Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

The two delegates from Aix-en-Provence had left to return to their homes soon after that, both of them well pleased with the way things had turned out, and both promising to send young, married men from the Order of Sion as soon as it could be arranged. These newcomers, it had been agreed, would come as Temple sympathizers, their intentions to support and assist the Arran brethren of the outlawed Temple. Will’s thinking on that matter had not yet extended to how he would welcome the newcomers or to what use he might put them, but he was unperturbed by the prospect. When the time came, he knew, there would be positions available for them to fill.

He turned back to look at the unopened letter on the tabletop, recognizing that there was no logical reason for his reluctance to open it. It had been delivered openly and innocently, and so he knew it would contain nothing inflammatory or outrageous. The woman had written to him before, and in this letter she would probably continue as she had begun, with personal information on the King’s affairs that she had been able to glean through her special, trusted status. He had no fear of any of that; all the fear he felt was for his own reaction to his renewed awareness of Jessie Randolph’s existence. The memory of her—even worse, imaginings of her—had disturbed his sleep on too many occasions, and it was only recently that he had been able to forget about her for weeks on end. Now here she was again, chapping at his door, as his Scots friends would say.

He sighed, then sniffed hard, his mind made up, and strode back to the table, where he seated himself and snapped the seal on the missive with a flick of his thumbnail. The pages of the letter, neatly folded and pressed, were folded tightly inside the enveloping cover, and he saw at a glance that the letter, like the previous one, was written in the tongue of his boyhood, Angevin.

Sir William

You may already be better informed of what I am about to tell you than I myself am, but having spoken with SJD as he passed through Nithsdale on a recent journey, and learning that he had intended to visit you but had been unable to do so because of the restrictions of his campaign in Galloway, it has occurred to me that you might not yet be aware of what is happening in the north.

The truce that has been in force with the MacDougalls of Lorn and Argyll is now at an end, and it is obvious that the recalcitrant Lame John, Lord of Lorn, has been using the time of truce to strengthen his position and his forces in order to intensify his efforts to overthrow His Grace Robert. Aware of that, the King has marched north with his army to invade Lorn’s lands from the rear, through a natural gateway called the Pass of Brander, and SJD and his command are now on their way to join the royal forces. You may be unaware of those developments, but the outcome of the venture will greatly influence your situation on your island for better or for worse. I pray that it will be the former.

By now your plans for consolidating yourselves upon the island must be well in hand, if not absolutely complete. I trust that you and yours have prospered in that regard. I myself continue to enjoy being an honorary aunt, although “mother” might be the better word for this relationship, all-embracing as it is. Be that as it may, I am finding great pleasure in it and the child is a delight, with a very quick ear for languages. She is already speaking French as though she has never known another tongue, after less than a year of practice.

I hope you will not think too unkindly of me for thrusting myself into your awareness yet again, but I think of you often and was born, my father used to tell me, with far more curiosity than was good for me. Peggy is well, and aging beautifully. You would be proud, could you but see her. And she wears your trinket constantly, her pride in her elder brother a self-evident truth.

The young man who bears this letter to you is a cousin—far younger than he appears to be—so I beg you to ignore his pleadings to remain with you, and to send him home again. He will have plenty of time to go to war once he comes of age for it.

Your friend,

Jessie Randolph

The foray into Argyll and Lorn had been a great success, with Douglas playing a major role in the capture of the supposedly impregnable pass, all of which Will had already learned from de Berenger, whose source was more recent than Jessie Randolph’s was when she wrote her letter. But Will was obliged to admit to himself that had her letter arrived by any other means than de Berenger’s galley, he would have been grateful and highly pleased to have received it. It was not the Baroness’s fault that time and events had overtaken her tidings. Her concern for his welfare—and for that of his men, he added hastily—was genuine, and he had no desire to dispute it. And that, in turn, made him feel guilty for having no intention of acknowledging her letter. To the best of his knowledge he had never, ever written a letter to a woman, and he had no desire to begin now. He had not even written to his sister Peggy in response to the letters she had sent to him, and she was a sibling. The prospect of even attempting to write to Jessica Randolph made him quail. He would not even know where to begin, or how to proceed from there. Better, then, he decided, to continue as he had begun, unresponsive to the woman’s blandishments and therefore reasonably safe from ever saying anything he might regret.

He read the letter through again, then folded it carefully and placed it in the small locked chest of sandalwood on his table, atop the woman’s first letter, where he knew it would be safe.

THE ROAD TO LEGEND

THE RETURN

ONE

Will Sinclair was about his own business on that magnificent June morning in the year of our Lord 1312, and it was business he wished to share with no one. His life as a monastic was generally without privacy, and his activities as Master and commander of the Temple on Arran exacerbated that condition. There was always someone needing to speak to him, seeking his approval or his advice, and any time he was out in plain sight he would end up in the center of a throng. Only in prayer and meditation could he find solitude, and seldom even then, since most of the Templars’ daily prayers and the rites surrounding them were communal. Today, however, Will had elected to be alone, for what he considered to be good and sufficient purpose.

He had been told the previous evening, by one of the old mariners off a trading vessel anchored in the bay at Lochranza, that the next day promised to be the finest of the year thus far, and on the spur of the moment, Will had decided to do something that he had been thinking about for more than a month. He sought out Richard de Montrichard, the island’s preceptor, and informed him that he was leaving then and there, alone, and would return within two days, on the last day of June. De Montrichard merely nodded, showing neither surprise nor curiosity, but Will knew that even if the preceptor saw nothing strange in the disappearance of the Master without the smallest escort, others would, and so he added, purely for the later benefit of those others, that he had much on his mind and needed time to be alone and to think without distraction. He then went and told Tam Sinclair that he would be sleeping under the sky for the next two nights, and asked him to keep his squire, young Henry, busy while he was away. He had expected an argument from Tam, but his kinsman had just shrugged and wished him joy of his privacy.

Will then packed one saddlebag carefully with all he thought he might need, threw a thick rolled blanket over one shoulder, then made a quick call upon the commissary for food to keep him going for two days. A good, sturdy mountain horse selected from the stables completed his preparations, and he disappeared into the hills just as the sun was beginning to set.