Order in Chaos tt-3

by Jack Whyte

  Sir William

  I have little doubt but that you will be filled with outrage at my temerity in writing thus to you, but you will be aware, even now, that I am writing in the language of your latter years to some purpose. Should this letter fall into unfriendly hands, it is my sincere wish that it should remain incomprehensible to those who find it.

  I write to you from a place in Scotland’s northeastern lands, where it has been my honor and privilege, these past two months, to take part in tending to our King, who has been gravely ill but is now mending rapidly and regaining his former strength, to the joy of all around him and the great good fortune of his realm.

  I know the countryside is rife with rumors of my Lord’s imminent demise, all kinds of lurid tales of grief and disaster being carried far and wide by people who know little of the truth. I know, too, from experience, of your uncomfortable situation on your far-off island there, and I have been concerned lest, hearing such tales, you may fear for the welfare of your charges there. If that has been the case, then put your mind at rest, Sir Knight, and know the truth: His Grace is well. The crisis is long past and the man himself recovering strongly enough to act the man and the King again, planning campaigns for the coming year with all his friends and commanders.

  Which leads to the main purpose of this letter: to inform you of affairs being planned. A delegation of powerful Frenchmen has been here. We have no knowledge of how they were able to trace His Grace’s whereabouts—a close-held secret—but they arrived in secrecy and departed again directly for France. The substance of their visit was to bruit the notion of an alliance between His Grace and France himself, Philip Capet, with the end of mounting a fresh crusade against the Moors in Spain. His Grace received them courteously, accompanied by only a few of his closest advisers. He told them that he would consider the matter, and that it appealed to him, but that his own realm is yet insufficiently strong to permit his soon departure from its shores. And then, as soon as they were gone, he sent for me and in a private audience told me what had transpired, after which he asked me to write this to you on his behalf, and in your native tongue, learned by me from my late husband’s family, explaining his thoughts to you while reassuring you that you and yours need have no immediate concerns, since it is unlikely that this matter will progress further for several years.

  From the viewpoint of diplomacy, this development has great political value—an open acknowledgment of His Grace’s kingship by the most powerful King in Christendom. It has equal, future value as a weapon against those who would see His Grace’s excommunication made permanent, since the joint leader of such a crusade could scarcely be condemned by Holy Church. But it also emphasizes the delicacy of your situation and his own in the face of your status as fugitives from France and Philip’s displeasure, for if that knowledge were to become widespread, it would endanger the proposed alliance. Therefore His Grace requests your increased concern in compliance with his wishes in the matter of disguising the identities of your people on the island—an assurance I have already tendered with confidence on your behalf. He has no doubts that you will honor his wishes, but merely wished to draw attention to their increased importance in the face of this approach from France.

  I have great respect and liking for this man. I met him, as you might already know, soon after leaving your island, led to do so by Sir James himself, and His Grace honored me at that time by requesting that I accept the guardianship of his young niece, Marjorie, the illegitimate daughter of his beloved brother Nigel, dead at the hands of the English torturers. The child is one of the few remaining female relatives left free in his whole family, and he believes she might remain safe with me, since I am but new-come from France and few know much about me. Accordingly, she has now become my niece, adopted by me in France and brought here in my train, and when we leave here, she will come with me to my family’s home in the valley of the River Nith, near Dumfries town.

  Thus I am well, and greatly honored on a number of counts, and my task here in the north is almost done, this letter being almost the last of my self-imposed duties. Sir James is here with His Grace for several days and has promised me that he will deliver this to you when next he travels near your place of refuge. I promise you that upon my return to my home in Nithsdale, a mere day’s travel from where you are, I will make no further effort to distract you from your humorless and all-consuming duties. But I hope that you might some day think of me, despite all your stern disapproval and imposed restrictions, as your friend,

  Jessica Randolph de St. Valéry

  FIVE

  Will folded the letter up carefully and went to have his bath. From the first words of the letter, he had lost awareness that it had been written by a woman, his entire attention given to the content rather than the sender. The news of the French King’s approach to Bruce troubled him only briefly, the generosity of his nature accepting the importance of the gesture to the King of Scots. And he decided that it could do no harm to reinforce his instructions on their need for anonymity on Arran. He owed that much to Bruce, he knew, for any failure by the Arran Templars to achieve complete invisibility in the eyes of the idly curious could cause the King of Scots unnecessary and embarrassing discomfiture.

