by Jack Whyte
The Bay of Biscay was renowned for the ferocity of its storms, and most especially so at this time of year, with the inexorable approach of winter. Sinclair was well aware of that, just as he knew that the vessel in which he was riding had been designed to survive such storms, and that they would be safe as long as they held far enough out to sea to preclude any possibility of their being blown onto the rocks along the shoreline. His intellect knew that; his heart and his brain knew it; but there was some other part of his being that remained staunchly unconvinced. That part of him had been telling him for days now that he had no business being here on a heaving ship in the middle of nowhere, confronting a successive chain of storms and howling gales; that he should be safe ashore some place, on solid ground, with a strong horse under him and his feet firmly planted in the stirrups.
As he thought about that yet again, he heard his name being shouted, and clutching his anchoring rope, he turned to see Tam Sinclair within arm’s reach. He let go of the rope with one hand and reached out, suddenly conscious of the weight of his sodden mantle, to grasp Tam’s wrist and pull him to where he, too, could grasp the rigging and turn his hunched back to the gale.
“De Berenger sent me to get you,” Tam shouted into Sinclair’s ear through a cupped hand. “He’s in his cabin.”
Sinclair felt his heart sink into his boots as he heard the summons. He was up here on the galley’s central deck for one reason: he had survived his first attacks of seasickness several days earlier, although he could still hardly credit the violent misery he had endured, but even so, the minor degree of tolerance he had since developed for the lurching, pitching, and yawing movements of the ship could not survive in the fetid atmosphere, the darkness, and the chaotic, unpredictable motion belowdecks. The galley’s crew appeared to think nothing of it, and knew the layout of the ship so well that they could find their way about down there in total darkness, but Will Sinclair knew that was a skill he would never possess, and the mere thought of remaining aboard for long enough to develop it appalled him. Now, knowing that he had no alternative but to go aft and belowdecks, he turned and looked back towards the high stern of the ship, where he could see a pair of helmsmen straining against the weight of the tiller, struggling to keep the ship headed directly into the wind and the incessant line of combers bearing down on them from the northwest. Below, in the waist of the vessel, the oarsmen sat huddled and miserable on their benches, waiting patiently, their oars shipped and secured vertically, ready to be deployed at the shout of an order.
“What’s happening, d’you know?”
Tam shook his head. “He came up on deck and sent me to fetch you. Something’s up, but I’ve no more idea than you.”
“Well, let’s find out. I’ll be glad to get out of this.”
“Aye, and so will I. Off this whoreson box and back on dry land. Sooner the better.”
Together, choosing each step with great care, they fought their way back to the stern, where Tam crouched down out of the wind, in the shelter of the ship’s side, while Sir William approached one of three doors in the wall below the stern deck where the helmsmen stood. He knocked, and without waiting for a response, swung the door open and leaned inside. De Berenger was sitting on one side of his sleeping cabin, facing the ship’s wall, in front of a small tabletop that was hinged to the vessel’s timbers so that it could be folded away when it was not in use. He had been writing, for his fingers were stained with ink.
“You sent for me, Sir Edward?”
“I did, Sir William. Come inside, if you will, and close the door.”
Sinclair did as he was bidden, relieved to see that at least there was light in here. Three fat candles hung in heavy sconces, intricately suspended, although he could not quite see how, from a device that hung from the beams of the overhead deck, and although the shadows they cast swung and swooped disconcertingly, their light was nonetheless extremely welcome, projecting an illusion of warmth.
“Sit on the bunk if you wish, or on the stool.” De Berenger glanced at him sympathetically, noting the haggard lines around his eyes and mouth. “How are you feeling, all things considered? Will you last, think you?” There was the merest hint of smile around his eyes.
Sinclair perched himself carefully on the three-legged stool with his spread feet firmly planted on the decking, his back to the door, and one hand clutching an iron bracket that was anchored in the ship’s timbers. “Aye, I’ll last. I know that now, after five days of this. But I warn you, I’m like to vomit without warning. I can barely manage to control myself on deck, in the fresh air, but I cannot stay confined for any length of time without being able to see the horizon.”
