Order in Chaos

by Jack Whyte

  De Berenger nodded. “No forgiveness required, my friend. I agree with you. But that leaves the question, what do we do now?”

  Moray was still thinking about what Will had last said, his face wrinkled in perplexity. “Such blatant aggression would require papal sanction, at least, if not outright support.”

  “Aye, it would,” Will agreed. “And as you said, Pope Clement is not the strongest of the strong. He is a vacillator, notoriously weak and open to manipulation, and in France, under Philip the pope-maker, he is but potter’s clay in the King’s hands.”

  Moray drew in his breath with a hiss, straightening up to his full height, but before he could say anything more Sir Robert Boyd of Noddsdale, whom Will had seen descending the stairs mere moments earlier, appeared at de Berenger’s shoulder.

  “My lord Bishop,” he said to Moray. “Sir James requires your presence. You are to come with me and bring these two gentlemen with you.”

  Moray looked from de Berenger to Will. “Were I not a bishop I might be inclined to wager that the two of you are going to have to sing for your supper.”

  OF LOYALTY AND FRIENDS

  ONE

  Six men waited in the room behind the wooden wall that screened the upper platform from the hall beneath. The room was well lit with candles and high ceilinged, its right wall, wood paneled, rising to the height of a tall man, then assuming the steep slope of the roof. In the corner to one side of the door a pile of discarded armaments stood propped against the wall; shields and swords, axes and dirks. A stone fireplace was built into the gable wall, and a pair of small, high-set windows on either side of the chimney face allowed the fading evening light to shine in from outside.

  Most of the room’s length was taken up by a long, narrow table, bare except for three candles in sconces, and the occupants were sitting around it in a variety of poses, all of them looking at the newcomers as they filed in. Douglas sat at the far end, facing the door, and on each side of him Will recognized the Campbell chief—Sir Neil Campbell of Lochawe, he remembered now—and the other Sir Robert Boyd, of Annandale. The young MacGregor chieftain from Glenorchy sat beside Boyd, and across from him sat a stern-looking man Will remembered as being called de Hay. An empty chair sat beside de Hay, and next to it, at about the middle of the table, lounged another, even grimmer-looking fellow whom Will gauged to be in his late twenties, younger than all of them except Douglas and MacGregor. He was thin faced, black bearded and glowering. Will had no recollection of meeting him before. The sixth man at the table was Menteith of Arran, who appeared even smaller than before among so many large companions.

  As David Moray stopped by the foot of the table, Will and de Berenger moved to stand beside him, while Boyd of Noddsdale took his own seat. Douglas greeted the two white-mantled knights with a wide smile that showed his strong white teeth.

  “Welcome, gentlemen,” he began, and then spoke to de Berenger in French. “You will pardon, I hope, what may seem to be an ill-mannered summons, Admiral, but in talking with Sir William I decided that others here, as noblemen of Scotland, should hear what he has to say, particularly on this matter of the gold you bring for our King’s coffers. Good tidings indeed, on the face of it, but creating a need for a certain … circumspection. Sit, if it please you, and, Sir William, I trust you will not mind repeating your tale. All present here enjoy the King’s trust.”

  Will started towards the nearest seat, but Bishop Moray restrained him with a light hand on his arm.

  “Before we begin, Sir James, I think you should know there is more to Sir William’s visit than you have heard.” Will sensed an immediate heightening of interest among those at the table.

  “How so?” Douglas leaned forward slightly as he spoke, and Moray looked at Will.

  “Would you like to speak, or shall I try to explain it?”

  Will felt a deep calmness unfold inside him, and smiled easily. “As you wish, my lord Bishop. But if you tell it, I will know, at least, how closely you listened.”

  Moray nodded, the hint of a smile flickering at one corner of his mouth, then looked at de Berenger, serious again. “You will forgive me, Admiral, if I speak now in Scots, for there are several here who have no knowledge of your tongue. You are already familiar with everything I will talk about, but Sir William will translate anything new you need to hear.”

