral absorbed what he had said, weighing his words against those he had uttered mere moments earlier about England. Finally, St. Valéry exhaled loudly and exchanged an expressionless glance with Tam before turning his head towards Sir William.

  “Scotland … Aye, indeed. We have a strong fraternity in Scotland.” There was no discernible hesitancy or uncertainty in the older man’s voice, and yet his words somehow conveyed both.

  “Aye, we do,” Sir William said, “and it has flourished these two hundred years. Our black and white baucent has been a common sight the length and breadth of the land, most recently engaged against the English Plantagenet on behalf of the people of Scotland. We will be welcome there.”

  “Aye, by our brethren in the Order, certainly. But what of this new King of theirs, this Robert … ?”

  “Robert Bruce, King of Scots. I know him. He will not turn us away.”

  “You know him?” St. Valéry frowned. “How so, as a friend, or as a king?”

  “Need there be a difference?”

  The admiral’s frown deepened in annoyance. “No, my lord Sinclair, there need not, but all too frequently there is. Kings are not ordinary men, and even I, immured in my ignorance, have heard that this new King of Scots is wild—rash and headstrong, and a sacrilegious murderer to boot, killing a man on the steps of God’s own altar.”

  “Aye, Admiral, I know all that, and much of it, although not all of it, was as you say. But I know whereof I speak. The provocation was dire, and I doubt the Bruce was even aware of where he was at the time. I dare say the blow was struck and beyond recall before he even took note of his surroundings. Yet it was not a killing blow, and it was not Robert Bruce who killed the Comyn Lord of Badenoch. He stabbed him, certainly—struck him down with a dagger and then fled from the church, distraught at what had happened. But it was his men who, hearing him tell what he had done, rushed back inside and killed the Comyn. The killing was done, and there’s no denying that, but I would hesitate to call the Bruce himself a murderer.”

  “You would? For the killing of a man on the steps of the altar? How can you say such a thing?”

  Sir William cocked one eyebrow. “It was not I who said it, my lord Admiral. It was the Church in Scotland, in the person of Robert Wishart, the Bishop of Glasgow, with the full backing of William Lamberton, Bishop of St. Andrew’s and Primate of the Realm, who absolved Robert Bruce of the taint of murder less than a week after the event and thereafter had him crowned King of Scots. The Bruce had few possessions of his own at the time, and clothing was the least of those. He was crowned King wearing Bishop Wishart’s own ceremonial robes, lent to him by the Bishop himself for the occasion.”

  He paused to let that sink home. “I would submit that no churchman, even the most venal and corrupt, would dare to align himself so openly and publicly with a man he truly suspected of the crime of murder, in a church or anywhere else.

  “I would remind you of your own words, Sir Charles,” said Sir William as he crossed to sit in the armchair again. “Kings are not ordinary men … nor was this killing an ordinary matter. It was not a petty quarrel, a squabble that went wrong. It was a confrontation between two strong, proud, ambitious men, each of them jointly Lords Protector of the Realm of Scotland, each of whom believed the crown rightly belonged to him alone. Bitter, angry words led to sudden blows.
One man left the chancel, and thereafter the other died.

  “It was John Comyn’s supporters, one of them Pope Clement himself, who called the outcome murder at the hands of Bruce. What, I wonder, would they have called it had it been Bruce who died on the altar steps? Would John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch and the Pope’s favorite, now stand condemned? He would be King, certes, but would he be papally damned and excommunicate? Bear in mind, this is the same pope who now colludes to permit Philip Capet and de Nogaret to destroy our brotherhood. Was this pope, I wonder, less greedy and more honest last year than he is today?”

  St. Valéry cleared his throat. “By your own admission, we do not really know if that is true or not, Sir William. The destruction of our brotherhood, I mean. It is merely what we have been told, and it may yet be proved false.”

