Order in Chaos tt-3

by Jack Whyte

  “I have had a thought or two on that.” Moray raised both hands in front of his face and turned them back and forth, scrutinizing them, then bent forward to look across the King to where Will sat. “Sir William, you have no beard.”

  Will raised a hand to scratch at his stubbly chin. “I will have, soon enough. I had to shave it off a few weeks ago.”

  “And why would you do that? I thought a Templar’s beard was sacrosanct.”

  Will almost grinned, his lips twisting in wry agreement. “Most people think so, my lord, but it is merely an affectation. The tonsure is sacrosanct, but the forked beard is no more than a tradition born out of the desert wars in Outremer, and it is one to which I refuse to subscribe. I wear a plain beard, uncut, but unforked, too. I shaved it off with scarce a thought when necessity demanded it.”

  “Necessity?”

  “I had a need to pass unnoticed among de Nogaret’s men.”

  “Ah!” Moray sat back in his chair, apparently satisfied, but Bruce was not.

  “What was all that about?” He glared from one of them to the other.

  Moray merely glanced at him. “Did you not hear? I was asking Sir William about his beard.”

  “I know that, man, but why?”

  The Bishop raised his eyebrows. “Because I need to think, and pray over the thoughts. I shall tell you all about it tomorrow.” He leaned forward to address Will again. “I meant what I said earlier, you know, about the Pope and the King of France. Neither of them will be happy when they learn that you are here and that King Robert has granted you sanctuary. King Philip will be greatly vexed, if what you say is true. Perhaps even more than the Pope.”

  “Why do you say that, my lord?”

  “Because if he and his man de Nogaret were as successful in his coup against the Temple as you suspect, then your escape with the fleet would, in all probability, be the single greatest error of that day. Philip Capet is not a man to enjoy failure—especially so public a failure, with the plain proof of it abroad in other lands. He will not look kindly upon the King of Scots—a suitor for his assistance—granting any kind of clemency to his quarry.”

  “Not clemency, my lord Bishop. Sanctuary.”

  “Think you King Capet will see the difference?” Moray’s eyebrows had risen even higher with his astonishment.

  Will looked crestfallen. “No, sir, he will not.” He hesitated, looking at Moray. “King Capet, you called him. Have you met the man?”

  “Aye, three times. I still believe him more statue than flesh and blood. But that is neither here nor there. This sanctuary you have won may cost King Robert dearly.”

  “Let King Robert fret over that,” the monarch answered. “Tell us about the Pope. You said he would be more vexed than Philip. How could that be?”

  Moray twisted sideways in his seat to look at his friend. “Do you really have to ask that? He has declared you excommunicate, Robert, and with you all the people of this realm. That means damned: condemned and excluded from the affairs of Christian men and from the sacraments of Holy Church. No Eucharist. No penance, absolution, or salvation. No marriages, nor burials in consecrated ground. And withal a complete lack of hope.” He looked over to Will. “The sole thing standing between His Grace here and the weight of that anathema is the intervention of the body of the Church itself in Scotland. We, the bishops of the realm, are his only shield, and we ourselves are divided by loyalties, for and against the Bruce claim to the Crown. Mind you, the dispute of that claim is impious, since His Grace is now God’s Anointed, duly crowned and ratified at Scone by the senior prelates in the realm, the Primate himself, Archbishop of St. Andrews, presiding.”

  He turned back to Bruce, who was rubbing a knuckle against the tip of his nose. “Can you not see it, Sire? If Pope Clement has permitted this outrage against a vested Order of Holy Church, then he will feel his guilt, but being the weak man that he is, he will do nothing to stop the travesty. He dare not take a stance against the King—he never has and never will—unless and until Philip does something to push even him beyond endurance. And even then, Clement might submit. But we in Scotland here, the bishops of the realm, are too convenient a target for his guilty wrath. We have managed to placate him to this point, and to stay him with sound arguments, submitting that he could have been misled and that the events in question were deliberately misrepresented by your enemies for political gain. And we have been able to do that because all of us believe what we say—Lamberton, Wishart, myself, and the other bishops who stand with us. But if Clement hears of this sanctuary he will see it as sheer defiance of his authority and he will be greatly tempted to make example of us, claiming disobedience to his papal will and citing this sanctuary, plus our former arguments on your behalf, as evidence. Our voices and our powers would be then annulled … and you can rest assured the King of France will see to it that Clement vents his anger on us. And once that happens—the which may God forbid—your entire realm will lie under anathema, condemned to Hell in this life.” He allowed his words to hang in the air, then concluded, “And that is why I spoke of dealing with the needful rather than the obvious.”

