Order in Chaos tt-3

by Jack Whyte

  “What delayed you?”

  “The English. We met a corps of them along the way, a body of infantry, perhaps six hundred, commanded by mounted knights. We breasted a hill and there they were, below us on the hillside.”

  “Had you no scouts out ahead of you?”

  “We did, Sire, but they had seen nothing. The English were in a deep defile—a steep-sided gully—when our scouts rode that way, and were thus invisible to anyone not right above them.”

  “And so you fought, and evidently won. You had words with your scouts afterwards, I hope?”

  “No, Sire, they were both killed in the fight that followed. We lost five men, and two of them were the scouts in question. But we destroyed the enemy infantry and harried the survivors, scattering them until they could not have regrouped.”

  “Hmm. What of the knights commanding them?”

  “Five of them, Your Grace, all but one killed. The fifth one fled back the way they had come. The fight was straightforward, but it cost us nigh on half a day when all was said and done.”

  “And kept six hundred fresh Englishmen from striking at our flanks from the westward. How many were with you?”

  “Sixty knights, Sire, and half as many again of lighter cavalry.”

  At the rear of the room a door creaked open, and everyone turned to see Bishop Moray entering, clutching a document. He nodded to the King and, with a muttered word of apology, held up the document to Archbishop Lamberton, beckoning with a finger. The Archbishop grunted an apology and rose to his feet, then followed Moray to a far corner of the room, where they stood close, murmuring quietly.

  King Robert looked back at Will. “So, a hundred and fifty men against six hundred.” Will shook his head, his mouth quirking. “A hundred mounted Templars, Your Grace. Small odds.”

  “Hmm. True. But I was thinking more of the advance you led later. Whence came that army? I know who they were, but how did you conscript them?”

  Will grinned again, broadly this time. “From your own camp, Sire. They were hostlers and wagoners, grooms, cooks and pot boys, even women—but brave, all of them. They thought us English when we first approached, and would have stood against us to protect your back, despite the certainty that they would all be killed against a force like ours. Then, when we had identified ourselves as Templars, there to fight alongside Your Grace, they told us the battle was already joined, beyond the hill that sheltered them, along the high road to Stirling and the vale of the Bannock Burn. And hearing that, one of my men, a kinsman of mine called Tam Sinclair, was inspired to say we should use them as they had first attempted to appear to us, as fighters. We quickly formed them up into ranks and blocks, pillaged some of your own banners from the wagon train, furbished them further with some of our own, and then had them march behind us as we advanced over the hill.”

  “Aye. We all noticed your arrival—have no doubt of that. Accidental the timing might have been, but it was fortuitous and Heaven sent. The sight of your advance up there, a mass of black and white chivalry, an army of Templars when no Templars could be there, was like … what was it the Archbishop said? Like an oncoming host of avenging angels. And that’s what it was—an intervention from Heaven. It gave new heart to our own men and kicked the guts out of the English. They were in dire straits already by that time, God knows, ploutering about in that killing bog, but the sight of a new army coming down on them panicked them completely, and they broke. When you bring your squire to me tomorrow, see you that you bring this kinsman, too, this Tam Sinclair. Scotland, it seems, owes much to his quick thinking. Would knighthood suit him, think you?”

  “Suit him! Tam? My lord, he has been with me since I was a boy, and is an honorable and worthy knight in everything but name. But Tam is not of noble birth.”

  “That recks nothing nowadays. William Wallace was knighted on his merits, not on his birth. Why not this champion of yours? If it was his idea to conscript the camp followers, then he has all the initiative and insight required for knighthood. Will he, too, go with you to this new land of yours?”

  Will’s mind was agog as he thought of the effect this unexpected honor would have on his unassuming kinsman. “That he will, Your Grace,” he said, knowing now that he was speaking to everyone there. “He and nigh on two hundred others. But if I may speak more on this, Sire, there is no uncertainty in any of our minds in this venture. We know the land is there. Admiral St. Valéry found it, God rest his soul, and sent word of it home to us. And this time, when we arrive there, we will have friends awaiting us, to welcome us. And we will make the most of what we find and send word of it back here to you. That will be when young Sir Henry Sinclair returns, triumphant, as my messenger to you, to take up his barony from your hands, and to make preparations for another, larger expedition.”

  The King placed his hands over his face and drew his fingers downwards until his fingertips came to rest against the end of his nose. He sat blinking into the space above the fire for a few moments, then nodded. “So be it. There is nothing I can do to persuade you to stay here. Your men are French, and free. When will you leave?”