  “Aye, well, we will know tomorrow, beyond doubt, but I know what I believe this night.” Sir William stood up again suddenly, clapping his hands together decisively. “Robert Bruce is a true man, Sir Charles. He is young, I will grant, and he is rash and he tends to be hot-headed when provoked, which is not the greatest attribute a king may have. But he learns quickly and he never makes an error twice. Fundamentally, I trust the man and hold great hopes for him. But I firmly believe that we, our Order, may trust him. We have been strong in Scotland these two hundred years, but most recently we have been stronger than ever, in Scotland’s cause and for the King himself against the English. The Bruce will acknowledge that and give us refuge.”

  St. Valéry grunted. “Does Jacques de Molay know you intend to go to Scotland?”

  The Scots knight hesitated. “No, sir, he does not, although, to be truthful, I suspect he might anticipate my going there. But we did not speak of it, and the name of Scotland was never mentioned between us. Master de Molay left the choice of finding sanctuary to me and made no attempt to influence my judgment. It is my belief that he himself is not really convinced that the events we are preparing for here will actually take place. He is hoping the warnings that have come to us are false, but as a prudent warden, he has taken steps to avoid the worst of outcomes. In the event that tomorrow proves to be the day we have been warned against, he told me that God will make clear to me where I should go when the time is right, and he instructed me to require of you, as I have now done, that you hold yourself prepared, with all your fleet, to safeguard my flight.”

  “But … ? I hear a ‘but’ in your tone.”

  “Aye, you do. It is my own belief the Master had no wish to know my destination. In ignorance of that, I think he believes he could not divulge it under torture.”

  “Torture! Torture the Grand Master of the Order of the Temple? They would never dare commit such an outrage. The Pope would condemn them publicly.”

  Sir William’s expression did not change. “The Pope, Sir Charles, will do whatever Philip Capet requires of him. Philip made him pope. He can unmake him just as quickly. And as for outrages and condemnation, de Nogaret already stands excommunicate for having kidnapped the last pope at King Philip’s behest. The old pope died of that outrage, but de Nogaret does not seem to be unduly inconvenienced by the consequences.”

  They sat silent for a moment, and then Sir William spoke again.

  “What will you do about the Englishman, Admiral? The assassin Godwinson.”

  “Do about him? He will be brought to justice, condemned for murder.”

  “When? And by whom, my lord? Come dawn, de Nogaret will set him free, and Godwinson will laugh as our own men file past him into his present cell. Little justice there, it seems to me.”

  The admiral turned a little paler. He sat blinking for a moment and then shook his head in bewilderment. “What would you have me do, then? Kill him out of hand? That would be murder.”

  “No, Sir Charles, I would merely remind you of your own words spoken earlier. As a member of the Governing Council, I hold higher rank than you. Thus the responsibility for such decisions is mine, not yours.”

  “And what will you do?”

  “I will see justice done. And I will do it now, tonight. I should have done it earlier. Godwinson forfeited his life when he left Paris with this deed in mind, and to allow him to evade just punishment would be a travesty. Tam, gather our men who witnessed what occurred in here and bring them to the cells. I’ll join you there.”

  Tam nodded and left without a word, leaving the two senior men alone.

  “You really intend to do this, to kill the man?” St. Valéry’s question was matter-of-fact.

  “What option have I, Sir Charles? To let him live to boast about his triumph? You may wait here, if you so wish. No need for you to see this. We have sufficient witnesses to bear testimony to the man’s crimes.”

  The admiral stood up and arranged his mantle carefully, then stepped forward to Sir William and did the same for the younger knight, adjusting the white garment so that it hung perfectly, the emblem of the Order pristine upon the left breast. He stepped back and examined his efforts critically, and then nodded, satisfied. “Good. And now I will bear witness with the rest of your tribunal. I owe it to Arnold’s memory and to his lingering soul. Lead on, Sir William.”

