Order in Chaos

by Jack Whyte

  “This is the first occasion of our gathering as a community in this new land. Not the first gathering, for that was on the beach in Lamlash, but certainly the first gathering we have had as a community beginning to establish itself. I know I have no need to tell any of you how difficult a task we face, attempting our own rebirth here on Arran, and particularly so since we must do it without guidance, solving our own problems for the first time in two hundred years without recourse to our annals, records, and histories. But we are not without resources of our own. We may not have our complete written records in our possession, but thanks be to Almighty God, we have our memories, our lessons, our awareness of how things ought to be according to the Rule by which we are sworn to live. We have sufficiency of all of those, working together in concert and in mutual goodwill, to achieve what we must achieve, and to begin again, if need be.”

  The mention of beginning again, of starting over, brought a chorus of muttering and speculation, and Will held up one hand to quell it.

  “I know what all of you are thinking, and it is all contained in those last words of mine … if need be. We might have no such need, but at this time we do not know, one way or the other. We have ships homeward bound at sea, and by this time, God willing, they are on their way back from France, and they will bring us tidings of how things are for our brethren there. But until they come we cannot know the truth, and it has been three months now, lacking but six days, since we left in obedience to the Master’s command. But the Master gave me this to bring with us, and commanded that it be opened this day … well, yesterday, in fact. But here it is, and since our good Brother Reynald reads better than most of us and has a loud, clear voice, I will invite him to come here to me, in the East, and to deliver the tidings of our Master to your ears. Brother Reynald, will you come forward?”

  De Pairaud stood and walked the length of the chamber to where Will, who had opened the leather wallet by that time, handed him the letter it had contained.

  “Check that the seal remains intact, if you will, and then announce it to everyone, so there is no misunderstanding.”

  De Pairaud glanced at the inscription and then, slightly baffled, looked up at Will from beneath bushy gray brows. “But this is for you, Sir William. Your name is clearly inscribed here.”

  “It is addressed to me because I am the conduit between Master de Molay and the brethren here. Open it and read it to them. There will be nothing contained therein that was not meant for other eyes to read.”

  The knight addressed himself to examining the package. He held the seal close to his eyes, peering at it intently, then held the package high in the air.

  “Brethren, I have here, as you can see, a sealed package inscribed to Sir William Sinclair and bearing the unbroken seal of our Master, Jacques de Molay, and although it is addressed to himself directly, Sir William has requested that I read it now to you, from the Eastern Chair, in earnest of the importance of the tidings, guidance, and instructions that it may contain. Thus, if you will grant me a few moments, I shall do what Sir William asks of me.”

  He inserted his thumb beneath the seal, scattering shards of wax as he opened the wrappings and took the contents in his free hand. It fell into three parts, the first a rolled letter, loosely bound with a leather string and written on several heavy sheets of hand-cut parchment, the second another letter, more tightly rolled and bearing the Master’s personal seal. The third piece was an oblong packet tightly encased in thick waxed cloth, again bearing Will’s name but clearly marked as being for his eyes alone. De Pairaud set it down wordlessly on the table by Will’s chair, where it landed with a solid, heavy sound. De Pairaud held the second, smaller letter out to Will, who shrugged but made no attempt to take it. De Pairaud shrugged in return and set the sealed missive down on the table, too, and then pulled open the primary letter, clearing his throat reflexively as he held the text up, turning it towards the light.

  “It says here—” He stopped, recognizing the banality of what he was saying, then began to read the letter aloud in a high, clear voice.

  The Temple in Paris

  To our good and faithful brother, William Sinclair, Honorable Member of the Governing Council of the Order of the Knights of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon; Greetings from Jacques de Molay, Master.

  My Dear Brother,

  Having delivered my instructions to you on the matters currently unfolding here in our Homeland of France, and in the full and confident knowledge that you will obey them in their entirety, I now feel a need to enlarge upon my thoughts, expressed to you in our recent colloquy, in order to ensure that no man, of any rank or station, might be enabled to question you regarding the propriety of anything that you might hereafter pursue or attempt in my name or in the name of our Holy Order.

  Accordingly, I have decided to confide in you at greater length, explaining some elements of my thoughts and beliefs that I have not thought appropriate to reveal to my fellow Councilors for reasons that will become apparent as I continue.

  I have now come to believe, with great reluctance and frustrated incredulity, that the warnings I have received are correct in every aspect, and that our Holy Order, despite its well-accredited record of exemplary service and unstinting support for the Church and its Christian beliefs and objectives, has become the target for an unscrupulous campaign of calumny and perfidious lies aimed at destroying our reputation and the credibility we achieved over two hundred years of faithful service.

  I am equally convinced that the source of this scurrilous campaign is the King himself, Philip, the fourth of that name of the House of Capet, and for the first time in a lifetime of service to this Order, I am experiencing both fear and despair, because in our coming hour of need there is no source of succor and support to which we may safely turn. The worldwide resources of our Order are of no use to us in this extremity, since we have insufficient time to marshal those resources and broadcast what we know, and even were that not the case, we have no proof to offer in the area of our suspicions: nothing has yet occurred to justify our misgivings, and by the time it does, we will be faced with a fait accompli.

