by Jack Whyte
“So what will you do now?” he asked when they had finished eating. “Whom do you seek?”
Will sniffed. “We seek the King of Scots.”
There was a long silence during which the old man stared at Will, then glanced slowly at each of the others before asking, “You seek the King of Scots on Eilean Molaise?”
Will laughed. “Well, no. Not here. We are hoping to find safe anchorage in Arran. From there, we will cross to the mainland to seek the King.”
“You will leave your galley here? How then will you cross over?”
“We’ll take this galley, but we have other ships with us. At present they are awaiting word from us, off the Mull of Kintyre at an island called Sanda.”
“I see, and you now wish to know who, and with what force, might be on Arran?”
“That is correct. Can you help us? Have you been there recently?”
“To Arran? I was there two years ago.”
“Two years ago?”
The old man spread his hands. “I have little need to travel.”
“But surely you must go there for food and supplies?”
“Why surely? God supplies us with all the food and goods we require, right here. We have sheep, goats, and birds and their eggs, water aplenty for drinking, oats in our little field, and the sea is full of fish. What more could we need?”
There appeared to be no answer to that, and Will shrugged. “So you can tell us nothing?”
“I did not say that. I said I was there two years ago. There were English soldiers there, building a fortification not far up the coast from here. You see the other bay there, to the north?” All three of his listeners turned to look where the old man was pointing and saw the spur of land jutting out into the sea, concealing another, deeper bay behind it. “That is where they were, scurrying about like ants, building a motte and bailey. Mind you, the motte was there before they came—a flat-topped knoll of stone atop the cliff. But they were fortifying it, erecting palisades and digging a defensive bailey in the soft ground to the fore, above the beach. It would be a strong place, I thought, when they were done.”
“How many were there? Are they still there?”
“There were a hundred men, perhaps more. I took no time to count them and I spoke to none of them. But they are not there now. A fleet of galleys attacked them and burned their ships a year and more ago. In the late summer or early autumn. We saw the galleys come at dawn, and then we heard the sounds of a great fight carried on the wind. We saw much smoke, and no English ships sailed out of the bay afterwards, so that made us think the smoke came from burning ships.”
“How many galleys did you see?”
The old friar thought for a moment. “Seven went in.
Five came out again afterwards.”
“So there may still be two crewed galleys there? Who owned them, could you tell?”
“How would I tell such a thing? They meant nothing to us. But the fact that they were galleys, in this part of the world, means they would have come from the Isles, to the northwest. As to whether they are still there, I know nothing. They might have sailed away at any time, unknown to us. But two more craft—perhaps the same ones—sailed in about a week ago and have not come out since. We seldom look at such things, you understand, and we pay attention only if something takes place that we can see openly. Otherwise, we tend to our beasts and our prayers.”
“Aye, of course.” Will sat silent for a spell, then sighed. “Well, Brother, thank you for telling us. I suppose we will have to go and find out for ourselves if any remain.”
“Aye … This King of Scots, who is he? King Alexander died long since, I know, and we heard once of a new King called Bailleul, something French-sounding, but that was some years ago, and he had already gone by then, I think. Or does he still reign?”
“King John Balliol. His name was French once, like my own and many others. No, he no longer reigns. He lives in exile in France, a prisoner of King Philip for all intents and purposes. He abdicated the throne when he could not dispute the dominance of England’s embittered King, Edward, who died this year.”
“Edward Plantagenet is dead? He was a great man.” Will raised an eyebrow. “Aye, so I have heard said of him, when he was young. Men named him among the foremost knights of Christendom. But as he grew older, he grew vicious, I am told, laying claim to Scotland as its liege lord. You will hear few Scots speak highly of him.”
“Few common Scots, you mean, I think?”
“Do I? I believe I disagree with you there. What did you mean by that, Brother?”
