by Jack Whyte
“No, Tam, I don’t. No more than I believe, in my heart, that King Robert the Bruce is dead. Pray God that neither should turn out to be the case.”
Wordlessly, Tam turned almost a quarter circle and gazed to the north, where the sea looked just as vast and limitless, but he knew that in that direction lay his homeland, and that, weather permitting, they would find it in mere days.
THE ISLAND OF ARRAN
THE HOLY ISLE
ONE
“There’s folk up there, watchin’ us.”
Tam Sinclair’s voice was little more than a murmur, but all three of the men standing with him turned their eyes to look where he was pointing.
The bearded, barrel-chested sergeant called Mungo MacDowal hawked and spat cleanly over the side. “We’re on Eilean Molaise,” he said, his voice little more than an elongated grunt. “It’s a holy place, folk say, so they’ll be monks, friars mair likely. There’s aey three or fower o’ them up there, livin’ in caves like wild beasts. They’ll no’ bother us.”
“Not even when we land?” This was Will Sinclair, and Mungo barely favored him with a glance.
“No’ even if we kill them,” he growled, moving away to the ship’s rail, where he continued peering up towards the distant watchers.
Will turned with a lopsided grin to Admiral de Berenger, who stood slightly behind him. “Did you understand that?”
De Berenger blinked. “I heard the grunting of a boar. Should I have understood?”
Sinclair’s grin grew wider. “Mungo was saying that the men up there are friars, monks without a community, living as they can. The islet here is called Eilean Molaise, Saint Molaise’s Island, in honor of a Celtic saint who once lived here. He says they live in caves up there, like wild beasts, but they will offer us no ill.”
The admiral cleared his throat. “I shall accept that … the recommendation of one wild beast concerning another. I find it hard to believe the man is one of our sergeants.”
“Aye, well he is, and has been for two decades, earning himself his captain’s trust sufficiently to hold officer’s rank for more than twelve of those. He knows his work, and he knows these islands and their people. I do not. And he speaks Scots by choice because he is with Scots today and has not had the opportunity to speak it for many years.” Will grinned again, to take the potential sting out of his next words. “Show him some tolerance, Edward, and try not to be so disdainful when you look at him. He is a good man, merely uncouth by your standards.”
De Berenger nodded. “You like the fellow. Very well, then, I shall take you at your word and be more tolerant. When do you want to move on?”
Will’s face grew pensive. “Not yet, I think.” He turned to gaze up to where the men on the hill yet stood, clearly illuminated by the rising sun. Between them and him, however, closer inshore, the sea mist still hung thick above the water, obscuring the land. “We could be up there in an hour or two,” he mused, “given that we had a place to land. From the top, we would have a clear view of what’s over there, behind the bay on the far side.” He raised his voice. “Mungo, could we see the Arran mainland from the top?”
“Aye, ye could count the deer. It’s no’ even a mile across the bay.”
“Excellent, then that’s where we’ll go. Is there a beach ahead of us where we could land?”
“No, it’s sheer cliff, but there’s a slopin’ beach farther back, on the edge we passed comin’ in.”
“Edward, can you find us a place to land and still remain hidden from the main island?”
“No, but my captain will.” De Berenger called over his newly promoted subordinate and began issuing instructions to bring the galley under way, and as he did so Will glanced back to where Tam Sinclair and Mungo stood beyond earshot, talking together in a blend of Scots and Gaelic, and again a half-formed grin plucked at the corner of his mouth.
Mungo MacDowal had turned out to be a treasure beyond price, for Tam had been wrong in thinking the man came from the MacDowal territory of Galloway on the mainland. He had spent time there as a boy, but he was a native Islesman, born on Arran itself. He’d traveled widely throughout the Isles before his father’s death, after which, at the age of fourteen, he had moved with his uncle to the mainland. His gruff, surly façade was no more than that, and once he had accepted Will as a worthwhile companion—mere worldly rank had no significance for him—Mungo had lent himself willingly to their endeavors, proving his value immediately.
