Order in Chaos

by Jack Whyte

  “Preparing to leave, Sire. I left him chivvying his men. He will be at sea within the hour, or close to it.” Will eschewed the offer of wine and did as bidden, tossing his folded mantle onto the tabletop and dragging a heavy chair close to the fire.

  “Good, that pleases me,” the King said. “I like that man. Now, before anything else, tell me about this treasure that you bring to me. Jamie was agog with it, but wouldn’t tell me of amounts, probably for fear of listening ears. He’s aey canny that way. You say it has been sent by Lady Jessica Randolph?”

  “Aye, Sire, the Baroness St. Valéry. But it was not sent. It was brought.”

  “What? She is in Scotland?”

  “She is, aboard one of our galleys. We did not expect to find you on Arran, you understand. I merely came in search of a safe anchorage and, I hoped, a tolerant reception. Once we knew what we were doing, I would have headed to the mainland in search of you, and the Baroness would have come with me, making her way homeward from wherever we landed.”

  “Then it was fortunate that I was here, for you would have found scant welcome in Scotland. Every castle left standing, save Inverness, and every single harbor is in English hands, though by the will of God, this money you have brought may make it possible to change such things. How much is there?”

  “Eleven heavy chests of specie, Sire, six of gold and five of silver, each in bars and coin.”

  “Glory be!”

  “It should meet your needs, for a while at least.”

  “And it could not have come at a better time. I have broadswords to buy, forbye fighting men to wield them. But we will talk more of this later. In the meantime, we have other matters to discuss.” He broke off and stared into the fire for some moments before continuing. “Davie Moray was right when he said that your presence here brings me problems, but I have been neck deep in problems since the day I took the Crown, and they are seldom insoluble—albeit time is the one thing I never have enough of.

  “If I remember rightly, you have somewhere in the range of a thousand men with you—galley crews, mariners, the garrison from La Rochelle, and your brother’s men. A round thousand, give or take, am I correct?” Will nodded, and the Bruce did, too. “Aye. Tell me, then, if I were to suspend all my concerns and give you leave to stay and shelter here in Arran, what would you do next?” Perhaps to give Will time to think, he bent forward to throw a fresh log on the fire, then pressed it into place with one foot before sitting back in his chair. “I ask that for a reason, for the first thing I learned commanding men in war was that as easy it as it may be to raise an army, the task of feeding them for any length of time will break your heart and wear you out. Have you thought of that? For let me tell you, you could hide your men from all the world on Arran, but there is precious little here to eat. There are trees and stones to build huts and shelters, and sedge for thatching them, and peat to burn in their hearths, but there is little land suitable for farming, and less in the way of creature comforts. How would you feed your people, were you free to bide here?”

  Will had been thinking of little else since leaving La Rochelle, and he nodded in acknowledgment of the other man’s point. “I’ve thought much on that, Your Grace, and I believe I have the means to deal with it, using my ships.” He saw Bruce’s eyebrows twitch, and he half smiled. “Not the galleys. I am not intending to go raiding. I mean the trading ships. We have ten of them, and I would send them off to ply their trade, purchasing foodstuff and basic living supplies—tools, not weapons. We have enough weapons for our needs. But once we have unloaded our horses and few kine, we will be able to buy more and ship them here … cows, sheep, swine, goats, and the like.”

  “Where would you buy them, and with what?”

  “Wherever they are to be found. In Ireland at first, I think, but then in England and even in France. My trading ships are able to come and go wherever cargo may be available. They bear no insignia, nothing to mark them as belonging to the Temple, but they are crewed by Templar mariners for all that. And to pay for them, we would use gold. It is a potent aid to commerce, I have found.”

  “Aye, and it’s scarce. Whence would it come, this gold?”

  Will grinned, sensing the monarch’s fear for his own funds. “From the Temple, the funds I have in trust in my own holds. When we left La Rochelle we took all that it held belonging to our Order, and, as you doubtless know, every commandery has its own vaults, wherein is kept the specie required by our trading system, which, if I may digress, reminds me of my duties here. Can you tell me who is now the Master of the Temple in Scotland?”

