Order in Chaos

by Jack Whyte

  My lord?

  Before Will could suppress his surprise, Master Nicholas spoke again. “Sir William Sinclair, may I present you to his Lordship William Lamberton, Archbishop of St. Andrews and Primate of the Realm.”

  Again! He has broken parole again!

  Lamberton smiled, and his austere, gaunt face was transformed into a thing of beauty and shining light as he extended his hand to Will. Sinclair was so taken aback that he caught himself on the point of stooping to kiss the archepiscopal ring. He hesitated, wondering at himself, for he had never willingly kissed even a bishop’s ring, but then, seeing the radiant smile on that careworn face, he stooped and kissed the ring nonetheless, as a gesture to the man rather than an obeisance to his rank.

  The Archbishop seized his hand warmly and pressed it in his own, then spoke, in the liquid Angevin tongue of Will’s former home. “Thank you for your concern,” he said, still smiling.

  “Concern, my lord?”

  The blazing smile widened. “For my immortal soul, over the matter of this breach of my parole.”

  Will felt his face flush. “My lord, I had no—”

  “I saw it in your eyes, my son.” Lamberton’s face grew solemn again. “I had to seek the quantum of my sins, and weigh the one of leaving my confinement temporarily against the other of neglecting my sworn duties to my church, my King, and this realm of ours. Leaving was thus a minor lie, a venial sin with which I can live. The alternative was far more grave. And so I am here, to meet with you.”

  “To meet with me?” Confusion made Will more forthright than he might have been. “Why would you wish to meet with me? I mean, I am honored to be here, but to what end? I am a simple knight. I live in obscurity and have no wish to be involved in the affairs of state. Indeed I cannot be, for I am sworn by oath never to bend the knee in allegiance to any king.”

  Again Lamberton smiled, glancing this time at Balmyle and Moray. “That is precisely why I wanted to meet you,” he said. “Because of who and what you are. And here we are, standing when we could be sitting, and fasting while we could be refreshing ourselves. Davie, would you send one of the brethren to find us food and drink? We will sit at the table end there, closest to the fire. Come, Sir William.”

  As Will unfastened his sword belt and laid it, with the weapons attached, across the table far over to his right, the Archbishop asked him, “Would you object if I called you Will, Sir William?”

  “No, my lord, of course not.”

  “Good, then I shall do so. It is a good name—my own, before they lengthened it to William and thence to Archbishop and My Lord. And in return, you may call me William.”

  Will half grinned. “That would not be easy, my lord. Your fame and reputation discourages that. I might as lief call the King’s grace Rob.”

  The Primate’s eyebrows rose. “And why should you not? He would not be offended. You have proved to be too good a friend and worthy of respect for him to take ill of such a small thing. So you will call me William.”

  “And I am Nicholas to you,” said Balmyle, taking a seat across from Will. “You have earned that right, and by the time we four leave here you might have harder names for us.”

  “Might I? How so?” Will’s eyes were narrowed now.

  Moray returned from issuing orders and glanced from Will to his colleagues. “Did I miss something? Ye all look gey dour.”

  “Young Will is justly concerned over what we might seek from him,” Balmyle said, “since he has heard nothing to indicate our reasons for summoning him here. We were about to speak of that when you came back.”

  “Aha! Well, speak away then, until they bring us to eat. I’ll just listen and grunt from time to time to prove I’m no’ asleep. Ye both know my mind on it.” He crossed his arms on his chest and slumped down into his chair, shifting around until he was as comfortable as he could be. This was the first time Will had ever seen de Moray in his bishop’s garb, weaponless and unencumbered by chain mail, and he was surprised to see that the Bishop was less cumbersome, less corpulent than he would have guessed. The man was massive in the shoulders, but his belly was flat and his chest deep and strong, and he looked to be in peak fighting trim.

  “Well,” the Archbishop said quietly. “Shall we begin?” But no sooner was the question asked than the doors swung open and a column of servitors entered the room, each of them carrying a heavy tray laden with food and drink.

