Order in Chaos tt-3

by Jack Whyte

  “I’ll go at once,” he said, “under oars. It is a fourhour journey—”

  “Wait!” said Bruce, holding up his hand. “No need for such haste. Not now. Your crew has been invited ashore, Sir Edward. Let them eat first, rest for an hour, then put them to work. What difference between leaving at nightfall and leaving at midnight? The journey will still be in darkness, and it will pass more quickly on a full stomach than on a cramped and empty one. Bide ye, then, until midnight. In the meantime, we’ll go down and eat. But bear in mind my name is simple Rob this night, plain Robert Boyd of Annandale. When we ha’e supped, then we, too, will return to work.”

  TWO

  For Will Sinclair the banquet—it seemed more elaborate to him than a normal daily meal must be—passed by in a blur of raised voices—there were no women present—roasted meats including venison and mutton, a vague awareness of free-flowing drink, and the strident music of the Scots Highlands and Isles, harps and bagpipes and the seemingly interminable sagas of a string of bards and singers, all of them mouthing unintelligible Erse, or the Gaelic, as they called it. Will sat with Douglas and de Berenger at what was nominally the head table, but few there paid attention to it, its other occupants scattering to sit with their own friends as soon as the main meal was eaten, leaving the high dais to the three French speakers. Will’s mind was still reeling with the unspoken implications of the Bruce’s presence, and he found it inconceivable that the monarch could sit out there among his own followers and not be recognized. He said as much to Douglas, and the young man smiled.

  “It must seem strange to you, I’ll grant you, coming from France where all is civilized. But the truth is simple. Every man in Scotland knows the Bruce by name and by repute. But when they think of him they see the former Earl of Carrick in their minds, and the Earl was much the … what’s the word? the prodigal, in his youth. Aye, that’s it. He was known for it, his prodigality—the newest, brightest fashions in clothes and armor, the finest horses, the loveliest ladies, and of course, the smiling, sparkling wit. He spent money lavishly. Although his father, the Lord of Annandale, never gave him much to spend, he was Edward Plantagenet’s favorite when the Earl was yet a youngster. Most thought him a wastrel and a waste of time, seeing nothing in him beyond his youth, his wantonness and seeming irresponsibility. Mind you, that was before my time, for I was but a child when the Earl of Carrick was at his brilliant best, or worst … But that was the portrait he presented, before King Edward taught him to hate the leash.”

  “Hate the leash?”

  “Aye, the ties that bound him to the Plantagenet’s will. When Edward’s plans to annex Scotland to his realm failed to work out to his satisfaction, he sought to make the Earl of Carrick his whipping boy.”

  “How so?”

  “By requiring him to perform acts and deeds that seemed to mark him as Edward’s lackey—and therefore England’s. He made life barely tolerable for the Earl.”

  “What manner of acts and deeds? Though you were a boy at the time, you must have heard examples of such things.”

  “Heard of such things? I witnessed one of them: the Earl of Carrick’s first rebellion. My father, as I told you, was a rebel, one of the more contentious souls with whom Edward had to contend. He was involved in an uprising and outlawed by Edward, ten years ago. I was twelve at the time. Edward sent English troops to burn our castle and take my mother and me captive, but my mother barred the gates against them and refused to surrender. The Earl of Carrick was there, as part of the English force, but purely for the sake of appearances. He held the highest rank there but had no authority and was accorded no respect—a mere figurehead, a Scottish lordling dispatched to give the English raiding force a semblance of legitimacy. The English commander, whose name has long escaped me, brought up some children, one of them a friend of mine, and threatened to hang them then and there, in front of my mother’s eyes, believing her to be too weak to withstand such horror.”

  Will had to prompt him. “And was she?”

  Douglas chuckled. “We never did find out. The Earl of Carrick defied the English commander and drove him and his men away. Then he released the three children and begged my mother’s pardon. And thereafter he led us to my father in the north and joined in the rebellion, declaring himself a Scot and vowing to stand or fall with his own people. That was the first solid step along the course that led the Bruce to Scone and the Scots Crown.” He smiled. “It also marked the first step of my pursuit of knighthood, for the man that I saw that day became my ideal of honor and of chivalry. I wanted to be like Robert Bruce, the Earl of Carrick.”

