Order in Chaos

by Jack Whyte

  “You mean the French King’s henchman?”

  “Aye, a good word.”

  “You dislike the man, I jalouse.”

  “Sire, the measure of my dislike of him could scarce be comprehended.”

  “How many men there, then?”

  “One hundred and fifty-four, of whom thirty and six are serving lay brothers. Of knights and sergeants, therefore, one hundred and eighteen.”

  The monarch’s eyes, silver-gray and piercing, narrowed perceptibly. “And you were hoping to gain my permission to lodge these many men within my realm?”

  “More than that, Your Grace. I also have a complement of Temple knights and sergeants, under the command of my own brother, Sir Kenneth Sinclair. Twenty full knights and four score regular sergeants.”

  Sir Edward Bruce stirred in his chair, but everyone else sat motionless while the King pursed his lips and nodded slowly. “And the cargo vessels?”

  “Ten of them, all trading vessels. Seven of them carry my brother’s men and horses, with all of their gear and supplies. Two more carry the garrison from La Rochelle and their equipment. The last of them contains general supplies.”

  “Horses, you say? You bring horses in your train?”

  “We do. We scarce could leave them all behind to benefit King Philip and de Nogaret.”

  “And so you brought them here with you. In ships. Where do you hope to keep them?”

  Will shrugged his shoulders, dipping his head at the same time. “I confess, my lord, I had not thought of that. I simply knew I had no wish to leave them stranded in France, and I presumed you might advise me on where to keep them. Some of them, the knights’ mounts, are destriers, bred to the fight. The rest are common stock, sturdy and versatile.”

  The King leaned an elbow on his wrist, plucking at his lower lip. “We are going to have to talk, you and I, Sir William, about loyalties and quid pro quo. In the meantime, though, there is a problem that must be resolved without delay. Jamie tells me you left your ships off Sanda, close to Kintyre’s Mull. That is MacDonald country, and should they espy your ships, they would come running, which would serve no useful purpose to me. I will need you to fetch your fleet, as quick as you may, and bring them to Arran. They may shelter in the wide bay to the south of us, the bay of Lamlash. Will you do that?”

  “Aye, at once. But might they not be more easily seen coming here than they would remaining there?”

  “They might, but if they sail at night they should be fine. Off Kintyre, they might be open to attack by MacDonald, but here in Arran they will be safe. Who will you send?”

  “Sir Edward, of course.” Will turned to the admiral and repeated the entire conversation between himself and the King, and de Berenger immediately stood and reached for his mantle.

  “I’ll go at once,” he said, “under oars. It is a fourhour journey—”

  “Wait!” said Bruce, holding up his hand. “No need for such haste. Not now. Your crew has been invited ashore, Sir Edward. Let them eat first, rest for an hour, then put them to work. What difference between leaving at nightfall and leaving at midnight? The journey will still be in darkness, and it will pass more quickly on a full stomach than on a cramped and empty one. Bide ye, then, until midnight. In the meantime, we’ll go down and eat. But bear in mind my name is simple Rob this night, plain Robert Boyd of Annandale. When we ha’e supped, then we, too, will return to work.”

  TWO

  For Will Sinclair the banquet—it seemed more elaborate to him than a normal daily meal must be—passed by in a blur of raised voices—there were no women present—roasted meats including venison and mutton, a vague awareness of free-flowing drink, and the strident music of the Scots Highlands and Isles, harps and bagpipes and the seemingly interminable sagas of a string of bards and singers, all of them mouthing unintelligible Erse, or the Gaelic, as they called it. Will sat with Douglas and de Berenger at what was nominally the head table, but few there paid attention to it, its other occupants scattering to sit with their own friends as soon as the main meal was eaten, leaving the high dais to the three French speakers. Will’s mind was still reeling with the unspoken implications of the Bruce’s presence, and he found it inconceivable that the monarch could sit out there among his own followers and not be recognized. He said as much to Douglas, and the young man smiled.

