Order in Chaos

by Jack Whyte

  “May I ask a question?” he asked, as though seriously awaiting a deliberated answer.

  “Of course. What is it?”

  The preceptor stepped aside to allow Will to pass, then fell into step beside him. “Idle curiosity, you might think, but it is not. How long do you believe it will take us, north and south, to implement all you designed for us before you went away last month? I can judge my own people’s progress, but you are the only one with an entire overview, and so I thought to ask you outright. My estimate would be four months from now.”

  Will looked at him. “For all of it, Lochranza included? No, Sir Richard, I fear you are being optimistic. The best I could guess at, to see this island settled to our satisfaction, would be half a year from now—high summer—and perhaps even longer. We have much to do, and it cannot all be done at once. We have buildings and barracks, bothies and byres to build.” He smiled at the preceptor’s blank-faced reaction to the Scots words, and kept on speaking. “And they have to be built well—roofed and snug against the weather all the year round. We’ll build them out of peat sod, so they’ll be solid, but we’ll have to dig the sod in the first place. We have to prepare beach sites, too, where our galleys and ships can be hauled ashore and their fouled bottoms scraped clean of barnacles and shellfish. That will take some work. There are sufficient suitable sites around, but no one has ever had a need to shape them to such purposes, so we will have to start from the very beginnings on that project. The logging you are familiar with, but that will not last six months. De Pairaud’s master sawyer tells him we will have used up all the suitable trees within half that time, so after that, we will simply be sawing and stacking the remaining logs. And atop all of that, we have our community obligations and holy days, and our ongoing training to be dealt with, including the revolving roster of the troop accommodations between here and Scotland. No, my friend, trust me—we will be fortunate indeed if we are finished here within six months.”

  They had arrived at the doors to the refectory and went inside to find themselves late, one of the brothers already reading the day’s lesson to the silent assembly as the two most senior members of the community made their way in silence to their places.

  A CATALOGUE OF SINS

  ONE

  Jessie Randolph sat on a stone outcrop overlooking the vale of Nith, where the river meandered peacefully from the low hills to the north on its way past her home and to the Solway Firth and the English border, several miles to the south. She sat without moving, drinking in the scene before her and listening to the silence of the late-summer afternoon, a stillness broken only by the occasional shouts of the children playing on the hillside behind her and the incessant song of a single thrush perched somewhere on one of the low buildings two hundred paces away to her left. At her back, the sun was well into its decline, casting the shadows of the hillside down in front of her towards the river, and she felt a tingle of excitement stir in her stomach as she reached into the neck of her tunic and pulled out the soft cloth bag that nestled between her breasts, feeling the springy tension of the tightly rolled parchment it contained, and shivering as a sudden rush of gooseflesh swept over her shoulders and arms. The bag contained a letter, and its very existence seemed outrageous, waxing in significance now from moment to moment. Its content, and the tantalizing possibility of actually sending it off, made her stomach flutter in a way she had not experienced in years, since she was a young girl dreaming of her first love.

  She looked over her shoulder, almost laughing to herself at the formless guilt she was feeling, and seeing that she was still alone, she loosened the drawstring and pulled the letter out, then untied the silken bow that held it shut. It was written on several sheets of fine, extremely valuable parchment, carefully trimmed to a uniform size, part of the hoard she had begged and won from Master Bernard de Linton, the Abbot of Arbroath who had recently become King Robert’s secretary and whom she had met and come to like during her stay in the north, while she was tending to the King’s illness. Now she held the scrolled sheets in one hand, her elbow resting on an upraised knee as she gazed down towards the water, her eyes unfocused, completely unaware of the picture she presented.

  Had she been aware of it she might have laughed again at the thought, for she was wearing what she thought of as her scandalous suit, since it had scandalized every woman in her district when they first saw her wearing it. In all probability, she had often thought, it had scandalized their menfolk too, but none of those had ever dared to comment on it. In fact, she was wearing men’s clothing, altered to her own use, that she had brought with her from France—long, loose-fitting breeches, tight in the seat and flared from the knees and made of chamois leather. The snugness of their fit was disguised by a knee-length wraparound tunic of the same material, belted at the waist and worn over a plain square-necked bodice of soft, finely woven wool, cinched at the waist by a heavy, well-worn, and pliable leather belt from which hung a long, sheathed dagger. Her boots, made by a master craftsman on her late husband’s estate, were of the same soft leather, thicker, and heavily soled and heeled, but unmistakably made for her feet and as supple as well-worn gloves.

  From a distance, she might pass as a man, but as the distance dwindled there could be no mistaking her startling femininity. Her hair, auburn in the afternoon light, hung down past her shoulders, tied loosely at the back with a leather thong, and her face and arms were tanned with the summer sun so that her wide eyes seemed to flash and sparkle, thrown into prominence by the smooth luster of the taut skin of her cheekbones with its scattering of light freckles. The color of her eyes, and she had been told sufficiently across the years to believe it, defied description by most men. Predominantly gray, they changed according to the light, sometimes pale blue, sometimes dark, and at other times more green than anything else.