  FOUR

  The judicial proceedings did not take long. Tam Sinclair and his sergeants were waiting at the entrance to the cells when Sir William and the admiral arrived, and Tam led the way into the gallery lined with individual cells, those on the left equipped with solid, iron-studded wooden doors with tiny inset grilles, and those on the right open cages, with thick iron bars on three sides and a solid stone wall at the rear. Godwinson was in one of the latter, sitting in deep shadow on the edge of a narrow wooden bunk and shackled hand and foot. His two guards sprang to attention and backed away as Sir William, St. Valéry, and their companions entered and then grouped together, looking into the prisoner’s barred cage. The Englishman grinned at them and spat sullenly.

  “Come to gloat, have you? Gloat away, then, and be damned to you. But don’t take too long about it, for I won’t be here much longer.” He spoke in French but he was unmistakably English, his broad-voweled accent butchering the French words.

  Sir William ignored the man after his first glance and looked about the space between the cells. It was a narrow, dark, windowless coffin of a place, with a high, peaked roof of red clay tiles over bare rafters, and it was filled with chill drafts that would, Sir William knew, keep it cold and dank even in the heat of summer. The walls were bare, uneven stone, chinked with plaster or dried mud, and the only furnishings were a long, narrow table of plain wood, three chairs, and a smoldering charcoal brazier set on a stone slab against the wall by one end of the table.

  He crossed to the brazier and examined it, ignoring the awestruck silence of the two garrison guards. The charcoal had burned past its prime, and a hard, brittle crust of cinders covered the glowing ashes beneath. Behind him, Godwinson was still ranting, his raucous voice sounding more and more guttural as his diatribe grew more intense. Sir William picked up one of the iron pokers from its place by the fire basket and thrust it through the crust of clinker, breaking the carapace and sending up a shower of sparks. He stirred the embers hard, churning them into a sullen mass of flames, then left that poker in the fire and grasped the second one, forcing it into the burning embers beside its twin. That done, he hoisted up the guards’ bucket of fresh charcoal, using both hands to tip it forward and fill the brazier with fresh fuel, and as he did so, Admiral St. Valéry stepped beside him.

  “What are you doing, Sir William?”

  “I am remaking the fire, Sir Charles. It is cold tonight, and this place is drafty. Can you not feel it?” He moved away, to the front of Godwinson’s cell, where he crossed his arms over his chest, tucked in his chin, and then stood silently, staring at the raging man on the other side of the cage’s bars.

  It seemed to take a long time before Godwinson realized that his rage and scorn were making no impression on the tall, white-robed knight who was obviously the one in charge of this pa
rty, but eventually his ravings died away and he sneered contemptuously at Sir William, who gazed back at him stonily, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts. Then, just as the silence in the high, dark chamber approached the absolute, he stalked away again, towards the table.

  “Bring him out here.”

  Godwinson fought strongly as they laid hands on him, but he was shackled and his struggles were useless against the six men who picked him up bodily and carried him out to where Sir William now sat at one end of the long table, his hands flat on the boards in front of him.

  “Sit him there,” the knight said, pointing to the chair at the table’s other end. “Wrap his chains around the chair legs, lest he try to rise.”

  Once again, Godwinson was powerless to resist, and quickly accepted it as two sergeants knelt by his sides and looped his leg chains around the legs of his chair. As soon as they had finished, however, he spoke to Sir William, his heavy voice filled with disdain.

  “Who are you, whoreson? I promise you—”

  “Stifle him.”

  Tam had been standing by with a piece of filthstained, wrinkled cloth in his hands, awaiting this command, and now he ripped the cloth in two, wadding one piece and forcing it into the Englishman’s mouth before tying it in place with the other half.

  William Sinclair sat forward, resting his weight on his elbows, his chin on his raised fists. “Now, Englishman, listen to me. That man there,” he said, pointing to St. Valéry, “is the other man you came to kill tonight. Sir Charles de St. Valéry, Admiral of the Temple Fleet. You failed, failed even to wound him, and your master will not be pleased by that. But you succeeded in killing his oldest friend, the preceptor of this commandery, a man who was a hundred times more worthy of life than you have ever been. You murdered him, and every man here will bear witness to that. And you shot down two garrison guards, also brothers of the Temple. For any one of those, you deserve death, and were I your sole judge you would die here and now.