Order in Chaos

by Jack Whyte

  “I do not know, for I avoid the place. But there might be. It’s a strong place, wi’ a cathedral, so they’ll think it important. Anyway, take no chances. Keep you to the north bank of the Clyde and stay well clear of the town. It’s well wooded all along the vale o’ the river, and there’s few folk about nowadays. Just keep guards out ahead o’ you and ye should be fine. Edinburgh will lie about ninety miles to the east o’ you. The place you’re looking for, I canna help you wi’.”

  Will thanked the man and left him to his work while he himself went in search of Mungo MacDowal, to whom he repeated the captain’s words. Mungo nodded. He knew the route, he said, having traveled it several times as a boy, with his father.

  The next day, an hour before sunset, the watch atop Brodick Hall reported sails approaching from the south, and as dusk thickened around them Will was on the beach, awaiting the arrival of the pair of ships returning from the Channel ports of France, but apart from a brief and discouraging indication of the state of affairs there, he had to wait until late in the evening, after the communal prayers and meal, to hear the full extent of their discoveries. Immediately after dinner, he removed himself from the assembly and led the two captains to his quarters.

  Trebec, a laughing, amiable man when not on duty, hailed from the Breton port of Brest, and so he had covered the ports to the south of Brest, down as far as the Spanish border, since there was less chance of his being recognized there and remembered as a Temple captain. The younger man, a swarthy native of Navarre in northern Spain, whose name was Ramon Ortega, had visited the northern ports, from la Rochelle itself, where he was unknown, north to Brest and on through Cherbourg as far as Dieppe, calling in to all of them and sending trusted men to find out what they could.

  Neither man smiled as he made his report, and Will paced the floor as he listened to them, too tightly wound to be seated. True to the predictions of the original warning to de Molay, it appeared that every senior officer of the Order had been arrested on the appointed day in October and thrown into prison to await interrogation by the Holy Inquisition, the grimfaced Dominicans who called themselves the Hounds of God and whose implacable zealotry for the absolute sanctity of Christian dogma had spread terror and dread among ordinary Christians for the past hundred years, keeping them in abject subjugation through the fear of death by fire and torture. Both captains could attest to the involvement of the Inquisitors from numerous observations. The length and breadth of the coast of France, the tavern talk was all about the imprisonment of the Templars, and rife with speculation as to what was happening to them behind the forbidding walls of the King’s prisons.

  Will listened in mounting anger and frustration to the reports, his frown deepening until he could stand no more of it and whipped up one hand, cutting both men into silence.

  “That’s all well and good,” he growled, “and plainly there’s no lack of it. But where’s the sense of it? Where’s the meat of the matter? It’s one thing to execute a coup like that, but it’s another altogether to maintain it in the absence of hard truth. What are our people charged with? What’s the nature of the crimes of which they stand accused? You have told me nothing of that.”

  Both men fidgeted, and neither one would meet his eye.

  “Come then, speak out. You must have heard something of the accusations and I can but presume it deals in heresy of some kind. So what is it? What are we accused of? Apostasy? Usury? Both of those I could see, preposterous though they be, but usury in itself could not justify the extent of this malice. What else is there?”

  Trebec looked at Ortega, who met his eyes and shrugged as though helpless, and the older man drew in a great breath and straightened his back and shoulders, turning to look Will straight in the eye. “There’s more than that, Sir William. Much, much more.”

  “Then tell me, Captain Trebec. I am not a diviner.”

  The mariner’s face was bleak, his voice flat. “Black arts and Devil worship. Crimes against God and Holy Church. Pederasty. Blasphemous rites and ceremonies involving obscene kisses and acts, man upon man, as part of Temple rites and initiations. Oaths against God, witnessing the Devil’s supremacy … The Temple Council and the knights stand accused of worshipping an idol, a mummified head called Baphomet, a creature of Satan, given to them to adore in token of his mastery and carefully kept and treasured in the Order’s secret vaults. All that, and many other things I have no wish to mention.” He looked down at the table. “Mutilation and abominable sins perpetrated against women … cannibalistic rites involving the sacrifice of infant children and the eating of their flesh.” He drew a deep, shuddering breath. “It seems, Sir William, that there is no sin, cardinal or mortal, and no crime conceivable, with which the Temple has not been charged. And the Holy Inquisitors are busy even now, torturing confessions out of broken men through the entire land of France.”

