Order in Chaos

by Jack Whyte

  “A parley,” Will murmured to the admiral. “Well, that tells us at least that the leader here is no hotheaded fool, whatever else he might be …”

  They watched the boat approach in silence after that, crossing to the entry port in the side rail only when the small craft disappeared beneath their own side. The rowers shipped their oars, and the man at the prow snared the dangling rope, all eyes looking up to where Will stood with his companions. Finally, one of the three standing men, a red-bearded bantam of a man shrouded in the single, voluminous garment that the Gaels called a plaid, tilted his head back and called out in execrable French, “Is this a Temple galley?”

  Will leaned forward over the rail. “It is. Who asks?”

  “I am Alexander Menteith of Lochranza, Chieftain of Arran. I bring greetings and invite you to come ashore in peace.”

  Will hesitated for a mere moment, then called, “Greetings from whom, Master Menteith? You said you bring greetings, rather than offer them as your own, so on whose behalf do you speak?”

  Menteith pointed backwards with his thumb. “I am sent by Sir James Douglas, King Robert’s custodian in Arran,” he shouted back.

  Will fought down the urge to look at de Berenger beside him, for fear of betraying that the name meant nothing to him. He had heard of one Sir William Douglas, a noted knight with a reputation for gallantry and hotheadedness, but had never heard of a James Douglas. Perhaps his son? But William Douglas was not an old man, and therefore any son he had must be too young, surely, to be a King’s officer.

  Awaiting an answer, Menteith glanced at his companions before shouting again. “Will ye come?”

  Will had no choice; this was what he had been hoping for. Surely the King’s custodian would know where the King was to be found. He nodded. “We will. Tell Sir James we will follow you. How many men may we bring?”

  The question clearly surprised the Scot. “As many as you like,” he shouted back, then gave an order to the leadsman, who released the gaff and sat down at his oar again, using it to push the bow off strongly from the side of the galley until his fellow crewmen could lower their oars into the water again.

  Will turned to Edward de Berenger. “Will you come with us?”

  “If you want me to. Is it important?”

  Will sniffed and wiped a bead of moisture from his nose with the back of his hand. “It might be … Could be. Tell me, do your sergeants have surcoats?”

  “They do, but they are kept in storage at sea. In chests.”

  “Can you retrieve them easily? I want your oarsmen to look like Templars when they take us ashore, so have them uniformly dressed, if you will—black or brown, it makes no difference, so be it they are all the same.” Without waiting for an answer he turned to where Tam Sinclair stood listening. “You too, Tam. Put on your surcoat and bring Mungo with you, in his. But first ask Captain Boulanger to prepare the admiral’s boat for launching.”

  As Tam turned away to obey, Will spoke again to de Berenger. “Edward, it’s mantles for us. Full regalia and all decorations—surcoats, belts, swords, and shields … but no mail, I think. We may be asked to lay aside our weapons, but I think I would rather not be pent up in chain mail all the time we are here. But comb your beard, for Heaven’s sake. You are supposed to be a Temple knight, an admiral, not a seaborne hermit.”

  FOUR

  The silence was oppressive, broken only by the lapping of the waves against the shore and the distant crying of gulls. Gazing at the watchers thronging the beach in the final moments before his longboat grounded, Will realized that he could hear the water dripping from the upraised oars, and found himself wondering how so many men could be so utterly quiet for such a length of time. He took time, too, to admire how distinctive his crewmen appeared. Facing him where he stood in the stern with de Berenger, Tam Sinclair, and Mungo MacDowal, the twelve oarsmen looked appropriately impressive: veteran, tightly disciplined sergeants of the Temple, the scarlet crosses on their black surcoats glowing richly in the afternoon sun. Tam and Mungo wore the same black surcoats, borrowed from de Berenger’s men purely for effect, but bearing badges of rank equivalent to their own. Both men wore helmets and were fully armed, the black, equal-armed cross pattée of the Order emblazoned on their white shields. Every eye on the crowded beach, however, was fastened upon himself and de Berenger, their thick, snowy mantles of felted wool proclaiming them as knights of the Order.

