by Lee Arthur
For the next hour or so, he came to grips with reality. He would join the Order and persuade his men to do the same, that way saving all their lives. The Scot knew the order by reputation. There was no more fearsome fighting band in all of Europe. They and they alone had fought Suleiman the Magnificent to a stand-still, wrestling an honorable retreat from the victorious Moslems at Rhodes. Then they had traded with the Holy Roman Emperor, the defense of Tripoli for the archipelago of Malta with its satellite island of Gozo.
He could handle the fighting well. The religious life would probably not be unduly onerous. But the celibacy. That would take getting used to. De Wynter, being honest with himself and remembering well the way his body had its own way when denied release within woman, felt sure his body would take care of itself. But music, dancing, feminine company—these would be far more difficult to forego. Besides, the strict arbitrary discipline of life in the order was something he detested. He had been his own man too long to curtail his actions at the whim of someone else.
The creaking of the door gave him notice that his solitude was to be interrupted. He barely dared hope that Cranmer would keep his word so promptly, but he was mistaken. The archbishop wanted quickly to rid the Tower of all trace of these potentially diplomatically dangerous Scottish guests.
As the men entered the room, Drummond and Fionn supporting Gilliver between them, de Wynter cursed himself. For love of a woman he had tarried too long at Hampton and his men had paid the price. They were pale and gaunt, their faces mangy with straggly beginnings of beards. Most had lost weight, and their garments hung from them. Their bodies reeked, dank hair to bare feet, of human waste. Yet never had de Wynter been happier to see them or quicker to take each in his arms and hug them close. To Gilliver they gave the bed; the rest, once the greetings were past, squatted uncomfortably on the floor. As usual the others deferred to Drummond, who, next to Gilliver, personified the group's version of human perfection.
"We thank you for getting us out, Jamie."
De Wynter did not spare himself. "What else could I do? I was me one who put you in. Believe me, my friends, not for all the wealth in the world, not for my son Jamie nor my country, would I have knowingly subjected you to such an ordeal."
"We knew mat. We can guess how you had us put in." Drummond grinned knowingly and de Wynter loved him again. "But how did you get us out?"
"That was the easiest part. All I had do was make a small promise."
Menzies was the first to voice his suspicions. "What small promise?"
"The king and his archbishop on behalf of country and Church have seen fit to attempt to disgrace me. They charged me with adultery—"
Cameron interrupted approvingly, "Good for you, you made the Boleyn." "No, as matter of fact, I did not." "Then who—?"
"Margaret Tudor." He could almost enjoy their cries of outraged amazement. "Her?"
"What's new about that?"
Drummond, not easily diverted from the scent, returned to the point. "You mentioned a small promise?"
"To join the Order of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem and Malta."
The others were stunned by such news, all but Drummond. "That seems not a very small promise to me."
It was as if he and de Wynter were the only two in the room.
"In the weighing, it seemed small."
"As compared to what? Our lives, perhaps?"
"Perhaps." To deny the truth would have been fruitless; besides, a touch of guilt might make his task easier. "Think on it. On the one hand, scandal and disgrace whatever the results of the trial. On the other, a life of adventure, of travel to exotic lands, rich ransoms, all the fighting I could ask for, and all in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ and His Apostle, St. John."
"You never struck me as a particularly religious man," Drummond observed, not fooled at all by the fake enthusiasm de Wynter had mustered.
"Comes a time in every man's life when he grows closer to his Maker."
"Amen," came the weak response from the pallet. Gilliver had roused at the speaking of his Savior's name. Raising himself onto one elbow with great difficulty, he looked the face of death, yet his eyes glowed with the fervor of a zealot. "Jamie, I beg you, let me go with you. I too would fight for Christ."
De Wynter hurried to his side. "Lie back, little friend, save your strength." Gilliver was too exhausted to protest, but one hand clutched his friend's sleeve with surprising strength, not letting go until he had extracted a promise that he too could join the order.