  Moray turned back to face the others. “Sir William tells me there are grave matters unfolding beyond our realm—matters of import that could ill affect us here. Let me be clear, for we have little time to waste here in idle talk. What I have to say next will set you all agog, clackin’ with curiosity, but I must ask you simply to accept what I have to say. It is all true, but here and now is not the place to debate it.” He looked at each of the men seated around the table, and then concisely described the King’s move against the Temple a mere two weeks before. “It is the opinion of both of these knights who stand before you—Sir William of the Governing Council and Sir Edward, the admiral of the Temple fleet—that they are the sole members of the French Temple not held in custody by the French King and his people.”

  Despite the Bishop’s warning, a buzz of comment broke out around the table, and he fell silent to allow it to subside. When he spoke again, his words brought instant silence. “None of us here could have imagined such a thing, the Temple bein’ what it is, but no man present should suppose, even for an instant, that this does not concern us, that’s it’s none o’ our affair. It is, and it concerns us deeply, and on mair than a few levels, the first o’ those being that these men come here in search o’ sanctuary—temporary, right enough, but nae less real for that. What they don’t know, and couldna know, is that … ” He hesitated. “King Robert is engaged at this time with the King of France, seeking an alliance against England. This request o’ theirs could set all that at naught.”

  Again Moray stopped, to let that sink in, aware that Will was whispering behind him, translating to de Berenger.

  “And forbye,” he continued, “King Philip wouldna have dared do what he has done without the approval o’ the Pope, for the Temple, nae matter what ye may think of it in your own mind, is a religious Order. I’m sure I needna remind anybody here that there’s only one Pope—the same one Archbishop Lamberton is trying to persuade to lift the excommunication against King Robert. So there are two stringy mouthfuls o’ gristle for us to chew, and that’s just the start o’ it.”

  The black-bearded man at the middle of the table grunted. “Send them home, then,” he drawled. “Back whence they came. We have enough to occupy us now, with what we have in hand, without seeking further troubles.”

  “Oh aye? And take the treasure off them first, is that what you mean? Just relieve them o’ the gold they bring in our time o’ need and then wave them farewell?” The Bishop’s voice was cold, filled with dislike of the man to whom he spoke, and the two glared at each other until Sir Robert Boyd of Annandale sat forward, raising a hand.

  “A word, if I may.” He scratched slowly at his close-trimmed beard. “Our black-bearded friend is but newly arrived, from Rathlin island, so he knows but little of who you are. He bears an unfortunate English name, too—Edward—and the burden makes him unmannerly at times. But he is chief captain of his clan and brother to the chief himself. Sir William, were you aware of any of these things—the things the Bishop mentioned—before you came here?”

  Will shook his head. “This is the first I have heard of any treaty with King Philip. It surprises me in a way, knowing the kind of man Philip is, but I can see how the need for it might arise. As for the writ of excommunication, I was aware of it.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But I admit I had not seen the connection between King Robert’s case and our own.” He hesitated. “Not quite true—I had seen it, but thought the connection to be a common ground, one which might lead your King to grant our wish. It had not occurred to me that there would be plans in place to acquire a dispensation, or that we might cause embarrassment to King Robert because of
it.”

  Boyd pursed his lips and sniffed. “Sir James was saying you have been long away from Scotland. Tell us, then, what, if anything, do you know about our King, Robert Bruce?”

  Again Will was prompted to smile, even knowing as acutely as he did that he was on trial here. He bent his head slightly sideways, the smile widening. “I think it might be easier and less troublesome were you to ask me to reveal the inner secrets of the Temple, Sir Robert.” No one smiled in return, and he continued. “In truth I know little of your King, and most of what I have learned before today came from two single sources, both of them women. My life and my duties, these past decades, have been dedicated to the Temple, bound thereto by oath, by duty, and by loyalty. I was born in Roslin and spent my boyhood there, and when I left Scotland as a lad, there was no strife between this realm and England. I have lived in ignorance of all that has transpired here since then, but I feel no guilt over that, for I renounced the world when I entered the Order, and the Temple owes allegiance to no temporal lord or monarch other than the Pope.