De Berenger’s little smile widened to a grin. “Aye, that’s common with seasickness. But don’t worry about vomiting in here. I don’t imagine you have much in you to spew up, after five days. And there’s no shortage of seawater with which to wash it out.” He pointed a thumb towards the papers spilling from the open leather wallet on the table beside him. “I wanted to talk to you about these. Haven’t had much time since they came aboard, and only started reading them this forenoon … But they are thought provoking, and the admiral has obviously taken great pains over what he had to say.” He paused briefly. “They came to me, of course, from admiral to vice-admiral, one shipmaster to another. But you hold higher rank within our Order than either of us ever could, and thus I know that what’s contained in there concerns you primarily. The admiral has suggested that there will be grave decisions to consider, and he suggests, too, what they might entail … I read what he had to say with great interest, but I found myself glad the decisions are not mine to make.”
Sinclair nodded, glancing sideways at the open wallet and its contents. He had watched the wallet come aboard, on the first day of the bad weather, during a brief lull between the passing of one storm and the onset of the next, when St. Valéry’s galley had approached close enough through treacherous waters to shoot a crossbow bolt safely into their ship’s side, close by the entry port. It had taken several attempts, but a bolt had eventually thumped home. A length of fishing line had been tied to it, and attached to the far end of that had been a thicker cord, securing a pitchcovered basket, like a tiny boat, that held a waterproofed package of heavily waxed cloth containing the wallet of dispatches. He had watched the recovery process with interest, coming close to forgetting his own discomfort as he admired the monkeylike dexterity of the seamen who had carried it out, and he had presumed that whatever was involved in the hazardous delivery, it had to be a purely naval matter, since they had been far from land for days by then and nothing had occurred during that time that might involve him in his capacity as a member of the Order’s Council.
Now he looked back at de Berenger, raising one eyebrow. “You wish me to read them?”
“Aye, Sir William. I do. But I suspect you might find the task impossible, given your seasickness. You would have to sit here, head down, and concentrate on reading while everything around you seems to move. And so, if I may make a suggestion?”
“Of course. What is it?”
De Berenger indicated the table again with a wave of his hand. “I have already read everything here, and have been thinking of it for the past few hours. I can tell you what is involved, and outline the admiral’s suggestions. Then, afterwards, if you so wish, you may read anything you choose more carefully, without having to wade through the entire wallet.”
“Excellent suggestion. Do that. Give me the gist of it.” The vice-admiral picked up a substantial pile of papers and held them up in one hand. “Much of what’s here, naturally enough, is straightforward naval records work—copies of bills of lading, cargo lists, disciplinary reports, that kind of thing. None of that interests us in this instance.” He squared the edges of the papers and aligned them carefully against the bulkhead before picking up a second, much smaller pile that had been set apart. “This is what concerns us. These papers deal with the two main areas that the admiral is concerned abo
ut. The first of those is the matter of the three galleys that sailed into La Rochelle after we left. What happened to them, and where are they now?”
“Do we know any of that? I have heard nothing since the admiral delegated those two other galleys to keep an eye on them.”
“Admiral St. Valéry detached two more vessels to hang back and position themselves separately between us and Parmaison and de Lisle. That was five days ago, before the storms came down on us.”
“Separately. You mean separate from each other, or separate from de Lisle’s ships?”
“Both. The second pair, commanded by André du Bois and Charles Vitrier, were to station themselves within view of each other but far enough away from the first two to be able to pass the word to us quickly if they saw any signs of trouble.”
“And?”
“We don’t know. The weather has been too bad for us to know what’s going on out there.”
“But. I can hear a ‘but’ in your tone.”
“Yes, you can. The admiral has been proceeding in the belief that the three galleys have been seized and will come after us.”