  He paused, and then held up his hands. “Which brings me around, full-circle. That is the man—the armored knight, the fighting King—whose portrait people still envision when they think of Robert Bruce. The man you see sitting over there among them now, unrecognized, is the man he has become—a Highland cateran, hardened to living like an Erse clansman on the open heath in all kinds of weather, sleeping in caves wrapped in a wet and dirty plaid and often afraid to make a fire lest the smoke betray him, snaring hares or guddling fish to eat, begging bread from cottagers and paying for it when he can, and sleeping with a dirk in his hand each night. No armor, no spurs, no sword, no knightly robes. And there’s another thing that comes between him and being recognized … the beard. King Robert Bruce goes everywhere clean shaven. Everyone knows that. But for the past year, he has not had the time or opportunity to shave. Thus, when he decided to come back down here to Arran, he trimmed his beard but kept it. The King of Scots now lives among his Scots as no other ever has, and when he speaks with them, they do not know him.”

  “Hmm.” Will Sinclair shook his head. “Strange how events occur … Edward of England had no plans to annex Scotland when I was a lad. What happened?”

  “Who knows? Things changed. Some people think it was the success of his campaign in Wales that did it. He defeated Llewellyn, subjugated the Welsh, and even made his son Prince of Wales to mark his conquest. Ten years it took him to defeat the Welsh, but he increased his kingdom hugely. Thereafter, some men think, he turned his mind to Scotland, seeking to unite the entire island of Britain under his Crown … but he underestimated the temper of the Scots.”

  De Berenger spoke for the first time since the discussion had begun. “But all the Scots nobles are Norman French, are they not? They all owed him fealty and, from what Sir William has told me, they tendered it. Was that not enough? What need had he of conquering them?”

  “No, not so, Admiral. Not all Scots nobles are Norman French. The great earldoms of Scotland descend from the Celtic kingdoms, the Erse-speaking clans who lived here ere the Normans came. And besides, how long must a family live in a land before they can belong to it? The Bruce family has been here since the days of William the Conqueror. Sir William’s own family were once St. Clair, but they have been Sinclairs for many a year now. I would suggest that when your great-grandsires and dames were born and bred in Scotland, then you yourself might think yourself a Scot.”

  There was disturbance in the body of the hall, and Will looked over to see tables being drawn aside. Then two men stepped out from the ruck, eyeing each other inimically and stripping off their clothing, preparing to fight. Bets were being laid and sides taken, and amid all the pushing and shoving, Robert Bruce was grinning, his teeth gleaming through the short beard that masked his face.

  “Look at the King,” de Berenger murmured. “He is loving every moment of this.”

  “Aye, of course he is. His tastes have changed this past year.”

  “You told me the King was campaigning in the northeast.”

  “And I did not lie. His presence here will be brief, but necessary.”

  “Why is he here?” Will asked.

  “To discuss strategy.” Douglas grinned. “On what, you will have to wait to find out. But I have the feeling that you are going to become involved in it … to some extent. I heard King Robert mention quid pro quo, but it is not for me to gue
ss at what he meant by it. You will just have to wait until he raises the matter.”

  De Berenger stood up. “Talking of raising matters, I ought to go and check that my men are behaving themselves. I gave word that there was to be no drink served to them beyond one cup of wine with their meal. Now I should see to it that all is well and make sure they are ready to go back aboard, if we are to sail with the night tide. Pardon me.”

  Will held up a hand. “Before you go, Edward—something else has just occurred to me. When you bring back the fleet, you will take them into Lamlash Bay.” De Berenger nodded. “I will still be here, there is no road between here and Lamlash. So when you reach Lamlash, I want you to leave the fleet at anchor there, with strict instructions that no one is to go ashore without my personal order. You will then come directly here to pick me up. I will be waiting for you. Is that clear?”