  The King of Scots hitched himself around in his seat to look directly at Will, scanning the Templar’s face with steady eyes. “The Master of the Temple here died soon after I was crowned. He was old, and he was not replaced. You’ll find a commandery in Edinburgh, if you go looking for it, but it lies empty.” He gazed down at his hands, aware that what he was saying would not be welcome news to his listener. “There is no Temple now in Scotland. It could not maintain neutrality in a civil war.” He looked at Will directly, almost defiantly. “There are Temple knights here, certainly, but they are Scots first nowadays, of the old houses, and they stand with me as Scots. The others are all in England, recalled by the Temple there.”

  He saw Will’s frown and grimaced in return. “Politics, Sir William … The need to politick is ever stronger than the need to pray, it seems, and men of God can always find a way to shape God’s needs to reflect theirs. The Temple knights in Scotland were mainly French and Normans, their primary duties owed to the London Temple and to the Order in France. They saw less trouble in placating Edward Plantagenet than in defying or offending him … Longshanks was ever easy to offend. And thus the Temple quit Scotland. Does that cause difficulties for you?”

  Will released pent-up breath in a loud hiss. “No, Your Grace,” he said. “It is a disappointment, but no more than that, and your explanation makes sense. You have the right of it on the matter of prayers and politics. It’s just that …”

  “Just that what?”

  “Loyalties, Sire, and the way they shift … It leaves me wondering if there is any sense, any logic or reason, to life itself once we step out of our own small concerns. Here am I at this moment, for example, calling you Sire and coming within a breath thereby of breaking my own oath as a Temple knight, for I swore to pay obedience and fealty to no one but our Order’s Master.”

  “And the Pope … not so? Do not forget the Pope.”

  Will’s mind returned unbidden to the conversation he had had mere weeks earlier with the former admiral St. Valéry, about the duality of their role as members of both Orders, the Temple and the Brotherhood of Sion, and how, at bottom, they lived a lie in even appearing to be loyal to the papacy. “Aye,” he agreed reluctantly, “and to the Pope … although but to a lesser degree. Our own Master comes first in our loyalties.”

  “And your Master is now in prison, betrayed by that same Pope—by the man in Saint Peter’s chair, if not by the office itself.” The King fell silent for a moment, then resumed. “Well, we can ease your mind on part of that, at least the Sire thing. Call me Robert when we are alone. I’ll call you Will, for I heard your kinsman Sinclair call you by that name. When others are around, add you the ‘Sir,’ for I am plain Sir Robert Boyd of Annandale here on Arran. Tell me now, though, and speak plain as your conscience will allow: what do you plan to do with your galleys while you are here as guest of the King of Scots?”

  Will grinned. “Quid pro quo?”

  Bruce spread his hands. “What would you? It will come up soon or late, but soon would be my guess.”

  “No doubt, and you are right. Here is what has been in my mind since we set out from France. From what I have gleaned from Douglas, listening as much to what was left unsaid, you have been seeking aid from the clans of the West, the Highlands, and the Isles, so far with some success, but not as much as you would wish. I gather, too, that many of the chiefs with whom you have been dealin
g think of themselves as kings of their own little realms. Am I correct?”

  “Aye, you are.” Bruce sniffed and crossed his legs, turning away from the fire that was now blazing fiercely. “Angus Og MacDonald is the most active local chief here in the southwest. His territory is mainly Kintyre but stretches north, and he has a base in Islay nowadays. He likes to call himself Lord of the Isles, and he is working hard—and to this point successfully—to become the acknowledged head of a federation of neighboring clans, the MacNeills, MacCruaries, and McNaughtons prominent among them.” He grinned. “He has been known to call himself King of the Isles, too, and although the rank far outstrips his true status, that is, in effect, how he sees himself at this time. He calls me King Bruce, an equal with no claim upon his loyalty other than that which he chooses to grant, or that which I buy in the form of mercenaries … galloglasses, they call them in these parts.”

  “You count this man among your enemies?”

