by Jack Whyte
“This is good. You have a brewer among your tenants?”
“Aye, my steward Hector. It is but one of his talents. But in truth he is the steward here, not mine at all. He serves my nephew Sir Thomas Randolph, whose house this is. I live here and care for the place on my nephew’s sufferance.”
He nodded, amiably. For a fraction of a moment she thought he was going to smile again, but the tic at the corner of his mouth faded before it could grow, although his eyes remained more tolerant than she had ever seen them in regard to her.
“Tell me then, if you will, what matters have we to discuss?”
She turned sideways in her chair to look at him, taking in his entire appearance before she responded. “Several,” she said, her voice soft. “And not the least of them your own condition. You look gaunt, Will Sinclair—gaunt and haggard and careworn. When first we met today you told me the boy was injured through your fault, and it is clear, from the look of you, that you believe it to be true. Sh!”
She stood up quickly, setting her ale cup on the seat of her chair, then almost bending to one side as she listened to the silence behind the woven screens. Will had heard nothing, but he had not been listening. She flicked a warning finger at him before gliding out of sight behind the nearest screen. Moments later she emerged again, closing the flap of the screen carefully.
“He sleeps soundly. I thought I heard him move, but if he did, it was unconsciously.” She collected her cup and sat back down, cradling it between her hands. “Tell me then, what did you do to endanger the lad and almost get him killed?”
He inhaled sharply, and without preamble told her the whole tale. When he fell silent again, clearly having no more to add, she cocked her head in an unconscious gesture of puzzlement.
“Why should you have thought to search the woods there? You said they were sparse.”
“And they were, but not too sparse. And they were hostile territory. They concealed men, enemies.”
“But not soldiers.”
“No, they were farmers. But they wished us ill.”
“And why would they wish to attack an unarmed boy?”
“They did not. It was me they wanted. A single knight, lightly armed. Well worth killing and robbing.”
“And had you gone looking, do you think you would have found them?”
He jerked his head in a negative. “Perhaps not. They were afoot, and would have hidden when they saw me coming.”
“So then, not having seen them, might they have killed you from concealment?”
“They might.”
“And had they done so, they would have killed the boy, too, no? Especially since he was unarmed.”
“Probably.”
“Then why do you berate yourself? You are both here, alive, because you did not search those woods. And Henry lives because you were able to rescue him, after he rescued you. Therefore, it seems to me, as a mere woman, that each of you has great cause to be grateful to the other for the way this thing transpired, and no reason at all to be sitting around moping and feeling guilty. The boy is strong, and you are in good health, save for your appearance, which cries out for sleep.” She paused, waiting, and then added, “Have I convinced you yet that this guilt you feel is foolish?”
Sweet Jesus, the man is smiling. He is smiling! The first real smile I have ever seen in him … And what a wondrous change it brings about in him, even with his paleness and those bitter worry lines etched into his face. Why, oh why, dear God, do you not permit this man to smile more often? He could banish storms—expel the clouds and bring the sun back into view.
He shook his head gently. “Perhaps you have,” he said. “We shall see … Now, what else must we discuss?”
“Nothing too grave. I have some questions I would like to ask. Would that vex you?”
His smile grew even wider. “Today, no. I doubt you could ask me anything today that might vex me. The willingness with which you undertook the care of my nephew without question has seen to that. Ask away.”
Jessie pursed her lips, another unconscious gesture, and nibbled on the inside of the lower one, thinking carefully before beginning. “Very well then … I have been told—it matters not by whom and I will not divulge his name—that you released your brethren from their vow of chastity.” She saw his eyebrow quirk and prepared herself for a brusque dismissal of her unformed question, but he merely glanced sidelong at her and nodded.
“And so I did. Some of my brethren. Many of them, mainly the older men, had no wish to be released, and so they remain as they were. Others availed themselves of the dispensation.”
She looked at him in surprise and spread her hands palms upward. “Why? Why would you do such a thing, you, of all men the most devout and duty bound? Why did you do it, after a lifetime of single-minded obedience to duty and to God?”
“Perhaps because my God is not the same as yours.” The words were pitched so low and were so indistinct that she was sure she had misheard them, for they made no sense to her. But she had sufficient wit to say nothing, inexplicably aware that William Sinclair might be about to say more, and of more substance, than she had ever heard him say before without hostility. Instead of continuing, however, he sat staring at her, his eyes strangely distant, as though he were unaware of her, gazing at other things.
Oh, Will Sinclair, I have no idea what is in your mind, but I’ll give thanks to God tonight for the absence of scowls on your face and for the smiles you’ve shown me and for the brightness of those eyes. For only He can know whence that brightness comes, or where and why those scowls lie banished. I would not care were you to say no other word from now until bedtime, if your face remained as open and free of arrogance and disapproval as it is now.
He continued to stare at her, and through her, for so long that she began to suspect he might, in fact, not say another word, but just as she began to draw breath to speak, he broke suddenly into the French tongue of Anjou, his eyes now focused upon hers.