  He rose abruptly to his feet, moving to collect his sword from where it stood in the corner, then slinging it by its belt over one shoulder before crossing to gather up his coat of mail from the table, speaking over his shoulder as he did so. “I am going to pray for a while, and then to sleep. Do you both the same. Tomorrow, in the bright of God’s daylight, I shall tell you what is needful and, pray God, what might be possible. Until then, a peaceful night to both of you.”

  “Wait you, Davie.” Moray had opened the door to leave, but turned on the threshold, looking back at the monarch. “I would be greatly obliged were you to postpone your prayers for a wee bit longer. There is still much to be said between us this night, and it would vex me to lose the gist of what I am thinking. Bide a while longer, if you will.” Moray closed the door again, shutting out the muted sounds of music and raised voices that drifted up from downstairs, and the Bruce, listening to it idly, raised an eyebrow in mild surprise.

  “Well, they’re still going strong down there. It must be less late than I thought …” He turned again to Will. “Sir William, what think you of our warrior bishop? Did I not say he has a long head on him?”

  Will looked a little bemused. “You did, Your Grace.” He turned then to Moray. “Forgive me, my lord Bishop, but the last part of what you said was lost to me. What were you talking about, if I am permitted to ask?”

  Bruce grinned and bent forward from the waist, his eyes on Moray but his words meant for Will. “Needful things, he said. Davie’s clever.” His grin widened at the frown on Moray’s face. “And, Davie, truth to tell, I ha’e little more idea than Will of what you meant.” He winked at Will. “But if we dinna deal with it tonight, he will tell us when he thinks fit, sometime tomorrow. Your fleet will be here the morning after that, but in the meantime, I’ll be away again. Another will be coming in tomorrow, from the north.”

  “Another fleet?”

  “Aye. Angus Og’s. Good sense, as we see it, might dictate that he come alone, or wi’ a small escort, but Angus Og willna play that game. He will bring his fleet, you mark my words. His Highland pride will not permit him to do otherwise. He willna stoop to be seen as scuttling about in his own domain, God save his wit. Anyway, he’s on his way to pick me up again and carry me around the south end of Kintyre, then up the coastal passage through the Firth of Lorn and Loch Linne to the start of the great Glen. We hold it now, and Moray’s men are waiting there for us, along with Neil Campbell’s and a contingent of MacGregors. Davie here has raised the whole o’ Moray country to my cause, more men than I could find in all my own ruined lands of Annandale and Ayr. So we’ll march up the Glen again to Inverness, where we’ll join with the men of Mar and Atholl, and with the grace of God, Clan Fraser. From there we will strike east, into the Comyn country of Buchan. The Earl of Buchan is a proud, unbending man, arrogant and filled wi’ sel
f-righteous scorn, but he will pay me fealty, or he will die, for good and ample cause.”

  “When will you leave?”

  “Tomorrow, as soon as may be.” He smiled again, fleetingly, but generating the same lightening of lines and years as earlier. “But not before Davie tells us what is needful. I have little time these days, and none at all to waste. I came back here to reaffirm James Douglas as Guardian of the Southwest, and to give him further instructions on what I shall require of him these coming weeks. That is done. He has a full eight hundred men now under his command, two hundred here, the rest awaiting him near Turnberry, on the mainland. He’ll pick up more as he moves inland through my own country, now that the word of our recent successes has had time to spread. His foremost task will be to keep the King’s peace, mainly by keeping the MacDowals on their toes, though he’ll harass the English garrisons forbye.”

