Order in Chaos

by Jack Whyte

  Until that afternoon, when the King had attended his wedding, Will had not seen the man since the Bannock Burn fight, and even then, with a thousand details to attend to in the aftermath of his miraculous victory, the King had had time only for a firm handclasp, a smile of recognition, and a word or two of gratitude accompanied by a promise of meeting and talking later, at more leisure. Since then, four months and more had elapsed, and this great gathering here in Stirling, the first purely joyous event of the King’s reign, was a landmark celebration to recognize the return of his Queen, Elizabeth, recently freed from the English prison in which she had been confined for eight years. Jessie had told him that the Queen had survived those years intact and unharmed solely because of who she was: her husband might have been a traitorous and rebellious dog in the eyes of her merciless captor, Edward Plantagenet, and that alone might have condemned her as it had Bruce’s brothers, but her own father was Richard de Burgh, the Earl of Ulster, one of England’s greatest nobles and King Edward’s oldest and most loyal friend. Now Queen Elizabeth stood beside and slightly behind her husband, a tall and stately red-haired vision of regal dignity herself, dressed in a dark green gown that glittered, even from where Will stood, with gold wire and pearls.

  The Primate of Scotland, Archbishop Lamberton of St. Andrews, stood on Bruce’s left, and beside him ranged another cluster of well-known faces, among them David Moray and Angus Og MacDonald. Will scanned the crowded platform for Douglas, but neither he nor Sir Thomas Randolph was there.

  Will hesitated, then grasped Jessie’s fingers more tightly and began to make his way down the long aisle to the far end, but even as he started to move he saw the King look at him and raise a straight arm, fingers spread, to stop him.

  Will halted in mid-step, almost off balance, and felt his own confusion matched in the sudden increased pressure of Jessie’s grip on his arm as she stopped, too, beside him. Was the sudden frown on the King’s face for them? He glanced quickly at her and found her looking back at him the same way, her brows wrinkling, and then both of them looked back towards the distant dais, where a flurry of movement had disrupted the group about the King. Two men had come forward, holding the King’s tabard between them, the massive, ritualistic, and ornately rigid vestment that was the armorial symbol of the royal rank and presence.

  Will could see that few of the revelers thronging the floor had even noticed as King Robert spread his arms and shrugged into the imposing tabard, with its crimson, gold-encrusted lion rampant on a field of purest yellow, embroidered so thickly, and in so many varying shades and hues of colored wire, that it seemed made entirely of metal. But they all took note, freezing into silence, when the royal heralds lining the rear wall stepped forward, raised their trumpets in unison, and blasted out the opening notes of a strident, brazen fanfare.

  By the time the final tones died away and the heralds stepped smartly back to line the wall again, the stillness in the great hall was absolute, and every eye was trained upon the phalanx on the royal platform, where King Robert, in his formal surcoat, stood holding the hand of his Queen, gazing down at the assembled crowd and backed by a wedge of the most powerful magnates of his realm. He raised his right hand, holding his Queen’s hand high.

  “My friends,” he began, filling the hall with his deep, sonorous voice, “hear me, and mark my words. Tonight is a joyous occasion for our realm, the first unthreatened celebration we have ever known since the moment I took up the reins of this sad land and set myself to ousting England from our bourns. But tonight, tonight our country is no longer sad … for we are free!” The crowd roared.

  Bruce raised his hand again. “And we are here this day, this night, in peace and in unity, to give our thanks to God and to each other for the strength that we have found, the strength we have used so puissantly, to cleanse our land of the filth of invasion and foreign occupation.”

  Someone whistled loudly and started to applaud, but it was evident that the King had not finished and the sound died away quickly.

  “That strength, the massed determination of the community of Scotland represented by all of you here, nobles, churchmen, burghers, and commonality combined, has made this gathering, this celebration, possible. Our Queen stands here tonight, gracing our festivities by God’s grace, as does my beloved daughter Marjory, imprisoned in an English convent these long years for her father’s sins. And here are our greatly revered bishops, of St. Andrews and Glasgow, tried and loyal friends so newly released from England’s prisons.”