  “As soon as the winter storms die down, Your Grace. April, or early May.”

  “Can you be ready by then?”

  “We are ready now, my lord.”

  “Hmm … You should go there as a baron. There are people living there you say, aside from your own? If so, they will have kings.”

  “They have no kings, Your Grace. Or none that our people found.”

  Robert Bruce looked at Will wearily now, and twisted up his face. “You were a Templar, Will—you ought to know better than to say such things. Where men gather, there will always be kings, and others who want to be kings. It is human nature. Men breed kings, no matter what they name them. So be you careful in your new land … What is it called again?”

  “Merica, Your Grace.”

  “Aye, Merica. A strange name, and it sounds ancient, not new at all.” He pulled himself upright and flexed his shoulders. “A long day … and your wedding day. You should be abed by now, holding your wife, as I should mine. But you can go and do that now, whereas I still have work in hand here. A good night to you then, Sir William Sinclair, and may you prosper in all you undertake.” He smiled and extended his hand. “This realm is in your debt, my friend, accident or no. So go now. We will speak tomorrow.”

  “Sire, if I may?” Archbishop Lamberton approached the fire again and held up one hand as if to detain Will. “I need to say one more thing about your charge, Sir William.”

  Will shook his head. “No, Master Lamberton, you do not, for I know what you would say. This charge of ours at the Bannock Burn was a final act of pride in what we once were, so I presume you are going to tell me that there will be a formal denial of any Templar involvement in the battle.”

  The Archbishop smiled. “No, Sir William, no. There will be no denials made. How could we deny it? Men saw what they saw, and there were many there that day. Thus, no denial, though we might, in time to come, omit your presence from our final records, stating that the appearance on the Hill of Coxet was, as you have told us, an army of camp followers. An omission, therefore, made in polity, but no denial. I merely thought to put your mind at rest and offer you some solace in the knowledge that the men you leave behind when you depart this realm will know no hardship or impediment when you are gone, for Scotland owes them much.

  They may continue as before, observing the rites and rituals they wish to preserve, in secrecy, within the boundaries of Scotland. That I can assure you, on my word as Primate of the realm.” He paused. “You will be taking representatives of Holy Church with you, will you not?”

  Will met the Archbishop’s glance squarely, feeling a tension in his jaw as he nodded. “Aye my, lord. Our own bishops and clerical brethren sail with us, prepared to tend to our souls and bring the Word of God to the people we find living there.”

  He did not enjoy lying to the churchman, even obliquely, but he could give no hint
that the Word of God his people would bring to the new land would be different from that preached by the Catholic Church. The bishops and clerics to whom he referred were all brothers of the Order of Sion, and in their new land the Truth that would be spread was the truth of the ancient fraternity: the Way to communion with God, as pursued by the man Jesus and his friends of the Jerusalem Assembly.

  Archbishop Lamberton nodded, then glanced at the King and held up the document he had received from Bishop Moray, who now sat listening in one corner. “Your Grace, this dispatch contains tidings that I thought Sir William might wish to hear before he leaves this room.”

  Bruce nodded, solemnly, and the Archbishop returned the gesture, then looked down at the document in his hand and sighed deeply.

  “Sir William,” he said, “this confirms that your Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, died a hideous and inhuman death …”

  “I had heard of it,” Will said.

  “This document says that Master de Molay admonished his persecutors—some say he cursed them, but I prefer admonished—calling upon King Philip and Pope Clement to join him for judgment before the throne of God within the year. Were you aware of that, Sir William?”

  Will nodded, scowling.

  “Well then, know this now, in satisfaction of a kind for the pain it must have caused you. It appears that your Grand Master possessed more power in his admonition than his persecutors, combined, held in their desire to see him and his name destroyed.” He took hold of the parchment with both hands and gazed down at it in silence while every man there hung on his next words. “I have tidings here informing me that Pope Clement is dead, at Avignon.” There was a concerted gasp from his listeners. Lamberton spoke again into the shocked silence. “But that news, solemn as it is, is eclipsed by the later information that King Philip of France, too, is dead more recently … three weeks ago, in fact. Both of them gone, in obedience to your noble Grand Master’s summons, within the year.”

