by Jack Whyte
“Welcome?” He shook his head in wonder. “Jessie, this single chest could ransom a kingdom. It contains more wealth than all the specie I brought out of our commandery in La Rochelle … far more.”
She grinned, a quick flash of strong white teeth. “Perhaps so. It might indeed, if you say so, ransom a kingdom. But with the King himself in England, raising ransom from the English towns and abbeys, this kingdom should have no need of it. Whereas I do.”
He blinked. “You do? What need is that?” He grinned back at her, lowering one knee to the floor to ease his crouched position. “Do you intend to purchase a kingdom for yourself, then? Be a queen?”
“No, not a kingdom. We have enough of kingdoms here in Christendom. But mayhap I could buy a ship like those you spoke of yesterday, from Genoa. Or even two of them, depending on the cost.”
“You could buy a fleet with this small chest … but from Genoa? What would you do with a Genoese ship?”
She grinned again, a glint of purest mischief in her eyes. “I might do as my dead husband did and go a-trading. Or I could even sail in search of some new land beyond the Western Sea.” She saw the sudden consternation in his eyes, the quick stiffening of his posture, and laughed loud. “Oh, Will, Will Sinclair, you can be thick in the head sometimes and easy to predict. I meant the ship for you … or the fleet, if it can be had.”
His mouth dropped open and his slackened fingers lost their hold on the chest’s lid, which fell shut with a heavy, solid thunk.
“You are too kind, Baroness. I could not accept such a gift. It is too much.”
“Nonsense. Of course you could, and you will. You said yourself last night that you will not need money where you are going. Therefore this chest is worthless, save as a means of reaching the place … And besides, it is not a gift. It is a payment.”
He frowned slightly, suddenly cautious. “In return for what?”
“For taking me with you to your wild new land—me and mine.”
His jaw dropped yet again. “You’re mad,” he whispered.
“How so? I believe I am being rational.”
“That is no place for women, and by God’s holy elbow it is no place for a well-born lady.”
“Will Sinclair, that might be the stupidest thing I have ever heard from your mouth. You will be taking women with you, the wives of your followers. Is that not the point of this whole expedition?”
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing, Will. I want to go with you. I lay awake for hours last night, thinking the whole thing through, and I have decided. I will buy your fleet, or some of it, if this is not enough. In return you will take me to this Merica. I remembered the name.”
Will’s mouth worked, but no words emerged for a while until, frustrated beyond bearing, he burst from French into Scots. “But … but, Jessie, how could you even think o’ such a thing, to go alone into an unkent world? The folk o’er there are savage … wild. They dinna even wear clothes, or no’ the kind o’ clothes you wear. They wear nothin’ but the skins and furs o’ animals.”
“So did the Danes and the very English, no’ so long syne. And have you visited the Highlands here? Folk run naked there at times—much o’ the time in fact, or so I’m told. Men fight naked, and they take no ill o’ it.”
“But these folk o’er there across the sea are primitive, did ye no’ hear me? They’re barbarians—godless.”
“Godless barbarians? Would ye mean like the noble King of France, who killed my husband out o’ plain greed, then sent de Nogaret to hunt and kill me, too, for the same reason? The same King who claims to be God’s anointed, yet drove you and yours out of your homeland to sate his own lust for power, and whose people now torture and maim and kill your own brethren? Or mayhap you mean the English King, the old one who hung highborn women naked in open cages from town walls, just to vent his spleen? Is that no’ barbaric?” She added with finality, “Besides I’ll no’ be on my own.”
“Among your women, you mean. Aye, that’s what I meant, too. Who would protect you there, you and your womenfolk? Ye have no man, Jessie, and ye’d need a strong one, and fell.”
“I’ll ha’e a man, and a strong one, Will Sinclair. You’ll be my man.”
He flinched as though she had slapped him, then glared at her wild eyed for the space of several heartbeats, before clamping his hands on each side of his forehead and rising to his feet, spinning away from her.
“In Christ’s name, woman!” he roared. “Have you lost your wits altogether?”
But then he stopped, the heels of his hands still pressed against his temples, and she saw the tension drain away from him as he turned back to face her. She waited, saying nothing, and he shook his head and slowly lowered his hands. “I shouted at you, in the name of Christ.”
“I know.” She was almost smiling. “I heard. Was that a special kind of sin for you?”
“No … no, it wasna, but … it makes me see how rash and false to himself a man can be when he is vexed.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know ye don’t. Ye couldna. But it means much to me. D’ ye think anyone heard us?” He looked around him, as though expecting to see people listening everywhere, and then he shook his head again. “I hinna time for this. I should be far frae here by now.” He drew a great sigh, then looked back at her and lowered his voice. “Look, lassie, I would look after ye. I ha’e nae doubts o’ that, forbye my oath. But it is just too dangerous, the whole o’ it unknown. I would never forgive myself were ye to come to ill …”
When she spoke again, she spoke in French. “And what of here, Will?” Her voice was calm to match his own now. “How would you feel if ill befell me here? We are at war, and this house built on the high road from England into Scotland. I could be murdered in my bed, right here, at any time, murdered and raped by passing soldiery of either side. Think you to leave me safe behind, when you sail off without me?”