He it was who had suggested that they conceal the entire fleet on the southeastern side of a tiny islet called Sanda, itself off the southeastern tip of the headland called the Mull of Kintyre, where it might remain for weeks or even months without being seen from the headland. There, he had pointed out, the fleet would be close enough to Arran to reach it quickly, in less than a day, but anyone on Arran would remain unaware of its presence. Seeing the good sense in his proposal, Will had instructed de Berenger to take his ships north and then east around the coast of Ireland, taking care to steer well clear of the island of Rathlin, off the northern Irish coast, and had they anchored unseen, they believed, in the shelter of Sanda. They had been joined there within the week by Captain de Lisle and three more midsized galleys, each of thirty-two oars, that had sailed to Finisterre from Marseille, the sole members of the Templar fleet to survive from that part of France.
As soon as the newcomers were safely gathered, Will had wanted to proceed with a small squadron to Arran, but once again it was Mungo who had offered the best advice on that. Take a single galley, he had said. The biggest one, to inspire respect and discourage interference yet prevent the inhabitants from flying into a panic thinking they were being invaded. There was a sheltered anchorage on the southeast side of Arran, he had added, a place called Lamlash Bay, and an island offshore, less than a mile away, that could serve the same purpose for them as Sanda had for the fleet, concealing them until they were ready to approach Arran under favorable conditions. Will had followed the man’s advice precisely, marveling at his own readiness to do so, yet trusting him instinctively.
Before leaving Sanda, however, and probably to the lady’s great displeasure, Baroness St. Valéry and her women had changed galleys, going to occupy the quarters formerly held by Will and Tam, while those two transferred all their possessions aboard the admiral’s larger galley for the journey to Arran. The treasures were now split the wrong way—the Baroness’s specie in Will’s care, while the Temple Treasure itself remained with the Baroness—but there was nothing Will could do about that for the time being.
Tam and Mungo were looking at him now, plainly expecting him to say something, and he pointed up towards the top of the hill. “The admiral’s taking the galley back to the beach you mentioned, Mungo, and I’m thinking of taking a wee climb up there, to see what’s to be seen. I hope you both feel well enough to come with me. How long, think you, will it take us to get to the top?”
Tam tilted his head back and looked up at the slope on the flank of the hill as the galley began to turn within its own length, propelled into a sharp spin by the skilled oarsmen. As the ship revolved, Tam turned against its swing, keeping his eyes on the hilltop. The oars on both sides bit into the water, stopping the vessel’s turn and then driving it forward, slowly at first but gathering speed with every stroke. Tam turned back to Will. “We should be there by mid-morning, if we land and strike out without wastin’ time. We might go quicker, but I’m recallin’ the fight you had to make it to the top of the cliff above the bay that day Sir Charles changed ships. You could hardly catch your breath after that, and yon climb was nothin’ compared to the wee stroll ye’ll be facin’ up there.”
Will kept his face expressionless, stifling the urge to laugh at the familiar insolence, and looked at Mungo, tipping his head sideways to indicate his kinsman. “Would you listen to the man’s ravings. I practically had to carry him that time, he was so weak in the legs and wind. Too much time at sea and too little drill to keep him fit. I’m going to get
ready. See you if you can find us some food to take with us. I’ll meet you here when I’m done.” He walked away, grinning openly as soon as his back was turned, and hearing Tam muttering behind his back.
A short time later he was back on deck, wearing a long, heavy cloak of dark green wool over a plain but quilted knee-length tunic and a leather jerkin, his only weapon a single-edged dirk in a sheath by his side. His legs were wrapped in thick knitted leggings, and he wore heavy campaigning boots, tightly laced to mid-calf. The other two were waiting for him, similarly dressed and armed, since there was little likelihood of trouble on the Holy Isle and they had no wish to appear belligerent, even to the watching friars up on the hill. Tam carried a worn leather satchel slung across his chest.