“You know, when first we met I distrusted you.” He jerked one hand in the air to cut her off before she could react. “No, pardon me. That is untrue. I never did distrust you. That is the wrong word … and an evasion. I believe … I believe I feared you. That is the truth, and now that it is spoken, I recognize the verity of it. Yes, I feared you. Feared you for what you were and what you represented in my eyes … the undoing of my sacred vows … And even in that I was deluding myself, though I may not tell you how or why. I know both how and why, but it is something I cannot explain without jeopardizing matters sacrosanct to me. Be that as it may, you frightened me because I found you … attractive … And that was contrary, and threatening, to all the things to which I had dedicated my life.”
There’s that smile again, but stifled quickly, as though you thought to laugh at yourself. Ah, Will Sinclair, I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You thought me attractive! Do you still think that way of me?
“And do you not fear me now, Sir William?”
There was sly humor in her tone, but Will ignored it and answered forthrightly. “No, Jessie, I do not, not even slightly. Nor did I ever, if the truth be told. It was myself I feared … myself and my own weaknesses that I thought might lead me into sin.”
“Sin over me?”
Jessie was scarcely conscious of what she was saying now, as her shock at his confession was amplified by the delighted surprise of hearing him call her by her given name for the first time. But her pleasure increased tenfold when he looked at her, cocking an eyebrow.
“Sin over you … Aye, why not? I am a man, after all, and you are … yourself. The mere contemplation of you stirs temptation, and the sins of the mind are as potent and destructive, we are told, as sins of the flesh.”
His admission stunned her, leaving her speechless.
“You once called yourself my friend, in the first letter I received from you. And I am honored by your friendship, undeserved as it was at first. But I was a Temple knight at that time, living within and de
dicated to a brotherhood I thought to be immutable and sacrosanct—that is the second time I have used that word within this hour, though I have come to see it nowadays as undeserving of the breath most men require to utter it.
“Still, that was what I believed when you and I first met, and I believed it deeply and sincerely. The knights of the Temple, as all the world once knew, were forbidden to consort with women, even their mothers and sisters, for they were monks, sworn to the cloister albeit they might seldom live there. And so I was outraged—” He snorted, a smothered laugh of scorn, shaking his head at his own remembered folly. “I was outraged and offended at having your company thrust upon me, no matter your peril or your family connection to Admiral de St. Valéry, so I decided to safeguard my own convictions by avoiding and ignoring you as much as possible. I never thought of it as cowardice—not at that time, although I see it as such now—but I soon discovered the impossibility of what I was attempting to achieve.”
“Ignoring and avoiding me?” Jessie was smiling gently, and he returned her smile wryly.
“Aye. You are not easy to ignore, and the way things transpired, you were equally difficult to avoid. But I fear I treated you ill, for all that you were guiltless in being who you were.”
“And what changed that? May I ask?”
“Time. Time and the aspirations of godless men of God … And that latter led to my decision, as Master of the Temple in Scotland, to release those of my men who wished it so from the constraints of the oath of chastity.”
Jessie sat gazing at him for a long time before she said, “That is … that is an astonishing leap. I have never heard the like.”
“There has never been the like since the foundation of our Order. But it was necessary.”
“To what, Will? I am trying to understand what you are saying, but I do not even know where to begin. What brought this to your mind? It cannot have been a swift decision.”
“No, it was not. Nor was it reached without much searching of my soul and my conscience. But it was the right decision, and events of the past few weeks have proved it so. Jessie … your husband’s brother, Admiral de St. Valéry, is dead.”
“I know that. I have known for years. Dear Charles. I hoped, for a year or so, that he might return from wherever he sailed off to, but when that year became two, then three, it became obvious that he had perished somewhere—” She stopped short, her forehead wrinkling. “But how can you know that with such certainty as I heard in your voice now? You do know it beyond doubt, do you not?” He nodded, and she stared at him in perplexity. “The only way would be—”
“If some other man whose word could not be doubted brought home the news.” He hesitated, frowning slightly, then made up his mind and spoke more forcefully. “Jessie, I spoke earlier of trusting you. Now I will trust you further, with a secret known to very few … a secret that could be very dangerous were it to be uncovered. Do you remember why the admiral left?”
“Of course. He went in search of some legendary land beyond the Western Sea, some place called …” She frowned.
“Its name matters not,” Will said quietly. “But the place is there. The admiral found it. And he died there last year. Most of his people remain there now, living among the native inhabitants, but some sailed back in search of men to join them. Their ship arrived in Arran less than three weeks ago.”
“It came back …” She heard the dull incomprehension in her own voice, but the notion he had put into her head defied sane, logical thought. She cleared her throat, suddenly tentative. “This land … it is unknown to Christendom?” She watched him nod his head. “Where is it, then?”
“Where it was said to be, beyond the Western Sea.”
She shook her head, trying to comprehend the possibility of such a thing. “Is it large, this land?”
“According to what I have been told, it is enormous. It could be an entire new world, as big as Christendom.”
“But that is … That would be … That is why you say the secret of it is so dangerous. Who knows of this?”
“I know. You know. The crew who returned know. And my community in Arran knows. No one else.”
