by Jack Whyte
“Right.” Young Ewan placed a hand on the high side of the wagon and vaulted over it, dropping effortlessly to the cobbled surface of the roadway and pushed his way quickly into the crowd. La Rochelle was France’s greatest and busiest port, and the high, narrow gates of its southern entrance, directly ahead of him, were fronted by a wide, funnel-shaped approach that narrowed rapidly as it neared the checkpoints manned by the city guards.
Tam watched him go and then swung down after the boy, albeit not quite so lithely. The wagon driver was a strong-looking man, still in the prime of life, but the ability to do everything his apprentices could do physically was something he had gladly abandoned years before. Glancing incuriously and intolerantly now at the people closest to him, he moved to where a small oaken barrel hung, securely fastened with multiple bindings of hempen rope to the side of the wagon. He took the hanging dipper in one hand and raised the barrel’s loose-fitting lid with the other, then brought the brimming ladle of cool water to his lips and held it there in front of his face as he looked about him, seeing nothing out of place or anything that might explain the blockage ahead. The only thing he noticed was that there seemed to be a heavy presence of guards with crossbows lining the walkways above and on either side of the high gates, but none of them appeared to be particularly interested in anything happening below.
In the meantime, Ewan had moved forward aggressively, anonymous among the crowd and aware that he was not the only one trying to find out what was happening and why they were all being detained, and as he drew closer to the gates, he found it increasingly difficult to penetrate the noisy, neck-craning throng. He was eventually forced to use his wide shoulders and young muscles to clear a passage for himself, elbowing and thrusting his way single-mindedly towards the front, ignoring the deafening babble of shouting voices around him. But then, when he was almost there and, by standing on tiptoe and craning his neck, could see the crested helmet of the Corporal of the Guard, he became aware of louder, shriller voices being raised directly ahead of him, shouting in fear and alarm. Then three men came charging towards him, plowing through the crowd, pulling and hauling at people as they went, trying to run, their faces frantic and wide-eyed with fear. Something had terrified them, clearly, but Ewan had no notion of what it might be. One of them shouldered Ewan aside as he surged by, but the young man regained his balance easily and swung around to watch the three of them scrambling into the throng behind him, dodging and weaving as they sought to lose themselves among the crush, in the safety of the packed bodies of those who had not yet realized anything was wrong.
But even as the apprentice watched, wide-eyed and still not comprehending, he saw something remarkable: like a living thing sensing the terror of the fleeing men, the crowd pulled itself away from them quickly, people pushing and pulling at their neighbors as they fought to run backwards, frantically trying to keep clear of the fugitives and thereby exposing them to the guards in front of and on top of the gate towers.
The single shout of the Corporal of the Guard ordering the fleeing men to halt went unheeded, and almost before the word had left his lips, the first crossbow bolt struck the cobblestones with a violent, clanging impact that stunned the crowd into instant, terrified silence. Shot from high overhead, above the gates, and too hastily aimed and loosed, the steel projectile caromed off the smooth, rounded surface of a worn cobblestone and was deflected upwards again, somehow emitting a shrieking, piercing squeal, its speed and strength diminished yet still powerful enough to hammer its point through the wooden water barrel from which Tam was drinking, shattering the staves and drenching him in a deluge of cold water that soaked his breeches and splashed loudly on the cobbles at his feet. Cursing in startled fright and consternation, Tam dropped onto the wet stones, landing on all fours, and immediately threw himself sideways in a roll that carried him to safety under the wagon’s bed as the air became filled with the lethal, bowel-loosening hiss and sickening thud of crossbow bolts. His other apprentice, Hamish, dropped heavily to the ground behind him, having jumped from the wagon bed, and dove behind the protection of the wheel hub closest to the missiles, fighting off others who sought the same shelter.
The three fleeing men, whoever they were, ran without pattern, seeking only to escape capture or death, but none of them survived for long. The first was brought down by three bolts, all of which hit him at the same time, in the shoulder, the neck, and the right knee. He went flying and whirling like a touring mummer, blood arcing high above him from a jagged rip in his neck and raining back down and around him as he spun and fell sprawling less than ten paces from where he had begun his flight. The second evidently changed his mind, deciding to surrender. He stopped running, almost in mid stride, teetering for balance with windmilling arms, then turned back to face the city gates, raising his hands high above his head. For the space of a single heartbeat he stood facing his pursuers, then a crossbow bolt struck him dead, the sound of its meaty impact appalling the watchers as it smashed through his sternum, driving him backwards, his feet clear off the ground as he landed hard on his backside before his lifeless body toppled onto its side.