  “And will he leave a holding force here on Arran?”

  “Aye, he will.”

  “No need for that if we are here. He could take all his men with him in that case.”

  “He could if he had room for them.”

  “He could use a couple of my ships in addition to his own.”

  “Aye, there is that.” Bruce paused, considering. “You understand that there is still a chance that I might needs refuse your request? If Davie comes up with some difficulty that canna be set aside, I may have to heed him.”

  Will nodded. “I understand that.”

  The King ignored Moray’s gathering scowl. “But let us suppose he does no such thing. Then I will inform Sir James that you have my permission to remain on Arran, under sanctuary. But what will you do after that?”

  “I have my work cut out for me, my lord. My men have been cooped up aboard ship for weeks on end. By the time they land, they will be unruly and ripe for mischief. My first task will be to rein them in. And I have more than twenty Temple knights in my care—no small responsibility and no laughing matter. Our sergeants can be quickly disciplined, but Temple knights, as you may or may not know, can be … difficult. They have a tendency to arrogance and pride. They are contentious and overbearing at the best of times, and they may think, some of them, at least, that the recent events in France and the removal of their superiors’ authority, no matter how temporary, absolved them of responsibility to their sworn duties. My first task will be to curb them and remind them of their solemn vows, and then I will have to break them to renewed monastic discipline, re-establish life according to the Temple Rule. And then there are the lay brothers, a score and a half of them. I must set them busy, too, building a house for us and setting up a core about which the monastic discipline can revolve.”

  “You can use this place for the time being. It has kitchens, and most of Jamie’s men already sleep in it, but it will lie empty when they leave. Do you have builders with you?”

  “House builders and masons? A few, but we have ships’ carpenters and willing workers and men who know how to erect a shelter. We will manage.”

  “Make sure they build your stables first. Your horses will need shelter from the winter storms. Will you hold my treasure here for me?”

  Will looked over in surprise. “Of course. You will be gone when it arrives.”

  “I will, but even were I not, I would be loath to take it with me aboard MacDonald’s galleys. Too visible, too much temptation. Forbye, I’m sailing first, but then I’ll be afoot, marching through hostile country towards war … an ill time and place to be carrying heavy treasure.”

  “I’ll see it kept safe for you, Sir King.”

  “Good man. I’ll have Jamie collect it at some future date, when I can tend to it as it deserves.” He yawned and stretched, then looked at the dying fire. “I need to sleep, my friend, and so do you. There’s a room next door ready for you, though you’ll have to share wi’ Jamie Douglas.” He smiled again. “But it has two cots. And now I’ll bid ye a good night, for I do have vexing matters to discuss wi’ his Lordship Davie here. We will deal wi’ his needful things tomorrow, the three of us. Sleep well, Sir William Sinclair.”

  FOUR

  Will rolled from his cot long before dawn to find a candle burning in a sconce, and no sign of Douglas, who had shared the room with him. He doused his face with ice-cold water from the pitcher on the table, then realized that there was no toweling with which to dry himself. Containing his annoyance, he dried his hands and face on his bedding, thinking it strange that he had not heard Douglas rise or leave, but when he thrust a hand into the bedding on the young knight’s cot he found no trace of warmth. Surprised, he dressed himself fully and made his way downstairs, expecting to find Douglas there, but there was no sign of him. Aside from a busy work crew, the place was empty, its erstwhile inhabitants already scattered to meet the working day.

  The great hall, lit by flickering torches and a replenished fire, had already been cleared of any sign that it had ever been a dormitory. The main doors were propped open to let in the cold, pre-dawn air, and the tables and benches had been hauled aside and stacked in their storage spaces. A crew of cleaners was clearing out the old, dried rushes from the floor, sending up clouds of dust, and at their backs another group was spreading a fresh mat of green rushes underfoot. The far side room to the left of the main doors had tables in it and had already been much used as a breakfast room, and Will was grateful to see that there was still food available and helped himself to a bowl of thick, hot oatmeal porridge that he cooled liberally with fresh goat’s milk.