  “It must seem strange to you, I’ll grant you, coming from France where all is civilized. But the truth is simple. Every man in Scotland knows the Bruce by name and by repute. But when they think of him they see the former Earl of Carrick in their minds, and the Earl was much the … what’s the word? the prodigal, in his youth. Aye, that’s it. He was known for it, his prodigality—the newest, brightest fashions in clothes and armor, the finest horses, the loveliest ladies, and of course, the smiling, sparkling wit. He spent money lavishly. Although his father, the Lord of Annandale, never gave him much to spend, he was Edward Plantagenet’s favorite when the Earl was yet a youngster. Most thought him a wastrel and a waste of time, seeing nothing in him beyond his youth, his wantonness and seeming irresponsibility. Mind you, that was before my time, for I was but a child when the Earl of Carrick was at his brilliant best, or worst … But that was the portrait he presented, before King Edward taught him to hate the leash.”

  “Hate the leash?”

  “Aye, the ties that bound him to the Plantagenet’s will. When Edward’s plans to annex Scotland to his realm failed to work out to his satisfaction, he sought to make the Earl of Carrick his whipping boy.”

  “How so?”

  “By requiring him to perform acts and deeds that seemed to mark him as Edward’s lackey—and therefore England’s. He made life barely tolerable for the Earl.”

  “What manner of acts and deeds? Though you were a boy at the time, you must have heard examples of such things.”

  “Heard of such things? I witnessed one of them: the Earl of Carrick’s first rebellion. My father, as I told you, was a rebel, one of the more contentious souls with whom Edward had to contend. He was involved in an uprising and outlawed by Edward, ten years ago. I was twelve at the time. Edward sent English troops to burn our castle and take my mother and me captive, but my mother barred the gates against them and refused to surrender. The Earl of Carrick was there, as part of the English force, but purely for the sake of appearances. He held the highest rank there but had no authority and was accorded no respect—a mere figurehead, a Scottish lordling dispatched to give the English raiding force a semblance of legitimacy. The English commander, whose name has long escaped me, brought up some children, one of them a friend of mine, and threatened to hang them then and there, in front of my mother’s eyes, believing her to be too weak to withstand such horror.”

  Will had to prompt him. “And was she?”

  Douglas chuckled. “We never did find out. The Earl of Carrick defied the English commander and drove him and his men away. Then he released the three children and begged my mother’s pardon. And thereafter he led us to my father in the north and joined in the rebellion, declaring himself a Scot and vowing to stand or fall with his own people. That was the first solid step along the course that led the Bruce to Scone and the Scots Crown.” He smiled. “It also marked the first step of my pursuit of knighthood, for the man that I saw that day became my ideal of honor and of chivalry. I wanted to be like Robert Bruce, the Earl of Carrick.”

  He paused, and then held up his hands. “Which brings me around, full-circle. That is the man—the armored knight, the fighting King—whose portrait people still envision when they think of Robert Bruce. The man you see sitting over there among them now, unrecognized, is the man he has become—a Highland cateran, hardened to living like an Erse clansman on the open heath in all kinds of weather, sleeping in caves wrapped in a wet and dirty plaid and often afraid to make a fire lest the smoke betray him, snaring hares or guddling fish to eat, begging bread from cottagers and paying for it when he can, and sleeping with a dirk in his hand each night. No armor, n
o spurs, no sword, no knightly robes. And there’s another thing that comes between him and being recognized … the beard. King Robert Bruce goes everywhere clean shaven. Everyone knows that. But for the past year, he has not had the time or opportunity to shave. Thus, when he decided to come back down here to Arran, he trimmed his beard but kept it. The King of Scots now lives among his Scots as no other ever has, and when he speaks with them, they do not know him.”

  “Hmm.” Will Sinclair shook his head. “Strange how events occur … Edward of England had no plans to annex Scotland when I was a lad. What happened?”

