Order in Chaos

by Jack Whyte

  “Sir William. Ride with me for a while. I would speak with you.”

  Will spurred his horse to ride alongside the Bishop as the other men in the party, obedient to their leader’s unvoiced wish, slackened their pace to permit the two to draw ahead in privacy. De Moray rode on in silence for a few moments, listening to the receding sounds of their escort’s hooves, then turned his head to look Will up and down.

  “You look fine, man. No trace of the Templar left visible in you. I’m impressed. And I must tell you that you have made a like impression upon the King himself and those of us who seek to safeguard and guide him. You and your men have made a great contribution to the King’s cause, notwithstanding your Order’s standing restrictions upon paying service to a king. That has not gone unnoticed.” He was speaking polished, fluent, accentless French, and Will noticed that there was no trace now of the rough informality he flaunted so carelessly in speaking Scots. Here, he thought, was the urbane Bishop, trained in diplomacy and statecraft as much as in ecclesiastical administration and procedure.

  “We both know, you and I, that your initial commitment here was one of necessity—a quid pro quo in return for a place for your people to stay, allied with your need to keep your men in training for their own sakes and the principles of your Order. I will not even say ‘belonged to,’ but that is the plain truth, I fear. As an officer of the Temple, you held no allegiance to our King or his concerns—and that is as it should be, so no one has tried to convince you otherwise. But you yourself have gone further, and of your own free will, in supporting King Robert’s cause than many a Scot I could name. Your contributions, and those of your men, are greatly valued, and that is what has led to this—the King’s invitation to attend his Parliament as an honored guest.” He glanced at Will. “This will be your first Parliament, I suppose?”

  Will smiled. “Aye, my lord Bishop, it will. Philip of France believes he rules by divine right. He sees no need to involve any of his people in that.”

  De Moray grunted, and Will was encouraged to ask the question that had been on his mind for some time. “Why Ayr, my lord Bishop? For the Parliament, I mean. And why in the height of summer?”

  His companion switched the reins to his left hand and scratched idly with gloved fingers at his cheek. “First, I am not your lord Bishop until you see me wearing robes and miter. To you, I am plain Davie otherwise. That is what my friends call me and I would like to count you among those. Second, we are riding to Ayr because the King has chosen Ayr, as is his right. Ayr is King Robert’s home, the home of his own folk, and they have been ill used these past years, with armies coming and going over their lands in all directions. And so the King decided that it was high time the people of Ayr and its surrounding lands had the privilege of seeing how their land is governed under the King’s stewardship.

  “The King of France rules his land and his domains as his personal fiefdom and, as you say, he sees no need to deal with the common folk. But the King of Scots rules his people, not the land. He is the steward of his people, and the folk need governance. Hence our Parliaments—a gathering of the estates of the King’s realm, including the common folk since the days of Wallace, to ensure the safety and protection of the people. Scots in general, and in particular.” He paused briefly. “Right now the English are at war among themselves, as you must know—Edward of Caernarvon and the Earl of Pembroke against a host of other nobles calling themselves the Lords Ordainer, led by the Earls of Warwick and Lancaster, who would dearly love to ordain the future governance of England and Scotland to their own benefit. And long may they wrangle, for while they are at one another’s throats, we can have peace in Scotland, free of the threat of invasion, for a while at least. A good opportunity for our Parliament.”

  He cocked an eyebrow towards Will. “You understand why they are at war?”

  “Aye. It was caused by the assassination of Piers Gaveston, in May, was it not?”

  “It was. Gaveston had surrendered to Pembroke, upon Pembroke’s guarantee that his life would be safe, but Warwick intercepted him on his way south and executed him out of hand, on Lancaster’s orders. Assassination is too good a word for that. Murder, blatant murder, is what it was. And Edward was rightly furious, as was Pembroke, whose own honor was impugned, his authority flouted and set at naught. As for the King, I have no time for pederasty, and the last thing any land needs is a womanish king who likes to bed with men, but that is neither here nor there. The King’s honor, little as that might be, was besmirched, his puissance, however slight it may have been, sneered at and disdained by greedy, mutinous nobles lusting for power and wealth. And so they are at war. And we are not, for once.”

  “But there are still Englishmen under arms in Scotland, are there not? Or have they been withdrawn?”

  “No, they are still here. But they are garrisons, not armies. They hold our strongest castles for the time being, but King Robert is determined they be ousted soon. Berwick and Dumfries, Caerlaverock, Buitle, Bothwell, Perth, and Stirling and Edinburgh, the strongest of all. We will take them all soon, I have no doubt, but in the meantime the King has neither time nor men to waste besieging them.”

  “And what of me and mine? Is there a purpose to my presence here, or am I truly no more than an honored guest?”

  Now the Bishop turned his head to look at Will directly, a smile wrinkling the skin around his eyes. “Is that cynicism I hear, Sir William Sinclair? Surely you would not suspect our King or any of his representatives of an ulterior motive?”

  Will found it easy to smile back. “Certainly not … at least, not with the intent of abusing us. But out of selfinterest and concern for the weal of the realm? That I would be foolish to doubt. So, what would King Robert have of me while I am in Ayr?”