  “My sister Margaret wed Sir Edward Randolph, long after I left home, and she was the prime source of my knowledge of the troubles here in Scotland, and of the travails of King Robert when he was yet the young Earl of Carrick. In her letters, she spoke very highly of the man, and of the esteem and love her husband held for him and his cause. And since she was always a levelheaded lass, I accepted her judgment. The second woman of whom I spoke is Lady Jessica Randolph, the Baroness St. Valéry. I do not know that lady well at all, but her determination to deliver her dead husband’s wealth into the hands of Robert Bruce, together with her belief in the man’s righteousness and his destiny as King of Scots, was a persuasive argument that fitted well with my sister’s opinion. And so I am here.”

  “Hmm. What else do you know of him—the man, if not the king?”

  “Little enough. I have never set eyes on him. But from what Sir James has told me in a very brief time, I have formed … opinions of my own. He must be a man of extraordinary fortitude and honor to generate such reverence among his friends.”

  “Aye, that may be. But what of his enemies? Have you not heard it said that the King’s numbered friends are few, less than it would take to fill up both sides of a table?”

  Sir James Douglas broke in, smiling. “Or that his enemies abound like fleas on a moudiewort, leaping over and across each other to infest him?”

  Will stood staring from one man to the other, perplexed, aware that all eyes around the table were fixed on him and that he was suddenly unsure of what was happening here. Not knowing what to say next, he gave in to his instincts and shrugged. “I have no doubt that must be what folk say, if, as you say, you have heard it said … But I think you need no reminding that folk are great tellers of lies. Being recently arrived, I have heard nothing of the kind myself—nothing, that is, from ‘they’ who hold so many opinions. For myself, I would choose to believe things differently. If your King has, as they say, so few friends, then you would do him honor to add the word remaining, for he strikes me as a man who holds friends close. But even more, above that, he seems to me to be a man—and perhaps even a king—who brings out the best in those who love him. Therefore either his friends die willingly, in support of his cause, or they are easy to identify and find … and kill thereafter. He may indeed have but few friends remaining, but I am sure he never forgets those friends whom he has lost. That must grieve the man day and night, from what I have heard of him, and in enduring it, tholing it all and moving on, he must be like a blade tempered in fire and blood, and withal a king worthy of the name.” Again he was aware of the silence as he concluded. “That is my opinion of your King, gentlemen, no matter if he or you send me on my way or not. It is a judgment newly formed, but it is in my heart, and should I ever come face-to-face with him, I will believe myself honored to do so.”

  Looking back on it, Will would see that it had been an astonishing statement, one that he had not known he was going to make until the words were spilling from his mouth, evoked by a deep and formless, unsuspected anger that had left him trembling with tension by the time he finished. He could sense, without looking, that even de Berenger, who could barely have understood a word of what he said, was staring at him in surprise. It must have been something in his tone, he thought.

  He sucked in a deep breath and held it, looking straight ahead and waiting for a reaction from the motionless group around the table, three of whom had not spoken a word since he and his companions entered the room, but when one came he could scarcely believe what he was seeing. It was a tiny glimmer of light, trembling almost unseen at the edge of his vision, and when he sought the source of it, it sprang sharply into focus: a single teardrop, reflecting the glow of one of the candles on the table, had welled up in the eye of the stern-faced knight called de Hay. The man sat rigid but unapologetic, making no attempt to wipe the drop away before it spilled over and ran down his cheek into his beard. Only then did he blink and glance at Will, both eyes awash, before looking over at Sir Robert Boyd of Noddsdale, then turning his head further, to look at the other Boyd, of Annandale, who was already watching him.

  The expression on Annandale’s face was hard to define, but there was no hint of pity or derision in it as he gazed at the mail-clad veteran, tears now running openly down both cheeks. He held de Hay’s eyes a moment longer, then looked down the table to where the Temple knights stood waiting.

