by Jack Whyte
“No, I suppose not. But these are not the first such, surely?”
“The first since I’ve been here, most certainly. But there might have been others. Before I came here, I mean. This road is much traveled by warlike men, I fear. But Hector will know where they should go, if they’re not the first to be buried here. There must be such a place. I’ll ask him.”
He turned around and looked down at her, seeing the wide, white sweep of her shoulders above the scooped neckline of her gown and the way the light, from this angle, caught the high planes of her prominent cheekbones and emphasized the startling brightness of her eyes. Then, before she could notice him staring, he stepped off the chair and landed lightly on the balls of his feet.
“Who were they, these people? Do you know?”
“I have no idea. But they’re no threat now, and we have no cause to mourn them or to grieve for them, for they brought their deaths upon themselves, threatening honest folk. So sit you down and be comfortable. I’ll have the fire lit, if you like.”
Will ignored the suggestion. “So they are not from these parts? You recognized none of them?”
“No, and I know every man for miles around here by sight by now. These ones are from beyond these vales, but from which direction, your guess would be as valid as mine. All I could tell, from the roof, was that they were hungry and desperate, and too many for us to fend off. They must have been spying on us, for they crept up on us. We saw nothing until one of them showed himself by accident and one of our people happened to see him. Otherwise they would have caught us unawares and taken us without any trouble … As it was, the alarm was raised and we had time to bring everyone inside the house and bar the doors, but there was little else we could do. And so we are all in your debt for our lives. Had you not come back when you did, you might have found nothing and no one here when you returned.”
“Aye, well, we did come back, so thanks be to God. I am the grateful one. Will you not sit down?”
She cocked her head to one side, smiling at him. “I will sit if you will. But you have not even asked me if your treasure is safe.”
Will smiled. “Your treasure, and there is no need. It must be safe, else you would not have told Tam to lodge the prisoners in the byre.”
“They are not in that byre. There is another at the back.”
“But still, the gold is safe enough, I’m sure. Your guests had not had time to break in here, let alone go prowling through the byres looking for hidden hoards, so your coffer will be where we left it.” He lowered himself into the big, soft chair, and Jessie sat in the one opposite, tucking her legs up demurely beneath her although the voluminous skirts of her gown offered only the merest suggestion of what she had done. He gazed at the slight tautening of the fabric where her knees were, and then realized what he was doing and felt the color heightening in his cheeks as he raised his eyes to hers.
“So,” she said, appearing not to have noticed, “was your journey worthwhile? I must admit I am curious, for Master Nicholas Balmyle is a man of great renown, and I suspect he summons few folk in person, save on the King’s own business. Can you tell me anything about your visit?”
Will was mildly surprised to discover that he could, and without hesitation, where only a short time before he would have balked and felt resentment at having to admit anything about the Temple to Jessie Randolph or any other woman. Now he found himself answering without demur, and told her what he had learned at St. Andrews about the vacillations of the Pope in signing and then revoking his pardon, and about the loyalty of the Scots Templars.
“So what does Master Balmyle wish you to do?”
It was not Nicholas Balmyle’s face Will saw in his mind but William Lamberton’s, but he answered her directly, attributing the Archbishop’s wishes to the former chancellor. “He wants me to strengthen and encourage the Scots brethren.”
“And can you do that? I mean, I know you can, but how will you do it without breaking your own given word to keep your presence here a secret?”
Will explained then the plan to convene the Scots Templars in Arran, to release them from their vows of chastity and poverty, and to remove all outward evidence of their identity as Templars, as he had done with his own men.
“But what then?” Jessie asked. “When you and the others have gone to Merica … how will they be able to continue their rituals? Or will they not do that any longer?”
“They will return to the mainland and we will set up a new chapter for Scotland … perhaps more than one. I will know the answer to that riddle once I have discovered the makeup and distribution of the brotherhood. So, one chapter and one meeting lodge at first. More if required.”
Her frown deepened. “But how will you do that without betraying their existence? Why change them outwardly, to be invisible, if you convene them openly as Temple knights?”
“And sergeants. Don’t forget the sergeants. But I said nothing about openness. Ours is a closed and secretive Order. No one will ever know it is there, though it will operate almost in full sight. People see what they expect to see, my lady.”
“Jessie. Please don’t ‘my lady’ me.”
“Jessie, then. If folk see men with forked beards and equal-armed crosses assembling, then they conclude that it is a Templar gathering. If they see farmers, they see a market gathering. In our case, they will see only knights and soldiers gathering openly for whatever purposes soldiers gather … and this country is at war, so no one will think further on that. And under that cloak of ordinariness, Scotland’s new Templars will conduct their business, in secrecy as always, but free of the recognition as being Templars. It will work, believe me.”
She sat silent for a while absorbing that, then nodded. “I do believe it. And if anyone can achieve what needs to be done to enable that, it is you. So you will hold this gathering within the month?”
“We will.”
“And after that? Did you ask about finding an agent in Genoa?”
“I did, and received an unexpected answer.” She frowned again and he smiled. “I was advised to take Admiral de Berenger and go to Genoa myself, to do my own negotiating and make my own purchases, with the benefit of Edward’s profound knowledge.”