  De Moray’s headshake was brief. “Nothing more than you have freely given until now. Your ongoing support in the King’s cause, and the continuance of your successful efforts to conceal your presence here in our realm. That above all, for the reasons you already understand.”

  “Aye. And how goes the struggle to have Pope Clement lift the ban of excommunication?”

  “Poorly.” The Bishop’s voice was heavy with disgust. “When venal men have the handling of God’s affairs, change becomes … difficult … and sometimes nigh impossible. But we persevere. We have ambassadors at the papal court even as we speak, and Archbishop Lamberton continues, even in his captivity in England, to argue strongly on King Robert’s behalf by means of letters to the Pope and cardinals, smuggled out in greatest secrecy.”

  “How is that possible, my lo—? How can he contrive to do that?”

  “Because Edward of Caernarvon is not the man his father was. That is how, and why. England’s new King has a certain fondness for our Archbishop and so grants him more privacy and freedom than he ever had while the old King was alive. And Lamberton exploits that leniency, his main purpose being to support and indemnify our liege, King Robert, against the false charges of murder and treason leveled against him by unscrupulous enemies.”

  Again they rode in silence for a while, but this time it was de Moray who broke it with a question.

  “Tell me, Sir William, how have you succeeded with your decision to release your men from their vow of chastity? I’m certain they did not take the decision lightly.”

  “True. Not all my men accepted the new freedom, but a few dozens did, promising to return to Arran with their wives and families as they acquire them.”

  “But …” De Moray’s voice faded away, and Will smiled sadly.

  “What would you have had me do, Bishop Moray? Sit there and watch my men die off, one by one, thus failing in my duty to safeguard the traditions and lore of the Temple? That would have been a greater sin than any I could commit by releasing my men from an oath in the interests of self-preservation. I have had a surfeit of betrayal by those to whom I have been loyal all my life and whom my men supported faithfully, honestly, and industriously. We were left with nothing, sir, not eve
n the means of survival as men and monks. I sought to change that. Do you think me wrong?”

  “There’s the castle. We’ll not be long now.”

  The castle lay below them, perhaps two miles from where they had crested the ridge on which they now rode, on a low knoll dominating the countryside around it, and the ocher of the underlying earth shone clearly through the sparse grass that covered the surrounding terrain. There were no trees anywhere, just miles and miles of rolling, empty land. It was a bleaklooking spot, Will mused, and it had given de Moray an excuse for not answering his last question, but before he could go any further with that thought, the Bishop spoke again.

  “No, Sir William, I cannot say I think you wrong. My training as a cleric and a bishop rails quietly against any usurpation of the right to forgive and nullify an oath, a right belonging only to God or his anointed representatives. And yet my gut convinces me you did the right thing. And have any of your people married?”

  “Aye, they have. Eight of them are now wed and living on Arran with their families. Twelve children, between the ages of three months and three years. They are our future, our most precious treasure, and they are well cared for, you may trust my word on that.” He grinned. “For they have nigh on two hundred uncles, all of them concerned for their welfare.”

  “Good. Excellent. We will speak more of this tonight, after we have supped, for I have other reasons to learn more from you about your Templars. For the nonce, enough. Let’s reach our destination and take our ease.”

  He twisted in the saddle and waved to the men behind them, speaking Scots again. “Torrance, MacNeil, here, to me.”

  He nodded once again to Will, who returned the gesture and then moved aside to let the others coming from behind cluster around their leader.

  THREE

  It was late that night by the time supper was over. Bishop Moray ordered his company to bed in preparation for an early start in the morning, but he bade Will stay behind and wait upon him until they were alone in front of the fire in the empty dining hall. The Bishop was by all accounts an abstemious man, but on this occasion, once the two were alone, he reached into a leather satchel that hung over the back of his chair and produced an earthen bottle of the fiery spirits his countrymen distilled from barley grain. He splashed a measure into each of two clay cups and handed one to his guest.

  “This comes from near my own country in the north,” he growled, raising his cup. “One of the better things to come out of the Comyn lands. We call it uisquebaugh, the water of life. Let us drink together to the King’s grace.”

  Will sipped the fiery spirits cautiously, and fought against the urge to catch his breath. “The water of life,” he croaked. “It has a potency akin to death, on first tasting.”

  “It grows on you, you will find.” De Moray raised his cup again. “To the King’s grace.”

  “Aye, then. To King Robert, and long may he reign.”

  “Amen.” De Moray sipped and sat for a spell in silence, then set his cup down on the floor by his feet. “I want to talk to you about the Templars, William. Our Templars.”

  “Our Templars … I don’t understand. Whose Templars?”

  “Ours, in Scotland. I—we, the King and I—want you to talk to them.”

  “The Scots Templars? You told me all the Scots Templars had withdrawn to England with King Edward.”

  “You misunderstood me. The Templars who went to England—the majority of the knights in Scotland—were all Norman French, not Scots. The true Scots knights remained, under their old Master, de Soutar. But since he died, five years ago, they have been purposeless—disorganized, to say the least. Now, with all the tidings coming in from France and England, they feel betrayed, even by His Grace, for though they enjoy their freedom here, where none else of their ilk do in Christendom, they know they stand under papal anathema and can expect no help from Holy Church.

