by Jack Whyte
FIVE
As soon as the doors swung closed, Will looked directly at Baron Dutoit. “Have you any resolu-
tion for me on the matter of releasing men from their vows? Guidance, counsel, opinions, advice? Anything will be welcome, for I confess I am utterly lost in this.”
“Words,” the Baron responded. “We have words. Nothing more, nothing less. Together, they address all your requests, from guidance to advice. But the decisions to be made are yours alone. You might take comfort, though, from knowing that many of the most astute members of our brotherhood have been working together on your dilemma, seeking to determine the best route for you to follow here in your tiny community in exile. Simon and I have been involved in those discussions, and that, more than any other reason, is why we are here in person. The retelling of the history of this past year was important, certainly. But what we are really here to discuss is the course of action that lies ahead of you, here on your island of Arran and in Scotland. We hear all the time about how things are changing in this modern world we live in, and it is true that many things are changing, visibly and noticeably. But this change we are living through now is epoch making. Our world—your world in particular, as a Templar—has changed forever. And the changes are numerous, enormous, widespread, and, we believe, permanent. They are certainly so in France, and the rest of Christendom is bound to follow.”
He glanced then at de Montferrat, who grunted and took over from him smoothly. “We are here to remind you of your roots, Will: of where you came from, who you really are. Not because we think you have forgotten any of it, but simply because you have spent so long now with your energies dedicated entirely to the welfare of the Temple and your Templars that we suspect you might have lost your perspective. We are not here to criticize you or your conduct. You have done nothing wrong. But we are here to realign your thinking … your line of sight … and to adjust your mental point of view. Are you prepared for that?”
Will had been leaning forward in his chair, listening intently, a small frown of concentration drawing his brows together. But his gaze had been focused on the long table by the doors, where he had left his sword belt when he entered, and now, instead of answering directly, he stood up and crossed to the table, where he unsheathed his long sword and swung it several times with exaggerated slowness, testing the weight of the weapon and the accuracy of his swings.
“Do you know how long it has been since I last swung a sword in earnest?” He did not wait for an answer. “I’m not exactly sure of what you mean by ‘adjusting my mental point of view,’ but the prospect does not trouble me. I am prepared for whatever you might wish to put to me.”
“Good. Etienne?”
Baron Dutoit stepped forward and held out his hand for Will’s sword, which he then proceeded to use in formal exercise, stepping through the prescribed rules of attack and defense in a way that proved he still knew what he was about with a blade in his hand. He stopped after completing a basic pattern of moves and held the weapon upright in his hands, gazing up at its shining tip, then deftly spun it and reversed his grip, pointing the blade downward and grasping it in both hands about a foot below the cross-hilt, so that it resembled a crucifix held up in front of his face, between him and Will.
“Do you remember this? This symbol? Do you remember what you learned of it when you joined our brotherhood—that it was then and is now other than it seems today? Do you recall the teachings you received about our forefathers and whence they came? Do you remember learning, and believing, that the Cross that Christians revere is a fabrication, an appropriation of the Cross of Light that was the symbol of the Roman god Mithras, adopted and adapted to men’s use today by other men who knew the power of symbols and sought to convert the followers of Mithras—which was, effectively, every soldier in the legions—to Christianity?
“And do you remember learning, and coming to believe, that Christianity itself is a usurpation and distortion of the Way our ancestors followed? The same sacred Way that the man Jesus and his brother James pursued and the secrets of which they died defending? A usurpation because it was taken from the Jews, then stripped of every vestige of its Jewishness, and a distortion because it was thereafter scrubbed and cleansed and reconstituted free of any Jewish taint that the Romans might find offensive, including the person and character of Jesus himself? Do you remember that? Any of it?”
Will, taken aback by the quiet ferocity of this sudden catechism, could only raise his hands as if in self-defense. “Of course I do. I remember all of it.”
“Then the time has come to start living your true life, as one of us, a Brother of the Order of Sion.”
“Do you doubt that I have been doing so?”
“No, not at all. But we believe you need to see things afresh, beginning now.”
“We. You mean you and Sir Simon?”
“No. I mean we and all your peers in the brotherhood. That is the message we bring to you: it is time to take stock of what remains to you and your people here on Arran.”
“All that remains to us, from what you have told us today, is our freedom, and we are fortunate to have that. But what use is freedom if we cannot exercise it?”
“That is true. As things stand now, your freedom is constrained. But that is why we are here, Simon and I. Unless you take steps to alter fate, you will have only the freedom to die off, one by one, until the last of you disappears. You know that already. We were greatly encouraged to see that you had already given this matter much thought before reporting your concerns, because you are correct in thinking that your younger men, at least, should be released from their oath of chastity. Without the ability to procreate, you and your charges will soon be left with no one to whom you can entrust your legacy.”
Will frowned again, more deeply now. “What legacy is that?”
“Your legacy as Templars … the last free Templars. After two hundred years, is that not worth preserving?”