  A movement by her feet made her glance down to where a vole was scuttling past her, and she watched tolerantly as it darted towards the base of her perch and vanished somewhere behind the crossbow and quiver of bolts that leaned against the rock. The sight of the weapon made her turn her head again and stare briefly towards the Cairn Woods below on her right, one of the few belts of trees in the area, where one of the local men had seen a bear the day before. She did not expect to see the animal, but the possibility had been enough to prompt her to carry the crossbow with her that afternoon. Nothing moved over there, though, and she flapped the parchment in her hand, checked again to be sure there was no one in sight, and then began to read aloud, but quietly, what she had composed painstakingly over the past few days. She read a word or two, hesitated, began again, and after two or three sentences stopped and flapped the letter in frustration.

  My God, Will Sinclair, have you any idea of the trouble you put me to? How can I—? No, you have no idea, you stubborn, upright, stupid man. How could you have? You are over there on your silly little island, playing the sanctimonious monk while all your benighted brethren in France rot in Philip Capet’s prisons, tortured and abused by the very men who … Ach! God, give me the strength to be patient!

  She rose to her feet, rolling the scrolled parchment sheets tightly again while she looked around for the silk ribbon that had bound them. It had fallen from where she dropped it, lodging deep in a narrow fissure in the stone outcrop, and to reach it she had to place one booted foot on the stone to bear her weight while she bent forward, stretching down into the crack. She retrieved the ribbon with difficulty and straightened up, blowing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes, and as she did so she saw the length of her own outstretched thigh, its shape tightly outlined by the stretched leather of her breeches. It made her laugh.

  Sweet Jesus, Will, if you could see me, dressed like this, you would not be able to pray for a fortnight. There would be a sight to interrupt your most chaste thoughts and make your frown like a thundercloud, would it not?

  Well, sir knight, I am going to send this letter to you. I’ll have my young cousin Hugh take it to Arran in person. Too mu
ch time and work have gone into the penning of it to let it go to waste. Besides, why should I not send it? It will bring you tidings of your sister Peggy and the joy your gift brought her. And it will bring you tidings of our King and what he has heard from France concerning your Order. You are in disgrace, Will Sinclair, with all your brotherhood, whether or no the cause be justifiable. Time to forget about returning there, and to find yourself a new life here in Scotland. A real life, as a real man, with a wife who would make you happy. Dear God, listen to me! Talking about marriage to a monk! I must be mad … But ’tis a gladly borne madness, I must say. Now …

  A high-pitched shout made her turn and look up to where twelve-year-old Marjorie Bruce—her supposed niece but in reality King Robert’s—had left her friends behind and was bounding down the hillside, calling. Jessie had spoken nothing but French to the child since she first met her, since for their current purposes, and for her own protection, Marjorie was supposed to be French, and the girl, gifted with an ear for sounds, had learned quickly, so that now she spoke the language effortlessly, with no lingering trace of the tongue she had learned from birth. The child was still a distance away, too far for Jessie to make out what she was shouting, but she sensed an urgency. “Wait you there!” she called. “I’m coming up!” She quickly collected her crossbow and quiver, slinging the latter over her shoulder, and started to climb the hillside.

  “What is it, child?” she asked when she reached the girl. “What’s wrong?”

  “There are men coming, Auntie, from over there, beyond the hill.”

  “From the west? From Annandale? How many?”

  “I don’t know. They are too far away to count, but they’re coming.”

  “Show me.”

  The girl turned and started to run up the hill, and Jessie stretched out her pace to keep up with her, remembering when she, too, had been able to treat steep hillsides as though they were flat ground, but she was concerned about who might be coming her way from the west. The Annan lands had belonged to the King’s father, Robert Bruce of Annandale, but they, like her own Nithsdale, had always been a major invasion route from the south, and during the wars of the previous few years they had become sparsely populated as the local people fled into the safety of the higher hills to avoid being harried by the ever-present English. The vales of Annan and Nith, with the rest of Scotland’s south, had both been burned bare many times in the previous decade in order to deny sustenance to King Edward’s armies.

  She breasted the top of the hill eventually to find the children hopping up and down with excitement as they jabbered and pointed into the distance. Jessie, fighting for breath, held up her hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the sinking sun ahead of her. The light was fierce, but her eyes adjusted quickly, showing her the unmistakable reflection of light on weapons, armor, and saddlery. They were still more than three miles away, she guessed, not yet having passed the distinctive stone outcrop known locally as the Leopard, which reared up two and a half miles from where she stood. She was aware of Marjorie close beside her, craning on tiptoes as she tried to see all that she could.

  “Your eyes are better than mine, child. Can you see how many there are?”

  “No, Auntie, but there’s a lot of blue among them.”

  Jessie could see no blue, but she did not question the girl’s assertion. The men were coming from Annandale, Bruce country, and James Douglas’s colors were blue and white—Douglas, whom the King himself had appointed governor of all the south mere months before. Her mind went at once to what she was wearing. Her scandalous suit was no fitting garb in which to receive the King’s young envoy. She spun suddenly, grasping her ward by the shoulder.