“Food,” he said, when he saw Will glance at it.
“Fine. We’ll be hungry when we reach the top. Did you find us a boat?”
TWO
From where they stood now, facing west on the highest point of the islet, all of the east side of Arran stretched out in front of them, across the waters of Lamlash Bay. The morning was crisp but still, so that not all the sea mist had yet gone from the bay beneath them, odd pockets lingering like earthbound clouds. The sky was cloudy, but the covering was broken, holding no threat of rain for the time being, and myriad gulls swooped and dived all about them, their raucous cries drowning all other sounds.
“There’s not much moving over there.”
“No, but that doesna mean there’s nobody there. It’s a fine mornin’, so there’ll be somebody about sooner or later. It’s a bonny sight, though, is it no’?”
“Aye, Mungo, it is. How long has it been since you were last here?”
“God! It’s been a while … I was just a bit o’ a boy when I was last here, didna even ha’e a beard. So that’s a score o’ year, at least, afore I lost count. Mind you, I dinna think I’ve ever set foot on Eilean Molaise afore now. But seein’ this, I canna think why.”
Sinclair felt no urge to argue that point.
Arran island, he had known, was approximately egg shaped, its narrow end now stretching on their left, sloping gently down to the sea. Directly across from them, on the far side of the bay, shelving beaches led up to a crescent-shaped plateau that stretched inland for what looked like a couple of miles, rising gradually north and west into what appeared to be high moorlands on the horizon. Farther north yet, on their extreme right, the ground sloped more severely until the gentle hills became high, distant mountains, several of them snow capped from the early-winter storms.
He turned to his left, staring at the southernmost point of land, straining to see signs of the fortification they had passed the previous night on their way in. They had made the approach in darkness, using oars and keeping well out from the shoreline, their great sail lowered to prevent any reflection that might betray their passing, and they had seen several balefires flickering in the night as they passed by. Mungo had said they burned on the heights of Kildonan, a natural cliff-top stronghold that had been occupied continuously since men first came to Arran. A stone tower was being built there now, he said, started by the Norwayans decades earlier, before King Alexander had defeated them at the Largs fight and ended Norway’s rule in Scotland’s west, but the place had always been used as a defensive point. Gazing in that direction now, Will could see nothing and assumed the tower, if such it was nowadays, lay out of sight, around the promontory.
He turned back to the view ahead of him, thinking of how peaceful it appeared and wondering how many men might be concealed there.
“Can either of you see any signs of life?” he asked, knowing that if they could they would already have said so. He was surprised when Tam spoke up.
“Aye, and close by—one of yon holy caterans is coming over here.”
Will stifled a groan, for sure enough, one of the watchers from earlier was standing no more than fifty paces distant, staring at them from a fold in the ground that concealed all but his chest and head.
“Well, so much for your saying they would not bother us.”
Mungo grunted. “Pay him nae heed and he’ll go awa’. As Tam says, he’s just a cateran, half mad, mayhap mair … ye’d have to be, to live up here.”
The watching friar, or whatever he might be, stood motionless, staring at them, and it occurred to Will that Mungo’s description of him as a cateran, a wandering ragamuffin, might be an accurate one. Ignore him, Will thought, or approach him? The fellow, half mad or not, might have information they could use, and if he had, then learning of it would be far from a waste of time.
He straightened up and turned to face the man directly, catching his eye and holding it in silence, making no other move or gesture. The fellow tilted his head slightly to one side in an unmistakable inquiry. Will nodded and beckoned him forward, then watched in growing amazement as the stranger approached. The man was enormously tall, Will realized as he breasted the rise that had concealed him, and as he drew closer, it became clear, too, that he was old enough to be considered ancient. He was also incredibly ragged and indescribably filthy, his hair and beard a matted, singular tangle that had known neither water nor comb for years, and his only clothing an ankle-length black robe so tattered and torn that large patches of skin were exposed on his chest and legs. He carried a tall walking staff of blackthorn, its thick end towering above his head, and a single, empty-looking leather pouch or scrip hung from the frayed old length of rope that served him as a girdle. His enormously long legs were bare and skinny, and his feet were thrust into two much-scuffed flaps of what might once have been goat skin, bound into place with strips of leather thong.
