by Jack Whyte
Will let the question go unanswered while he gazed at his father for a while, taking stock of the changes he could see in the man. At sixty-eight, Sir Alexander was still a large man, still broad of shoulder and erect in posture, but he had aged greatly, his beard gray-white and his thick, long hair silvered into a halo about his head. His wife had died ten years before, of a sudden sickness that had taken her from her husband before he’d had time to adjust to the possibility that she might die, and the loss had devastated him, leaching much of the bulk and muscle from his giant frame. His mind, however, was unimpaired, and his blue eyes were as bright as Will remembered them.
Will shook his head. “I cannot say, Father.”
“Why? Because you know not, or will not? There are few of your Order left in the land, apart from your own soldiery, very few … Sir Alan Moray for one, Sir Robert Randolph, a score or so others. Their observances of your rituals and monkish ceremonials might have been neglected, for we have been at war these past ten years and more, and most of the Temple clergy returned to England years ago. But they will rally to you if you summon them, for they have no idea about this morass of treachery in France, and I dare say they might welcome some solid leadership after so long without it. So which is it, Son, cannot or will not?”
“Cannot, because at this moment I simply do not know. But the need to know consumes me, every waking moment.”
“Aye, well that, at least, is as it should be. The rest will come to you. Having heard what you told me, I am not surprised you’re undecided. Betrayed on every side, by every superior who should support you, you need to think things through, and from a viewpoint that you might never have contemplated ere this all came to pass … I know little of the Temple, but if I can help you in any way, you’ve but to ask. You know that.”
“I do, and I thank you for it. But there is—”
“What happened to the Treasure?” his father interrupted. “I hope it was well hidden, for the thought of Philip Capet laying his hands on it offends me. Did he find it?”
Will glanced at his brother, who was wide eyed and slack jawed with shock, and had to smile in spite of himself. “That is what I was about to say, Father,” he said. “The Treasure was well hidden, and Philip’s dogs did not find it.” He nodded towards his brother. “Kenneth reached it first, deep in the forest of Fontainebleau, and brought it safely out. It’s sitting in your barn right now.”
Now it was his father’s face that went wide with shock.
“The Treasure is here? The Temple Treasure, in Roslin? That seems beyond credence. Most men doubt that it even exists nowadays.”
“It exists very solidly, Father, believe me. I’ll show it to you tomorrow, but only the chests, I fear. I’ve never seen them open. Their contents is the most closely held secret of our Order, valuable beyond price. Only the Grand Master is permitted to know what they are. His two closest deputies have access to the keys to the chests, but even they are not permitted to look until one of them becomes Master himself.”
“And you’ve left these chests out in the barn?”
Will laughed. “Why not? They’ll come to no harm. They’ve lain untended in a cave in France for ten years, and since then they’ve been safely stowed in the holds of several ships. They can survive a night in a barn, until we decide on someplace safe to hide them for a while.”
Sir Alexander had now had sufficient time to absorb the shock and his expression turned pensive. “What are your plans for it? Plainly you seek to hide it, but why bring it here in the first place?”
“Because here, with your consent, is where we intend to conceal it.” Ignoring his father’s raised eyebrow, Will quickly told him about the cavern he and his brothers had discovered as boys, and the old man chuckled, his eyes sparkling.
“I know it well,” he said. “I played in it with my own friends and brothers as a lad. It’s big enough to lose a substantial treasure inside it. But how large are these chests? You’ll never get them in if they’re too big.” His father paused, a peculiar expression on his face, and Will knew his own face must be reflecting his surprise, for Sir Alexander laughed again. “You didn’t know I knew about the place,” he said. “William, that cave has been there since the beginning of time, long before the first Sinclairs arrived in Roslin. You held the knowledge of it secret, thinking it yours alone—but so did we, my brothers and I, in our own time. And it would surprise me to learn that there was ever a generation of Sinclair boys who did not think the same.”