  Afterwards, seeing no one that he recognized, and feeling unaccountably lost and lonely as the only Templar among so many strangers, he went outside at daybreak and walked down to the parapet overlooking the bay, where he saw one of the men he had met the previous night, one of the Gaelic chieftains of the Campbell party who had spoken to him in Scots rather than the unintelligible Gaelic. The fellow was peering intently out to sea and muttering to himself as Will approached, and when he looked to see what the man had noticed in the strengthening light, he was alarmed to see a pair of boats half a mile away, dancing dangerously in turbulent waves and far too close to the rocks at the base of the cliffside that dropped steeply into the sea.

  “In God’s name,” he asked, “what are they doing over there?”

  The fellow looked at him askance. “Ah,” he said in Scots. “It’s yourself. They’re fishing.”

  “In that sea? They’ll be killed.”

  “Nah, they’re finished now, coming back in. They found a shoal. We’ll eat well tonight.”

  “What kind of shoal?”

  “Fish!” The man looked at him as if he were soft in the head, then turned away to shout—uselessly, Will thought—at the men in the distant boats, who, it transpired, were his own.

  Will watched with him for a long time as the boats fought their way back to the beach below, wallowing heavily in the choppy swell, and then he went down through the wall gate with the Gael and gazed in stupefaction at the sight of thousands of foot-long silver fish being unloaded from among the feet of the rowers, scooped and shoveled from the bottom of the two craft and thrown onto the graveled beach, their shed scales leaving the wooden interiors of both craft shimmering and crusted with a metallic coating. It was a miraculous catch. He could tell that from the excitement of the men working around him as they scrambled knee deep in breaking waves to keep the fish from escaping back into the water. They were throwing and scooping the squirming, leaping creatures high, tossing them up onto drier land away from the water’s edge, where others, whooping wildly, caught them and threw them into sturdy baskets hurriedly brought down from the kitchens. Will found himself responding to the excitement and had to restrain himself from leaping into their midst like a small boy and joining in the frenzy of collection.

  When the last basket of fish was carried away he was left standing alone on the beach’s silvered edge, lost in a swirling torrent of thoughts that tumbled over one another and swept his mind along without rhyme or reason. The boyhood memo
ries that the fisher folk had evoked gave way to memories of joining the Order of Sion at boyhood’s end, at the age of eighteen, of being sent to join the Temple, and of how he had begun to struggle with the lore and the advanced mysteries of the Order of Sion, all the time advancing through the Temple hierarchy. For a while he found himself plunged back into the struggles they had had in trying, vainly, to stop the spread of Islam from northern Africa across the narrow seas into Iberia.

  The waves swirled around his soles, shifting the pebbles on which he stood, and he turned away to climb the sloping foreshore towards the palisaded fort. He was through the gate and just starting up the flight of stone steps that led up to the forecourt of the hall when he heard yet another commotion erupt ahead of him, beyond the stairs. The sounds cut through the drifting eddies in his mind and snapped him back to the present. He lengthened his step and bounded up the stairs, fearing what he would find up there, and sure enough, a mile beyond where the fishing boats had been, the line between sea and sky was obscured by an irregular mass of angular shapes: masts and billowing sails upon which he could clearly see the emblem Bruce had described the night before, the galley symbol of Angus Og MacDonald, stark in its blackness against the whitened sails that bore it.

  More and more men were crowding around him, obscuring his vision as they bobbed and weaved for a sight of the distant fleet, and he saw Tam Sinclair among them. He waited to catch his kinsman’s eye, then waved him over.

  “Good day to you,” he growled when Tam reached his side. “You look … fresh. What were you up to last night?”

  Tam grinned down at the thronging clansmen. “Among this crew? What would you think? I supped well, played a few games of dice and lost, then had the best night’s sleep I’ve had since leaving La Rochelle. On a tabletop on a floor that didna budge or sway once in the whole night. Whose ships are those?”