  My despair stems from our loyalty to, and support of, the Pope, the Vicar of Christ and the See of Rome. We swear our sacred oath of loyalty and obedience, as an Order, to the reigning pope, and have done so ever since our founding, and for more than one hundred and fifty years, our Brotherhood has stood staunchly by that oath and formed the standing army of the Church, dedicated to enforcing and supporting the will of the pontiff.

  But now I fear we have a pontiff who is more concerned with pleasing and propitiating the King of France than he is with safeguarding the welfare of the Church of Rome and its faithful adherents. Clement V was created by Philip Capet, for all intents and purposes, and may be just as quickly uncreated. All men of conscience know, within themselves, that Philip, through the machinations of his chief lawyer, William de Nogaret, has already effected the certain death of one pope who displeased him, and is suspected of having poisoned that one’s successor, clearing the way for Clement’s accession to the Throne of Peter. Clement himself requires no reminders of that truth, and so will bend to the wishes of his grasping, money-hungry master.

  These words I can say to you alone, knowing from our discussions that you are of like mind. What then can we do, who are bound by oath and honor itself, to escape the malevolence, or even in this case the indifference, of our titular earthly Master, when he chooses to accept the case being argued against us in absentia?

  In that light, I must assume that the events foretold for Friday the thirteenth of October will come to pass, and that you, God willing, will read these words of mine three months thereafter, on the Feast of the Epiphany in the coming year. Within those three months, one of two things will have—must have—taken place.

  The first, most reasonable, and devoutly wished of those is that the King of France will have admitted himself to be in error in suspecting our noble O
rder of whatever might have precipitated his actions in the first place, and will be in consultation with the senior Administrative Council of the Order to seek a resolution to the entire affair. The sole alternative, failing that, is that the Crown will have completed its machinations against the Order, and the Holy Inquisition will be in full pursuit of the adherents of the Temple at every level of French society, in every stratum of involvement, and the State, allied with the Church, will be immersed in the process of confiscating all the assets, liquid and fixed, real estate and specie, of the Order of the Temple in France.

  It is a bleak and dismal prospect that lies stretched ahead of us, dear Brother, but should the former instance prove to be the case, and our Order be judicially and morally absolved of sedition and treasonous intent, then it is not unreasonable to assume that word of such amicable resolution might not yet have come to you in whatever place you happen to be. Therefore you should bestir yourself, for the good of all, to ship envoys back to France as soon as may be practicable, taking care that they bear no mark, insignia, or rank that might identify them as Temple adherents and thus endanger them. These men should go ashore, comporting themselves as simple merchants with no interest in the affairs of France, and should discover for themselves the condition of the Temple fraternity within the French state.

  The second alternative is far less pleasant to contemplate and will demand great fortitude from you since, by definition, it entails the virtual extinction of the Order of the Temple in France—and I must add that this is now my personal expectation of what is about to happen. Capet, I firmly believe, is heart-set upon the destruction of the Temple. It may be because we refused him entrance to our own ranks—a slur his pride will not let him digest—but I believe that is but a contributory factor. Morally and financially bankrupt, Capet is envious of our wealth, and his treasury is permanently empty. In our hands he sees the great accumulation of lands and holdings, shipping and trading specie on earth, forever unavailable to him without indebting himself further, and the thought of it has been too overwhelming for him to contemplate without lusting to possess it.

  Should that come to pass, Brother William, then the Order of which I am the twenty-third consecutive and duly consecrated Master will in all probability cease to exist within this land. And if that be the sin of Despair, then I know not how to avoid it, for I am become sufficient of a Cynic to recognize another such, and this one of overwhelming capacity, in the distant, unapproachable, and inhuman personality of our anointed King, Philip IV of France.

  Despite our power and strength, Philip will win this struggle, for he has the Church at his beck and call, the Pope securely in his pocket. With that support, the compliance and even the complicity of the Pope himself, he is become invincible against us. And only such support would embolden him, powerful as he is, to mount such an obviously avaricious and covetous attack against the first and greatest and most honored of the Church’s military Orders. And Philip will do his worst. I anticipate torture and coercion, to gain our secrets, besmirch our honor, and establish our guilt—albeit for what, and to what end, remains to be seen. And therein lies the reason for my reluctance to share these thoughts with any other. Such thoughts are treasonous. But no man may reveal, under torture, things that he does not know. And for that good and sufficient reason, rather than endanger any of my clerics with the possession of such knowledge, I have seen fit to entrust the writing of these lines to a trusted scribe who will have returned to his home in Cyprus before the date of which we speak and will thus be safe from whatever might take place in France.