  “There are not many of them left—full knights, I mean. Between two and three score at most, widely scattered throughout the realm. And they are valuable men, dour fighters and staunch allies in the main who have supported King Robert since the outset. Now the King would like to bind them even closer to him, and he has asked me to seek your help in doing so.”

  Will sipped again at his drink, finding it less fiery now. “Why would he do that?” He understood why, of course, but decided to make the Bishop explain himself fully.

  “Because you will talk to them, letting them know who and what you are.”

  Will could not conceal the smile that came to his lips. “Wait now … You would have me talk to these men openly, after years of concealing who I am and dissembling our presence in Scotland? That seems illogical, if you will forgive my saying so.”

  “It might, to you, but it is logical enough seen from our viewpoint. These men are Templars, bound to the Church by oath and loyalty that once forbade them from accepting allegiance to any king. Their support of King Robert has been voluntary. But now they are lost and lacking purpose in their own eyes, abandoned by the Pope to whom they swore allegiance and unable to conduct their offices as monks and members of their Order. They are rudderless, lacking a Chapter House or preceptory. They perceive no return support coming from the King for whom they have fought these long years, and, as you know, because of papal politics, we churchmen can do little overt to assist them.”

  “And so you fear to lose their loyalty through seeming unwilling to welcome them … Very well, then, what would you have me do?”

  “Convene a special gathering of all the brethren in Scotland, under the aegis of the Grand Chapter of France.”

  “There no longer is such a thing.”

  “I beg to differ, lad. You yourself gave the lie to that but moments ago. You are now the ultimate Grand Chapter, and you are all French. You may call yourselves Angevins, Poitvins, Gascons, Normans, Bretons, and all the rest of the names you have for yourselves, but you all come from the same land, and Philip Capet has deemed it to be France, and there is no one, it seems, who cares to contradict him. So your community on Arran is now the Grand Chapter of France, for all intents and purposes.”

  Will gazed at him for several moments, his eyes narrowed to slits. Then he grinned and sipped at his drink again. “That is a dubious and duplicitous argument, Davie Moray, even for a bishop, but I’ll accept your case for the moment. Where, then, do we go next? Where do I find these three or four score knights? I have no notion of where to start.”

  “No matter. I know all of them and will contact them … or most of them.”

  “So be it. And where is our venue to be?”

  “Is that not obvious? It must be Arran. They need to see that you are established there, a Temple community, and that they can join you and renew their vows, refresh their commitment.”

  “Bishop, you sound disapproving.” There was a hint of a smile on Will’s lips as he spoke, and de Moray shrugged.

  “That’s the Bishop in me, intruding again. The Church dislikes secret societies, and the Temple is the most secretive of all …”

  “Apart from Holy Church herself, you mean.”

  De Moray narrowed his eyes for a moment, then nodded, reluctantly, Will thought. “As you say. But I can accept that secrecy—your Order’s, I mean—so be it the loyalty extended to our cause is heartfelt and sincere.”

  “Has it not always been so? We served as the standing army of the Church for nearly two hundred years, and none found us wanting, until this French King grew greedy.”

  “I do not dispute that.”

  “And what do you hope to achieve through this gathering? There are, you said, a mere few of them.”

  “Fifty at least … perhaps sixty, mayhap even eighty. But they all have sergeants in their ranks, just as you do, so their sum totals a deal of fighting men.”

  “And you fear they may be disillusioned and become unreliable.”

  “Not so much unreliable as unpredictable … You can treat with some certainty with someone who is unreli
able, but such certainty vanishes in the face of unpredictability.”

  “Aye, I see your point. Who are they, these Scots Templars? Are there Highlanders among them?”

  “Gaels, you mean? No. They are largely Norman French by descent, but bred here, unlike the men who returned to Edward’s England. These men are Randolphs, Morays, Buchans, Boyds, even some Comyns. My clerics have all their names, but I do not. I simply have not yet had time to gather them.”

  “The names, you mean. And what about the men themselves, how will you gather them?”

  “Circuitously. They will have to be approached with some caution. The air is rife with rumors of what has taken place in France, and elsewhere since then, so any direct summons from myself, as a representative of Holy Church, will be viewed with suspicion and might even be ignored. Most of them will be contacted by King’s messengers, their instructions delivered from the King himself.”

  “But you said some of them are Comyns and Buchans, and therefore the King’s sworn enemies. They would pay no heed to King Robert’s summons, through simple fears for their own safety.”

  “That is true. And that is why the King hopes that you will be willing to contact such as those yourself … as a French Templar, not as a messenger of his. He hopes that you would issue this summons on your own authority, from within the Temple, using whatever secret means you possess to convince them to attend your gathering.”

  “I see … And once I have them assembled as brethren, their external enmities set aside under the Temple Rule, I can then press upon all of them, both friends and enemies of Bruce, the reminder of their vow of obedience to their Master and his wishes. Whose idea was this?”