  Then, his decision made, he dressed in fresh, dry clothing and summoned his senior officers into conference. There he outlined what he had been told and asked each of them to think of any difficulties that they might have overlooked in putting his earlier instructions into practice. Did they believe they had they been entirely successful, he asked, in hiding any and all signs that might identify their men as monks of the Order?

  There was, he was told, only the matter of the mutinous monk, Martelet, who was still imprisoned, with a full month more of solitary confinement ahead of him. The man, Will was told, was still recalcitrant, refusing to acknowledge that he had done anything wrong.

  As soon as the meeting was concluded, Will went down to the cells and confronted Martelet, who looked as he might be expected to look after a month of being confined in a tiny cell, deprived of any means of cleansing himself. Will dismissed the sergeant on guard duty, then crossed the floor in two paces to stand in front of the bars, gazing at the prisoner, who glowered back at him without speaking. Will stared at the man for a long time, watching his eyes and seeing no signs of yielding there—no hint of indecision or regret.

  “You look unhappy, and you have served only half your sentence. I will take care to avoid seeing you as you approach the next month’s end.” He waited then, but Martelet made no sign of having heard a word.

  “You are a fool, you know. There is no one here to overhear us, and I am telling you, man to man, that you are a fool. You are also a mutinous, arrogant ingrate and a disgrace to our Order.”

  That won him a response, as Martelet straightened up and almost spat at him. “You would not dare speak thus were there no bars between us!”

  “Twice a fool now. It was I who put you in here, you may recall. I bested you out in the yard when you were armored, with a bare sword in your hand. I have no need to dare anything. You, on the other hand, must dare to change your attitude. I was not present when you were sentenced to be held here, nor had I any voice in what transpired. That decision was made by your peers, the brethren you insulted by your arrogant attitude. But hear my voice in this: you cannot win in this case. You swore three oaths on entering this Order, and the greatest of the three was obedience—obedience to your superiors, and to the Rule that dictates the behavior of each of us. Your breach of that vow brought you here, to this. And your continuing rebellion can have but one sure end, for it will not be tolerated by your brothers—it cannot be, for the good of all. Thus, if you persist in this folly, you will end up being immured, like other disobedient souls before you. Think you to find any satisfaction in being walled up alive and left to die of thirst, and all for foolish pride?”

  He waited, expecting some response, but all he saw was a momentary flicker, perhaps doubt or fear,
behind the other’s angry eyes.

  “Wake up, Brother Martelet, and use the wits God gave you. We are not so many here that we can afford to lose a brother so needlessly, and absolution is not yet beyond your reach. Look at me now. No crossed surcoat, no mail, no forked beard, and no tonsure. But I am still the man I was a month ago and have been all my life. And I am Master here … Master in Scotland, as you yourself heard proclaimed. Beyond those doors at my back, your brethren are no different than they were, save that they, too, are dressed and armed and bearded as I am, their tonsures vanished. This was not done upon a whim. You heard the reasons announced before your trial and they are sound and solid, necessary to our continuing welfare. And still you choose to be obdurate, which makes me call you fool for your pride and stubbornness.”

  He stopped, for the space of a heartbeat, then continued. “Think on this. Promise me that you will never again lift your hand in violence against your brothers of the Order, agree to trim your beard and join your brethren again as an equal, and I will release you in good faith as soon as you summon me and say you will obey and observe the Rule again. But I warn you, Martelet, cross me in this and you will surely die thereafter, bricked up within a wall at the behest of your brethren. Summon me if you decide to be sensible.” And with that he spun on his heel and stalked out, signaling the waiting guard to resume his duties.