  “No, I do not. But neither do I number him among my friends, although he has helped me much in the past. It was thanks to him last year, and to Campbell of Lochawe, that I was able to withdraw into the Isles when I was hunted like an animal. And he covered my seaward flank when I marched northwest recently, into Argyll, to argue cases with Lame John MacDougall of Lorn—an expedition that worked out little to the MacDonald’s liking, since it ended in a truce instead of the bloodbath he was seeking. He is … different, Angus Og, from all the others. Ambitious; but he stands by his word, as befits a self-styled king, and he has been—and continues to be—of great use to me, knowing that I may be of equal or even greater use to him.”

  “He holds the power in the Isles, then?”

  “No, but he wants to. The power is held at this time by Alexander MacDougall of Argyll, with whom we have the truce of which I spoke. The MacDougall is old now, and he holds no love for me or mine. His son, though, Lame John MacDougall of Lorn, wields the power nowadays in truth, albeit not in name. They are kinsmen by marriage to the Comyns. John Comyn the Red, the man I killed in Dumfries, was good-brother to Lame John. Angus Og hates the pair of them beyond reason, and since he knows I am still determined to destroy them, he is prepared to help me.”

  “Why do you wish to destroy them, may I ask?”

  Bruce rubbed his palms together hard, grinding them one against the other. “For the same reason I destroyed the MacDowals of Galloway. Because they have left me no choice. Their enmity I could overcome without rancor—that is a king’s task. But Lame John’s treachery has cost the lives of hundreds of good men, including several loyal friends whom I held close as brothers. He is an evil man, a creature beyond redemption. The Galloway MacDowals were similar, if less evil. Their treachery cost me two brothers, Thomas and Alexander, taken in war and sent to England to a felon’s death, merely for being my brothers. MacDougall worked on the betrayal with the MacDowals, knew what their end would be before they were sent off. It was done with intent. That I cannot, will not, forgive. A blood debt, you may call it. I care not what men may think or say of me afterwards, but the MacDougalls’ days of power in Scotland are at an end. We have a truce with them today, with no term set upon it—convenient to us both. But when it ends, Lame John of Lorn will have to pay his debts, and those he owes to me and to this realm will see the end of him.”

  “Why did you even offer truce? Douglas says you had a strong force with you, and MacDonald threatening MacDougall from the sea. Why not press home then, with your advantage?”

  “I did. I pressed it home to the point of gaining a truce I needed badly. Lorn had more than a thousand broadswords at his back, with another thousand waiting to be called. I had six hundred men. So instead of fighting, I took my army up the Great Glen to Inverness, gathering men to me all the way. I took the castle there, then headed northwest again, into Comyn territory, harried the place and wrung another welcome truce, this one for nine months, from Ross, the Earl, who ranks among my greatest enemies. He, too, has much to answer for, and come June, he will rue the day he chose to abduct and sell the Queen of Scots …” He fell silent then, his gaze unfocused, but quickly shook the thoughts off the way a dog might rid itself of water.

  “Forbye, the Argyll fight would have been a set battle and I’ll have none o’ those. Scotland will not be won by set battles, not after a decade of being culled and stripped of its best men by England and by internal wars. Wallace proved that beyond dispute. Even at Stirling Brig, where he destroyed the English host, he fought by his own rules, like a brigand, according to the nobles talking down their noses. But he won. The only other time he committed to a battle was at Falkirk, and there he was betrayed by Scotland’s own knights, who led their cavalry off the field before the fight began, but too late for Wallace to react to their turncoat behavior. Falkirk cost Wallace dearly, and he never played by knightly rules again. But he united Scotland in a way that had never been known before. And I have taken up his ways. I would rather fight by guile and terror and win than be hanged, drawn, and quartered because I fought by England’s rules …” He frowned slightly. “But why are you asking me these things? They have little to do with you.”

  “I know. I set out to ask something else, but your answers fascinated me and I lost track of my question … which was, do any of these island chiefs own galleys?”

  “Of course they do. They all do. They are Islesmen—they go everywhere by boat. MacDonald has more than any other. His is the largest fleet.”