The visitor stepped forward slowly, advanced to within two paces of where Will stood, and stopped short, meeting him eye to eye. He did not acknowledge the presence of Tam and Mungo, both of whom, Will knew, were gazing at him wide eyed.
Will nodded to the old man. “A fine morning,” he said in Scots, not knowing what to expect.
The apparition nodded in return, and then turned his head to look down to where their galley floated offshore at Will’s back. When he spoke, it was in flawless French. “It is, a fine morning indeed. What brings the admiral of the Temple to Eilean Molaise?”
Will was stunned for a moment, taken aback as much by the purity of the liquidly fluent French coming from such a raddled hulk of a man as by the question he had asked, and all he could think to say was, “You are familiar with the Temple?”
The ancient’s deep-sunk eyes, dark and strangely brilliant beneath their bushy, unkempt brows, swung back to him. “I was, upon a time … familiar enough to recognize the admiral’s baucent. But that was long ago.”
“And how … whence came your familiarity?”
The old man nodded and shrugged at the same time.
“From involvement. I belonged once, until I perceived it for what it was.”
“You … perceived it … the Temple … for what it was.” Will could hear himself being banal and fought to recapture his self-possession. “And what, sir, did you perceive?”
“A whited sepulcher, rotting from within.”
There was no rational response to such a statement, but Will took a deep breath, searching for words with which to continue this bizarre conversation. “You say you … belonged … In what capacity?”
“I was a knight. But as I said, that was long ago.” “A Temple knight? What is your name, sir?”
The aged features cracked in a smile, revealing toothless gums behind the riotous hair that masked much of the gaunt face beneath. “My brethren call me Gaspard.”
“No, I meant, what was your name when you served the Temple?”
“That is of no import. It was a former life and I have abandoned it.”
“You left the Temple … you mean you broke your vows? You are apostate? How then—?”
“I broke no vows. I merely walked away. I was sworn to poverty, chastity, and obedience and so I remain—in poverty, as befits a seeker of the Way, in chastity, which
has never been threatened, and in obedience to my superior, the abbot of our small community here.”
Sinclair frowned. “A seeker of the way. What way is that?”
The old man looked at him, quirking one eyebrow. “There is only one Way.”
Will Sinclair shivered, unwilling to countenance the outrageous thought that had formed within his mind, but once it had occurred to him, he had no other choice than to pursue it, yea or nay, no matter how outlandish or incredible it might appear. He glanced towards Tam and Mungo, then jerked his head, indicating that they should move away. As they obeyed, looking mystified, he reached out his right hand to the old man, who took it in his own and met grip with countergrip, the strength sand confidence with which he did both surprising Will. This eldritch, tatterdemalion apparition was a member of the Brotherhood of Sion. Will kept hold of his hand and gazed at the old man, shaking his head and smiling in amazement.
“Well met, Brother,” he said eventually. “I would never have believed I would find one of my brethren here, in such a place … I hope now that you were not referring to our brotherhood when you spoke of whited sepulchers.”
“One of your elder brethren,” the other answered wryly. “And no, I was not referring to our own, solely to the Temple, another creature altogether. An edifice, built to the glory of God, that has not merely forgotten its own roots but denies its God in its daily mercantile activities. The Temple was built by men, in unseemly haste and for purposes of gathering worldly wealth and power. Small wonder that its members have become as corrupt as their commerce … But you still have not told me what brings the Temple to Eilean Molaise.”
“I will, but first you must tell me your name and what brought you to speak to us.”