  Two days later, on a bright but cold afternoon, the summons came, brought to him by Tam, young Henry following at his heels like a watchful puppy. “Martelet’s asking for you. Will ye go?”

  Will set his sword and whetstone against the wall by the step where he had been sitting and stood up. “A bath, Tam, good and hot, as quick as you may.”

  “A bath? You had a bath three days ago!”

  “Not for me, man, for Martelet. He’s filthy and foul and hoaching with fleas and lice. Set out fresh clothing for him, too—I have plenty and to spare—then take the ones he will strip off away and burn them, fleas and all. Be quick now. Henry, you help him.”

  Mere moments later, Will was facing Martelet again though the bars of his cage. The prisoner’s face was calm now, showing no trace of the anger or bitterness that had marred it before. Will nodded to him. “Have you decided?”

  When Martelet spoke, his voice was as calm as his expression. “I have. I confess I have been arrogant, perhaps slightly mad, and my behavior inexcusable.”

  “Not inexcusable. It is pardoned.”

  “My thanks then. I would like you to know that I will not forswear myself in this. I will obey henceforth.”

  “So mote it be. Guard! Release the prisoner. I’ll wait outside, in the fresh air.” That last was to Martelet, who merely nodded and waited for the guard to open the door to his cage and unlock his chains.

  Several minutes later, he stood cringing in the bright afternoon light, holding both hands up to shield his eyes against the unaccustomed glare. Will gave him time to adjust to the brightness, then led him to his own quarters, where Tam and young Henry already had the wooden tub half full of steaming water.

  “Drop your clothing over there in the corner, then cleanse yourself in the bath. Be thorough. Use the soap. Everywhere. It is medicinal and will kill the vermin in your hair, both head and body. And have no fear, the water will not sap your strength or lay you open to the Devil’s wiles. There are fresh clothes on the chair there and those boots should fit you … and you’ll find trimming shears on that table by the wall. Tam will help you with the trimming, if you need him. When you are cleaned and ready, my squire here will bring you to me. I shall be in the preceptor’s quarters, with the preceptor himself, Admiral de Berenger, and Bishop Formadieu attending me. You will address your contrition to them, and they will absolve you of the remainder of your punishment, for you stand lawfully convicted and sentenced according to the Rule, and in seeking clemency you must now convince them, the senior brethren of our community, that your remorse and contrition is real and heartfelt. Farewell then. We will await you.”

  Within the hour, the thing was done. Martelet, scrubbed and trimmed and combed and freshly dressed in a simple tunic and leggings, looked like an entirely different person from the man they had all come to deplore in recent months, and the tribunal of senior brethren sat emotionlessly as he recanted his former behavior and asked humbly for reinstatement. The tribunal had few questions for him, contenting themselves with reminding him that he lived under oath and now upon their sufferance.

  Will was glad to see that de Montrichard, too, had undergone some kind of quiet transformation in the recent past. Gone was the diffidence and the air of indecisiveness that had marked the man and caused Will great concern since their departure from La Rochelle; the knight who stood here now was every inch the Temple preceptor, crisp, decisive, and authoritative, speaking from the full stature of his office. He reminded Martelet that he would undergo close scrutiny for the month to follow, and that, should his behavior be found wanting, he would return to the cell from which he had been released, to serve out twice the length of his full sentence. He warned him sternly to adhere strictly to the Order’s Rule henceforth, and then dismissed the case.

  Martelet stood hesitantly for several moments, clearly not quite believing that he had been pardoned and set free, and then he bowed deeply and thanked the tribunal for their clemency, before turning away and marching smartly from their presence. Only then did Will permit himself to relax, subsiding back into his chair and breathing a deep sigh. He would have been reluctant to cause the man’s death, but he would have had no option had Martelet chosen to remain obdurate.