Jessie’s eyebrows shot up. “That is a wonderful idea. Balmyle advises that?”
“Well, Bishop Moray mentioned it first, and everybody agreed it was the most sensible thing to do. I will carry letters of introduction to Cardinal Archbishop Bellini in Genoa, who is a lifelong friend of Archbishop Lamberton and a firm supporter of Scotland’s cause in the papal court, and his support should win me access to the best people for my purposes.”
“When will you go?”
“As soon as I can. Immediately after the Arran gathering, I expect.”
“And how long will you be gone?”
Will twisted his mouth down at the corners. “As long as I have to be, or am made to be, but I doubt it will be much more than a month … certainly not as long as two, unless something goes far wrong. We might find what we are looking for immediately, ready and waiting to be purchased, but that may well be wishful thinking. More likely we will have to commission a vessel—or more than one, depending upon what we can afford—to be built from the keel up. If that is the case, I’ll leave de Berenger there to oversee the building and equipping of whatever we end up buying, while I return to Arran and dispatch more crewmen to handle the new craft on sailing trials. That way, they will be accustomed to the new ships before they reach home again. There is a multitude of details to be considered before ever we leave Arran, but thank God, most of those arrangements will fall into de Berenger’s arena. I’ll have much to do on my own behalf, too, of course.”
“Of course.” She was almost smiling. “So you will leave sometime during the month after next, and you will be gone for several months thereafter. Leaving in September, perhaps returning in November.”
“Correct. Why are you so curious?”
“Because November is a sullen
month and you will be crossing the North Sea, the stormiest in all of Christendom. You might not even be able to get back at all by then.”
“I will, somehow. Believe me. But if it truly is impossible, why then I will remain in Genoa for the winter, to return in the spring. Young Henry would enjoy winter in Genoa, I think.”
“Henry? Henry is not going with you.”
Will cocked his head. “He is not? That surprises me—he is my squire, after all. Why, then, is he not coming with me?”
She flapped her hands at him as if he were a chicken pestering her peace. “Tut, man! Because he is not yet fit to travel—nowhere near fit enough. I will not hear of it.”
“But … but I canna just leave him here with you, Jessie. That would be unseemly—”
“Unseemly?” The look she threw him from beneath one arched eyebrow was filled with withering scorn. “Why should it be unseemly, Will Sinclair? You said yourself he is yet but a boy. I assume you mean he is not yet a rutting bull. Think you I might debauch him in your absence?”
“Jessie!”
She flung her head high, looking down her nose at him. “Jessie!” she mimicked. “What do you take me for, sir?”
Will, who had never flinched from an armed assailant, quailed at her scorn, and she immediately took pity on him, her voice sinking back into its husky gentleness.
“Will, the boy is too weak to travel, so he will stay here and there’s an end of it. You have too much on your mind, too many other things to see to and arrange, for me to be encouraged to entrust you with his well-being atop all else. He will be safe enough. Today’s attack was the first such we have known since I arrived here, and I will put out the word among the other folk in the dales, and we will be ready if the like occurs again. Believe me in that.”
“I do believe you. What I cannot believe is that it will not happen again. The English at least will be back, and sooner now, rather than later. Their barons’ greed will see to that, even had Edward Bruce not set a direct challenge for their King.”
“What do you mean? I know nothing of any challenge to the English King, and Robert keeps his headstrong brother under tight rein.”
“Not tight enough,” Will growled. “I heard about it in Arbroath. It is the talk of the taverns there. The King set Edward to the siege of Stirling, months ago, thinking to keep him safely occupied in taking one of the only two Scots castles still in English hands. But instead of doing as he was bidden and tightening the siege, the gallant Earl of Carrick grew bored and played the headstrong, thoughtless fool, as usual. He chose the route of chivalry, ignoring the fact that his brother has fought a war of brigandage these past eight years, scorning English chivalry and chivalrous battles in favor of the savage and effective style of the late William Wallace.”
“In God’s name, what did he do?”
“He negotiated a truce with Moubray, the English governor of Stirling Castle, the terms of which will be an iron gauntlet flung in England’s face. Robert is furious, but helpless. The damage is done.”
“What were his terms, in God’s name?”
“A year’s truce, to be concluded by the surrender of the castle next Midsummer Day in the event it is not relieved.”
“In the—? Dear God in Heaven! The man must be mad.”
“Mad as a rabid stoat.”
“He has given England a year to raise an army.”
“Worse than that. He has given Edward of England a cause to rally his mutinous barons and end the civil war that has kept him useless. He has caused affront to the very honor of every Englishman who thinks himself superior to the Scots. Edward Bruce has guaranteed a new invasion, and this house of yours sits squarely on the only route to Scotland’s west.”
Jessie said nothing more for a long time, but as Will watched her, she squared her shoulders and finally tossed her head. “Aye, well, perhaps it does,” she said defiantly. “But that’s another perfectly sound reason for taking me with you when you sail away to your new land.”