The old man clawed at the thick hair on the back of his head. “What should I mean?” he said, scratching harder. “Edward’s claim to Scotland was a just and dispassionate one in the eyes of many. He demanded allegiance from the Scots nobles, most of them of Norman descent and holding their lands and titles from the English Crown. Where is the vice in that? Their allegiance was to him, as King of England, and had been so since the first Norman landholdings were granted here. And until recently, before the death of King Alexander, it was freely paid. That is the way of the world, Brother William. The feudal code takes precedence over all, and the Scots nobles have been ever bound by it. If they fight against it now, it is for venal reasons of their own—a lust for power, the whitening on sepulchers.”
Will cleared his throat. “I hope you will forgive my saying so, Brother Gaspard, but for a man who claims to have forsaken the profane world you are most well informed.”
The elder let out a delighted cackle. “Blame that curiosity of mine again. It might be a sin of pride, but I seem unable to keep my mind from being inquisitive, and thus when I meet someone who can converse beyond a series of grunts, I listen and I learn.” He cackled again. “And from time to time, I even speak, like now!”
Mungo, whose French was less fluent than the old man’s but perfectly adequate to understanding, could sit quiet no longer. “That’s a’ very well,” he growled in Scots, “what ye were sayin’ about the English claims, but we had kings in this land while the English were still worshippin’ emperors in Rome. That was then, and this is now. The Scots folk dinna want foreign Englishry in Scotland,” he growled.
“Ah, the Scots folk …” The old monk’s face sobered and he turned to Mungo, including Tam in what he was to say with a lift of one bushy brow. “That is another matter altogether. The Scots people are like any other. If they do not own land, they have no voice—they are chattels, dependent upon the landholders for what little they may have. Faceless and lacking identity or cohesion, they are therefore weak and worthless for anything in the way of protest. And as long as they cannot unite, they remain constantly at risk from those to whom they are beholden.” He drew himself erect and inhaled a great draft of air, and at that moment no man there saw him as old or impotent. “Unless and until they organize themselves, the common folk of any land will count as nothing in the affairs of kings and noblemen.”
He paused to allow that to sink home, then went on. “There was a man called Wallace of whom we heard, even here on Eilean Molaise. He, and some others like him, organized the Scots people as never before and united them against their oppressors for the first time in memory. But he and his people saw their oppressors not only to be the English but the Scots nobility as well. And the Scots nobles regarded him as they would vermin, naming him brigand and outlaw.”
“How do you know so much about Wallace?” Will asked.
“Three of his supporters sought refuge with us here, some six, perhaps seven years ago. That was when we heard that King Balliol was gone. They were being hunted by their own lords, as well as by the English. One of them, a knight called Menteith, who I suppose was a renegade against his own kind, was well spoken and possessed a keen mind. I spoke often with him during the month or so they remained with us, but I know not what became of him thereafter … nor of the man Wallace.”
“Wallace is dead,” Mungo growled. “Eight years ago. Sold for English favor. They to
ok him to London and hanged him there, for the pleasure of the crowd—cut him down alive, then gutted him and burned his entrails while he watched. Then they cut off his head, arms, and legs.”
Will was looking curiously at Mungo. “And how do you know so much of Wallace, master mariner?”
The sergeant shrugged. “We were in Leith a while ago, on business wi’ the Temple in Edinburgh. We couldna go anywhere beyond the port, for the English armies were everywhere, but I heard folk talkin’ about it in the taverns in the toun. It was the Bruce, they said—the young earl, no’ the old man—who dubbed the Wallace knight, so that he could be Guardian of the Realm, but he did it to spite the Comyns, rather than to honor Wallace … At least, that’s what folk were sayin’. It was the Bruces and the Comyns and the others like them, the noble families, as they ca’ themsel’s, who brought Scotland to where she fell and forced the Wallace to do what he did. Them and their bickerin’ and girnin’, changin’ sides frae day to day—now for Edward, now against him, but for themsel’s at a’ times … Oh, aye, they’re for themsel’s without pause.”