  As the boat crunched into the gravel of the shore, the four lead oarsmen leapt nimbly over the sides, waited for the next incoming wave, then hauled the longboat bodily up and onto the shelving beach. The remaining oarsmen leaned sideways to permit Will and his party to walk forward and leap down to the pebbled beach dry shod. Will was in the lead, and as his feet struck the land, the crowd ahead of him parted, opening a lane to where the chieftain called Menteith stood waiting for them, flanked by three others, one of whom, tall and broad shouldered, wore the same kind of single garment as Menteith, wrapped about him from neck to knees.

  The other two members of the group, a man and a boy, he decided, were much different, dressed in tunic and leggings, the elder of them wearing a shirt of muchused chain mail beneath a plain brown cloak that was thrown back over his shoulders to leave his arms free. He stood watching Will approach, his face inscrutable, idly flexing the fingers of his right hand, the palm of which rested on the end of a short, heavy battle-axe hanging from his waist. Will’s eyes missed nothing, his mind racing as he sought to identify and rank the men before he reached them.

  The plaid-wrapped man on Menteith’s right towered over the Arran chieftain, his bulk emphasizing Menteith’s slightness, and he was a picture of barbaric splendor, so that Will immediately suspected this might be the King’s custodian, Douglas. His plaid was the color of fresh honey, and he wore it kilted like a tunic to just above the knees and then wrapped about his upper body to hang down his back from his left shoulder. It was held in place at the waist by a heavy belt of intricately fashioned silver links, and at the shoulder by a massive, ring-shaped brooch of hammered silver. He wore a loose cap of some kind on his head, arranged to one side, another silver ring brooch gleaming at the left temple and securing a large, decorative eagle feather, and his feet were encased in leather brogans, the straps wound crosswise about his long, bare legs. Beneath the tight, leather-bound brim of the cap, the eyes were bright and challenging, a pale, luminescent yellow-brown that was enhanced by the color of his clothing. The long hair that spilled down to his left shoulder from beneath the cap was golden red, as were his eyebrows and beard, the latter close-trimmed, and the entire face was defined by high, cleanly chiseled cheekbones. Clearly a leader and a man to be reckoned with, Will thought, and then eyed the last of the waiting quartet.

  This was a man, too, he could see now, and not the boy he had taken him to be at first. He, too, was set apart by his dress and bearing, but even more so by his youth. He wore a plain but rich and costly quilted tunic of bright blue, cinched at the waist with a heavy leather belt from which dangled a plain, unadorned dirk. There was an emblem of some kind on his tunic, still too far away to be discerned, but clearly embroidered in white upon the left breast. His legs, solid and muscular, were encased in thick, knitted leggings of a paler blue than his tunic, and were wound about with black leather bindings that rose up from heavy, thick-soled boots. He wore no cloak, this one, and he stood comfortably on spread feet, brawny forearms exposed by the elbowlength sleeves of his tunic, his hands loosely clasped about the cross-guards of a large broadsword sheathed in a highly decorated scabbard.

  Will and his party halted just short of the four and Will inclined his head courteously, the gesture one of equality containing no hint of subservience. “I bid you good day, gentlemen,” he said, allowing his voice full resonance. “I am William Sinclair, Knight Commander of the Order of the Temple in France. My companion here is Sir Edward de Berenger, Admiral of the Temple Fleet.”

  Menteith nodded, graciously enough. “Welcome to A
rran, so be it you come in peace.” His French was so poor that his words were barely understandable, which made his next question almost inevitable. “Sinclair, you say? Do you speak Scots then?”

  Will smiled. “I do. Sir Edward does not.”

  The young man in the blue tunic cut in before Menteith could say anything more. “Then we will speak in French, through common courtesy—those of us who can—lest we embarrass an honored guest. Sir Edward, you are welcome here in Scotland, as knight, if less so as admiral. May we ask what brings you here? Forgive me. I beg your pardon. Here is no place to be asking such questions. Will you come with us up to the fort? We can scarce call it a castle yet, since it is incomplete. But there, at least, we can be comfortable … and private. Not to mention warm. An ill wind is rising, and it looks as though we are about to be rained upon.”