The old man chuckled again, but quietly this time, as though at himself. “We all delude ourselves in youth,” he continued finally. “It is the same with babymaking and the joys of doing it … each of us, each pair of young lovers, believes they have discovered the secret of the ages, now revealed to them alone, the wonder of it. Ah, well. That is the miracle of youth and learning …”
Will sat blinking, not knowing what to say next in the face of this unprecedented glimpse of his august sire’s humanity and fallibility, and his mind filled with the sudden knowledge that, no matter how old he grew or how highly placed he became, his father would always have the ability to put him in his place and make him feel like a child again. The feeling grew into the first stirrings of panic, and he coughed and tried to pull himself together, to return to the business at hand
“Aye … of course … But that is why we require your permission, Father, and your aid. Many of the men I brought with me are highly skilled masons, while two are architects. It will be a simple task to enlarge the entrance, then seal it up again with stonework once the Treasure is inside. There, it will be more than safe, since none but you in all Scotland will know its location … That is true, is it not? You will be the only one who knows of it?”
The elder Sinclair smiled. “The only one I can think of … but there were many who knew of it when I was a lad. Today, though, if anyone went back to look for it after your men had finished their work, they wouldna fret about no’ finding it … But you have not explained why you need my aid. It sounds to me as though you don’t.”
“Oh yes we do, Father. We need you to make sure that none of your folk come looking out of idle curiosity, seeking to find out what we are doing out there in the woods.”
“Aye. That is easily done. No one will come near you—I can see to that, if nothing else. Now, as soon as day breaks, have some of your men bring the chests in here. They can sit over in that corner, and no one will as much as look at them. Is there anything else you need from me?”
“No, Father, nothing more.”
“Good, then tell me about this King of ours. What was your reading of the man? Kenneth, what did you think of him?”
“I never met him, Father. Will was the one who met and talked with him.”
Will shrugged. “I found him … regal … and in his dealings with me he was straightforward, noble, magnanimous, and unassuming. I liked him greatly.” Sir Alexander made a harrumphing sound, and Will glanced keenly at him. “You sound unimpressed, Father. Do you disagree with my judgment?” His voice was quiet, showing only curiosity and no offense.
“No, no, lad. I believe you well enough, but until hearing you saying it, I would have been inclined to doubt such things. I knew him as a young man, and I was unimpressed by his bearing or his behavior. In those days he was a strutting lordling, a favorite of the Plantagenet, with not a thought in his mind beyond clothing, hunting, gambling, and women … He did not appear to me to be of the stuff from which strong kings are made. My father had supported his grandfather, old Robert Bruce, the Competitor as he was known then, and so I was—with the rest of our family—known as a Bruce man. But this one’s father, Robert Bruce the Elder, was a dour and unlikable man, and even his son shunned his company, preferring to spend his time with the Plantagenet crowd. And the father didn’t seem to mind, probably thinking that, wastrel or not, the boy had the ear and the patronage of the English King … for what that was worth.
“But from all I hear, and what you’v
e told me from your own experience, it would appear the lordling has grown up well—from Earl of Carrick to King of Scots—and is well thought of, too, by those who know him nowadays. You trust him, then?”
“Aye, Father. I do. He had no need to be generous to us, supplicants for his aid when he was ill beset himself. He was engaging and possessed of a great and unassuming dignity … Regal, I said, and regal I meant. Robert of Scotland is a king in more than name.”
“Then I will take your word for it and think no more ill of him. Speaking of which, I hear that he has fallen ill himself and his brother Edward—a hothead, that one—has him under guard near Inverurie. It is mere rumor—I have no proof of the right or wrong of it. You know how people talk, knowing nothing but pretending they know all there is to know.” Sir Alexander rose to his feet and crossed to the fireplace, where he picked up a long, narrow log and used it to rake the embers into activity before placing it among the glowing coals and adding several more. He stood there for long moments with his back to his sons, staring into the rekindled flames, then spoke without turning around.