  He barely noticed when the others began to stand up and move away, and by the time he did, his mind, freed from his concern over Martelet, had already moved on to other, less harrowing things, among them the impending arrival of the ship from the Mediterranean coast of France; the upcoming change of roster for the troops soon due to return from riding with the King on the mainland; the incongruous possibility of releasing his men from their oath of chastity—a thought that recurred to him from time to time nowadays but bore no real onus of consideration; and the troublesome matter of whether to respond to the letter from the Randolph woman. She had gone to considerable trouble to put his mind at ease on the matter of the King’s illness, and he felt both grateful that she had and guilty for the pleasure he had taken from it. But then he reminded himself that she had been ordered to do so, for all intents and purposes, by the Bruce himself. His decision not to respond was made as he grasped the wooden fists at the ends of his chair’s arms and levered himself up to follow the others to the refectory, only to find that Richard de Montrichard had stopped to wait for him in the doorway.

  “May I ask a question?” he asked, as though seriously awaiting a deliberated answer.

  “Of course. What is it?”

  The preceptor stepped aside to allow Will to pass, then fell into step beside him. “Idle curiosity, you might think, but it is not. How long do you believe it will take us, north and south, to implement all you designed for us before you went away last month? I can judge my own people’s progress, but you are the only one with an entire overview, and so I thought to ask you outright. My estimate would be four months from now.”

  Will looked at him. “For all of it, Lochranza included? No, Sir Richard, I fear you are being optimistic. The best I could guess at, to see this island settled to our satisfaction, would be half a year from now—high summer—and perhaps even longer. We have much to do, and it cannot all be done at once. We have buildings and barracks, bothies and byres to build.” He smiled at the preceptor’s blank-faced reaction to the Scots words, and kept on speaking. “And they have to be built well—roofed and snug against the weather all the year round. We’ll build them out of peat sod, so they’ll be solid, but we’ll have to dig the sod in the first place. We have to prepare beach sites, too, where our galleys and ships can be hauled ashore and their fouled bottoms scraped clean of barnacles and shellfish. That will take some work. There ar
e sufficient suitable sites around, but no one has ever had a need to shape them to such purposes, so we will have to start from the very beginnings on that project. The logging you are familiar with, but that will not last six months. De Pairaud’s master sawyer tells him we will have used up all the suitable trees within half that time, so after that, we will simply be sawing and stacking the remaining logs. And atop all of that, we have our community obligations and holy days, and our ongoing training to be dealt with, including the revolving roster of the troop accommodations between here and Scotland. No, my friend, trust me—we will be fortunate indeed if we are finished here within six months.”

  They had arrived at the doors to the refectory and went inside to find themselves late, one of the brothers already reading the day’s lesson to the silent assembly as the two most senior members of the community made their way in silence to their places.

  A CATALOGUE OF SINS

  ONE

  Jessie Randolph sat on a stone outcrop overlooking the vale of Nith, where the river meandered peacefully from the low hills to the north on its way past her home and to the Solway Firth and the English border, several miles to the south. She sat without moving, drinking in the scene before her and listening to the silence of the late-summer afternoon, a stillness broken only by the occasional shouts of the children playing on the hillside behind her and the incessant song of a single thrush perched somewhere on one of the low buildings two hundred paces away to her left. At her back, the sun was well into its decline, casting the shadows of the hillside down in front of her towards the river, and she felt a tingle of excitement stir in her stomach as she reached into the neck of her tunic and pulled out the soft cloth bag that nestled between her breasts, feeling the springy tension of the tightly rolled parchment it contained, and shivering as a sudden rush of gooseflesh swept over her shoulders and arms. The bag contained a letter, and its very existence seemed outrageous, waxing in significance now from moment to moment. Its content, and the tantalizing possibility of actually sending it off, made her stomach flutter in a way she had not experienced in years, since she was a young girl dreaming of her first love.