  This time he made no attempt to stem the applause and approbation, and the Queen, Archbishop Lamberton, and several whose faces were unknown to Will acknowledged the plaudits, smiling and waving into the heart of the crowd. But as soon as the sustained roar began to lessen, the monarch raised both arms high, silencing them again, then spoke in a more measured, less formal tone.

  “But there is something more to celebrate this night, an occasion already begun, but yet to be completed. Some of you already know we had a wedding here today. A bridal service months in the planning but meant to be held far from here, until I asked both celebrants, as close and trusted friends—which means, you all must know, close and trusted friends of this realm of Scotland—to delay their nuptials and join us here in Stirling for the happy and long-awaited occasion of their joining.”

  Will felt Jessie’s hand tighten on his arm again. Their wedding earlier that day had been small and private, officiated by Archbishop Lamberton himself, assisted by Bishop William Sinclair of Dunkeld and the colorful Bishop David Moray, dressed for once in the episcopal robes of his office. But apart from the glittering assembly of celebrants, the service had been attended only by the bridal pair’s closest kin and by the royal party, King Robert and Queen Elizabeth, and their most intimate friends and advisers, among them Sir James Douglas and Sir Thomas Randolph, the august Master Nicholas Balmyle, and Angus Og MacDonald, Lord of the Isles. He squeezed her hand back, feeling relief uncoiling in him as he began to discern the King’s reason for stopping their approach when he had. Now he could see the people ahead of him beginning to look around at their neighbors, wondering what the King was talking about and who might possibly be involved. None turned to look at the far rear of the room.

  “Years ago, when I was first crowned King and had to flee into the hills after the Methven fight, in what I now can see to be the bleakest, grimmest period of our struggle, a lady came to me from France bearing great wealth from her own estates, to give it to me on behalf of Scotland. Wondrous and, at that moment, seemingly miraculous gifts. Chests of royal treasure when our coffers held none—coin and ingots, gold and silver that sustained me, sustained all of us, throughout those few dark years.” He raised a solitary finger. “Few of you here assembled know her, but she is our bride today, and she deserves all our goodwill and our gratitude.” He raised his hands commandingly to quell the rising murmur of comment and curiosity, and when he had their attention again he continued.

  “Her goodman stands beside her in our esteem, blessed and joined to her in matrimony this very day by our good Archbishop here, and he is another unknown to most of you. But believe me when I tell you all that he is one of—and perhaps the foremost among—the true heroes of Bannock Burn, for it was he who led the unexpected charge that day, the charge of chivalry that breasted the Coxet Hill and threw the English into panic and confusion, thinking they had to face a second, new Scots army.”

  He waited for the buzz to die down, then spoke again, in a driving, rhythmic flow that held his listeners spellbound. “Had it not been for this man and his companions, for the perfect timing and surprise of their charge at the head of a new army that was no army at all, we might have lost the fight at the Bannock Burn. But come he did, and so we won the day, wreaking a storm upon the English that they will not soon forget and sending them home with their tails between their legs, lacking the flower of their vaunted chivalry and leaving us with prisoners for ransom sufficient to keep us in food and weapons—and
in peace—for years to come.

  “This man, too, is with us here tonight, from France, but a Scots knight, both namesake and nephew to our own beloved William Sinclair, Bishop of Dunkeld.”

  He paused dramatically, and beckoned to Will and Jessie to come forward, and then raised his voice almost to a shout. “Scotland! Join me in bidding welcome to our newest and fairest bridal couple. Sir William and Lady Jessica Sinclair of Roslin!”

