Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

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.”