De Wynter, staring down at his weakened friend, cursed himself for what his lusting had done to one who had trusted him totally. Never again, he vowed silently, will your love for me cause you anguish. I swear it.
"And what of us, Jamie?" Drummond asked.
De Wynter paused a moment or two to compose his thoughts, for here came the ticklish part. "Are we not companions?" he temporized.
But Drummond cut through to the quick. "Was that small promise more inclusive than you mentioned earlier?"
De Wynter couldn't trust himself to speak; instead, he shrugged in that typically Gallic way he had. The rest read the answer aright. Not for a long moment did anyone speak; then it was usually taciturn Angus:
"I ha' always wanted to see more of the world than our wee highlands."
"Aye," confirmed Ogilvy.
Drummond, too, could put a brave face on it. "Fighting for God would be a welcome change. I think I'd like that."
"Talk of travel and fighting all you want," Menzies groused, "but you all forget to mention that the order's celibate."
"Celibate?" Cameron protested, horrified. "You mean as in no women? Jamie, I beg you, tell me it isn't-so!"
The others smiled in spite of themselves at the look of desolation on their lusty companion's face. But before de Wynter could answer, the huge door to the room creaked open, and in walked a knight wearing a floor-length surcoat, a red cross boldly emblazoned upon chest and back. He was not a young man, nor particularly old. But his face belied the more youthful-looking body. It was a face stamped with character, sharply chiseled, weather-beaten. The eyes told of worldly dungs they had seen and dangers they had survived. There's a battler, de Wynter thought. He's a tough one hiding behind the cloth. He would never best you with his size, but with his head. And that's the kind to have on your side when the going is rough.
The knight surveyed the room. The group looked a sorry sight, but no one knew better than John Carlby how desperately the order needed fighting men. Having been nearly decimated by the forces of Suleiman, the order was beleaguered. Driven from their fortress on Rhodes, the remnants of the order were attempting to fortify Malta, make it their new headquarters. The need for fighting men had convinced Carlby to abandon his claim to Hampton Court. It was a claim—no one knew better than he—which was somewhat spurious and would have been nearly impossible to press, especially through Henry's own courts.
Despite their bedraggled appearance, Carlby decided it had been a good trade: one tenuous claim surrendered in return for eleven men, at least seven of whom looked to be more than familiar with weaponry.
"I am John Carlby, Turcopolier to the Order of St. John of Jerusalem, Rhodes and Malta. I bid you welcome, brothers, to the service of our Lord Jesus Christ. Now, if you would be so kind as to introduce yourselves ...?"
The leader, Carlby knew without having to be told, was James Mackenzie. Even though he was prepared, the sight of that famous mane of hair took Carlby by surprise. He had expected white hair, not mingling shades of silver and pewter. This was indescribable. This was de Wynter hair. Watching the leader, he listened carefully as one by one, in order of precedence, down to the lowest serving man, the others named themselves.
Drawing on his long experience as leader and armorer of fighting men, Carlby decided himself well pleased by his catch, except, perhaps, for Edward Gilliver. Yet, he admitted, the order needed its share of the religious as well as the warring, and maybe this clerkly type might find a place
within the hospital from which the Order derived its pseudonym of "Knights Hospitalers."
The naming over, Carlby explained the initial taking of vows would occur this very night, but first, each man would be given a chance to bathe and dress. One by one, the men were ushered from the large room and led to smaller, individual rooms. The spartan nature of the cells brought home the fact that soon they would join a monastic order, one not known for indulging the softer needs of the body and human nature.
Having bathed and shaved earlier, de Wynter now had time to consider on how to extricate himself and his followers from this mess. Henry VIII with one stroke of the pen could free them. Would a petition to him be heard? Not a chance. But perhaps to the Holy Father himself? A letter to his friend the Cardinal of Naples, secretary of the Curia, might open a legal means of egress from the order. Then, too, he had friends, influential female friends. Not to mention a mother who would raise heaven and hell to see him free. But would Scotland's king and dowager queen be quite so willing to lend support when the threat of scandal hung over their heads? No, he must work within the Church if he would leave the Church.