“How will you protect your fleeing brood? And for how long?”
Will had been thinking about the Bruce’s illness, concerned by the news of it, and now he was aware that he had lost the thread. He looked over at his brother, puzzled, but Kenneth was looking back at him the same way.
“I don’t follow you, Father. What do you mean?”
The old man turned to face them, glancing from one to the other before addressing Will directly. “You are made Master in Scotland, you say … Master of what?”
“Of the Temple Order, I told—”
“I know what you told me, William, but now I am asking you to think on what is involved in that. If your worst fears are realized—as it seems they are bound to be—then the Temple is finished throughout Christendom. The head is already gone, and the rest of the goose will run around flapping its wings for a short time, and then fall dead.” He held up a hand to stifle protest, though neither of his sons had responded.
“In all of Christendom, then, your command here—your little outpost of a few hundred souls—will be the sole repository of your Order’s history and traditions. Your charge, William, as Master—and yours, Kenneth, as his brother—is to cherish and protect it: knights and sergeants, history and traditions, readiness and manpower. But how long can you sustain it? Where will you find recruits if the Order is abolished? Every man you lose from this time on will be irreplaceable. You cannot even breed sons to fill your ranks, even had you the time, because your people are all monks. Has that occurred to you?”
Will sat staring at his father. “No, Father. It had not. But you are right, and the thought chills me.” He sat still again for a moment longer, meeting his father’s eye, then added, “I have the feeling you have more to say on that …”
“I have an idea, a thought, nothing more. But it might offend you. How strong is your authority as Master?”
Will blinked, puzzled by the question. “Here in Scotland, it is all-powerful.”
“But subject to overruling by the Council, is that not so?”
“It is.”
“What if the Council never rules again, on anything? By your own admission, that could happen.”
“Aye, it could, but may God forbid it. And yet, if that should turn out to be the case, I already have my duty defined for me, in writing, and by Master de Molay’s own hand. I will become Grand Master over all … which may be my own few hundreds and no more.”
“Then release them from their vows.”
“What? Relea—I can’t do that, Father. The mere thought is ludicrous. I do not possess that kind of authority. Besides—”
“Who does possess it, then, the Pope?”
“Well, yes.”
“The same Pope who set the Inquisition to torture a false confession out of your Grand Master in order to appease the greed of your venal King? That Pope? Is that the one you mean? The Pope who rewards centuries of outstanding service and loyalty to his cause with treachery and vicious lies? The Pope whose craven, pusillanimous nature turns him into an insult against all he is supposed to represent, because he lacks the backbone to confront a king and refute a grievous wrong, and demonstrates his unfitness by turning his back on God Himself?
“Backbone, William—that’s what you need in this case, and if you will but think on it, I believe you will see the truth of it. Absolve your people of their vow of chastity. Obedience and the other one they may keep. But give them at least the chance to marry and breed children to your cause.”
“That’s madness, Father. These men are monks, of long service. They could never adjust to such a change, would see it as sin, as a consignment to damnation.”
Sir Alexander dipped his head. “Aye, some of them might … the older ones. But others would not. Their entire world is changed, and will probably remain that way. They will be personae non gratae within the Church, and they may even stand excommunicate, as fugitive members of a banned order. By releasing them from their vows, you would be offering them at least a chance to live as men in this new world in which they find themselves. Should even one score of them go on to breed sons, you would have young minds into which to implant your lore and teachings …”
Will sat silent, his mind reeling, seeing only the unconscionable arrogance and hubris of his father’s suggestion and completely unequipped to deal with it, coming as it had from his father, the most honorable, righteous, and upstanding man he had ever known outside of the Order of Sion. Kenneth said nothing, refusing to look at either one of them, and for his part, Sir Alexander, too, said no more, merely waiting for his son to collect his obviously scattered wits. Finally Sir Alexander rescued him.