  Will Sinclair stood as though thunderstruck, the blood draining from his face, and then he groped sightlessly for a chair and collapsed into it, shaking his head in mute denial of what he was being told. Neither of the captains spoke another word, merely staring at him wide eyed as they waited for him to gather his scattered wits.

  “God damn them all,” he said at last, his voice barely audible. “This is infamy beyond the ken of ordinary men. God damn them to the deepest, darkest pits of nether Hell. God curse their evil, petty, miserable, money-grasping souls … Grasping King and weakling Pope and mindless, brutal minions—sound, solid, praying Christians every one …” He fell silent again, his frown growing even darker, and the silence stretched until he sat up straight again, grunting in anger and disgust. “So be it, then. I’ll think on that and decide what we must do. But even so, we still do not know all there is to know. Two ships are still to come back, from the Mediterranean coasts, though I doubt their tidings will be any brighter. Tell me, did you drop St. Thomas and Umfraville off without incident?”

  Trebec nodded. “Aye, off the coast by Bordeaux. They were to head straight to Aix-en-Provence and then make their way south to Marseille, where Charlot de Navarre was to pick them up. They would have lots of time, because the outgoing weather was stormy and de Navarre had to make his way south and around by Gibraltar to reach Marseille. They should be fine.”

  Will nodded, keeping his thoughts to himself. Marcel de St. Thomas and Alexandre d’Umfraville were both members of the Order of Sion, and would be bringing back information and instructions from the Order’s secret sanctuary in Aix—all of which would offer better insights than the collected impressions of the seafarers. He was now trembling with impatience to hear from them.

  “How much longer will the others be, think you? I am no mariner, so I know nothing of wind speeds and journey lengths.”

  Ortega shrugged one shoulder. “A week to ten days at the very least … but realistically up to twice that long. They are at the mercy of wind and weather, and neither one of those is amiable at this time of year, especially in the south Bay of Biscay. I would expect them in a month. From now.”

  “That long?” Will could not conceal his chagrin, but then thought better of it. “Well, that may be good, when I think about it. We are bound to leave for Scotland tomorrow, and we should be gone for two or perhaps three weeks. That would make the timing just about right.” He gripped the arms of his chair and stood upright, nodding to both captains. “My thanks, Brothers, for your reports. You have done well. Now I must ask you to keep this knowledge to yourselves until I find a means of informing all the brethren simultaneously. In the meantime, I am sure you must have matters of your own to attend to. You may go.”

  THE CAVES OF ROSLIN

  ONE

  The deer had been grazing in the knee-high shrubs since before daybreak, oblivious to the grayness of the strengthening light and the relentless drizzle of chill January rain that seemed to seep down from the clouds hanging just above the treetops. Behind them, the grassy, shrub-scattered meadow sloped gently down towards the rain-swollen stream, and above them
, less than ten fleeing leaps away, the forest covered the hillside, ending in a straight line that formed a border to their feeding ground. The motionless air was filled with water sounds, the not-quite-roaring gurgle of the swollen stream melding with the patter of rain on leaves, and the grazing herd, accustomed to the peacefulness, browsed contentedly, secure in the watchful presence of the antlered stag. But then came a distant, different sound, followed by a whir of driving wings as a covey of startled grouse erupted from the edge of the forest, and the entire scene changed in an instant. The stag’s head came up, his alarm transmitting itself to the small herd, who raised their heads, too, ears pricking, then froze in place. The stag stood stock-still, staring into the trees, only his twitching ears betraying his concern. And then the distant noise came again, closer this time, and he whirled and bounded away, his entire family at his heels, so that in the space of heartbeats the meadow was empty.