He spat, eloquently, and Will, spurred by a sudden thought, added, “It is the Bruce who rules in Scotland now, did you know that?” Seeing the flaring disbelief in the other man’s eyes, he carried on. “No, it’s true. The young Bruce, former Earl of Carrick. He seized the throne last year, in the name of the realm of Scotland. He is now King Robert, first of that name.”
Mungo stared back at him, unimpressed, to judge by his lack of expression. “Oh aye?” he said, his tone turning the statement into a question. “That must have pleased the Comyns. And does he rule there still, d’ye ken?”
Will shook his head. “I know not. I cannot even say if he is still alive. That is what I have to find out.”
Mungo folded up the clasp knife he had been using on his meat and slipped it into his tunic before wiping his hands on his leggings and moving to stand up. “So mote it be,” he said. “Ye’ll no find any o’ that out if ye keep sittin’ here. Are we awa’?”
The veteran monk was already rising effortlessly to his feet, and Will and Tam rose with him. “It would appear we are,” Will said. “Can we land in the bay by tonight?”
“We can land there by the middle o’ the afternoon, ’gin we start now.”
Will thanked Gaspard for his information and hoped that they might meet again, and the old man smiled and nodded.
“May God be with you across the bay,” he said. “I will be watching, but I can be of no help to you. But if you do find anyone over there, they will be Scots, and they may be able to tell you what you need to know about the King. Farewell, and walk in God’s Way.”
THREE
“Well, Admiral, what do you think? Did anyone see us?”Admiral Edward de Berenger grunted, glancing up at the billowing sail with its enormous black Templar cross. “If they did, it makes no difference—we’ll be around the headland before they have a chance to warn anyone.”
Taking advantage of the straining sail, the oarsmen in the waist of the ship were rowing at attack speed, driving the large galley over the waves at its top speed, a pace no other ship in their own fleet could match. They had swept along the entire length of the bay of Lamlash, where they had first thought to anchor, and were now bearing down on the point of land that stretched out ahead of them, separating them from their new objective. Will Sinclair took note of the speed with which the point was approaching and grunted, deep in his chest.
“As soon as we round the point you’ll need to make some quick decisions, Edward. How big is the bay, and how deep? And if there are galleys there, as the old man said there might be, whether there be two or four, how far away from them should we remain, without leaving ourselves too far from land or vulnerable to attack. Thank God you are the mariner, for I would not even know where to begin any of that.”
De Berenger’s normally stern face cracked into a grin. “Put your mind at ease, then. I’ll do nothing to endanger us. This is my ship, after all. I have no intention of risking it to chance. Now …” He raised one arm high. “Get ready!” he shouted to his shipmaster, a stolid but dependable Norman called Boulanger.
The great galley hissed by within spitting distance of the rocks at the tip of the point, and as it did so de Berenger lowered his arm, the signal to Boulanger and his waiting crew to lower the sail. As the billows of heavy cloth were lowered and restrained by skilled seamen, the oarsmen maintained their driving rhythm, propelling them towards the closest point, where the entire bay would lie open to their sight. The basin was larger than Will had expected, cutting farther into the land than its neighbor, and from the color of the water, it was deeper, too, but it was less than half as wide as the Lamlash inlet and its shoreline shelved more steeply. Two galleys lay at anchor close inshore, sails furled and spars lashed down at an angle, no signs of anyone aboard them, and from perhaps one hundred feet above the water’s edge, on a flat-topped but natural outcrop of stone, a fortification glowered down upon the entire anchorage from behind a palisaded wall of logs. The place was far from being enormous, but it looked formidable, and the incomplete earthworks in front of it, exposing newly scarred rock and even streaks of fresh clay, proclaimed its newness.
There were men everywhere: on the beach and its approaches, on the hillside among the earthworks, and on the walls or parapets of the fortress itself, and even as Will began to absorb the sight of them, he saw them, in turn, becoming aware of his ship. Where before had been industry and hard work there was now stillness as men straightened up and turned to look at the apparition in their quiet bay. And then, in the blinking of an eye, everything changed as a concerted roar went up and men scrambled everywhere in search of weapons.