Now Will threw up his hands in exasperation. “I certainly think so … of course I do. But you have just finished telling me it is time to leave all that behind.”
“Did I say that? No. What I said was that it is time to start living your true life again, as one of our brotherhood before all else. But that does not entail abandoning any of the responsibilities that are yours. It involves rethinking them and rearranging them, but there can be no question of abandoning your charges.”
“No more than there can be of releasing my men from their oaths of chastity and then expecting them to remain on Arran.”
Now it was the Baron’s turn to frown, tilting his head slightly to one side. “I don’t follow.”
“I did not expect you to, Baron. But there are no women on Arran. Or only very few, wives of the inhabitants, most of whom have long since crossed to the mainland. There are certainly no young women here, of childbearing age.” He shrugged. “Therefore, if we release our monks from their vow of chastity—even ignoring the fact that most would refuse, along with all the other reasons why such a course would be sheer folly—they would have to leave the island in search of wives, which would decrease our numbers and hasten the end of us.”
The Baron, clearly in need of guidance, looked at his friend de Montferrat, and Sir Simon spoke up.
“When you say ‘the end of us,’ you are referring to the Temple brethren here, is that not so?”
“Of course.”
“But us, to us, refers to our more ancient fraternity of Sion. The Temple, the entire Order since its initiation, has been but a means to an end for us … a convenient way of masking ourselves and our true endeavors from view. There is no end in sight for us, in that sense. Our existence is undreamed of beyond our own brotherhood and our work remains ongoing. That is why we are here, urging you to take appropriate steps to protect yourselves. Your very presence here, ostensibly as Templars, extends the presence of our true Order in this land, for besides yourself and those brothers here among your number, there are fewer than a score
of our brothers in Sion in all Scotland. And yet our dearest and most precious possessions, the source of all our efforts, are now here, under your protection.”
“The Treasure chests,” Will murmured, then nodded. “Aye, they are, for the time being.”
“Of course. They will be returned to France and to safety when the time is right, but in the light of current developments it would be folly to risk bringing them back there today. And so you, my young friend, must stay here. That is your charge from your brothers in Sion. And you must prosper here—that is even more important. Our Order needs you here, enlarging and exercising your influence with the King of Scots and his nobles.”
Will shook his head. “But what has that to do with releasing the brethren from the vow of chastity? I fail to see the connection.”
De Montferrat grunted, then sucked in a great breath, clearly willing himself to patience. “Templars take three vows, Will. Which of those takes precedence?”
“Obedience.”
“Precisely. Now, as Master in Scotland, you have supreme power over all of the Templars here. We will find the proper way to explain the situation to them, and though you may be right and many may refuse to renounce their oath, some of them will. But those who do will yet be constrained to obey your commands as Master, and those commands will instruct them to find wives, wherever they can, and then return with them to Arran, where they will still be accepted as members of the community. I am not saying it will be simple to achieve. But I am saying it is necessary.”
“No, by God! Think of what you are saying, both of you … By relieving these men of the need to observe one vow, we debase all three. How can we say in conscience and with authority that one lifetime vow is less important than another, that we will absolve them of the sin of oath breaking in one instance, yet hold them to the sanctity of the others? It makes no sense. It is illogical.”
“Aye, it is. But the lack of logic is not ours. It is the logic of the world within which they have elected to live that has gone awry. We are all sinners. That they know, as Christians. But in this present case they have been punished and condemned by the very authorities they have spent their lives defending: the Church and the society in which they lived and served faithfully. Their priests, from the highest down, have betrayed them mercilessly and callously, and their King, to whom admittedly they swore no allegiance, has declared them treasonous, fit only for torture and the flames of death. If they hold dear to anything now, it must be to themselves and to the thought of survival, for themselves and their ideals. And that survival entails the getting of children to follow them into a new life. These are men who would have gladly died for their beliefs, fighting for Christianity and its beliefs. And now they are declared anathema by the governing body of that Christianity, deprived of any say in their own lives. Believe me, they will listen, and they will understand. And if one-tenth of them accept your absolution, that will make a score of new families here in Scotland. Families who may be taught the truth.”
“The Christian truth, you mean.”
“Aye. Our own truth is not Christian. But the Templars in Scotland must endure, by whatever means they must employ.”
“But still it seems impossible to do what you suggest. There has never been such a thing happen before … the lifting of a collective vow.”
“Not true … or not exactly true. Larger changes have been made. Never in history, you may recollect, had any cleric, any priest or monk, been permitted to kill any man prior to the founding of the Temple Order. But when the time was right and circumstances called for drastic change, that law, which had been immutable since the foundation of the Christian Church, was changed to meet the new requirements of the age. And monks and priests acquired a dispensation that required, even encouraged, them to kill in God’s name. That change, requiring sweeping alterations to what had been God’s own commandment, makes your current dilemma seem very small.”