  The alien noises drew nearer, recognizable now, had anyone been there to hear, as the metallic jingle of harness, accompanied by the solid thump of hooves on damp, soft ground. Then came a stirring among the branches at the forest’s edge, and three mounted men emerged, swathed from head to knees in heavy riding cloaks of greenish-brown, thickly waxed wool. They paused there, barely out of the trees, and all three scanned the meadow beneath until, on an agreed signal, one of them stood up in his stirrups, put two fingers in his mouth, twisted around, and blew a loud, short whistle back into the trees. His companions kicked their horses forward to make room for the file of men and horses that followed them out of the forest.

  When they were all assembled, Will Sinclair called for their attention.

  “Well, Brethren,” he began. “Welcome to Roslin. The sunshine might be less brilliant than you were accustomed to in France, and the air much cooler, but the place has much to recommend it. It was, for many years, the childhood home shared by myself and my brother Kenneth here, and I cannot tell you how pleasing it is to me to see the place. My father’s hall lies less than a mile from here, on a rocky knoll by the side of the river there. You cannot see it yet, but I assure you it is there and that you will all be welcome, with a sound roof over your heads tonight, warm bedding, and good, hot food. A pleasant change from the fare and lodgings we have known these past nine days. I brought you through the woods because I knew the way, and knew that, were there English soldiery in the area, the likelihood is that they would be encamped in this meadow, for it is the only place within miles that is suitable for such a thing.”

  He looked about him, then continued. “And it is as I hoped, serene and calm. But I must caution all of you to bear in mind, from this moment forth, that we are on a mission of secrecy and you must guard your tongues. No one will question you here, for the people are but simple country folk. This valley and these hills are their entire world, and they know nothing of the world beyond a day’s journey from their homes. But they are human, and therefore curious, so they might ask you questions. Answer them simply if they do, and say nothing that might prompt them to ask further. We are warriors, on a mission to King Robert. But we are not monks here. There will be no communal prayers and no services. Do you understand me, all of you?” He looked from man to man, waiting for each one to nod, then nodded himself. “So mote it be, then.”

  He turned to Tam Sinclair. “Tam, take eight men with you and ride back to the byre where we hid the wagon, then bring it around by the road to the main house. We’ll be waiting for you. The rest of you, come with us.”

  The group split into two parties again, Tam Sinclair leading Mungo and seven other sergeants back into the forest while Will and his party of eleven knights, including Kenneth, formed up in pairs and rode down through the meadow, turning at the banks of the swollen little river, which was less than fifteen paces wide, the water tumbling noisily along its narrow, rocky bed. Kenneth and Will rode at the head of the small column, Will whistling tunelessly to himself while Kenneth looked around him, absorbing the familiar details of the countryside as they drew nearer to their home. When they were about halfway there, at a bend in the river that they both recalled from their boyhood, Kenneth glanced behind him to make sure they could not be overheard, and said in a conversational tone, “You can’t discuss those two letters you received from France the morning we left, eh? That’s a pity.”

  Will looked at him, surprised. “Why do you say that?”

  His brother shrugged, grinning. “Because you’re morose. The only time you ever whistle to yourself like that is when you’re angry and perplexed, thinking on a difficult problem. And you’ve been doing it since we left Arran, so it has to be because of those letters, because you were fine before they arrived. What are you going to tell Father?”

  “You mean about the situation in France? I’ll tell him everything.”

  “Everything you can, you mean. Will you mention the Treasure? ”

  “Aye, but to him alone. Father will keep his mouth shut, but I have doubts about anyone else. Treasure is treasure, and the one we have here is legendary. It would be impossible to stop people from talking about it. Besides, without Father knowing what we’re about, we would have great difficulties doing what we have to do. Don’t forget, we have to open up the entrance to the cavern and then seal it afterwards. I would hate to try to do that on his land without his knowing. In fact, I don’t think we could do it without raising his suspicions, and then his questions could be awkward … So I whistle when I’m upset, do I? I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “I know.” Kenneth’s grin grew broader. “That’s why you do it. You always have, even when we were boys, and I never mentioned it because sometimes it saved me from a beating … You think Tam will be able to get the wagon out of sight without anyone asking questions?”

