Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

Will sat staring at his father. “No, Father. It had not. But you are right, and the thought chills me.” He sat still again for a moment longer, meeting his father’s eye, then added, “I have the feeling you have more to say on that …”

“I have an idea, a thought, nothing more. But it might offend you. How strong is your authority as Master?”

Will blinked, puzzled by the question. “Here in Scotland, it is all-powerful.”

“But subject to overruling by the Council, is that not so?”

“It is.”

“What if the Council never rules again, on anything? By your own admission, that could happen.”

“Aye, it could, but may God forbid it. And yet, if that should turn out to be the case, I already have my duty defined for me, in writing, and by Master de Molay’s own hand. I will become Grand Master over all … which may be my own few hundreds and no more.”

“Then release them from their vows.”

“ What? Relea—I can’t do that, Father. The mere thought is ludicrous. I do not possess that kind of authority. Besides—”

“Who does possess it, then, the Pope?”

“Well, yes.”

“The same Pope who set the Inquisition to torture a false confession out of your Grand Master in order to appease the greed of your venal King? That Pope? Is that the one you mean? The Pope who rewards centuries of outstanding service and loyalty to his cause with treachery and vicious lies? The Pope whose craven, pusillanimous nature turns him into an insult against all he is supposed to represent, because he lacks the backbone to confront a king and refute a grievous wrong, and demonstrates his unfitness by turning his back on God Himself?

“Backbone, William—that’s what you need in this case, and if you will but think on it, I believe you will see the truth of it. Absolve your people of their vow of chastity. Obedience and the other one they may keep. But give them at least the chance to marry and breed children to your cause.”

“That’s madness, Father. These men are monks, of long service. They could never adjust to such a change, would see it as sin, as a consignment to damnation.”

Sir Alexander dipped his head. “Aye, some of them might … the older ones. But others would not. Their entire world is changed, and will probably remain that way. They will be personae non gratae within the Church, and they may even stand excommunicate, as fugitive members of a banned order. By releasing them from their vows, you would be offering them at least a chance to live as men in this new world in which they find themselves. Should even one score of them go on to breed sons, you would have young minds into which to implant your lore and teachings …”

Will sat silent, his mind reeling, seeing only the unconscionable arrogance and hubris of his father’s suggestion and completely unequipped to deal with it, coming as it had from his father, the most honorable, righteous, and upstanding man he had ever known outside of the Order of Sion. Kenneth said nothing, refusing to look at either one of them, and for his part, Sir Alexander, too, said no more, merely waiting for his son to collect his obviously scattered wits. Finally Sir Alexander rescued him.

“Another matter altogether: do you have a squire?”

Will blinked. “A squire? No. I had one until several months ago, but he was knighted last July and I have been traveling since then. Why do you ask?”

“Because you have a nephew, your brother Andrew’s son, Henry, who recently lost his master, after having lost his father, too. Andrew arranged the placement just before he died, but the knight, Sir Gilles de Mar, a worthy man, was sore wounded in the fight at Methven—he fought for Bruce—and he never recovered his health. He died of his injuries two months ago, and so young Henry’s training has been interrupted. He needs a new master. Will you take him?”

“I would, and gladly, but how can I, Father, under the circumstances?”

“Circumstances change. But suitability does not. And I have no doubt your brother here will agree with me when I say that, as Master of your Order in this land, you would be perfect for the lad. He is fourteen and he needs discipline and tolerance, but more than that he needs a good example—integrity, strength and fortitude, and judicious moderation in all things. I can think of no better exemplar than yourself. Such attributes are few and far between, nowadays.”

And so after very little more discussion it was agreed that Will would become responsible for his young nephew, Henry Sinclair. But even as he said he would, Will found himself wondering about his dead elder brother, Andrew, whom he could remember only as a boy, six years his senior.

“What happened to Andrew, Father?”

“He died … ingloriously for a knight so full of virtue and promise.” Sir Alexander grimaced ruefully. “Ingloriously, but very humanly. He died of a congestion, three years ago, after a mishap on a winter hunt, while he was separated from his companions. His horse stumbled in a storm-swollen spate and threw him into the rocks in the streambed. By the time his men found him, he had been lying there for hours, half in and half out of the water. They brought him home, but he never woke up. He simply grew weaker and sicker until he could no longer breathe. It was God’s will, the priests told me, but I would have seen all of them in Hell to have my son returned to me.”

“And what of the lad’s mother?”

“She died long since, when he was but a babe. Young Henry never knew her.” The old man straightened abruptly. “So, God’s will or not, Andrew was gone, but his son remained, and now he will resume his training in good hands. He will make you a fine squire and will be a worthy knight when his time comes.”

The talk from that time on was desultory, and soon Sir Alexander declared himself tired, and all three men went in search of sleep, although Will, at least, would lie awake for more than an hour, thinking about his father’s astonishing and unsettling suggestion. And thinking about it, about what it might mean were he to do such a thing, he acknowledged that he could do it with impunity, were he so inclined, and were matters in France so bad that the very survival of the Temple knights fell into question. And then as he drifted into sleep he found himself thinking about Jessie Randolph, seeing her smiling at him as though through a distant haze, and too far by then from real awareness even to know that his body was reacting pleasurably to his vague imaginings, and that a succubus was even then coiled on his belly, waiting to drain him later while he slept.

THREE

It was early afternoon outside and Will could hear a blackbird singing in one of the five majestic elm trees that ringed the front of the big, fortified house that was his ancestral home, but here in the single-windowed interior of the bedchamber in which he had been born, it was almost dark. The single slash of light thrown by the open window illuminated one corner of his father’s massive desk and a sharply limned segment of the wooden flooring beneath it, emphasizing the lack of brightness in the remainder of the room. Will stretched backwards in his chair, digging his thumbs into the flesh of his waist under his lower ribs, and huffed out his breath in a great sigh, looking at the chest that sat on the corner of the desk.

The desk was ancient, acquired by one of his ancestors in the distant past—family legend had it that the piece had once belonged to a Roman governor of Britain, who had left it behind when the Legions left, more than seven hundred years earlier—and it had sat here in this room, huge and immovable, since the house itself was built more than a hundred years before. Its intricately carved oak was blackened and patinaed with unimaginable age. Compared to the objects now concealed behind it, however, the desk was of recent manufacture, and that thought, coming out of nowhere, brought Will out in a rush of gooseflesh and made him focus his attention on the chest again.