“Without you? I never thought of you and me that way at all until you spoke the words!”
“If that is true, then you are a fool, Will Sinclair. A fine one, but a fool nonetheless. Look at yourself. You had become a ship without a sail, a vessel without purpose, betrayed and deceived on every side by men unfit to look you in the eye. But you released your brethren from their oath after you thought the matter through and decided it was justified. That took leadership, determination. And now you will lead them to another land, another life, in search of a new destiny. And so you now have renewed purpose. But incomplete, until you change yourself … Look, and listen to me, for I know you must go now.”
She drew a deep breath and stood upright, looking him in the eye. “We have said much here today, perhaps too much, though I doubt that. But the gist of it is this—I want to help you buy a fleet, and the means is there, at your feet. Think upon that … the how and why and wherefore of it all. It will take much time and long planning. You will need an agent for the dealings in Genoa. Moray may help you in that. He has many contacts everywhere. In the meantime, think on this … I will pay for the ships, as many as this chest will provide. You then will use your own funds to lade and equip them with everything you will need in your new land … including cloth for clothing. And think, too, upon my offer, Will—the offer of myself, my companionship, my loyalty. I do not make it lightly. I know it will be hard for you even to think about it, being who you are. But try, Will. Try to see what could be …” She smiled again, gently. “Will you do that for me, sir knight?”
He stood staring at her, his right hand grasping the hilt of his long sword, his lips pursed. And then he nodded. “Aye, I will think on it. And we will talk again … But now I had better hide this chest again and go. Is it safe here?”
“As safe as it would be anywhere, save in your vaults on Arran. It will be safe until you come back for it. Now hurry, and be gone.” She turned to leave, then hesitated and looked back at him. “And when you think of all of this, think, too, of me … and kindly, Will Sinclair.”
He growled in his throat, unable to find words to reply to that, and she left him there to bury the chest beneath the bales again.
BISHOPS AND CARDINALS
ONE
Will had never seen St. Andrews town, and riding in he was awed by the sight of it, dominated as it was by the great unfinished cathedral church that had been more than one hundred and fifty years in the making. It was close to completion now, he knew, and it towered above the surrounding town, close to the sea’s edge, its bulk seeming to dwarf even the mighty St. Rule’s tower that shared its site and rose above its steeples. The town was also the principal center of the Catholic Church in Scotland, and it seemed filled with priests of all description. There were soldiers there, of course, and burghers, merchants and their families, along with tradesmen and the normal idlers one found in every town of any size, but the overwhelming impression was one of a plethora of priests and clerics. Monks and friars, priests and abbots and bishops bustled everywhere, most of them with parchment scrolls and writing implements about their person. Will inhaled deeply more than once, expecting to smell the bite of incense on the air.
It had taken Will and his two sergeants four days of hard riding in foul weather to cover the distance from Nithsdale, traveling north along the western edge of Ettrick Forest to Lanark, and from there to Stirling, where they crossed the River Forth before turning east on the last leg of their journey. But it was behind them now, the sun was shining again here on the eastern coast, and the prospect of spending the night in a warm bed beneath a sound roof was a cheering one, requiring only the discovery of a tolerable inn.
They found a prosperous-seeming hostelry on the broad main street facing the western façade of the church of St. Rule, and Will led his men into it and arranged lodgings for the three of them and stabling for their horses. He secured their stay with a silver mark to the landlord, then stripped off his cuirass and mailed shirt and left them, along with his shield, spear, and helmet, in the room he had rented, knowing they would be safe in the care of his two companions, who would see to the animals before making themselves at ease in their own shared quarters. He then set out to find Master Nicholas Balmyle, enjoying the sensation of walking the street unrestricted by his mail, though he still wore his sword belt with its weapons.
Bemused by the size and bustle of the place, and by the packed ranks of magnificent gray-stone buildings, he quickly realized that he had no idea where to begin his search, but his first question to a passing manat-arms brought the answer, and he was directed to the nearby Charter House of the new cathedral. His first thought on seeing its grand entrance and the burnished, liveried men-at-arms on duty was that he might be improperly dressed, but then he remembered the way Davie de Moray dressed, and decided that Master Balmyle would be too pressed for time to take note of what a man summoned in haste might wear.
He presented himself to the guards and asked where he might find the Bishop, and they directed him courteously to where he could report to one of the cathedral’s clerical officials. He did so, and a black-robed monk swiftly led him along a number of identical passageways. They eventually stopped outside an immense pair of magnificent doors fully twice Will’s height, where his guide knocked twice and opened one of the doors to allow Will to pass through.
The huge room, sumptuous by any standards, was high ceilinged and lit by floor-to-ceiling windows of clear leaded glass. The floor was of broad oak planks, stained towards blackness, and an enormous table of the same wood, with a lectern at one end, filled the central space, surrounded by matching chairs. The chill in the great chamber struck him immediately, and the place appeared to be deserted, but then he glanced to his right and saw a trio of men standing together in discussion in front of a giant fire in a stone hearth that could have housed an entire family. Now all three turned to him silently, and he saw them only as distant shapes, outlined against the great fire at their backs. He began walking towards them; it seemed like a long way, and with every step he felt them gauging him, weighing him. But then one of them came towards him, calling his name and bidding him welcome, and he grinned with relief to recognize David de Moray.