Pounding on his door brought a serving brother to the grill. "If you please, a quill and ink. I need to collect my thoughts and leave instructions for the care of my estate." Seeing nothing.wrong with such a natural request, the brown-robed, barefooted monk was soon back with writing implements.
The petition to Clement VIII took most thought. It must be obedient and respectful while subtly proving his unfitness for Holy Orders. The letter to the Prince of the Church was more plain-spoken, going into the matter in great detail. The third letter gave him the greatest trouble. It was addressed to his mother. Besides requesting that she forward the other two, he must reassure and comfort her and at least partially confide in her. At the last moment, he added a loving postscript to his son.
Folding the two letters bound for Europe as flat as possible, he put them within that addressed to his mother. At the last minute, he took up quill again and penned an agonized message to Anne, assuring her of his love and begging her to go to Scotland where he was sure he would be able to join her later. This letter too was flattened and placed within the covering one. The whole was then sealed with wax. How he would get it to her he wasn't sure. But for the delivery of this precious packet, he was well prepared to sacrifice one or more of his two pearls.
Working with teeth and nails; he tore open the lining of his tabard and transferred the two lustrous, nacre gems to his purse.
The peal of bells tolled matins soon enough. Doors opened, and the eleven candidates were accompanied to the chapel by brothers of the order. Only those of noble birth would be received as novice knights. The others would be initiated into serving orders as lay brothers. The companions—all but Gilliver who was bastard— proceeded forward to be draped in enveloping floor-length chasubles of blood-red silk. Red is the color of love, especially the love of martyrs, a fate pursued avidly by the Knights Hospitalers. The others wore robes of loose brown sackcloth, similar to those worn by the ordinary monks escorting them.
The chapel was small, but ornately presented. Stained-glass windows depicting feats of the Hospitalers defending Jerusalem filled one wall of the room, floor to ceiling. The moon shining through -them gave pale suggestion of their sun-struck brilliance.
John Carlby, the highest-ranking member of the order at present in England, headed the processional toward the small but richly endowed altar where vessels glinted in golden hues. The silken white robe of the Turcopolier shimmered in the candlelight as he moved up the aisle. At the apse he met another procession, that of monks chanting in Latin, with the high priest in their midst. The two fanons of the bishop's miter streamed down over shoulders familiar to de Wynter, the dun, bowed ones of Archbishop Cranmer.
Seated on the bishop's throne against the center of the back wall, Cranmer permitted himself a small smile of approval. Henry VIII would indeed be pleased by the works of this day and night. Even the Holy Father himself would be forced to approve this slight stretching of ecclesiastical precedent, especially if he were never notified of the circumstances.
Cranmer made mental note to remind Carlby that these initial vows could be overthrown within the courts of the Church if any word got out that the candidates had been coerced. It was up to Carlby to intercept any messages and foil any gossip. Cranmer had done his part, delivering eleven men in return for a quick-claim release of all rents for Hampton Court Palace.
The mass was beginning, and thoughts of all else fled the mind of this devoted churchman... but only temporarily.
At last, the Call to Holy Orders began:
"Let those come forward who are to be accepted into the Order of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem," intoned Carlby, naming the six robed in red, one by one. Each answered as prompted, 'Adsum," and moved forward to kneel before the seated Cranmer.
"Let those come forward who wish to serve within the Order of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem," Carlby continued, naming the five brown-robed men, who knelt in a second or outer circle beyond the six noble-born.
"Do you know these men to be worthy?" Cranmer rhetorically questioned Carlby.
"As far as human frailty allows us to know, I do know, and I attest them to be worthy of the charge and honor of this office."