  “Well, Sir William, your sentiments have won the approval of Sir Gilbert.” The noise his chair made as he pushed it back and stood up was loud in the quiet room, and from somewhere down below a loud crash echoed it as someone dropped what sounded like a heavy table. “So be it—no more subterfuge. I am Robert Bruce, King of Scots, and I regret the mummery. Suffice to say, alas, it was not uncalled for. My presence here is not for common knowledge and few, even downstairs, know who I am.”

  Will Sinclair stood stunned, his senses swimming at the unexpected revelation, but the King seemed unaware of it and was still speaking.

  “Jamie told me I could trust you. He has a keen nose for such things. But I had to judge for myself. It may be the single greatest curse of this life I live nowadays, but I always have to judge for myself.” He stood even straighter, drawing himself erect and seeming to collect his thoughts. “But that is neither here nor there. The die is cast and we have work to do—atop the work we gathered here to do.” He turned to de Berenger, then waved a hand in invitation and spoke in serviceable Norman French. “My lord Admiral, you are welcome here. Take off your mantle, if you will, and sit with us. We have much to discuss, though I fear the brunt of it will be done in Scots. Sir William will serve as translator to both of us when the need arises.”

  As the two knights began to divest themselves of their heavy capes, he spoke to Will. “Your ships, Sir William—where are they now and in what strength?”

  Will stopped, his mantle halfway off. “They are Sir Edward’s ships, Majesty—the galleys at least—not mine.”

  The Bruce looked him straight in the eye, one eyebrow slightly raised. “Yours or his, it matters not. They are the Temple’s ships, and they are in my waters. And save the Majesty for England’s King, should ever you be misfortunate enough to meet him. Here in Scotland we speak of the King’s grace, not majesty.”

  “Of course. Forgive me, my lord King, I had forgotten.”

  Bruce nodded. “Off with that coat, then, and sit ye down.” He groped for the back of his own chair, waving Douglas back into his seat at the table’s head as the young man made to stand up, and as the two knights and Bishop Moray settled themselves at the table, he pointed with his thumb towards the black-bearded scowler at the center of the table. “This is my brother, Edward Bruce, Earl of Carrick. The others I believe you know, but just in case, here is Sir Neil Campbell of Lochawe, chief of Clan Campbell, and here Colin, son of Malcolm MacGregor of Glenorchy. The man you made weep is Sir Gilbert de Hay, my standard-bearer, and Sir Robert Boyd of No
ddsdale has been with me since Dumfries, lending me his support, as well as his name in time of need. And now, about your ships … ”

  Will cleared his throat and rephrased the comment in French for the admiral’s benefit before continuing in Scots. “We have a mixed fleet, Your Grace, made up of the ships that were in La Rochelle on the day of the … the strike, plus three that joined us from Marseille. In all, we have a score of vessels, ten of them galleys, the others cargo ships.”

  Across from the King, Sir Neil Campbell whistled softly, and Bruce leaned back in his chair. “Those would be Temple galleys, I’m thinking—naval ships. How big?”

  “They are all different, Your Grace. The three largest, the admiral’s included, are of twenty oars a side—two-man sweeps, arranged in the ancient fashion of double banks.”

  “Biremes.”

  “Aye, my lord, biremes—all save one, built in Araby and captured by the man who captains it today. It has eighteen sweeps to a side, in two single ranks. All told, we have four ships of thirty-two oars, three of forty, and three of thirty-six.”

  “Impressive. How many men in all?”

  “In total, perhaps five hundred men. We have not made a formal tally.”

  Bruce looked impressed. “A strong force,” he said quietly.

  “Aye, Sire, but a naval force.”

  “What mean you by that?”

  “Nothing, save that they are mariners, not men-at-arms. But we have more. We brought the entire garrison from La Rochelle, snatched from beneath the nose of de Nogaret.”