  “Completely, Sir William. It shall be as you say. Pardon me again, gentlemen.” He bowed from the waist to Douglas, including Will in the salute with a wave of one hand.

  “He is a good man, but how can he expect to do that?” Douglas asked as the admiral marched away towards his men. “I wouldna dare leave my men within smellin’ distance o’ a drink if I had work for them to do. What kind of power does he hold over them?”

  “The power of God, my friend. Don’t forget that they are monks of the Temple, every one. They fight like demons, but they live like anchorites and pray like priests.”

  He followed de Berenger with his eyes as he spoke, watching him head directly to the table where the four knights who were his ship’s officers sat with the six senior sergeants who actually ran the galley’s crew. The differences between knights and sergeants were clear, even could one disregard the white surcoats of the knights and the black of the others. The knights, to a man, wore the forked beards that marked them as Temple knights, an affectation that sometimes amused Will but more frequently annoyed him as typifying, it seemed to him, the elitist arrogance within their ranks that so offended outsiders. The sergeants were more sober in their demeanor, although their uniform close-clipped beards were equally a mark of belonging to the Temple.

  The wrestling match was still going on in the middle of the room. One man had already been thrown off his feet, and a shifting circle of onlookers milled about them, variously shouting oaths and encouragement. The Bruce had vanished, no sign of him to be seen, although he might simply have been hidden by the press of bodies.

  Looking at the array of clothing in the room, Will supposed that he might have seen a more riotous confusion of colors in France at some time, but he doubted it. Most of the men present were Highland Gaels, wrapped in plaids, their hair and beards unshorn, many of them even plaited into strips, and they were tricked out with barbaric jewelry and decorations ranging from eagle feathers to brightly woven sashes of startling hues.

  Will did not know what it was that captured his attention, but once aware of the man, he observed the fellow keenly. The man was too busy watching others to think of being noted himself. He was unremarkable, apart from being one of the few among the common throng who was not dressed as a Gael. Will could not see what he had on below the waist, but the man wore a plain thick tunic beneath a worn leather vest, and his head was bare, showing a balding scalp and stringy, nape-length brown hair. He had a beard and mustache, but both appeared sparse, as though his facial growth was light enough to deny or defy masculinity. But he was very interested in de Berenger and what the admiral was saying to his men … so interested that he was bending sideways from his chair to hear, while ludicrously attempting not to seem so.

  Will nudged Douglas to distract his attention from the brawl. “Don’t be obvious about it, but take a look over there, where de Berenger is talking to his men. See you the fellow craning to overhear them? Bare headed, balding, in the leather jerkin. Do you know him?”

  Douglas’s eyes slitted in concentration. “No, I don’t, but he is one of ours. From the mainland, I mean—a Lowlander, by his clothes. He must have come with Rob Boyd or one of the others. What about him?”

  “I don’t know, except something about him set my teeth on edge … the way he’s bent on hearing everything that’s being said over there. De Berenger is probably telling his men what he expects of them when they pull out later tonight, and it’s plain he has seen no reason to be secretive … but that made me think of what our friend from Annandale was saying, about how spies, traitors, and informers are everywhere in this land. If someone were to slip away from here with information on what is happening on Arran, he might earn a fine supply of English silver.”

  “Aye. Like Judas. I will ask about this fellow. And in the meantime, I will watch him like a hawk. They’re speaking French, are they not?”

  “What else? They’re all Frenchmen.”

  “Aye … so how then does a ragged Borders moss-trooper gain the skills to understand what they are saying? Dougald!”

  A huge man stood up from the table in front of the dais and lowered his head to what Douglas had to say. After a whispered monologue, he turned casually, glanced at the man Douglas had described, and nodded before sauntering away.

  Douglas turned back to Will. “You have a good eye, Sir William. By this time tomorrow morning we will know everything there is to know about our long-eared friend. Dougald’s lads will count the number of his breaths between now and then.” His eyes focused beyond Will’s shoulder. “I think we are about to be summoned.”

