by Jack Whyte
“The Baroness was right,” he said over his shoulder. “You do have a wealth of matters to keep you busy here. You will no’ be bored. A good night to you, Sir William, and I’ll return for my galley in the morning.”
Those parting words came back to Will the following afternoon, as he watched the vice-admiral’s galley bearing Douglas and the Randolph woman eastwards across the narrow waters of the Firth of Clyde towards the Scottish mainland and the Bruce lands of Ayr and Carrick: You do have a wealth of matters to keep you busy here. You will no’ be bored.
Will knew Douglas was right. He would have no time to be bored; no time to waste at all; and certainly no time to waste in thinking about that Randolph woman, who was now safely, and definitively, gone from his life.
OBEDIENCE
ONE
The upheaval took Will Sinclair completely by surprise, although, looking back on it, he could see that all the signs of its imminence had been there and he had merely chosen not to see them. Some of the brethren muttered about it afterwards as a revolt, or a mutiny, but Will himself was never sure what to call it. If revolt it actually was, it was not widespread, and it was quickly quelled, but its ramifications were profound because it ran counter to the Temple’s centuries-old traditions of brotherhood, tolerance, and obedience to authority within the Order, and it demonstrated the extent to which discipline had declined in the preceding years. Those truths alone made the events of that day, the Eve of the Feast of the Epiphany, significant enough to trigger an explosion of displeasure from Sir William Sinclair the likes of which none of his chapter had ever seen.
He literally walked into the fight that began and ended the affair, and for several moments he stood blinking, unable to come to terms with what he was seeing. But then, as awareness swept over him, so too did anger, and the unexpectedness of both combined to propel him instantly from deep concentration into cold and implacable fury.
He had been awake since the wee hours of that cold January morning, roused long before Vespers with the news that Sir James Douglas, newly arrived from the mainland in pitch darkness and a raging storm, sought urgent audience with him. Those words had banished all sleepiness from his mind, and within the quarter hour he had created a stir that had serving brothers bustling everywhere—lighting fresh fires and refueling old ones against the bitter winter chill; preparing tables, chairs, candles, and tapers for instant use; and arranging for hot food and dry clothing to be provided for the famished newcomers. Douglas’s visit would be brief, Will had learned, for his ship had not come to Arran apurpose. He and his men were on their way to Ireland, carrying messages for King Robert’s brother Edward Bruce, who was there attempting to raise mercenaries and create alliances on his brother’s behalf with some of the Irish kings. But they had run afoul of a squadron of English ships soon after leaving the sea arm of Loch Awe, and although they had evaded them with relative ease, the maneuvers of the night chase had left them at the mercy of the storm in the Firth of Clyde, with little option but to run for Arran, which they had expected to visit only on their return journey.
By and large, though, the tidings that Douglas brought with him were good: Bruce’s progress through the Highlands of his realm was going well and, as Douglas gleefully declared in the course of the short time he was able to spend with Will, the house of Comyn had fallen upon ill times long overdue. The proud Earls of Buchan and Ross had surrendered and bowed the knee to Bruce, he reported, almost crowing with satisfaction, and the seething Comyn brood, including the contentious MacDougalls of Lorn and Argyll, would never again pose a danger to King Robert.
For all of Bruce’s successes, though, attrition had been high. The King had called a halt to his progress in order to refresh and refurbish his following, and to begin his drive to introduce some order and signs of coming prosperity into his beleaguered realm. The news of his increasing successes had worked wonders among the common folk, and recruits were joining his standard in increasing numbers every day. Still, the King would not be happy, Douglas said, until he could convene a legal Parliament—the first to be held in Scotland in more than a decade—and begin to enact new laws for the governance of the land and the protection of its people. In the meantime, he added, the end of the first tour of duty for Will’s mounted Arran contingent was drawing close, and King Robert was so pleased with its performance that he was hoping, and had asked Douglas to suggest, that for this single occasion the schedule of changeover might be accelerated slightly, in order to provide him with a fresh armed and mounted escort to accompany him on his travels throughout the land now that it was at peace.