  “That was quick,” Balmyle observed, and de Moray grunted.

  The food was plentiful and hot, a full dinner even though it was but afternoon, the bread fresh baked and crusty, and the ale brewed in the cathedral church’s own vaults, which had been in use for decades while awaiting the completion of the roof and façade. Will chose roasted pork with savory crackling and made his meal of that, followed with fresh raspberries and blackberries and strong, rich cheese. He devoured it, aware that his tablemates were eating as devotedly as he. Lamberton also chose the pork, while de Moray demolished a roast duck stuffed with apples and breadcrumbs and chopped berries. Balmyle, perhaps because of his great age, ate sparingly, confining his meal to fresh berries followed by bread and cheese, and he drank milk, which had been provided for him, rather than the ale the others drank.

  The Archbishop was the slowest eater of the four, but eventually he pushed the wooden platter from in front of him, took note that the others were finished, and summoned the steward to clear away the remains of the meal. The steward waved his minions forward, and within moments, it seemed to Will, they were gone, the steward himself having taken a clean cloth to wipe the tabletop before departing, leaving the four men with their drinks.

  For a moment after the doors closed behind the monks there was silence, and Archbishop Lamberton sat back contentedly, hoisting his ale pot to his mouth, though he did not drink deeply. He set the pot back on the table and looked over at Will.

  “So, let us begin. You said, Will, that you had sworn an oath never to bend the knee in fealty to any king, did you not?”

  Will crinkled his brows, wondering what was coming. “I did.”

  “And to whom did you swear that oath?”

  “To our Grand Master. I was eighteen, and I have lived by it for two score years and more now.”

  The Archbishop nodded. “Forgive me for these questions I must ask, for there is no slightest hint of judgment or of condemnation entailed in any of them. But in whose name did you swear your oath?”

  “In the name of God.”

  “Apart from that, I mean, since every oath is to God.

  In whose earthly name did you swear it?”

  “In the name of the Master of our Order, the Knights of the Temple.”

  “Aye. And through him to the Pope, is that not so?”

  A jerk of the head was Will’s sole response to that. “Did you ever expect that what has occurred might happen? That your Order might be impeached, its brethren deemed excommunicate?” He raised his eyes now to examine Will’s reaction.

  “No, my lord,” he said, fighting hard to keep his face unreadable. “No thought of such kind ever crossed my mind.”

  “Why not?”

  Will spoke slowly, calmly, digging his nails into the palms of his clenched fists beneath the table. “Because until the moment that such blasphemous infamy first spilled from the sewers that pass for minds in the lickspittle servants of the King of France, no such thought would ever have been possible. For almost two hundred years our Order had stood as the champion of Holy Church. The primary force behind the Christian presence in the Holy Lands and one that never faltered in its duty or its dedication. Its record was spotless, its reputation and integrity unimpeachable. But it became too strong, too rich, too wealthy—too large a target for a rapacious vulture like Philip Capet to resist …” He wondered if he had gone too far, but none of the other three made any attempt to interrupt him, and so he continued. “He sought to sway us first by seeking entry to our brotherhood, thinking that he could thus gain access to our treasury.
Do any of you know the word ‘blackball’?”

  Lamberton nodded. “A secret ballot. A white ball means approval, black, denial. A single black ball kills the vote.”

  “Precisely so, my lord. Capet underwent the same close examination of character and morality that every other candidate for brotherhood must undergo. I sat on the Council that voted on his admission. Eight of eleven voted to deny him.” He grimaced. “I know a wise woman who, on hearing that story, defined that vote as the moment the Temple began to fall. She said the Temple was destroyed by eight black balls …”

  “She may well have been right,” said Master Balmyle. “Who was this woman?”

  “It was the Baroness St. Valéry, whose own husband had died by Philip’s greed and treachery.”

  Archbishop Lamberton cleared his throat. “And thus you see the malefactor in this stew as being the King of France? What of the Pope?”