Within moments, feeling Davie’s arm about his shoulders, Will’s apprehension had vanished, and now it was he who did the weighing and gauging as they approach the other two men. There was no mistaking the former chancellor. Besides, Will had seen him before, although he had not met him, at the Parliament in Ayr mere weeks earlier. Master Balmyle wore a full, ferocious beard of snowy white, and shoulder-length hair the same color hung to his shoulders, but that was the only relief from the uniform black of his vestments. He wore a long black cloak over a priest’s cassock, a sash of shiny black cloth about his waist, and a polished pectoral cross of pure jet hung from a black cord around his neck.
His companion, far less richly dressed, somehow achieved the same air of distinction by making no attempt to do so. He, too, wore plain black, but his cassock was of coarse wool and its skirts were much stained and raggedhemmed. He wore no cloak and no cross, so Will accepted him as a mere priest, although no doubt a powerful one, judging by the company he kept. He was imposing, tall and straight backed, with short-cropped, graying hair receding at the temples. He was clean shaven and had startling eyes, deep-set and gray-blue, on either side of a great, formidable beak of a bony nose.
Will nodded affably to the priest as he approached, then bowed low to Balmyle, whose age and reputation alone demanded recognition.
“Master Balmyle,” he said, “I am William Sinclair. Forgive my tardiness, but I came as quickly as I could. Did my messenger arrive ahead of me? I hope he did.”
The old man smiled in welcome and reached out to take Will’s hand in both of his. “He did,” he said, in a deep, rolling voice that belied his advanced age. “He and his companion came last night with word that you would follow, but we did not expect you until tomorrow. Welcome, welcome.”
“And so we would have come tomorrow, had not your priest found me in Nithsdale and urged me to make haste. And so I left at once and made good time.”
“And how is your young squire?”
“Improving, my lord Chancellor. I left him well, in the care of the Baroness St. Valéry.”
“Ah, a fine woman. But I am no longer chancellor and have not been these many years. Plain Master Nicholas is all my title now.” He turned to the gaunt priest in the stained cassock. “This is the knight of whom you have heard so much, my lord, and I rejoice that you are here to meet with him.”
My lord?
Before Will could suppress his surprise, Master Nicholas spoke again. “Sir William Sinclair, may I present you to his Lordship William Lamberton, Archbishop of St. Andrews and Primate of the Realm.”
Again! He has broken parole again!
Lamberton smiled, and his austere, gaunt face was transformed into a thing of beauty and shining light as he extended his hand to Will. Sinclair was so taken aback that he caught himself on the point of stooping to kiss the archepiscopal ring. He hesitated, wondering at himself, for he had never willingly kissed even a bishop’s ring, but then, seeing the radiant smile on that careworn face, he stooped and kissed the ring nonetheless, as a gesture to the man rather than an obeisance to his rank.
The Archbishop seized his hand warmly and pressed it in his own, then spoke, in the liquid Angevin tongue of Will’s former home. “Thank you for your concern,” he said, still smiling.
“Concern, my lord?”
The blazing smile widened. “For my immortal soul, over the matter of this breach of my parole.”
Will felt his face flush. “My lord, I had no—”
“I saw it in your eyes, my son.” Lamberton’s face grew solemn again. “I had to seek the quantum of my sins, and weigh the one of leaving my confinement temporarily against the other of neglecting my sworn duties to my church, my King, and this realm of ours. Leaving was thus a minor lie, a venial sin with which I can live. The alternative was far more grave. And so I am her
e, to meet with you.”
“To meet with me?” Confusion made Will more forthright than he might have been. “Why would you wish to meet with me? I mean, I am honored to be here, but to what end? I am a simple knight. I live in obscurity and have no wish to be involved in the affairs of state. Indeed I cannot be, for I am sworn by oath never to bend the knee in allegiance to any king.”
Again Lamberton smiled, glancing this time at Balmyle and Moray. “That is precisely why I wanted to meet you,” he said. “Because of who and what you are. And here we are, standing when we could be sitting, and fasting while we could be refreshing ourselves. Davie, would you send one of the brethren to find us food and drink? We will sit at the table end there, closest to the fire. Come, Sir William.”
As Will unfastened his sword belt and laid it, with the weapons attached, across the table far over to his right, the Archbishop asked him, “Would you object if I called you Will, Sir William?”
“No, my lord, of course not.”
“Good, then I shall do so. It is a good name—my own, before they lengthened it to William and thence to Archbishop and My Lord. And in return, you may call me William.”
Will half grinned. “That would not be easy, my lord. Your fame and reputation discourages that. I might as lief call the King’s grace Rob.”
The Primate’s eyebrows rose. “And why should you not? He would not be offended. You have proved to be too good a friend and worthy of respect for him to take ill of such a small thing. So you will call me William.”
“And I am Nicholas to you,” said Balmyle, taking a seat across from Will. “You have earned that right, and by the time we four leave here you might have harder names for us.”