"Thanks be to God," said Cranmer. "Let us remember, however, what Saint-Paul spake to Timothy, admonishing him, 'Lay not hands hastily upon no man, neither be a partaker of other men's sins.' Thus, lest one, or several, be mistaken in their judgment of their righteousness or err through affection, the opinion of many must be asked. And so, whatever you know of their lives or character, whatever you think of their merit, make it known now freely. If, therefore, anyone has anything against one of these, before God and for the sake of God, let him come forth and speak in confidence."
De Wynter had opened his mouth to speak out when Cranmer silenced him with, "Nevertheless, let him be mindful of his own condition. Speak, dearly beloved brethren, are these men worthy?"
"They are worthy," replied the deep bass voices of the whole communion of monks. Cranmer paused, letting those words echo throughout the stone interior of the chapel. "Then, beloved sons whom our brethern have chosen to be accepted into the community of this order and of the Holy Catholic Church, I exhort you: preserve in your behavior the integrity of a chaste and holy life. Know what you are doing; imitate what you administer, see that you mortify in your members all sin and concupiscence. Let the order of your life be a delight to the Church of Christ so that neither I, for promoting you, nor you, for accepting such great office, shall be condemned by the Lord, but rather that we shall merit to be rewarded. Which may He grant us through His grace." "Amen," came the chanted response.
Cranmer turned to the altar and knelt, leaning on his faldstool. At the whispered admonition of Carlby, the eleven men prostrated themselves, resting heads on joined forearms. Within the kneeling congregation, one voice began the Litany of the Saints, the rest chanting the responses.
Then, Cranmer bid all to rise and the candidates to come forward. De Wynter and Drummond... Menzies and Cameron... the rest also two by two, Fionn bringing up the rear. Upon the head of each, Cranmer rested his hand lightly. When the last had passed, Cranmer said, "Let us pray, beloved brethren, to God the Father Almighty, that upon these His servants, He may multiply heavenly gifts; and that what they have undertaken through His gracious condescension, they may accomplish with His aid. Through Christ our Lord."
"Amen."
"The Lord be with you." "And with your spirit." "Approach me."
One by one the candidates approached, in order of precedence, Cranmer reaching forward and taking their two hands between his. "Do you promise me and my successors reverence and obedience?"
De Wynter's mouth tightened but he said nothing.
Cranmer tightened his hands as much as possible upon the unwilling ones between his, yet his strength was not great enough, de Wynter's r
esolve being greater, to force a response. Then, Cranmer nodded as if having heard a whispered response and leaning forward, still holding the Scot earl's hands in his, he kissed him on the right cheek, saying "May the peace of the Lord be always with you."
Releasing de Wynter, he signed for the next to approach, and so they did, one after another, each promising obedience and reverence.
Finally, Cranmer arose and blessed the new members of this fighting order. "May the blessing of Almighty God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, descend upon you, that you may be blessed in the priestiy order, and that you may offer for the sins and offenses of the people propitiatory sacrifices to Almighty God, to whom is honor and glory forever and ever."
To which all replied, even de Wynter, "Amen."
CHAPTER 19
They left the chapter house within the hour, to sail on the onflooding tide. Shooting the bridge by torchlight was even more heart-stopping than in daylight, yet the bargemen of the order, trusting in God, made less to do of it than had Notte. As daylight slowly diffused itself from within a bank of purple clouds and the face of the White Tower was touched with gold, the scene in the pool was gradually revealed. More than 900 vessels could find docking space within this great pool—Upper, Lower, and Middle—yet in the half-light, it looked more like a ship's graveyard; the deserted wintering hulks there, their masts and spars bare, their sails full-furled, resembled unfleshed skeletons, not sailing ships.
All except one—a spectacularly red-and-gold ship of the line—it bustled with lights, and the sounds of voices wafted eerily across the waters of the pool. From behind de Wynter's shoulder came the disembodied words of Carlby: "Harry, by Grace of God, King of England, sails upon the tide for France. He attends there the Second Field of Cloth of Gold, may God bless his endeavors and have mercy on the wife he leaves behind, as he is accompanied by another."