  Now is where I give offense, Will thought, and squared his shoulders. “What of him? What might I say to you, as princes of the Church, to express my loathing and disdain for a man who will bend the craven knee to the willful spite of an un-Christian king and permit him to commit such an outrageous felony? The blessed Clement vacillates like an inflated bladder in a wind. He changes his mind with every hour that passes. And he unleashed the Inquisition on our Order to flesh out the untenable charges spewed out against us by de Nogaret, himself a murderer of popes. What of the Pope, you ask? He is a disgrace to his faith and to his calling, a spineless panderer to an ambitious monster whom he fears will turn and rend him if displeased … and he is right in that. Capet has caused the death of one pope who displeased him, perhaps two. He will not hesitate a third time, if he deems it justified by his divine right.”

  “You will hear no contention from me over that matter,” the Archbishop said, “but Philip Capet is not of grave concern to us right now. For now, let us remain with the matter of your oath, and others. I am told you have released your men from their oath of chastity.” Will nodded, and Lamberton eyed him, twisting his ring around on his finger as he did so. “On whose authority did you do that?”

  “On my own authority, as ordained Master in Scotland.”

  “Your authority is that strong?”

  “Of course it is. I am acting Master, and until our Grand Master de Molay is released and reinstated, I have complete responsibility for those brethren under my care. I did not make the decision lightly or suddenly.”

  “I would not think you could, but would you tell me why you did it? It seems like an intemperate thing to do, to free an entire Order from a sacred oath.”

  “Pardon me if I seem to contradict you, my lord, but we are speaking of the last surviving remnants of a oncegreat Order. By freeing my marriageable men from their oath, I have created the possibility, the hope at least, that our Order might survive our deaths.”

  “Is that not fanciful?” This was Balmyle. David de Moray was sitting listening, his eyes moving from face to face.

  Will looked back at the former chancellor and dipped his head slightly. “Perhaps so, Master Nicholas, but the alternative—to do nothing—is the death of our Order, preordained. Therefore I seized the chance to contest the odds.”

  “I see. So now there are women on Arran? Married women?”

  “There are a few, and there are children.”

  “Tell me,” interrupted Lamberton, “to whom do you pay your allegiance now?”

  “Not to Pope Clement. I hold my allegiance to Master de Molay, even while he is buried in some unnamed prison. And from him, my allegiance goes directly to my God.”

  Archbishop Lamberton leaned his elbow on the arm of his chair and pinched the bridge of his great, bony nose. But then he straightened again. “I am told there are French mercenaries on Arran. Sir Edward Bruce relies on them greatly.”

  “Is that so? Well, my lord, it had to come out sooner or later.”

  “Aye it did, and I am gratified that it took as long as it did … I am even more amazed, though, to have heard no single report, no slightest whisper, of Templars on Arran. From anyone. I trust you will accept my profound appreciation of that.”

  “I do, my lord Archbishop. It has been almost five full years since anyone might have recognized us as belonging to the Temple. Now we are simply islanders, French mercenary islanders, kept close enough to be useful but far enough removed to pose no threat to any honest Scot.” He stopped, struck by a thought he should have mentioned earlier. “Has Bishop Moray spoken of the convocation we are to assemble there soon?”

  “Of course he has, and that is why I am here. We need to plan this carefully, we four, for it is of far greater import than Davie might have realized when he arranged it through your goodwill.”

  Will twisted sideways in his chair to look at Moray, but the Highland Bishop merely shrugged and waved a hand, as though to say “How could I have known?” and Will turned back to the Archbishop.

  “How can it be of greater import? I understood the urgency of what was being asked of us. The King’s need was all-important.”

  Lamberton inclined his head. “And so it was, but it has taken on a far greater significance of late.” He sat straighter and smoothed the fabric of his cassock, pressing it flat against his lean belly with one hand before looking Will straight in the eye. “Davie has told me all that I know of you, Will Sinclair, and though I liked all that I heard, I felt I had to see you for myself, judge you with my own eyes.”

