Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

They had arrived at the doors to the refectory and went inside to find themselves late, one of the brothers already reading the day’s lesson to the silent assembly as the two most senior members of the community made their way in silence to their places.

A CATALOGUE OF SINS

ONE

Jessie Randolph sat on a stone outcrop overlooking the vale of Nith, where the river meandered peacefully from the low hills to the north on its way past her home and to the Solway Firth and the English border, several miles to the south. She sat without moving, drinking in the scene before her and listening to the silence of the late-summer afternoon, a stillness broken only by the occasional shouts of the children playing on the hillside behind her and the incessant song of a single thrush perched somewhere on one of the low buildings two hundred paces away to her left. At her back, the sun was well into its decline, casting the shadows of the hillside down in front of her towards the river, and she felt a tingle of excitement stir in her stomach as she reached into the neck of her tunic and pulled out the soft cloth bag that nestled between her breasts, feeling the springy tension of the tightly rolled parchment it contained, and shivering as a sudden rush of gooseflesh swept over her shoulders and arms. The bag contained a letter, and its very existence seemed outrageous, waxing in significance now from moment to moment. Its content, and the tantalizing possibility of actually sending it off, made her stomach flutter in a way she had not experienced in years, since she was a young girl dreaming of her first love.

She looked over her shoulder, almost laughing to herself at the formless guilt she was feeling, and seeing that she was still alone, she loosened the drawstring and pulled the letter out, then untied the silken bow that held it shut. It was written on several sheets of fine, extremely valuable parchment, carefully trimmed to a uniform size, part of the hoard she had begged and won from Master Bernard de Linton, the Abbot of Arbroath who had recently become King Robert’s secretary and whom she had met and come to like during her stay in the north, while she was tending to the King’s illness. Now she held the scrolled sheets in one hand, her elbow resting on an upraised knee as she gazed down towards the water, her eyes unfocused, completely unaware of the picture she presented.

Had she been aware of it she might have laughed again at the thought, for she was wearing what she thought of as her scandalous suit, since it had scandalized every woman in her district when they first saw her wearing it. In all probability, she had often thought, it had scandalized their menfolk too, but none of those had ever dared to comment on it. In fact, she was wearing men’s clothing, altered to her own use, that she had brought with her from France—long, loose-fitting breeches, tight in the seat and flared from the knees and made of chamois leather. The snugness of their fit was disguised by a knee-length wraparound tunic of the same material, belted at the waist and worn over a plain square-necked bodice of soft, finely woven wool, cinched at the waist by a heavy, well-worn, and pliable leather belt from which hung a long, sheathed dagger. Her boots, made by a master craftsman on her late husband’s estate, were of the same soft leather, thicker, and heavily soled and heeled, but unmistakably made for her feet and as supple as well-worn gloves.

From a distance, she might pass as a man, but as the distance dwindled there could be no mistaking her startling femininity. Her hair, auburn in the afternoon light, hung down past her shoulders, tied loosely at the back with a leather thong, and her face and arms were tanned with the summer sun so that her wide eyes seemed to flash and sparkle, thrown into prominence by the smooth luster of the taut skin of her cheekbones with its scattering of light freckles. The color of her eyes, and she had been told sufficiently across the years to believe it, defied description by most men. Predominantly gray, they changed according to the light, sometimes pale blue, sometimes dark, and at other times more green than anything else.

A movement by her feet made her glance down to where a vole was scuttling past her, and she watched tolerantly as it darted towards the base of her perch and vanished somewhere behind the crossbow and quiver of bolts that leaned against the rock. The sight of the weapon made her turn her head again and stare briefly towards the Cairn Woods below on her right, one of the few belts of trees in the area, where one of the local men had seen a bear the day before. She did not expect to see the animal, but the possibility had been enough to prompt her to carry the crossbow with her that afternoon. Nothing moved over there, though, and she flapped the parchment in her hand, checked again to be sure there was no one in sight, and then began to read aloud, but quietly, what she had composed painstakingly over the past few days. She read a word or two, hesitated, began again, and after two or three sentences stopped and flapped the letter in frustration.

My God, Will Sinclair, have you any idea of the trouble you put me to? How can I—? No, you have no idea, you stubborn, upright, stupid man. How could you have? You are over there on your silly little island, playing the sanctimonious monk while all your benighted brethren in France rot in Philip Capet’s prisons, tortured and abused by the very men who … Ach! God, give me the strength to be patient!

She rose to her feet, rolling the scrolled parchment sheets tightly again while she looked around for the silk ribbon that had bound them. It had fallen from where she dropped it, lodging deep in a narrow fissure in the stone outcrop, and to reach it she had to place one booted foot on the stone to bear her weight while she bent forward, stretching down into the crack. She retrieved the ribbon with difficulty and straightened up, blowing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes, and as she did so she saw the length of her own outstretched thigh, its shape tightly outlined by the stretched leather of her breeches. It made her laugh.

Sweet Jesus, Will, if you could see me, dressed like this, you would not be able to pray for a fortnight. There would be a sight to interrupt your most chaste thoughts and make your frown like a thundercloud, would it not?

Well, sir knight, I am going to send this letter to you. I’ll have my young cousin Hugh take it to Arran in person. Too much time and work have gone into the penning of it to let it go to waste. Besides, why should I not send it? It will bring you tidings of your sister Peggy and the joy your gift brought her. And it will bring you tidings of our King and what he has heard from France concerning your Order. You are in disgrace, Will Sinclair, with all your brotherhood, whether or no the cause be justifiable. Time to forget about returning there, and to find yourself a new life here in Scotland. A real life, as a real man, with a wife who would make you happy. Dear God, listen to me! Talking about marriage to a monk! I must be mad … But ’tis a gladly borne madness, I must say. Now …

A high-pitched shout made her turn and look up to where twelve-year-old Marjorie Bruce—her supposed niece but in reality King Robert’s—had left her friends behind and was bounding down the hillside, calling. Jessie had spoken nothing but French to the child since she first met her, since for their current purposes, and for her own protection, Marjorie was supposed to be French, and the girl, gifted with an ear for sounds, had learned quickly, so that now she spoke the language effortlessly, with no lingering trace of the tongue she had learned from birth. The child was still a distance away, too far for Jessie to make out what she was shouting, but she sensed an urgency. “Wait you there!” she called. “I’m coming up!” She quickly collected her crossbow and quiver, slinging the latter over her shoulder, and started to climb the hillside.