There was the merest hint of humor in her gaze, despite the gravity of threat he had outlined, but the unapologetic bluntness of her effrontery took his breath away again, making nonsense of his resolve to accept her forthrightness in future. He could only gape at her, aware his mouth was hanging open but unable to do anything about it, so that she snorted with inelegant laughter. “Your wits, Will Sinclair! Gather them up, for I fear you’re in danger of losing them. That was a jest. I was but toying with you.”
He swallowed hard. “A strange time to jest,” he muttered. “And a stranger topic on which to do it. Forgive me, my lady, I am ill accustomed to women and their humor, as you know, so you have me at a disadvantage … So much so, in fact, that I find myself wondering how often you have toyed with me before, without my knowledge or suspicion.”
“So I am to be ‘my lady’ again, am I?” She shook her head, exasperated. “Och, Will, I wouldna toy with you unkindly, and sure, the tidings here are dire, but sometimes we have to laugh at ourselves and at the Fates or go mad altogether. Forgive me. It’s simply that you can be so … so predictable at times that I canna resist the urge to make your eyes go wide like that.” She rose to her feet and looked towards the door. “I wonder if the house is settling back to normal yet. If ye’ll permit me a moment, I’ll return directly.”
He stood and pushed back his shoulders while she was gone, and looked about the room, and he became aware all at once of how dark it had grown and how cool the air was, even though the outside of the house yet basked in warm, late-July afternoon sunshine.
Jessie came back into the room and returned to her chair, waving Will down into his own as she did so. “Hector will send food in a little while, but in the meantime you are still wearing your armor.” She smiled at him. “I know you are accustomed to wearing it at all times, but it makes me feel confined merely to look at you.”
Will frowned and glanced down at himself, then saw immediately what she was talking about, acknowledging himself, uncharacteristically and perhaps for the first time ever, as being out of place in this comfortably appointed, unmistakably feminine room. He was, in fact, fully armored, save only for his helmet, and suddenly, unaccountably to him, he became aware of the odor of his own sweat mixed with that of his hardridden horse, and the weight of his heavily booted and armor-reinforced feet seemed leaden as he shifted them uncomfortably. He wore a full suit of mail—a hooded coat of heavy, burnished links that hung open to his heels and was fastened in front with leather thongs and a stout leather sword belt worn over a full cuirass of steel, while at the back it hung divided from the waist down, to permit him to ride comfortably. Beneath the cuirass he wore a thick leather jerkin lined with padded fustian, and beneath that an undershirt of finely woven wool, his single concession to his own comfort, worn solely because he found the contact of the itchy fustian intolerable on his bare skin. He wore light Saxon-styled trews beneath his heavy mailed leggings, the ends of them stuffed into his high, thick leather boots. For the first time in his adult life, he felt clumsy and faintly ridiculous, grotesquely out of place.
Jessie was still smiling at him. “I hope you will not be offended, but knowing that you carry little in the way of clothing while traveling, I took the liberty of laying out some of my late husband’s clothes on the cot in the chamber above this, next to the room you occupied when you were here previously. Etienne, God rest him, was of a size with you, I think—perhaps a little narrower across the chest and shoulders. You should find that they will fit you easily, and I promise you, you will find them far softer and warmer than that coat of mail.” She waited for a reaction, and when none came she added, grinning in pure mischief, “I swear to you, you may walk about unarmored here with confidence. There is little likelihood of our being attacked again. Twice in one day would be inconsiderate and unacceptable.”
Will was completely at a loss for words. He knew she was twitting him, but he was still too unsure of himself in this suddenly new relationship and incapable
of forming an adequate response, fearing he might make a fool of himself by saying something inane, or yet again give the wrong impression by blurting out something that sounded curt and humorless. And yet the laughter dancing in her eyes was unmistakable, and he found himself aching to respond in kind. And so he forced himself to try to smile.
“You are toying with me again, I see, madam,” he managed to say finally, keeping his voice gentle. “But I sense you mean no harm by it, and so in token of that, I will accept your kindness and make an attempt to fit into the clothes you have laid out for me. You say they are in the chamber next to the one I used before?”
“They are,” she said, and now the raillery had vanished from her voice and eyes, replaced only with a warm smile. “And there are three sets from which to choose. Should I send one of your men up to assist you?”
He managed to raise one eyebrow in selfdisparagement. “No, madam,” he said formally. “In my years as both monk and knight, I have learned adequately well to robe and disrobe, and even to arm and disarm myself, without assistance. So if you will excuse me?”
“Wait, you will need a light. It will be dark up there. Take one of the candles there … And try the green pile. I think the color will suit you.”
He bowed to her without another word and went to where a single, tall taper burned beside a box of candles on the table. He selected one and lit it, then sheltered it with a cupped palm as he made his way out of the room, conscious at every step of her eyes on him.
Great God in Heaven, Jessie thought as he went out. Here is change indeed. Who would ever have believed it, and where did it spring from? To see the great William Sinclair blushing and gawking like a chastened altar boy. It is almost too much to be believed, but I thank Heaven it is so and pray God he does not have a change of heart and mood. Hurry back, Will Sinclair, hurry back.