“That was our first assumption, and until we find out more, it will remain valid. So what does Admiral St. Valéry propose?”
A tiny frown ticked between the other man’s brows. “That is where his logic evades me … or confuses me … and it is why I decided to talk to you.” He hesitated, then plunged on. “Has Admiral St. Valéry spoken to you of what he would like to do once we are clear of Cape Finisterre and outward bound?”
Sinclair cocked an eyebrow. “Aye. He has some idea of sailing off to the west, across the great sea, in search of something he believes is there.”
“The Merica legend.”
“Ah … He has spoken of it to you, has he?”
“No, not spoken of it exactly.” De Berenger looked troubled, as though he might be betraying a confidence. “He mentioned it, last time we spoke together in private. Hinted that he might like to go in search of it when he resigns as admiral. Said he had dreamed of finding it for years and that there’s nothing to stop him now, if he can find a crew of volunteers …”
Sinclair grunted. “He said much of the same to me. Asked me to consider giving him leave to go. He has no wish to travel with us to Scotland. He made that clear … What think you of the idea?”
De Berenger’s blink revealed his confusion before he asked, “What idea? Merica, or going to Scotland?”
“Merica.”
A play of expressions crossed de Berenger’s face until he shrugged. “Truthfully, I don’t know what to think of it, because the Order never really told us what to think of it, did it? On so many things the teachings are specific: this is what we know, that is a lie promulgated by Rome, that is true, this is foolish superstition. We always knew where we stood in the matter of most of the Order’s lore, and if we misunderstood or disagreed with any part of it, we could ask questions and debate the answers. But this Merica legend … no guidance was ever offered on it.”
Sinclair drew a deep breath and held it, steeling himself against a surge of nausea. When it abated, he continued. “There was none to offer. Nothing is known of it, even within our own Order of Sion, let alone within the Temple. The only thing we know is that the legend exists, and that it is based upon a few obscure references within the earliest records. I asked my sponsors and my mentors about it, each in turn, but none of them had paid it any attention, dismissing it for what it appeared to be—a simple legend, not worth wondering about. Later, though, when I was dispatched to Carcassonne to study, one of my tutors told me to seek out a Brother Anselm while I was there. He was the oldest living member of the Order at that time, and a wellspring of information on the more obscure aspects of the lore. He died only last year.”
He stopped and tilted his head to one side, as though listening, and his anchoring grip on the iron wall bracket eased slightly. “Am I imagining things, or has the pitching lessened?”
De Berenger nodded. “The storm may have blown itself out, or we may be in another lull between onsets. So what did you get from this Brother Anselm?”
“He offered me a different way of thinking about, and looking at, such things, a different approach to obscure lore.” He stopped, listening. “I believe the wind is dying, too. Would you object to stepping outside with me, and continuing our talk out there? Forgive me, but I find the confines of this cabin every bit as stifling as the holds belowdecks.”
De Berenger sprang to his feet, perfectly at ease with the ship’s motion. “Of course, Sir William. Forgive me. I had not realized how much discomfort you were in.” He threw open the cabin door, then stepped aside as Sinclair lurched past him and groped his way to the rail, where he stood with his feet apart and his head thrown back, sucking in great gulps of cold sea air. It really did appear as though the storm had passed, for the wind had dropped and was no longer howling and whipping spume from the wave tops, and the waves themselves had lost their ragged crests. The seas were still huge, propelling the craft in great, swooping surges, but they were noticeably less violent, the sides of the rolling waves now long and smooth, streaked with trailing remnants of the spume that had filled the air such a short time before. De Berenger busied himself looking at the cloud wrack and gauging the extent of the weather change while he waited for his superior to collect himself, and after a short time Sinclair turned back to him, clearly in command of himself again.
“There, I feel better now, much better. I appreciate your concern, Sir Edward, for both my stomach and my well-being … Now, what was I saying before my head started to spin?”
“Brother Anselm, how he offered you a different way of looking at things.”