  It is my belief that we will be fortunate to retain anything tangible at the end of the purge that lies ahead. Everything our Order holds will vanish into the coffers of Philip’s treasury and the Vatican’s vaults—not necessarily in evenly divided portions. Thereafter, if any of our brethren remain alive, they will face a return to the earliest days of the Order itself, when each knight personally and voluntarily abandoned normal life in search of spiritual satisfaction and salvation, swearing the three Great Oaths and accepting utter poverty, laying claim to possession solely of those things, such as weapons, clothing, and horseflesh, that the Order and its adherents held in common. Our days of power and influence within France, at least, are strictly numbered, but my greatest fear is that, beyond the shores of France, the other kings of Christendom will follow Philip’s example, seduced by the prospect of uncountable wealth, there for the taking and unprotected by the Church.

  Such matters are beyond my control, Brother William; I merely register them here as matters of concern to me. I myself will stand or fall with our Order in France, wherein it was conceived and brought forth, and since my own vows prevent me from raising a weapon of any kind against my legal superiors, I will submit to whatever judgment or action may be prosecuted against me, irrespective of what I may perceive as its moral worth.

  One thing yet lies within my control, my jurisdiction, and my grant as I write this: the delegation of authority within our Order wherever I think fit. To that end I have included with this missive a formal letter of appointment and recognition, duly witnessed by the senior members of the Governing Council and signed and sealed with my official seal as Grand Master of the Order of the Temple, naming our faithful subordinate, Brother William Sinclair, Knight of the Order of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, as Master of the said Order within Scotland, or wheresoever said William Sinclair might find himself upon the cessation of his travels, so be it that he is still among a company of the knights and sergeants of the Order and remains dedicated to the preservation of the ancient secrets and rites of the Order duly passed down to him by his peers, brethren and companions within the Order.

  That missive accompanies this letter. Read it aloud in chapter when the time is right, and proceed with my full blessing. May the God of our Fathers watch over and protect you and yours.

  In humble fraternity, this seventh day of

  October, Anno Domini 1307

  Jacques de Molay, Knight and Grand Master

  For some time after de Pairaud fell silent no one moved, and there was absolute silence. But then from somewhere among the men on the right of the Eastern dais came a slow and rhythmic sound as one of the knights began to beat his right palm against the side of his leg, in a seldom-used tradition that had become known over the years as the chapter applause. The beat was at once taken up by others and spread quickly until the entire assembly was clapping, the sound of their mailed arms striking the heavy chain mail on their armored sides adding a pronounced, heavily metallic background to the clapping of their open palms against their legs.

  Will had experienced similar approval only twice before in all his years in the Order, and on both occasions he had contributed to it in support of others. Twice in a lifetime had now become thrice, and this time he felt the neck hair stirring on his nape, for knights in chapter were more than simply sparing in such applause; the conferral of the honor indicated wholehearted approval of some signal development or deed. Strictly speaking, it went against the rules of chapter, since no voice was ever to be heard therein that did not belong to an approved speaker, but technically, no voice had spoken, and so the point was moot.

  Will felt his face flush with pleasure, and he had to fight to maintain his composure, allowing no trace of his feelings to show on his face while he thought about what he should do now. The applause, flattering though it was, was illegal and had to be stopped, but he was loath to curtail it abruptly, for the circumstances of this chapter meeting were already unusual. He glanced sideways to where Martelet and the other prisoners stood in chains, and took note that the ringleader was standing stiffly upright, arms unmoving at his sides, glowering with disdain.

  Will looked back at the assembled brothers and raised his hands to shoulder height, slowly and steadily, palms outwards in a request for order, and was glad to hear the steady, pounding beat diminish slowly until it died completely. That way, the silence he
had gained was voluntary, not commanded. He stood then and looked out at them, aware of their eyes and their expectancy, but for long moments no words came to him. And then he knew, in a flicker of understanding, what he wanted to say, and he cleared his throat and spoke out clearly.

  “This chapter meeting is unique, Brethren, as is our celebration here today. Unique … incomparable and unprecedented. Think upon that word and what it means … Unique. It means singular in all respects; it means unequalled and without parallel. It means new and never previously experienced. And as a word to describe this gathering, it is in every way appropriate.

  “Within the history of our Order, there has never been a letter penned that has approached the one that you have heard read here today, or one that has more clearly demonstrated the inner beliefs of our Grand Master concerning the status and welfare of this organization, the safety and propagation of which had been entrusted to his care. That, in itself, is unique.

  “Since the birth of our Order, two centuries ago, even in the seething chaos of the campaigns in Outremer against the Seljuk Turks and against the Syrian Sultan Saladin and his Muslim hosts, there has never been a time when any new preceptory of our Order has had to set down roots without any guidance or support from the senior authorities of the Governing Council. We here in this chapter are the first such instance. And that, more solemnly and somberly, more chasteningly and more regrettably than anything else imagination might encompass, is unique.”

  He looked around at the assembled faces of the brotherhood as he gave them time to absorb what he had said, seeing the frowns of consternation spreading as his words sank home.

  “We are alone here, Brethren, in a situation and place that half a year ago would have been inconceivable. And so we must govern and constrain ourselves. Without hope of help from any source. Our closest associates, the Brethren of the Temple in England, are shut off from us, unaware of our existence here, and I fear, because of politics and our obligation to King Robert, we dare not trust them with the knowledge of our presence. Therefore we must govern ourselves. And we must begin now, today, this minute.”