  “It is Sir James Douglas, here on the King’s affairs. I must run back to the house and dress to receive him. I leave it to you to round up all the others and bring them back safely. Can you do that?”

  “Of course, Auntie.” Marjorie Bruce swung away and began calling to the other children, but Jessie was already striding off, her crossbow balanced on one shoulder as her long legs bore her effortlessly down the slope towards the cluster of houses less than half a mile away.

  She was half undressed by the time she entered her own house, but fortunately no one was around to see her remarkable condition. Calling loudly for her companion Marie as she swept inside, she pulled the cloth bag from its resting place between her breasts and dropped it on the table just inside the door of her own room before unlacing the bindings at the front of her leather breeches, pushing them down over her hips, and stepping out of them. The open tunic fell beside them, and she grasped the edges of her undertunic and pulled it swiftly over her head. Then she crossed naked, except for her high boots, to the large French armoire that held most of her more formal clothing.

  There were few dresses there to choose from, so her selection did not take long, and before long she was standing erect, tapping her foot impatiently as Marie fussed with the lacings of the bodice of the rich green dress. It was a magnificent gown, as out of place among the women of Nithsdale as a preening peacock would be among a local flock of geese, but it set off her eyes and her hair wondrously well, as she had been told by many an ardent admirer, and she knew it would have the required effect on the King’s young warden.

  “Your hair, madam,” Marie said, concern in her voice. “It needs … something.”

  “Then do something. But be quick. Our guests will be here at any moment.”

  During the few minutes that she knew Marie would require to pin up her hair into something resembling what she thought a lady’s hair ought to look like, Jessie eyed the cloth bag containing the letter. It was a very special bag, although no one else ever glanced twice at it. But it was his, made from the kerchief he had pulled from within his tunic to wrap the gift he had sent to his sister. Jessie remembered taking it from him, remembered the feel of it in her fingers, warm as it was with the heat of his body and scented, as she discovered moments after leaving his tent, with the clean, intimate odor of his skin. She had delivered the gift to Peggy Sinclair, and taken joy in Peggy’s pleasure at receiving it, but she had kept the kerchief, sniffing at it fondly from time to time when she was alone—and foolishly, she sometimes told herself—long after the faint, lingering odor of his presence had faded and died. But she could not bring herself to part with it, and so she had sewn it into a rectangular bag, a reticule that she used to contain the things that were essential to her every day … her combs; her sachet of rose petals and dried lavender; her needles and fine thread, carefully protected in a tiny etui of flat, polished ebony from some exotic land; a palm-sized mirror of polished silver in a velvet bag; and now the daring letter that broke her promise not to disturb his peace once she had returned to Nithsdale.

  “There, madam. It is finished. No one would ever know it newly done. But the boots …”

  “The boots are very comfortable. No one will see them.”

  Jessie stood up, taking the metal hand mirror that Marie offered. She checked her reflection once, briefly, then nodded her thanks. “You are a miracle, Marie. Now, my reticule from over there, if you please, and we may go and greet our guests.”

  TWO

  The leading group of the visiting moss-troopers—the garron-mounted raiding Scots horsemen of the long-disputed border country between Scotland and England—was clattering into the courtyard of the farmhouse as Jessie reached the front door, and she had no trouble finding a smile with which to welcome King Robert’s dashing young lieutenant. James Douglas saw her immediately as he cantered into the yard, and he grinned, whipping off his bonnet with its blackcock feather and bowing from the saddle.

  “Lady Jessica!” he shouted. “Seldom has weary traveler ever beheld such a wondrous sight as you present there in your doorway.” He prodded his horse forward until it could approach no closer, then slipped from its back and took her proffered hand in his own, bowing over it. “My lady, you must pardon my arrival unannounced, but I had little choice. We chanced acro
ss some Englishry two days ago and they outnumbered us heavily, so we chose to run and hide.” He smiled as he said that, but Jessie knew he was quite serious. King Robert had expressly forbidden his commanders to engage the enemy in anything resembling formal battle—a directive, logical and judicious though it was, that did not sit well with many of his staunchest commanders. Among those, young Douglas was the ablest and the most fiery, so she could guess at what it had cost Sir James to run away, as he put it.

  She looked him in the eye and nodded. “Then you are welcome here, my lord of Douglas. Are they far behind you?”

  “The English?” He laughed. “No, my lady, they are miles away, seeking us in some distant part of Galloway. We gave them the slip easily, left them slaistering through dub and mire last night and heading westward while we doubled back and came this way. I wouldna bring them howling here to bother you. But I have brought another to amuse you … one I picked up last month.”

  He gestured over his shoulder with a pointing thumb, and Jessie looked to see what he was talking about. There were about forty men crowded into the yard now, climbing down from the garrons and beginning to mill about in the enclosed space, but one of them stood out from all the others, a tall man wearing half armor and the polished steel helmet of a moss-trooper. He stood with his back to her, his eyes apparently looking over the outbuildings around the yard.