“And thus you believe your secret safe? Your community is large.”
“Aye, but it is secretive, too. We are all Templars, bound to secrecy and silence and obedience—and to our own survival. Were word of what we know to spread, Christendom, with all its persecution and its follies, would flock to the new shore.”
“And would deprive you of the hope of finding a new life in this new land.”
“You have the truth of it. A sanctuary unknown to any soul in Christendom save us, who have great need of it.”
“The oath of chastity. That is why you did it … to have your brethren breed sons.”
“Sons and daughters, yes.”
“Because monks, such monks as yours, can have no women and thus must perish and their Order vanish from the world.”
“That has been happening, everywhere but here. There is no Temple left in France, and now the other kings of Christendom are playing Philip’s game, exactly as Master de Molay feared they would. Our community in Arran appears to be the last Templar outpost remaining. That is why I released the brethren from the oath. I set them free to wed and to have families, upon their oath that they would bring those families back to live on Arran.”
“But is that not …” Jessica could say no more, still grappling with the idea, and they sat in silence for a while. When Jessie spoke again, a half smile tugged at her mouth. “And you, Will Sinclair, have you renounced your oath?”
He looked directly at her and his face was as unreadable as the tone of voice in which he answered. “No, I have not. I am too … too set in my lifetime’s ways.” His right cheek quirked in what might have been the start of a smile. “Not that it would bother me in the least to do so, for those reasons I have named. But I have another oath to plague me in the eyes of other men, and it is far more troublesome than my chastity.”
“And what is that?”
“Obedience. When I joined the Temple I swore an oath of obedience to the Pope, and through him to Holy Church. But to whom should I be obedient now? The Pope, and with him Holy Church, have disowned and demeaned our Order, for no other purpose than their own gain, and at the urgings of a greedy despot who now calls himself Philip of France. What an arrogant nonsense! What is this France he speaks of? It is a tiny territory in the north of what was Gaul. But in his delusion he sees it as something vast, and he seeks to authenticate his mad ideas by laying claim to Flanders, Normandy, Brittany, Anjou, Poitou, Burgundy, and Aquitaine. And with his vaunting claims of vastness he has suborned a pope and warped the will of Holy Church to his twisted ambitions. Now”—he held up one hand, as if to emphasize what would come next—“an oath, the priests will tell you, is an oath. Thus, in obedience, I should submit myself and all my brethren to the mercies of the Inquisition …
“Jessie, I swear to you upon my love of life that I will gladly burn in Hell for what they deem my sinful pride before I will submit to such obscenities as those people are now to me. Thus I stand damned by my own pride and obstinacy, alone with my own honor. A loss of chastity would cause me not a moment of concern, were I but interested.”
Jessie had heard his last reference to chastity, but startling and cynical as it had seemed in the utterance, she realized that it held little significance by comparison with the other, far more fundamental changes she was discerning in the man beside her.
“You are greatly changed since last we spoke, Sir William.” She herself heard the formality of the address, but he seemed unaware of it, gazing now with narrowed eyes into the leaping heart of the fire. “I can scarce bel—”
“Greatly changed?” He made a sound deep in his throat, a stifled sound of bitter, repressed self-mockery. “Greatly changed … Aye, I suppose it must seem that way to you, after so long a lapse of time. The years pass more quickly nowadays, it seems, but the effects they wreak in pas
sing remain with us.” He stood up abruptly and stepped towards the fire, leaning against the mantel with one outstretched hand as he spoke down into the flames. “I have not changed at all, Jessie, not one whit, but all the world in which I used to live has changed around me, and I am dispossessed. I have responsibilities and I discharge them to the best of my abilities. I have my honor and my beliefs, and I am true to those. But all the duties I once owned are shrunk to one small sphere—the duty of protecting the community of the brotherhood on Arran.”
He turned back to face her again, a lopsided, reluctant grin on his face, although she saw at once how sad his eyes were. “Those changes you referred to are changes forced upon me by the world and its treatment of me and mine. Changes in the way I think, and in the way I perceive the things I may not ignore. Changes in the way I look at grasping kings and venal priests and what they will do in their never-ending greed and lust for power, whether it be power over men’s souls or over men themselves and their possessions. But greater than these, I think, are the changes I have accepted in the way men dictate morals and morality and govern them with the threat of God’s displeasure to suit their own vicious whims … and with never a thought of the God in whose name they disgrace themselves. And so I have abjured them all, and all they represent.” He shrugged then, twisting his mouth. “If that is what the ancients called hubris, the sin of pride, then so be it. But I know what I believe, and I cannot accept that God will see much that is wrong in my beliefs or my behavior. As for the rest … no sinful priest can ever again claim the right to define sin in my eyes.” He grinned. “The sole exception I will make is for your priests in Scotland, hovering on the edge of damnation with their King. People like Davie Moray, whom I cannot see as priest, for all his rank.”
Jessie made no response, sunk deep in thought with her head bowed. Will watched her, seeing the straight slash of white scalp that divided the tresses of her hair, and when she made no move to look at him again he cleared his throat.
“What are you thinking about?”