“Another matter altogether: do you have a squire?”
Will blinked. “A squire? No. I had one until several months ago, but he was knighted last July and I have been traveling since then. Why do you ask?”
“Because you have a nephew, your brother Andrew’s son, Henry, who recently lost his master, after having lost his father, too. Andrew arranged the placement just before he died, but the knight, Sir Gilles de Mar, a worthy man, was sore wounded in the fight at Methven—he fought for Bruce—and he never recovered his health. He died of his injuries two months ago, and so young Henry’s training has been interrupted. He needs a new master. Will you take him?”
“I would, and gladly, but how can I, Father, under the circumstances?”
“Circumstances change. But suitability does not. And I have no doubt your brother here will agree with me when I say that, as Master of your Order in this land, you would be perfect for the lad. He is fourteen and he needs discipline and tolerance, but more than that he needs a good example—integrity, strength and fortitude, and judicious moderation in all things. I can think of no better exemplar than yourself. Such attributes are few and far between, nowadays.”
And so after very little more discussion it was agreed that Will would become responsible for his young nephew, Henry Sinclair. But even as he said he would, Will found himself wondering about his dead elder brother, Andrew, whom he could remember only as a boy, six years his senior.
“What happened to Andrew, Father?”
“He died … ingloriously for a knight so full of virtue and promise.” Sir Alexander grimaced ruefully. “Ingloriously, but very humanly. He died of a congestion, three years ago, after a mishap on a winter hunt, while he was separated from his companions. His horse stumbled in a storm-swollen spate and threw him into the rocks in the streambed. By the time his men found him, he had been lying there for hours, half in and half out of the water. They brought him home, but he never woke up. He simply grew weaker and sicker until he could no longer breathe. It was God’s will, the priests told me, but I would have seen all of them in Hell to have my son returned to me.”
“And what of the lad’s mother?”
“She died long since, when he was but a babe. Young Henry never knew her.”
The old man straightened abruptly. “So, God’s will or not, Andrew was gone, but his son remained, and now he will resume his training in good hands. He will make you a fine squire and will be a worthy knight when his time comes.”
The talk from that time on was desultory, and soon Sir Alexander declared himself tired, and all three men went in search of sleep, although Will, at least, would lie awake for more than an hour, thinking about his father’s astonishing and unsettling suggestion. And thinking about it, about what it might mean were he to do such a thing, he acknowledged that he could do it with impunity, were he so inclined, and were matters in France so bad that the very survival of the Temple knights fell into question. And then as he drifted into sleep he found himself thinking about Jessie Randolph, seeing her smiling at him as though through a distant haze, and too far by then from real awareness even to know that his body was reacting pleasurably to his vague imaginings, and that a succubus was even then coiled on his belly, waiting to drain him later while he slept.
THREE
It was early afternoon outside and Will could hear a blackbird singing in one of the five majestic elm trees that ringed the front of the big, fortified house that was his ancestral home, but here in the single-windowed interior of the bedchamber in which he had been born, it was almost dark. The single slash of light thrown by the open window illuminated one corner of his father’s massive desk and a sharply limned segment of the wooden flooring beneath it, emphasizing the lack of brightness in the remainder of the room. Will stretched backwards in his chair, digging his thumbs into the flesh of his waist under his lower ribs, and huffed out his breath in a great sigh, looking at the chest that sat on the corner of the desk.
The desk was ancient, acquired by one of his ancestors in the distant past—family legend had it that the piece had once belonged to a Roman governor of Britain, who had left it behind when the Legions left, more than seven hundred years earlier—and it had sat here in this room, huge and immovable, since the house itself was built more than a hundred years before. Its intricately carved oak was blackened and patinaed with unimaginable age. Compared to the objects now concealed behind it, however, the desk was of recent manufacture, and that thought, coming out of nowhere, brought Will out in a rush of gooseflesh and made him focus his attention on the chest again.