  “Of course, so be it he does it openly. Folk will assume it contains all our gear, and it does. The chests are well covered and tied down. No one will look beneath the wraps, and we’ll move them out into hiding tomorrow.”

  “If you say so, Brother … you’re the man in charge.” He stood up in his stirrups and peered ahead to where the path curved, following the riverbank. “We’re almost there and I feel like a boy again. I’m going to ride ahead and let them know we’re coming. I wonder if Peggy will be here. Father’s going to have a fit. I’ll have some people ready to take your horses.”

  He kicked his horse to a gallop, and Will smiled as he watched him disappear around the bend in the track ahead, at the same time regretting that he could not take his brother and his father fully into his confidence. His father knew little of the Temple Order, other than that he had two sons who served it, and neither he nor Kenneth had any inkling of the existence of the other, far more ancient Order of Sion.

  He grunted and turned in his saddle to make sure that the column behind him was in good order, since they would come into sight of his father’s house within moments. Everything was as it should be, but he gave the hand signal to tighten up the column anyway, then went back to thinking about the reason for his whistling. One of their two ships from the Mediterranean had arrived the morning they left, having left its sister ship behind while it sped home to Arran bearing a large wallet of written reports for Will from the headquarters of the Order of Sion in Aix-en-Provence. Will had spent many hours immersed in those documents on the voyage from Arran and at every opportunity since then, and the information they contained had been more than disquieting, even while he had been anticipating nothing good.

  Jacques de Molay and several of his closest advisers, all members of the Governing Council, were being held under close arrest in Paris and subjected to questioning by the functionaries of the Inquisition, and there was a terse report in one of the missives, gained through a Sion brother at the King’s court in Paris, that Master de Molay stood condemned, having allegedly admitted to several of the cardinal charges and confessed himself guilty. Will cringed each time he thought of that, because he could only guess at what kinds of atrocities and iniquitous tortures must ha
ve been inflicted upon the Master of the Temple to reduce him to the condition in which he would confess to such baseless charges.

  In a commentary attached to the report, Seigneur Antoine de St. Omer, the seneschal of the Order of Sion and a direct descendant of Godfrey St. Omer, one of the seven founders of the Temple, had offered solace of his own, remarking that the man had not yet been born who could withstand the torments of the Holy Inquisition, undergoing tortures that encompassed being burned with live coals, stretched on the rack until one’s joints separated, having one’s bones deliberately smashed and left unset, being lowered into vats of water to the point of drowning and then being revived and resubmerged, and having one’s extremities crushed and mangled by the application of screws, all of these torments varying endlessly from day to day. These were the instruments of the Inquisitors … the Christian God’s own tools in the war against heresy. Will had vomited on first reading the litany, and his mind had never been free of morbid fascination since that time, for if a giant of a man like de Molay could be broken by such means, what chance had any other poor, accused soul of finding mercy or salvation?

  He saw the roofline of his father’s house above the trees that surrounded the knoll on which it was built, and shook his head clear of the images that had been thronging in on him. He could hear voices raised in tumult ahead of him and he raised a fist above his head and kicked his horse to a canter.

  TWO

  “What do you intend to do now?”

  Sir Alexander Sinclair of Roslin had sat silent for more than an hour while his two sons told him their tale of the recent events in France and Arran, and now he spoke to Will. It was late at night, and he had led them directly from the great hall of his house after the communal supper into the bedchamber he had shared with their mother since before their births. It was a vast room with comfortable chairs and a huge stone fireplace, and the massive fire burning in the hearth had sunk into embers since their arrival.