  De Berenger glanced at Will, who nodded, and then both men looked up at the clouds; thick and angry looking, they were lower and more menacing than they had been earlier in the day. “Yes, sir, we will,” the admiral said.

  “And what of your men? Do you wish us to send them back to your galley? They can return later.”

  The admiral barely hesitated, then called to the lead sergeant on his boat, which was still drawn up on the strand less than fifteen paces behind them. When the man had run up the slope and snapped smartly to attention, de Berenger instructed him to return with his crew to the galley and await his further summons, and then he turned back to his hosts. “My thanks,” he said, smiling easily. “The men will be far more comfortable aboard ship.”

  “They could have stayed here,” the young man in the blue tunic said. “They would have been welcome to eat with our own men.”

  “True, sir, but they might have been uncomfortable … as might your own. My men do not speak your language.”

  The young man nodded. “True. That had not occurred to me.” He paused, then gestured to his three companions. “Some names, gentlemen. Menteith, here, you know already. The other fellow there, the big, fierce one, speaks no French at all. He is Colin, son of Malcolm MacGregor of Glenorchy, chief of Clan Alpine, and he likes to claim that his race is royal, directly descended from Kenneth MacAlpin, first King of Alba.” He was smiling as he spoke, and the MacGregor, having heard his own name mentioned, inclined his head, his face unreadable. “Beside me here is Sir Robert Boyd of Noddsdale, who accompanied me here on the King’s business, and I am James Douglas, son of Sir William Douglas of Douglasdale. I am nominally the King’s custodian in Arran, but for the past year I have been more than glad to leave the running of the place to Sir Alexander here, who is hereditary chieftain of the Menteiths of Arran.” As he finished speaking, a gust of chill wind blustered around them, and he raised his eyes to the clouds overhead. “As I thought, and just when expected. Let’s away from here, my friends. Others you will meet later. Come, if you will.”

  He turned and walked away without another word, swinging his sheathed sword up to rest over his right shoulder. They followed him, the four Templars flanked by the MacGregor and Menteith on one side and Sir Robert Boyd on the other, and the entire assembly, some two hundred men, tailing after them in an undisciplined herd, albeit a noisy, talkative herd now that it seemed the formalities were dealt with.

  Will walked in silence, his eyes on the man ahead of him, surprised for the second time that day by finding perfect French spoken where he had least expected such a thing. James Douglas was young, indeed—Will guessed his age as barely twenty, if he was that old—but the young man’s self-assurance was nothing short of astonishing, and nothing about him, other than his youth, suggested to Will that he might be unworthy of holding the post of King’s custodian. Now, as he followed Douglas up the steep slope to the motte, watching the lithe, easy step so similar to his own at the same age, he found himself wondering where and how the young nobleman could have learned such flawless French, for there was nothing of the guttural Norman accent—the accent of most of the English and Scots descendants of the Conqueror—in his voice.

  The motte was crowned by a large, rectangular building, the massive-walled ground floor built of heavy stones. Windowless and fireproof, it was intended purely for defense and storage, the only means of entrance being a heavy portcullis of wrist-thick wrought-iron latticework set into a tunnel-like doorway, more than two paces deep, that had been cut through the wall itself. The portcullis, Will knew, would be controlled from the winding room in the hall overhead. On each side of the portcullis entrance, heavy, serviceable wooden stairs led up to the great hall above, which appeared to have been built from alternating panels of stone and heavy logs, although the gable walls at either end were of solid stone, too, rising from the walls of the storage rooms beneath and chimneyed to hold flues. Moments later, climbing the sturdy wooden stairs and seeing the collection of men awaiting them beyond the hall’s open doors, he realized that the formalities that he had assumed were over had barely begun.