  “Who knows? Things changed. Some people think it was the success of his campaign in Wales that did it. He defeated Llewellyn, subjugated the Welsh, and even made his son Prince of Wales to mark his conquest. Ten years it took him to defeat the Welsh, but he increased his kingdom hugely. Thereafter, some men think, he turned his mind to Scotland, seeking to unite the entire island of Britain under his Crown … but he underestimated the temper of the Scots.”

  De Berenger spoke for the first time since the discussion had begun. “But all the Scots nobles are Norman French, are they not? They all owed him fealty and, from what Sir William has told me, they tendered it. Was that not enough? What need had he of conquering them?”

  “No, not so, Admiral. Not all Scots nobles are Norman French. The great earldoms of Scotland descend from the Celtic kingdoms, the Erse-speaking clans who lived here ere the Normans came. And besides, how long must a family live in a land before they can belong to it? The Bruce family has been here since the days of William the Conqueror. Sir William’s own family were once St. Clair, but they have been Sinclairs for many a year now. I would suggest that when your great-grandsires and dames were born and bred in Scotland, then you yourself might think yourself a Scot.”

  There was disturbance in the body of the hall, and Will looked over to see tables being drawn aside. Then two men stepped out from the ruck, eyeing each other inimically and stripping off their clothing, preparing to fight. Bets were being laid and sides taken, and amid all the pushing and shoving, Robert Bruce was grinning, his teeth gleaming through the short beard that masked his face.

  “Look at the King,” de Berenger murmured. “He is loving every moment of this.”

  “Aye, of course he is. His tastes have changed this past year.”

  “You told me the King was campaigning in the northeast.”

  “And I did not lie. His presence here will be brief, but necessary.”

  “Why is he here?” Will asked.

  “To discuss strategy.” Douglas grinned. “On what, you will have to wait to find out. But I have the feeling that you are going to become involved in it … to some extent. I heard King Robert mention quid pro quo, but it is not for me to guess at what he meant by it. You will just have to wait until he raises the matter.”

  De Berenger stood up. “Talking of raising matters, I ought to go and check that my men are behaving themselves. I gave word that there was to be no drink served to them beyond one cup of wine with their meal. Now I should see to it that all is well and make sure they are ready to go back aboard, if we are to sail with the night tide. Pardon me.”

  Will held up a hand. “Before you go, Edward—something else has just occurred to me. When you bring back the fleet, you will take them into Lamlash Bay.” De Berenger nodded. “I will still be here, there is no road between here and Lamlash. So when you reach Lamlash, I want you to leave the fleet at anchor there, with strict instructions that no one is to go ashore without my personal order. You will then come directly here to pick me up. I will be waiting for you. Is that clear?”

  “Completely, Sir William. It shall be as you say. Pardon me again, gentlemen.” He bowed from the waist to Douglas, including Will in the salute with a wave of one hand.

  “He is a good man, but how can he expect to do that?” Douglas asked as the admiral marched away towards his men. “I wouldna dare leave my men within smellin’ distance o’ a drink if I had work for them to do. What kind of power does he hold over them?”

  “The power of God, my friend. Don’t forget that they are monks of the Temple, every one. They fight like demons, but they live like anchorites and pray like priests.”

  He followed de Berenger with his eyes as he spoke, watching him head directly to the table where the four knights who were his ship’s officers sat with the six senior sergeants who actually ran the galley’s crew. The differences between knights and sergeants were clear, even could one disregard the white surcoats of the knights and the black of the others. The knights, to a man, wore the forked beards that marked them as Temple knights, an affectation that sometimes amused Will but more frequently annoyed him as typifying, it seemed to him, the elitist arrogance within their ranks that so offended outsiders. The sergeants were more sober in their demeanor, although their uniform close-clipped beards were equally a mark of belonging to the Temple.

  The wrestling match was still going on in the middle of the room. One man had already been thrown off his feet, and a shifting circle of onlookers milled about them, variously shouting oaths and encouragement. The Bruce had vanished, no sign of him to be seen, although he might simply have been hidden by the press of bodies.