Will found King Robert’s request reasonable and had ordered the necessary changes in scheduling, and it was about that change that he was thinking as he made his way down the spiral staircase from the tower room where he had sat thinking since Douglas’s departure. The sun had been up for more than two hours by then and the storm had finally died down, but the occasional glimpses of the weather that Will caught from the slit windows of the staircase were enough to show him that no sunshine would break through the clouds this day.
He reached the bottom of the tightly winding stairway and stepped out of the tower into daylight, pulling his cloak about him against the mid-morning chill. As he did so he heard the ringing of steel close by, accompanied by upraised voices, but he paid little attention, assuming them to be the sounds of training men, drifting in from the yard beyond the gate. He shivered in the drab light and looked absently around him, noting the drops of moisture hanging from the open mesh of the heavy wrought-iron gate that served as the tower door, and then he spun to his left and made his way around the base of the building, intending to visit the latrines beyond the gate. Halfway around, though, on the roughly level walkway at the foot of the wall, he was confronted by a knot of struggling men in the yard below, or so he thought. But then he saw that there were only two men struggling, chest to chest, while the others, wide eyed and noisy, clustered around them, shouting encouragement to one or the other.
He stood staring for a moment longer, open mouthed with incredulity, and then his outrage set in, for this was no training bout. These men were set to maim or kill each other, and one of them was already bleeding from a deep gash in his leg. The two were nose to nose, their blades locked between them and grating together as they struggled, each straining to hold the other’s blade captive and gain the advantage, but even as Will began to move, the deadlock broke and the two sprang apart, the wounded man, less agile than the other, catching his heel on the rough ground and staggering backwards, arms outflung in an effort to retain his balance. He kept his grip on his sword, but it was point down and useless for the crucial moment that it took his opponent to rally himself and leap forward, sword already sweeping in a downward slash.
Neither man had heard Will’s shout ordering them to stop, and even the watchers were unaware of his presence as he launched himself down from the low parapet. He was less than two feet above them when he jumped, but that was high enough to suit his purposes. He landed within striking distance of the charging knight and kicked out hard in a straight-legged blow that took the unsuspecting man high on the left hip and sent him crashing sideways to fall full-length on his back in a clatter of armor. By the time the first of the spectators had swung around to protest the interference, Will’s own long sword was screeching from its scabbard. They froze in mid-movement, assessing the threat, and then, as they recognized Will, they blanched, assuming the collective, shamefaced look of miscreants caught in the act.
Not so the fellow on the ground. He knew only that he had been knocked down, and neither knew nor cared by whom. He came up with a roar and threw himself towards Will, hungry for blood and vengeance, his sword upraised and his helmet slightly askew, so that the eye slits of his visor were visibly off kilter. That detail saved his life later, for it enabled the man’s official defender at the ensuing trial to claim that the fellow had not been able to see who had struck him and so had been unaware he
was attacking a superior officer. As it was, Will merely threw down his sword, stepped aside, and pivoted, grasping his assailant with both hands, elbow and neck, as he hurtled past. He then leaned backwards, pulled the fellow off balance, and kicked the back of his knee, driving the leg from beneath him and sending him crashing to the ground once again. He then bent down to pick up his sword.
Dazed but unyielding, the fellow fought stubbornly to stand up, failing the first time but then rallying himself until he was on his feet again, weaving unsteadily. Will, still furious, stepped in close, hooked the fingers of one hand into the neck of the fellow’s cuirass, and jerked him violently forward to his knees and then to all fours, where he finished the matter by chopping down onto the man’s helmet with the hilt end of his sword, felling him like a slaughtered ox.
He stepped away and turned to face the others, blade raised towards them, his teeth bared in a rictus of fury. But when he spoke, his voice was low and sibilant, dripping with scorn. “Are you all mad? Are you insane? Have you forgotten your vows along with your discipline? Well then, by the living Christ, I will reintroduce you to the penalties you swore to undergo for laxity and lassitude and disobedience.” He pointed his raised blade at one of them he knew by sight. “You, Duplassy. Go now at the run and find Sir Richard de Montrichard. Find him quickly, if you value your skin, and bring him back here to me. I have no care what he may be doing—interrupt him if you must. But bring him here now. Run!”