  Will stared back at the Archbishop’s unsmiling face, unsure of how to react to that, but eventually he nodded. “And have I passed your scrutiny, my lord Archbishop?”

  That startling luminescent smile broke over him again. “None here would think to blackball you, if that is what you are wondering.”

  “Then …” Will reached up and scratched the stubble on his left cheek. “Now will you tell me what this is all about?”

  The radiant smile faded, replaced with a solemn look. “Aye, and willingly, with no further ado. It is about politics and the struggle for men’s souls and freedom … weighty matters, Will. When first you came here, there was no question of refusing you sanctuary. But Bishop Moray told you of our concerns about your presence in our realm—the difficulties associated with the writ of excommunication against King Robert and the dangers of your presence here becoming known to the King of France, and thereby to the Pope. And you have dealt with that to everyone’s great satisfaction, so no more need be said of it.

  “Now, I have listened to your opinion concerning our Holy Father, and bluntly, your concerns echo my own, in all respects but one … one highly distinctive respect. As Primate of this realm, my first responsibility is to its people. If the King of Scots stands excommunicate, then so does all of Scotland. If his excommunication is confirmed, then all the land goes down with him into perdition. No sacraments may be bestowed on anyone who does not abjure King Robert’s kingship instantly, and there will be many who abjure him thus—some out of fear for their immortal souls, and some through jealousy and envy, for their own ends. And if that happens, Scotland will fall.” His voice dropped in volume. “It is unthinkable, but the threat of it is very real and waxes stronger every day.”

  Will sat frowning, having heard all of this before, but never stated so bluntly or so passionately, and now he raised a hand. “Pardon me, my lord Archbishop, but is not the ban supposedly in place? I know it to be in abeyance, but is it not a fact?”

  Lamberton took a deep breath, and Will found himself holding his breath as he waited for the Archbishop to respond.

  “In existence, yes, but not in abeyance … not really that. The matter lies under canonical dispute, at the instigation of myself and the senior prelates of Scotland, among whom is numbered Wishart of Glasgow, now a prisoner, like myself, in English hands. But Robert Wishart is an old, old man, and sick, expected not to live much longer …” He made the sign of the cross before resuming. “But the dispute is coming to a resolution. Master Nicholas can tell you more
of this, since the coordination of our case before the Pope and the Curia is largely in his hands today, now that I am unable to see to it in person. He and Master de Linton of Arbroath share joint responsibility for the conduct of the affair. Nicholas?”

  The former chancellor grunted deep in his chest and took up the explanation where Lamberton had left off, his sonorous voice solemn, his words clear and precise. “The original excommunication was for the sin of murder—murder aggravated by its commission in a church, on the very steps of the high altar. But there was ever a question of intent and culpability. The charges came from the enemies of Bruce, from the relatives of the man he supposedly slew, John Comyn, Laird of Badenoch. The house of Comyn, as you know, Sir William, was very powerful six years ago—more powerful than the Bruce faction by far, and very well connected, with several bishops among the family who added their official voices to the plaints being sent to Rome. And they moved quickly, lodging their accusations while yet the confusion here was unresolved. They deemed Bruce in rebellion against the true King, John Balliol.

  “That was a specious nonsense, for John Balliol had abdicated by then and removed himself to France and the protection of King Philip, and the truth was that they had a claim to the throne almost as strong as Bruce’s was. Whatever, they were heeded by the pontiff. The writ was passed, and we contested it immediately. And we were not without our own influence. We, too, were heard, if not by the Pope himself, then at least by some of his most powerful cardinals. And the debate has lasted ever since, enabling the Church in Scotland to continue its mission.”

  “So pardon me, Master Nicholas, if I seem ignorant, but all this happened before I came to Scotland. On what grounds could you legitimately contest the Pope’s verdict?”

  Balmyle grunted again, almost smiling. “A good head for questions, Sir William. On grounds of morality and common law, first and foremost. There is theology involved, but most of it is cant, obscure and dense to common folk. We chose from the outset to take the common law as our defense. William?”