  “How large?”

  Bruce shook his head. “I know not … but I have seen him summon more than a hundred at one time, all fully manned, to Islay. What are you thinking?”

  “I was thinking that my galleys will serve no one well floating in Lamlash Bay. They will gather barnacles and my men will lose their fighting edge. Therefore, I thought to keep them in condition by lending them to you … a loan, you understand, for appearances only. No fighting involved. No naval battles. Merely the sight of not-too-distant force. We can remove the crosses from their sails, or replace the sails completely, but they will remain Temple galleys. Could you use them?”

  The King’s eyes narrowed almost to slits as he weighed the offer. “I could use one of them, for my own transportation from time to time, whene’er I have to travel to or through the Isles. But if they cannot fight—”

  “Oh, those ones would fight—your crew, I mean—were you aboard in person. They would be King’s Escort and Guard in that case, and would do battle on your personal behalf if ever that were required. The others would be in different case.”

  “I would not need the others. One craft would suffice, for I seldom travel by sea.”

  Will cocked his head. “Perhaps because you have never had the means to hand before … a galley of your own?”

  Bruce smiled. “Perhaps, but nonetheless, I would seldom use it. My greatest concerns are always on the mainland, where the English swarm, the true realm of Scotland. And I would not need the others.”

  “Then that leaves my fine galleys unemployed … ” Will hesitated. “Think you this Angus Og could find a use for them, in gift from you?” He held up a hand before Bruce could respond. “Think, for a moment, from your kingly needs. Might you not have much to gain from offering Angus Og the use of five fine galleys? You could make the stipulation plain at the outset: he would have them for display and demonstration and, of course, they ship at least four hundred men, closer to five hundred. It strikes me that an ambitious man like him, taunting a stronger force like the MacDougalls, might be glad to take advantage of even the appearance of greater strength than he can field.”

  The King grunted deep in his chest, pinching the hair on his upper lip, thinking over what Will had said, but as he made to speak, there came a knock at the door, and Bishop David de Moray stepped into the room.

  “You sent for me, Sire.”

  Bruce rose to greet the Bishop, glancing at Will in wonder as he did so. “Aye, Davie, I did. I gave word to send you up in half an hour, but it feels as t
hough scarce the half of that has gone. Come in. Pour yourself a cup of wine and sit you down. Master Sinclair and I have not yet finished our discussion, but you needna leave. Sit and listen. I’ll tell you later what we have discussed till now.”

  He sat down again and turned back to Will. “Offer them as a gift, you say … from me to Angus Og. That is a wondrous fine idea. The man will jump at it like a trout after a fly. But why only the five galleys? You have ten, you said.”

  “Aye, and one of them’s mine and another yours, and I’ll feel safer keeping three more reserved for our own use, should the need arise. That leaves five.”

  “Of course it does. I had forgot those first two.” The King smiled, and his entire face was transformed, appearing years younger. But then the smile faded. “So now you will have but half as many men to feed and house, since Angus Og will have the keeping of your oarsmen. What about the rest of your men?”

  “Kenneth’s party, plus the garrison from La Rochelle—two hundred and thirty, all told, not counting the galley crews. The same needs apply to them. Stuck here on Arran for months on end, they will grow soft. Now clearly you need good men. I can lend you mine—not all at once, mind you, but in rotating groups, knights and sergeants both. Three groups of five-and-seventy, say, all of them mounted and equipped, the complement changing every four months.”

  “You would do that?”

  Will shrugged. “Without hesitation. But there would be conditions.”

  The King held up his hand. “Before you say another word, I cannot undertake to keep them from the fighting—”

  “Nor would I ask you to. War is war. I make exceptions for the galleys because they are all that remains, at this time, of the Temple fleet and they are my responsibility. Regular fighting men are another matter altogether. I will ask for volunteers, then select the first group of seventy-five from among those. Every man I have will volunteer, no doubt of that, but they will fight as Temple sergeants, under their own officers. That is the single stipulation I will make there. What say you?”