As the pale-faced Duplassy hurried away, Will turned to the next man in line. “You, Talressin. Find Tam Sinclair. Tell him I need a squadron of his best men here, for guard duty, and then bring him to me. Go. Now!”
Four of the erstwhile spectators remained, plus the two combatants, the first of whom had now risen to his feet and was hovering nearby, hunched over as he tried to stanch the flow of blood from his leg with a dirty cloth, holding himself apart from his companions and evidently well aware of the trouble he was in. Will looked from man to man, his thunderous expression ensuring that none of them would dare to speak to him, but finally he sheathed his sword and spoke again in that same flat, menacing voice.
“Throw your weapons at my feet. All of them. And one of you strip the sleeping assassin of his.” He waited until the last weapon had clattered onto the pile, then nodded. “Now, on your knees in a row, facing me, and prop the prisoner up between two of you. You will remain where you are, in silence, until you are taken into custody and caged in the cells to await your trial. In silence,” he barked as one of the men opened his mouth to speak. “Mark me. You are in dire case now. Do not be foolish enough to compound your grief by disobeying further.”
He still had no idea who the unconscious and stillhelmeted man was, but at this stage he did not want to know and nor did he care. If Justice was blind, as the ancients maintained, then Will, as the arbiter of justice and punishment in this small community, was quite prepared to remain blind to the identity of the miscreant in front of him.
Moments later he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and Tam Sinclair came around the base of the tower, followed by the man Talressin. Tam drew up short as soon as he came into view, his gaze sweeping along the kneeling men and coming to rest on the pile of weapons at Will’s feet.
“You want them locked up, Sir William?”
“I do. And in chains, hand and foot.”
Tam nodded abruptly, his face expressionless. “Aye. My men will be here quickly, and we’ll have these fellows out o’ here.” He stepped smartly backwards as Sir Richard de Montrichard came hurrying towards them, accompanied by two of his officers, all three of them bareheaded and wearing the new, closely trimmed beards that signified the new order. De Montrichard held up a hand to stop his two companions and made his way directly to Will, although he never took his eyes from the kneeling men in front of them. The helmeted one was recovering quickly, reeling drunkenly but still propped up by his neighbors on each side.
“What has been happening here, Sir William?” De Montrichard spoke from the corner of his mouth, his eyes on the prisoners, and still distant, Will heard nailed boot soles thumping in double time, Tam’s hastily summoned guards approaching.
“A breach of discipline,” Will answered, his voice a monotone. “Fighting among themselves, with full intent to kill. One of them, as you can see, sustained a wound. His assailant attacked me when I sought to stop them, and I had to deal with him.”
De Montrichard gasped. “Are you injured?”
“No, I am well enough. He caused me no difficulty.”
“I’ll have him flogged for this. Who is he?”
“No, Sir Richard.” Will took de Montrichard by the arm and led him aside to where they could not be overheard. “You will not punish him, nor will I. This transgression goes well beyond the bounds of normal punishment within the ranks. What happened here was an assault against the Rule that binds us all, and it must be dealt with formally, in full chapter, as soon as may be arranged. The brethren in chapter, after due process, may decide to have him flogged, but that decision is beyond the jurisdiction of you or me.”
De Montrichard glanced sidelong at Will, then nodded and turned back to face the brawlers, clasping his hands at his back as the arriving guards clattered up and were ordered by Tam Sinclair to take the eight prisoners into custody. But before they moved away, De Montrichard stepped forward and held up a hand to stay them, then indicated the knight in the helmet.
“That man. Remove his helmet and show his face.”
One of the guards unlaced the tight cap covering the prisoner’s head and pushed it back to reveal the fellow’s face, freeing the unkempt mass of the beard that had been concealed beneath it in defiance of Will’s recent order that all beards should be close-trimmed if not completely shaven. Will looked closely at the man but felt no stir of recognition. The prisoner was clearly one of the garrison knights from La Rochelle, and most of those were still unknown to him, despite the close quarters in which they had all lived for more than a month now.