  THREE

  Only Will had been summoned, and he left Douglas at the dais and followed the man who had been sent to fetch him. They made their way up the wooden stairs to the gallery, threading their way between two burly characters who sat indolently on the stairs themselves, one above the other, and pulled their knees aside to let them pass.

  King Robert was waiting for him in the chamber they had met in earlier, sitting alone by the table, close to the replenished fire in the iron grate and staring into the flames as he scratched the head of a big, gray-haired wolfhound. He pushed the dog’s head away with a muttered command as Will entered, and it lay down at his feet. When the King stood and turned to face him, Will was immediately struck by the air of exhaustion that emanated from the man, but then the monarch drew himself erect, casting weariness aside like a discarded cloak, so that even the etched lines in his face seemed to recede and fill out.

  The King addressed the other man. “See to it that we are undisturbed. No one to come up here except David Moray, and him not for at least the next half hour.” He waited until the doors had closed before he next addressed Will. “De Moray’s a doughty fighter, but his head is even longer and sharper than his sword, so we’ll be glad of his advice.”

  The King hauled his heavy chair to one side of the fire. “Throw your coat on the table and sit with me, Sir William. Pull a chair up to the fire. It gets cold these nights, with the wind off the water, and I find myself being grateful to the English for their need to build sound flues to hold big fires. Were it left to my Scots, we would be squatting now in the open air, wishing for firewood. There is some wine on the sideboard. Help yourself and sit down, sit down. Is the admiral away?”

  “Preparing to leave, Sire. I left him chivvying his men. He will be at sea within the hour, or close to it.” Will eschewed the offer of wine and did as bidden, tossing his folded mantle onto the tabletop and dragging a heavy chair close to the fire.

  “Good, that pleases me,” the King said. “I like that man. Now, before anything else, tell me about this treasure that you bring to me. Jamie was agog with it, but wouldn’t tell me of amounts, probably for fear of listening ears. He’s aey canny that way. You say it has been sent by Lady Jessica Randolph?”

  “Aye, Sire, the Baroness St. Valéry. But it was not sent. It was brought.”

  “What? She is in Scotland?”

  “She is, aboard one of our galleys. We did not expect to find you on Arran, you understand. I merely came in search of a safe anchorage and, I hoped, a tolerant
reception. Once we knew what we were doing, I would have headed to the mainland in search of you, and the Baroness would have come with me, making her way homeward from wherever we landed.”

  “Then it was fortunate that I was here, for you would have found scant welcome in Scotland. Every castle left standing, save Inverness, and every single harbor is in English hands, though by the will of God, this money you have brought may make it possible to change such things. How much is there?”

  “Eleven heavy chests of specie, Sire, six of gold and five of silver, each in bars and coin.”

  “Glory be!”

  “It should meet your needs, for a while at least.”

  “And it could not have come at a better time. I have broadswords to buy, forbye fighting men to wield them. But we will talk more of this later. In the meantime, we have other matters to discuss.” He broke off and stared into the fire for some moments before continuing. “Davie Moray was right when he said that your presence here brings me problems, but I have been neck deep in problems since the day I took the Crown, and they are seldom insoluble—albeit time is the one thing I never have enough of.

  “If I remember rightly, you have somewhere in the range of a thousand men with you—galley crews, mariners, the garrison from La Rochelle, and your brother’s men. A round thousand, give or take, am I correct?” Will nodded, and the Bruce did, too. “Aye. Tell me, then, if I were to suspend all my concerns and give you leave to stay and shelter here in Arran, what would you do next?” Perhaps to give Will time to think, he bent forward to throw a fresh log on the fire, then pressed it into place with one foot before sitting back in his chair. “I ask that for a reason, for the first thing I learned commanding men in war was that as easy it as it may be to raise an army, the task of feeding them for any length of time will break your heart and wear you out. Have you thought of that? For let me tell you, you could hide your men from all the world on Arran, but there is precious little here to eat. There are trees and stones to build huts and shelters, and sedge for thatching them, and peat to burn in their hearths, but there is little land suitable for farming, and less in the way of creature comforts. How would you feed your people, were you free to bide here?”