  The crowd erupted into a storm of applause, with more and more people turning around as it became clear that Will and Jessie were approaching from the rear, along the length of the central aisle. And as Will felt his wife’s fingernails digging into the crook of his elbow, approaching the royal dais and the welcoming, applauding party there, his mind flashed back over all the years and grand occasions since his knighthood, and he could not remember ever having felt so proud or so grateful for his lot.

  TWO

  Later, hours later, after a long and wonderful evening of which he remembered very little other than his total enjoyment of being there and experiencing it as a married man, Will sat at ease in front of a roaring fire in a small, tapestry-hung room with the King of Scots and a few of his closest friends. None of them was drinking, for they were there ostensibly to discuss matters of state. The Queen and her ladies had all retired, and Jessie had left with them, after whispering to her husband, with sharp, warning nails on the inside of his wrist, that although she knew he had to spend time speaking with the King, he had better not forget that this was his wedding night, because she would be waiting hungrily for him.

  Will smiled contentedly, aware that in the armchair next to his the King sat staring into the fire, his chin propped on one fist. On Will’s other side, Douglas and Randolph were speaking quietly together, while beyond the King, Lamberton, Angus Og, and one of the other Gaelic chiefs—MacNeil, Will thought—seemed to be talking earnestly and with great solemnity about a possible new Bishopric of the Isles. Balmyle, an old man, had retired long since, and the two other bishops, Moray and Dunkeld, had gone about some business of the King’s.

  Will straightened his back, and as he did so the King spoke to him.

  “I have been meaning all evening to ask you how you were able to time your arrival so perfectly that afternoon.”

  “To time it?” Will found it easy to smile and be himself with Robert Bruce, since first meeting him on Arran, masquerading as an ordinary knight. The man addressing him now might well be the fearsome and renowned King of Scots, his stature already approaching legendary size, but in person he remained the same soft-spoken, pleasant, but incisive man of that first meeting. “To time it … Aye …” His smile widened to a grin. “Well, Sire, it ill behooves me to—”

  “Sire?” Bruce tilted his head to look at Will directly, one eyebrow raised. “You have not called me Sire save the once, when first you came to our land. Whence comes it now?”

  Will hesitated, taken aback. “Well—it was …” He snatched a deep breath. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I could not do so, in the past. Not as long as … as long as I held true to my vows as a Templar. But the Temple is no more, and now I am free to lay my allegiance where I choose.”

  “Ask me not to forgive you, Will Sinclair. There’s nothing to forgive. So now you offer your allegiance to me freely?”

  “Aye, my lord, and willingly.”

  “Accepted, then, though I have never doubted it. It comes to me you would be a fine Baron of Roslin. What say you to that, Archbishop? Should not our faithful friend here be awarded the estates and title of a barony for his services?”

  The Archbishop, interrupted, leaned forward and looked at Will, his lips curling up at one corner in a tiny smile. “Apparently not, I should say, judging by his reaction.”

  The King, who had not been looking at Will as the Archbishop spoke, now swung back to him. “What, man? You are ghost white. Have I offended you?”

  Will managed to shake his head, raising his hand in a silent plea for patience and waiting for Bruce to grow angry, but the King showed only good humor, smiling in disbelief. “What is it, then?”

  “Forgive—Pardon me, Sire, your offer took me unawares, but I have no wish to be a baron. That rank, should you bequeath it, should be held by my nephew, young Henry Sinclair.”

  The King laughed, slapping a knee in his delight. “You would turn down a barony and give it to someone else? Who is this paragon and why do I not know him?”

  Will felt his face flushing. “You do, Your Grace. He is my squire.”

  “Your squire? The boy who was wounded? He’s but a lad. I cannot dispose a barony upon a squire, Will.”

  “I know, Sire, but the barony of Roslin should be his, by right of birth. And he is due to undergo knighthood, and well deserving of it.”

  “Then I will knight him with my own hand, upon your word. Bring him to me tomorrow and we will make the arrangements. But he is yet far too young to be a baron.”