The third man fell face down at the feet of a tall, stooped monk, one outstretched hand clutching in its death throes at the mendicant’s left sandal, beneath the tattered, ankle-high hem of his ragged black robe. The monk stopped moving as soon as he was touched and stood as though carved from wood, gazing down in stupefaction at the bloodied, protruding ends of the two stubby metal bolts that had snatched the life so brutally from the running man. No one paid any attention to his shock, however; all their fascination was focused on the dead man at his feet. The monk was merely another of the faceless, wandering thousands of his like who could be found begging for sustenance the length and breadth of Christendom.
So profound was the silence that had fallen in the wake of the shattering violence that from some distance away the sound of a creaking iron hinge was clearly audible as a door swung open or shut, then came the measured tread of heavily booted feet as someone in authority paced forward from the entrance to the tower on the left of the city gates.
And still no one moved in the crowded approach to the gates. Travelers and guards alike seemed petrified by the swiftness with which death had come to this pleasant, early evening.
“Well, have you all lost your wits?”
The voice was harsh, gravelly, and at the sound of it the spell was broken. People began to move again, and their voices sprang up, halting and tentative at first, as they were unsure how to begin talking about what had happened here. The guards stirred into motion, and several moved purposefully towards the three lifeless bodies in the open, unnatural space.
Tam had already crawled out of his hiding place by then and was preparing to mount his high seat, one foot raised to the hub of the front wheel and his left hand resting gently on the footboard of the driver’s bench, when Fate tapped him on the shoulder.
“Please, I heard you talking to the young man earlier. You are from Scotland.”
Tam froze then turned slowly, his face expressionless, to stare at the woman who had spoken from behind him, her voice a sibilant hiss. She was standing by the tailgate of his wagon, white-knuckled hands grasping the thick strap of a bulky, shapeless cloth bag suspended from her shoulder. Her shape was muffled in a long garment of dull green wool that was wrapped completely around her, one corner covering her head like a hood, exposing only her mouth and chin. She looked young, but not girlish, although the voluminous garment that concealed her left him no way of guessing at her maturity. She appeared to be comparatively clean, too, the skin on the lower part of her face fair and free of obvious dirt. He eyed her again, his gaze traveling slowly and deliberately, but with no hint of lechery, from her face down to her feet, and then he nodded.
“I am of Scotland. What of it?”
“I am, too. And I need help. I need it greatly. I can reward you.”
I need it greatly. I can reward you. This woman was no peasan
t. Her whisper had been replaced by a quiet, low pitched voice, her diction was clear and precise, and her words, despite the tremor as she spoke them, possessed the confidence born of high breeding. Tam pursed his lips, looking about him instinctively, but no one seemed to be paying them any attention, all eyes directed towards the drama nearby. There was something strange happening here, he knew, but now he sensed that this woman was somehow involved in it. He was favorably impressed by her demeanor, in spite of his wariness. She was wound tight with fear, yet had sufficient presence of mind to appear outwardly calm to any distant observer. His response was quiet but courteous.
“What kind of trouble are you in, Lady? What would you have of me, a simple carter?”
“I need to get inside the gates. They are . . . People are looking for me, and they mean me ill.”
Tam stared at her for the space of five heartbeats, his eyes fixed on the wide-lipped mouth, which was all he could really see of her. “Is that a fact?” he asked then, his Scots brogue suddenly broad and heavy. “And who are these people that harry and frighten well-born women?”
She bit her lip, and he could see her debating with herself whether to say more or no, but then she drew herself up even straighter. “The King’s men. The men of William de Nogaret.”
Still Tam stared at her, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts, although her words had startled him. William de Nogaret, Chief Lawyer to Philip IV, was the most feared and hated man in all of France, and the woman’s admission, clearly born of a desperate decision to trust him solely on the grounds of their common birthplace, invited him instantly to either betray her or become complicit. And complicity in anything involving the frustration of the King’s principal henchman invited torture and death. He remained motionless for a moment longer, his thoughts racing, and then he nodded and his face creased beneath his short, neatly trimmed beard into what might have been the beginnings of a smile.
“De Nogaret? You’re running from de Nogaret? Sweet Jesus, lass, you could not have named a better reason to be seeking aid. Stay where you are. You are hidden there. I need to see what’s going on ahead of us.”
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First published in a Viking Canada hardcover by Penguin Group (Canada),
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Published in this edition, 2008
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Copyright © Jack Whyte, 2007
Excerpt from Order in Chaos copyright © Jack Whyte, 2008
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