  Looking at the array of clothing in the room, Will supposed that he might have seen a more riotous confusion of colors in France at some time, but he doubted it. Most of the men present were Highland Gaels, wrapped in plaids, their hair and beards unshorn, many of them even plaited into strips, and they were tricked out with barbaric jewelry and decorations ranging from eagle feathers to brightly woven sashes of startling hues.

  Will did not know what it was that captured his attention, but once aware of the man, he observed the fellow keenly. The man was too busy watching others to think of being noted himself. He was unremarkable, apart from being one of the few among the common throng who was not dressed as a Gael. Will could not see what he had on below the waist, but the man wore a plain thick tunic beneath a worn leather vest, and his head was bare, showing a balding scalp and stringy, nape-length brown hair. He had a beard and mustache, but both appeared sparse, as though his facial growth was light enough to deny or defy masculinity. But he was very interested in de Berenger and what the admiral was saying to his men … so interested that he was bending sideways from his chair to hear, while ludicrously attempting not to seem so.

  Will nudged Douglas to distract his attention from the brawl. “Don’t be obvious about it, but take a look over there, where de Berenger is talking to his men. See you the fellow craning to overhear them? Bare headed, balding, in the leather jerkin. Do you know him?”

  Douglas’s eyes slitted in concentration. “No, I don’t, but he is one of ours. From the mainland, I mean—a Lowlander, by his clothes. He must have come with Rob Boyd or one of the others. What about him?”

  “I don’t know, except something about him set my teeth on edge … the way he’s bent on hearing everything that’s being said over there. De Berenger is probably telling his men what he expects of them when they pull out later tonight, and it’s plain he has seen no reason to be secretive … but that made me think of what our friend from Annandale was saying, about how spies, traitors, and informers are everywhere in this land. If someone were to slip away from here with information on what is happening on Arran, he might earn a fine supply of English silver.”

  “Aye. Like Judas. I will ask about this fellow. And in the meantime, I will watch him like a hawk. They’re speaking French, are they not?”

  “What else? They’re all Frenchmen.”

  “Aye … so how then does a ragged Borders moss-trooper gain the skills to understand what they are saying? Dougald!”

  A huge man stood up from the table in front of the dais and lowered his head to what Douglas had to say. After a whispered monologue, he turned casually, glanced at the man Douglas had described, and nodded before sauntering away.

  Douglas turned back to Will. “You have a good eye, Sir Wi
lliam. By this time tomorrow morning we will know everything there is to know about our long-eared friend. Dougald’s lads will count the number of his breaths between now and then.” His eyes focused beyond Will’s shoulder. “I think we are about to be summoned.”

  THREE

  Only Will had been summoned, and he left Douglas at the dais and followed the man who had been sent to fetch him. They made their way up the wooden stairs to the gallery, threading their way between two burly characters who sat indolently on the stairs themselves, one above the other, and pulled their knees aside to let them pass.

  King Robert was waiting for him in the chamber they had met in earlier, sitting alone by the table, close to the replenished fire in the iron grate and staring into the flames as he scratched the head of a big, gray-haired wolfhound. He pushed the dog’s head away with a muttered command as Will entered, and it lay down at his feet. When the King stood and turned to face him, Will was immediately struck by the air of exhaustion that emanated from the man, but then the monarch drew himself erect, casting weariness aside like a discarded cloak, so that even the etched lines in his face seemed to recede and fill out.

  The King addressed the other man. “See to it that we are undisturbed. No one to come up here except David Moray, and him not for at least the next half hour.” He waited until the doors had closed before he next addressed Will. “De Moray’s a doughty fighter, but his head is even longer and sharper than his sword, so we’ll be glad of his advice.”

  The King hauled his heavy chair to one side of the fire. “Throw your coat on the table and sit with me, Sir William. Pull a chair up to the fire. It gets cold these nights, with the wind off the water, and I find myself being grateful to the English for their need to build sound flues to hold big fires. Were it left to my Scots, we would be squatting now in the open air, wishing for firewood. There is some wine on the sideboard. Help yourself and sit down, sit down. Is the admiral away?”