  FIVE

  Sir James Douglas’s hospitality, albeit unplanned in the middle of the day, was unstinting if plain. Tuns of both wine and ale had been broached, supplied, Will suspected, from the stores of the former English garrison, and fresh bread and cheese were brought to the tables that lined one wall. The men refreshed themselves liberally, the sound of their voices increasing in volume as they drank. There was no hot food, for the supper hour was still far ahead, but the rituals that went hand in glove with the hospitality lasted for more than two hours and involved a constant procession of greeters, all of them curious and eager to meet the Temple knights. The seemingly endless parade of names and faces, most of them Highlanders and Islesmen wearing a bewildering array of brightly colored clothing, had a stultifying effect on Will, and he knew, without a word being said, that de Berenger felt exactly the same way. Tam Sinclair and Mungo MacDowal stood apart, their backs to the wall by the entrance door, and took no part in the activities.

  Leaving de Berenger deep in conversation with a couple of French-speaking Scots who had engaged him, probably because they enjoyed the opportunity merely to speak the tongue, Will took advantage of a temporary lull to look around the room more carefully than he had before, scanning the gathering as a gathering rather than as a chain of unknown faces. Several men present among the throng had impressed him, a few of them favorably, and he watched two of those now from across the hall. One was a Highlander, the chief of Clan Campbell of Argyll, whose first name had escaped Will for the moment, and he was deep in conversation with one of Douglas’s commanders, a tall, broad-shouldered fellow with a close-cropped beard who was evidently a cousin of the knight Boyd, since both men bore the same name. The Robert Boyd on the beach had been Boyd of Noddsdale, and the one talking to the Campbell was Boyd of Annandale, another Robert. Will had met him some time close to the start of all the greetings, and he had been struck by the fellow’s eyes: the sheer brightness of them, a blazing, silvery gray, and the way they bored like augers into his own. They had not said much to each other on meeting, but Will had believed the man when Boyd said he would look forward to speaking with him later, when there would be more time and space.

  “You are deep in thought, Sir William. Should I banish everyone?”

  Will turned, startled, to see James Douglas standing by his side, and he felt himself flushing because he did not know how long the young knight had been standing there, watching him.

  “Your pardon, Sir James, I was woolgathering … It is a habit of which I ought to rid myself.”

  “Oh, I would not do that, if I were you.” Douglas’s smile was open and sincere. “The ability to lose yourself in thought among so many clacking tongues is an uncommon one … valuable. I think were it my fortune to have such a gift, I should treasure it.” He tilted his head to one side, his eyes narrowing as he tried to gauge Will’s expression. “What is it? Come, walk with me as far as the door. The rain may have stopped by now and the fresh air will be cool and welcome.”

  As they picked their way through the
crowd towards the doors, the Scots knight glanced sideways at the emblem that hung about Will’s neck.

  “That is a pretty bauble,” the young man said. “And plainly it’s a potent one, judging from the look and heft of it. What does it represent?”

  Will fingered the piece, looking down his nose to where it dangled heavily on his breast. “It is my badge of rank within the Order, probably the best known but least seen symbol of the Temple. Some members may live full lives and die without ever setting eyes on one of these.” He grasped the emblem between fingers and thumb, feeling its thick, solid, highly polished smoothness. “This is the emblem worn by serving members of the Governing Council of the Temple—the Inner Circle, as some call it. But in reality it serves no other purpose than to set its wearer visibly apart and mark him as the entitled representative and deputy of the Grand Master.”

  They had stopped, and Douglas was leaning forward, gazing at the medallion, and Will knew it was worth gazing at. It hung suspended from his neck by a thick chain of intricately carved, S-shaped links of solid silver, each one a thumb’s length and thickness, carved to represent a thick cable of rope. The emblem itself, of thick, glossy enamel, was mounted on a heavy silver oblong lozenge that hung suspended from two of the lowest links and portrayed the cross pattée on a square field of white, surrounded by another field of brilliant red, the color of the Savior’s blood worn for so long by the Temple knights. He waited patiently, allowing Douglas to gaze his fill, and the young knight reached out a hand as if to touch the emblem, but he stopped at the last moment and lowered his hand, dipping his head quickly to one side in a nod of admiration.

  “Beautiful piece” was all he said.