  The words seared through Will’s head as the Archbishop continued. “And so both your persecutors are gone, summoned to Judgment by the God in whose name they dared to sin egregiously.” He raised the document so all could see it. “No man can say who will succeed either one of them, but this world we know is changed, and only time itself will expose what may come next. One more thing, though, is certain. With King Philip gone, it seems de Nogaret will not long survive in France … not when so many hate him.” He held out his hand to offer the document to the King, but his eyes remained on Will’s. “I thought you might enjoy taking those tidings with you when you leave here this night.” He waited, and when Will did not respond, he nodded gently. “Go then in peace, Sir William, and with our blessing.”

  Will was aware, on some level, of the reaction of the others to the Archbishop’s news, and he knew he behaved with propriety in bidding everyone there a proper goodnight. But as he walked along the halls towards his quarters, passing the motionless guards on every side, his mind was reeling with what he had been told, and what he would be able to tell his brethren afterwards: Capet and Clement burning in Hell; their own Grand Master vindicated thereby; and a new order dawning in the world.

  He reached his room and found a solitary lamp burning low, its wick guttering smokily. He pinched it out and shed his clothes quickly, feeling the chill in the darkness as he fumbled to raise the covers and slip naked into the welcoming warmth provided by his wife’s body as she turned sleepily to draw him close and embrace him; his new wife; a new life; and the promise of a bright new land.

  FINIS

  GLOSSARY

  aey (aye)

  always; ever

  bailey

  the defensive ditches surrounding a motte

  bothy

  a stone outbuilding, usually for cattle or herders

  braw

  fine; beautiful; admirable

  cateran

  a homeless vagabond; a Highland bandit

  enow

  enough; sufficient

  fell

  fierce; merciless; formidable

  fleering

  flagrant

  forbye

  as well; in addition; besides; notwithstanding

  fower

  four

  garron

  a small, sturdy workhorse

  gey

  very

  ’gin

  given; assuming; on the understanding that

  girning

  whining, complaining, scowling, grimacing

  gowping

  gaping

  guddling

  a method of catching brook fish with bare hands

  hinna

  have not; have no

  jalouse

  to guess; to suspect; to deduce

  kine

  cattle; livestock

  leal

  loyal

  mair

  more

  mind

  remember; recall

  motte

  the mound, sometimes a rock, on which a castle’s keep is built

  moudiewort

  hedgehog

  ploutering

  muddling, thrashing, wallowing

  recks

  matters, is important

  schiltrom

  a solid defensive formation of massed infantry with long spears

  scone

  (pronounced “skoon”) the traditional coronation site for Scotland’s kings

  siccan

  such

  slaistering

  floundering; making hard, muddy going of things

  stirk

  a bullock

  syne

  since

  thole

  to bear; to tolerate; to undergo; to put up with

  toun

  town

  unkent

  unknown

  weel-kent

  well-known

  wheen

  a number; a few

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The task of acknowledging the assistance and goodwill generated by contributors to any work of historical fiction is always a daunting one, raising fears of offending by omission, simply because the range of people who have contributed to the finished work, whether from their personal knowledge and research or by offering insights or encouragement, is always vast. I always start each book full of good intentions, resolved to make note of everyone to whom I should be grateful, but in the heat of writing the actual work, I invariably fall behind in doing so and end up wondering whom I’ve forgotten.

  There are some people, however, whose contributions to what I do have been invaluable, and most of those are the writers and academics whose own works have inspired me and informed my efforts to grapple with the job of sorting fact from fancy and to extrapolate my own tale, with all its speculations, interpretations, and outright flights of authorial fancy. I have no doubt at all that much of the licenses I take in constructing my tales would pain some of the people who originally nudged my thoughts in the directions I have pursued, but the errors, transgressions, and omissions I commit herein are my own, and most emphatically not theirs. I have read widely in the years of preparing and completing this trilogy, and my sincere thanks go to several distinguished authors who have made me stop and think, compare events and opinions, and then proceed in the fictional directions they have indicated to me, mostly without their intent. Paramount among those have been Piers Paul Read (The Templars), Barbara W. Tuchman (Bible and Sword), and Malcolm Barber (The New Knighthood).

  I also acknowledge, freely and with gratitude, the invaluable collaboration and assistance of my hands-on editors, Catherine Marjoribanks and Shaun Oakey, whose individual skills, after years of working with them, never fail to awe and impress me. To them, and to all the other Penguins at Penguin Group Canada, my sincere thanks.

  Jack Whyte

  Kelowna, British Columbia, Canada

  January 2009

  Read on for a preview of Jack Whyte’s exciting new novel,

 
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  First published in a Viking Canada hardcover by Penguin Group (Canada), a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 2009

  Published in this edition, 2010

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  Copyright © Jack Whyte, 2009

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