“Aye, when put like that, it does. We must disappear, then …” Will was aware of both men’s eyes on him, and shrugged. “Something I was told by a churchman here … something with which I agreed at the time.” He fell silent, musing, then looked from one of his mentors to the other. “So, do you and your Council really believe this is achievable, all that we have talked about?”
It was Etienne Dutoit who answered him. “We do, on the most fundamental level. And we will place the entire resources of our Order at your disposal.”
“To save the remnants of the Temple …”
“To save it and preserve it. And we will send you aid, in the form of bright young men from France, the best of the best of the Order of Sion, all of them married men with young families. Scotland and France—our France, our Order’s France—will be allies in this renaissance.”
Again Will sat in silence for a long time, but then he straightened his back and nodded resolutely. “Very well, then. It will not be easy, but it will be done. So mote it be!”
SIX
For perhaps the tenth time in the course of four hours, Will Sinclair flipped over the carefully wrapped oblong packet on the tabletop in front of him. The smooth front bore only his name, written in a hand he recognized with mixed feelings. The reverse bore only a wax seal, impressed with a smooth, blank stamp, and he fought hard against the inclination to break it open and read the letter folded inside. He could not guess why it had been sent, and for some reason he felt reluctant to open it and find out. The woman who had penned it had been in his mind for months, with increasing regularity and utterly against his volition. Her face would appear in his mind unpredictably and at the strangest times, and he had awaked several times from a sound sleep with the memory of her form and the warmth of her skin imprinted on his befuddled awareness. And now, sitting staring at her letter, he acknowledged to himself that his unwilling preoccupation with her had increased since the day when he had released so many of his brethren from their vow of chastity.
He grunted, disgustedly, and flipped the letter again, staring now at the inscription of his own name in the exact center of the flawless vellum sheet. It had been delivered to him that morning by a young man who had arrived aboard de Berenger’s galley, returning from the Galloway coast where the admiral had been meeting with Edward Bruce and Douglas for the previous month. Both leaders, Will now knew, had been in the north all that time, campaigning with the King against the MacDougalls of Argyll. De Berenger himself had been up there, sailing the sea lochs in support of the royal forces, and brought word of a recent victory for the King’s forces, led by the King himself, with his fiery brother and James Douglas in support, at a mountain pass called Brander—the supposedly impregnable rear entrance to the Argyll lands. The taking of the pass, largely due to the genius and improvisation of Douglas, had permitted the invasion of Argyll itself, and the confusion and confoundment of Lame John of Lorn, who had thought his rear secure.
And with that news had come this other missive: a single package brought by a wide-eyed, earnest, and very young man called Randolph, cousin to the Baroness. He had ridden from Nithsdale, he said, at the behest of his lady cousin, with specific instructions to seek out the acting commander of the Bruce army in the south and secure a passage to Arran aboard the next ship sailing there. He had waited for two weeks on the coast until the admiral’s galley returned, and had then crossed the firth aboard it.
Now, with a muttered imprecation, Will pushed himself to his feet, leaving the letter on the tabletop, and crossed to the narrow window, where he leaned on the sill, gazing out at the activities of his men in the yard below.
More than a month had elapsed since the arrival of Dutoit and de Montferrat. In the course of that time, in a closed plenary meeting of the combined Arran chapters, convened in the three-day turnover when one expedition returned from riding with the King of Scots and before their replacements had left for the mainland, Will had outlined his intentions to his Templars. Assisted by Admiral de Berenger and several other senior members of the community, and p
roceeding slowly and patiently so that even the least gifted of his people could understand what was being said and what it meant, Will had explained the situation now in force in their homeland, with particular and detailed emphasis on exactly how, and how profoundly, those truths had come to affect the life of each and every individual Templar on Arran. And towards what would have been the end of the proceedings, he explained his intentions on the matter of releasing the Arran brethren from their vow of chastity.
He had anticipated strenuous opposition from all sides, but mainly from the three Templar bishops in his community, and from the Boar de Pairaud and his adherents, so he had been at pains to consult with them first, seeking their advice long before making his announcement to the chapter. But to his profound astonishment, not one of them had raised a single quibble. They had asked some penetrating and profoundly concerned questions—particularly on the theological improbability of being able to choose between vows already taken, rejecting one completely while conforming to the others with equanimity—but when he answered all of them straightforwardly, they had, as one man, acceded to his wishes. It was not they who had elected to usurp God’s will in the first place, as one of the bishops pointed out. God’s own churchly deputy had opted to revise the rules governing the worship of his divine Master, and the Templars had merely responded sanely, in self-preservation.
When he made his presentation to the remainder of the brethren, however, his proposal sparked a debate that went on long into the night before it gained acceptance. The vast majority of those assembled were too firmly set in their ways and had no interest in being released from their vow, for any reason, but fifty-seven of the younger brethren accepted, some of them eagerly, some complacently, most with varying degrees of reluctance. Will had been unsurprised, but slightly disappointed against all logic, that the former rebel Martelet had been among the first to accept, although none of his erstwhile companions joined him.