“Aye, he did …” Sinclair thought for a moment longer, then resumed. “He made it very clear to me that I should never ignore anything simply because I cannot understand it immediately. That sounds obvious, but the truth is that most of us do exactly the opposite most of the time. Anselm had found, as had everyone else who cared to look, that there is nothing in our few references to support the Merica legend. But he had gone one step further than anyone else. He had gone looking for the source of our sources, if you see what I mean.”
De Berenger frowned. “No, I don’t. That sounds impossible. A source is a source. There’s nothing beyond that.”
“Hmm.” William Sinclair looked out at the surging seas, and spoke out towards where he was looking. “That is almost exactly what I said to him, and I remember how he smiled at me before correcting the error in my logic.” He looked at de Berenger and ducked his head slightly, almost apologetically. “I was speaking of our sources, he pointed out—the sources from which the forefathers in our Order originally developed our lore. And that little word, our, has influenced the Order’s perceptions down through the ages. And speaking of perceptions, incidentally, were you surprised when I slipped you the fist grip that night in La Rochelle?”
“Aye, I was,” de Berenger said. “It has been some time since last I met a senior Templar who was also one of our brotherhood.”
“Are you saying you saw me as more of a Temple Boar than a member of the brotherhood?” Sinclair grinned and held up a hand, waving away the chagrin that had immediately shown on de Berenger’s face. “Forget it, man, I was but jesting in order to make a point about the ways in which what we see, or think we see, can influence what we think thereafter. For that is exactly what has happened, Brother Anselm assured me, on this matter of the Merica legend.”
De Berenger inclined his head, clearly waiting to hear more, and Sinclair continued. “Secrecy, we all know, has been paramount in all we have done since the very beginnings of our Order, more than a millennium ago. But those few of us who think of such things today tend to think that the secrecy was originally based upon the need to hide our Jewish identity from the threat of Rome’s vengeance.” He gave the lie to his own words with a tiny jerk of the head. “Not so. Rome was never a threat to us since the earliest days of our settleme
nt in southern Gaul, when we concealed our true roots and blended into the local structure, eventually becoming Christian. No, our need for secrecy was far more than that, and far older. The priesthood of ancient Judea, we know from our own records, was a secret, closed society long before Rome began to stir beyond its seven hills. Its roots went all the way back to Egypt at the dawn of time, in the era of the early Pharaohs, when the Israelites were enslaved for hundreds of years until Moses led them out in search of the Promised Land.
“I know you know all this, so forgive me if I seem to preach, but what comes next is the important part: our earliest forefathers brought their knowledge out of Egypt with them, and much of that knowledge was deeply rooted, after so many generations, in the religion of Egypt, with its worship of Isis and Osiris. That lore they took to Jerusalem, where Solomon built his Temple, and the priests were the sacred guardians of its secrets. They—our early forefathers—had their own lore, just as we have ours, but their sources were Egyptian, unutterably ancient.”
Sinclair stopped to watch a young seaman, carrying a bucket, make his way down the ladder from the steering platform above their heads, and when the youth had passed and vanished from view, he continued. “What Anselm enabled me to see then—and I would never have thought of it had he not directed me—was that our more recent forefathers, the fugitive priests from the sack of Jerusalem, had been unable to bring all of that with them. They had escaped with only what they could carry, and had concealed the rest, hoping to return for it later. We found it eventually, when Hugh de Payens and his friends unearthed it, but twelve hundred years had passed by then, and throughout that time, our Order had formed itself around the lore salvaged from Palestine … Naturally, being human and dedicated to their eventual return to their true home, the earliest brethren gave the greater part of their attentions to those parts of the lore that offered most towards that end. And other, seemingly lesser parts they neglected and allowed to fall into disuse, so that their origins were forgotten and all that remained was the original mention of such things. And most prominent and mystifying among those was—and it remains so to this day—the element that we know as the legend of Merica.”