  “I know that, Sire. But he will grow quickly. The lad who leaves with me for our new land will return to you a man, and worthy of the honor.”

  “So … you yet intend to seek this new and fabled land?”

  “Not fabled, Sire. We know now it is there. But yes, I do, with Your Grace’s permission.”

  “You have that, though I could use you better here in Scotland. But how will you get there? Have you the ships?”

  “We do, Sire. Four new ships, built in Genoa.”

  “And what of your new wife? Will you leave her behind?”

  Will grinned. “Only in death, Your Grace. Jessie will come with me, as will two score and more of others, wives and mothers to my men.”

  “Hmm … And so, it seems, would my niece, young Marjorie. She came to me today and all but threw herself at my feet, begging my permission to accompany your wife on this venture of yours. What think you of that?”

  The levity in Will’s attitude was banished immediately, replaced by a frown. “Your pardon, Sire. I had no knowledge of that. I had already warned Lady Jessica on several occasions not to foster the girl’s hopes. The two are close, more like mother and daughter than anything else, but I thought I had made it clear to Jess that the young woman is a Princess of the realm, with duties as such. I shall take it up with her again when I retire.”

  “You will do no such thing. I will not be the cause of strife between you two on your wedding night, so it is my strongly expressed wish that you will make no mention of it to your wife. Am I clear on that?”

  “Aye, Sire.”

  “Good.” The King looked about him and bent a little closer, then spoke in a lowered voice. “In the normal way of things, your thinking would be perfectly correct. But the times are not normal nowadays. Few things are as they were ten years ago. The child is not really a Princess of Scotland. She is the illegitimate daughter of my favorite brother, Nigel, dear to me, as was her father, but somewhat troubling, under present circumstances, in her presence here.”

  Will’s face must have revealed his puzzlement, for the monarch leaned even closer and explained. “Scotland already has a Princess Marjory, Will—my own daughter—and she is beset wi’ troubles enough to set the mind of a grown man reeling, let alone a slip of a girl. They held her in a convent for six years, shut away from all kindness and society, from the time when she was barely old enough to know what I had done. They punished her—an innocent—for being my daughter, and it breaks my heart to see how close they came to destroying her mind. She barely speaks—not a single word to me since she came home. But Elizabeth believes she will recover her wits, with time and patience and the forbearance of us all. Lamberton, on the other hand, while he agrees with the Queen, is strongly of the mind that the presence of another Marjory Bruce, of the same age but of a completely different temperament, light-hearted, laughing, and popular, might possibly—and I say only possibly—affect my daughter’s recovery. Do you take my meaning?”

  “Yes, Your Grace, I do …”

  “Then tell me this.
Do you know why I can speak thus to you?”

  “Thus?” Will shook his head, his eyes widening as his failure to comprehend increased. “No, Sire.”

  “It is because you are the only man I know who wants nothing from me … not advancement, or reward or advantage, or patronage or favor. And atop all that, you never speak to me of politics or state affairs or my damned kingly duties. You want nothing from me, Sir William Sinclair, and that makes you unique in my eyes, and singularly trustworthy.”

  He sat back in his chair. “A new land, you seek. An unknown life in an unknown place. And you will take your wife with you. That is admirable, Will … and brave, to boot.” He paused for the space of a few heartbeats. “You spoke earlier of your squire returning as a man. Will he return?”

  Will nodded, wondering where this was leading. “Most certainly, Your Grace. We will send back envoys, and recruiters to swell our numbers from time to time if all goes as we wish.”

  “And you truly have no fears for your wife over there?”

  The smile returned to Will’s face. “No more than I would have for her here, Sire. Unknown shores may be dangerous places, but so may well-known ones. My Jess has lived in some truly perilous times and circumstances and has known her share of dangers. The life we will find where we are going might not be an easy one, but it will be a different and exciting one, and she and I will look out for each other there as well as anywhere, come what may. So be it we are together, that is all we could wish for.”