De Montrichard, on the other hand, clearly knew the man now standing before them.
“Martelet,” he said, his voice cold with distaste. “I should have known. The rest of you, show your faces.”
One by one, the group surrounding the man called Martelet loosened the thongs binding their armored caps and pushed them back to expose their bearded faces. Without exception, they were closely shorn, all of them showing varying degrees of recentness in their barbering.
De Montrichard nodded. “Take them away,” he ordered.
Tam barked a string of commands, and the entire column of prisoners and guards straightened in response and was soon following him away towards the building in the inner bailey that held the iron storage cages that served as temporary cells. Will watched them go, one arm across his waist, its wrist supporting his other elbow as he stroked his lower lip with the side of his finger.
“What should I know of this Martelet, Sir Richard?”
De Montrichard sniffed. “A malcontent and a hothead. Did you hear about the affair off the Isle of Sanda, when several knights tried to go ashore and their boat had to be sunk in order to stop them?” Will nodded. “Well, that was Martelet, the ringleader as always. It is good that he be tried in chapter. Perhaps the seriousness of that will have an effect on him.”
Will straightened, dropping his hand from his mouth to his shoulder. “I doubt it. He strikes me as being too arrogant, and too far gone from the way of the Rule, to change his ways now without … redirection. A flogging and a month of bread and water might bring him to heel, but it might not. And if not, what then? We will have to deal with him according to the Rule. When was the last time we walled up one of our own to die, can you remember? I can’t. It must have been fifty years ago at least. Not since the fighting years in the Holy Land, as far as I know. But that could be what we are facing here …” He paused, considering what he had said, then nodded. “Thank you for coming, Sir Richard. I regret having had to summ
on you, but I thought it best you should be informed, as preceptor.”
“And you were correct. You spoke of convening a chapter meeting. When will that be?”
“The day after tomorrow, in Brodick Hall, if that suits you. But I know it is your right to choose the time and place, so if you wish—”
“Not at all. You are the senior here, and charges of this seriousness cannot be made to wait on convenience. I am content.”
“My thanks, then. I will make the arrangements today and send off word to Brodick, so that they’ll be ready. We ourselves, the entire garrison, will march down there tomorrow at dawn. Can you be ready by then?”
“I’m ready now, but tomorrow is the Feast of the Epiphany. The bishops will not be happy to forgo their ceremonies.”
“Regrettable, but they have no choice. We will march before daybreak, and if Fortune serves us well, we will get to Brodick Hall by nightfall. The bishops can then have their postponed ceremonies that day, prior to chapter opening. A day late, certainly, but no less sincere … God knows what we are about, and knows the difficulties that we face here. I have no doubt He will accept the necessity of what we have to do, and will make allowances for us.”
De Montrichard nodded, his face somber. “I agree with you completely. So mote it be. And now I will leave you to your arrangements … Unless you have some other use for me?”
“My thanks, Richard. I will not hesitate to call on you if I do have need of you.”
Will watched as the other man rejoined his officers and went away. Sir Richard de Montrichard was nominally in charge of all garrison affairs, as his rank of preceptor decreed, but he had been a major disappointment to Will, for he had turned out, under pressure, to be a weak reed. As vice-preceptor in La Rochelle, working under the redoubtable Arnold de Thierry, he had shown all the necessary promise of becoming an excellent commander in due time, but in the event—perhaps because of the murder of his superior, or perhaps because of the unsettling events of October thirteenth—he had fallen far short of his promise and had been largely ineffectual as a leader and commander. Will could find nothing to put his finger on that would justify replacing him with someone else, but he felt, nonetheless, that de Montrichard might be better off, to the advantage of everyone else involved, relieved of his responsibilities and relocated, indeed relegated, to a more contemplative and less active role in the Order’s affairs on Arran. It was a problem Will had spent time considering in the month since their arrival on the island, but as yet he found himself unable to decide upon a satisfactory resolution. There was no one at this point, at least no one obvious, whom he could promote to fill de Montrichard’s position satisfactorily, and that troubled him.