Behind Will, de Berenger gave the order to ship oars, and the galley’s momentum slackened immediately as the dripping sweeps rose in unison, leaving the vessel to drift to a halt. Another order brought the oars back down into the water, but this time with the intent of holding the ship in place, against the tug of the current.
De Berenger stepped to Will’s side. “Well, my friend, they know we have arrived. What now?”
“We wait, Edward. We have made our announcement and caught them flat-footed, it appears. Now we must simply wait and see how they choose to respond to us. The response, in itself, will give us some estimate of the worth of whoever turns out to be in charge. How many men did you count?”
“At least a hundred but probably closer to two hundred … They were too spread out for accuracy.”
“That’s much as I thought, close to two hundred. But there might be others inland, out of sight. So, we wait. I will be in my cabin. Call me when something begins to happen.”
He barely had time to shrug out of his green woolen cloak before Tam knocked on his door and thrust his head inside. “Ye’re wanted on deck, Will. There’s somebody comin’ out, a party o’ three, wi’ a white flag.”
Back on deck, Will walked directly to join de Berenger and Boulanger the shipmaster, who were standing side by side, observing the events on the shore. The narrow strand was crowded with armed men watching a small boat fighting its way out towards their galley, six oarsmen pulling hard against the current. Three men stood in the stern of the boat, behind the rowers, one of them holding aloft what was probably a spear, with a white cloth attached.
“A parley,” Will murmured to the admiral. “Well, that tells us at least that the leader here is no hotheaded fool, whatever else he might be …”
They watched the boat approach in silence after that, crossing to the entry port in the side rail only when the small craft disappeared beneath their own side. The rowers shipped their oars, and the man at the prow snared the dangling rope, all eyes looking up to where Will stood with his companions. Finally, one of the three standing men, a red-bearded bantam of a man shrouded in the single, voluminous garment that the Gaels called a plaid, tilted his head back and called out in execrable French, “Is this a Temple galley?”
Will leaned f
orward over the rail. “It is. Who asks?”
“I am Alexander Menteith of Lochranza, Chieftain of Arran. I bring greetings and invite you to come ashore in peace.”
Will hesitated for a mere moment, then called, “Greetings from whom, Master Menteith? You said you bring greetings, rather than offer them as your own, so on whose behalf do you speak?”
Menteith pointed backwards with his thumb. “I am sent by Sir James Douglas, King Robert’s custodian in Arran,” he shouted back.
Will fought down the urge to look at de Berenger beside him, for fear of betraying that the name meant nothing to him. He had heard of one Sir William Douglas, a noted knight with a reputation for gallantry and hotheadedness, but had never heard of a James Douglas. Perhaps his son? But William Douglas was not an old man, and therefore any son he had must be too young, surely, to be a King’s officer.
Awaiting an answer, Menteith glanced at his companions before shouting again. “Will ye come?”
Will had no choice; this was what he had been hoping for. Surely the King’s custodian would know where the King was to be found. He nodded. “We will. Tell Sir James we will follow you. How many men may we bring?”
The question clearly surprised the Scot. “As many as you like,” he shouted back, then gave an order to the leadsman, who released the gaff and sat down at his oar again, using it to push the bow off strongly from the side of the galley until his fellow crewmen could lower their oars into the water again.
Will turned to Edward de Berenger. “Will you come with us?”
“If you want me to. Is it important?”
Will sniffed and wiped a bead of moisture from his nose with the back of his hand. “It might be … Could be. Tell me, do your sergeants have surcoats?”
“They do, but they are kept in storage at sea. In chests.”
“Can you retrieve them easily? I want your oarsmen to look like Templars when they take us ashore, so have them uniformly dressed, if you will—black or brown, it makes no difference, so be it they are all the same.” Without waiting for an answer he turned to where Tam Sinclair stood listening. “You too, Tam. Put on your surcoat and bring Mungo with you, in his. But first ask Captain Boulanger to prepare the admiral’s boat for launching.”