Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

“You will take your friends with you—those who swim—and enjoy the afternoon in freedom. But there is a condition. You will take Preceptor de Montrichard’s squire, Gareth, as well. He needs a bath, and it is your task to assist him in taking one. That thing you are holding is a bar of soap. You know how to use it. You will use it on Gareth, and to good effect. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Uncle. Very clear. But—?”

“I’m not suggesting you throw Gareth from the cliff, you understand? He does not swim and might drown there. But you can drag him in from the beach and scrub him clean there. Now, let’s away.”

Will allowed himself a small chuckle now as he imagined the scene he had set in motion, Gareth forced to overcome what was clearly a lifelong aversion to soap and water. Anticipating the pleasure of the same experience, he paused briefly, studying the water below him, and then dived out and down.

The sea was fairly warm, he knew, at the end of June, but the initial shock of plunging into it was enough to drive every vestige of breath from his lungs, and as he fought his way to the surface he found himself thinking how fortunate he was to have no fear of swimming, or of water. Most people did, he knew. They found it an alien and terrifying reality, a threat of death over which they had no control. Will had learned to swim as a small boy, taught by one of his father’s men, who had been a fisherman all his life and had learned to swim and to love doing so. Will had been an eager pupil, and though he had had little opportunity to swim since the age of eighteen—he could count the separate occasions on his fingers—he had never forgotten the exhilarating freedom of swimming in deep, clear water.

He swam for what he believed to be a quarter of an hour, feeling at once guilty and liberated, diving down to the sea bottom and then returning to the surface time after time. He could see, down there, the kelp and tangle anchored to the rocks, and the limpets and other shellfish that abounded there, but the salt water stung his eyes and blurred his vision, and when the sensation became uncomfortable he remained on the surface, floating on his back and gazing at the promontory above him, occasionally kicking strongly to counteract the tidal drift that pulled him southward along the coast. He became acutely aware of his genitals, of their freedom in his unaccustomed nakedness. And that awareness made him aware of his reason for being there, so that he struck out strongly towards the shore and dog-paddled his way into the tiny estuary of the freshet that bounded down from the hillside above.

The fresh water, splashing heavily and urgently against his body, was far colder than the sea he had just left. He scampered upwards against its pounding, bent over and using hands and feet to scramble over the rocks in the streambed until he reached the cauldron beneath a six-foot waterfall and climbed onto the shelf beside it, where he had earlier thrown the soap and the sheepskin.

It was cold in the gully, the sun blocked out by the steep sides, and he moved quickly now, spreading the lambskin fleece over a good-sized stone and scrubbing at it with the cake of soap until it began to work up a lather. It was hard going, for the soap was primitive and had little capacity to generate bubbles, but he kept at it and soon was able to knead the fleece, feeling the slickness of the soapy wool under his hands and between his chilled fingers. He worked single-mindedly, kneading and pummeling at the cold fleece to dislodge the accumulated dirt and grime, adding fresh soap occasionally, then repeating the entire process until he was satisfied that he had washed out as much as he could. He gathered up the fleece and went back to the foot of the waterfall. He draped the garment over another, larger stone with a flat surface, where the thunderous deluge from above fell straight onto it, the sheer weight and pressure of the water scouring the soap from the wool until no trace of suds or discoloration could be seen draining into the pool below the rock.

He felt cold to his bones now, and he had difficulty hauling himself up the remainder of the steep gully, carrying the waterlogged fleece over one shoulder to the nearest point at which he could climb safely up onto the sunlit surface of the rocky outthrust. The sun felt wonderful against his bare skin, but he knew it would take some time to burn off the chill that afflicted him. He quickly spread the streaming fleece over the tops of the tripod poles and left it to drip while he launched himself into a familiar series of physical exertions designed to loosen his limbs and increase his heartbeat. And when he felt warm again, he collapsed limply on the grass, luxuriating in the sun’s warmth before he fell asleep.

He awoke some time later to find a large, heavy beetle crawling across his torso, its scrabbling claws tickling him awake. He flicked it away and it took to the air, droning heavily as it vanished into the gully by his side. A glance at the tripod told him the fleece had stopped dripping, although it still looked waterlogged. He grunted and rose smoothly to his feet, taking the sheepskin in both hands and shaking it hard, trying to snap the ends of it to expel as much water as possible. That, too, was hard work, but he kept at it, changing his grip from end to end, until he was convinced no more water could be shaken free. He was wet again by then, his skin covered in water droplets, but he was warm this time, too.

He used the white leather binding thongs of the garment itself to tie it securely to the tripod, stretching it and draping one end across the crossbar on two of the three legs. When he was satisfied, he angled its surface directly towards the sun, estimating as he did so that it must be close to midday, and feeling quite sure that by the time the remainder of the day had elapsed—at least eight hours at this time of the year—the sheepskin, if not completely dried, would be at least dry enough to be packed and rolled without damage.

He walked to the edge of the spit of land and turned in a full circle, scanning the cliffs above him and the empty sea ahead of him and seeing no single sign of life anywhere. He might have been the only person alive in the world, and that thought spurred him to urinate, aiming deliberately towards the mainland visible in the distance and watching the arc of his urine rise high into the air before falling into the waves below. But then, suddenly aware of his nakedness, he turned back and scooped up the fresh white garment he had brought with him. It was known as an apron. Every member of the Temple wore one, receiving it as a mark of belonging on the occasion of his being admitted to the fraternity, and none of them wore it easily, for it was intended as a barrier against sexuality—a safeguard against concupiscence—to be worn constantly, day and night. And Will, his face wrinkling involuntarily, conceded to himself that it was effective if only because the majority of the Temple brethren chose to interpret the Rule literally and never thought to remove their apron once it was in place. The stink of the rancid thing was in itself a guarantee of chastity. Thinking this, Will grunted to himself and, the lacing completed, stepped into the restrictive garment, shrugged and pulled it into place, then laced it up tightly, bidding farewell to naked freedom.

He then collected his weapons and unsheathed both sword and dagger. After examining the blades critically, he dug again in his saddlebags for the small package containing his whetstone and the tiny vial of oil he used to protect the blades against rust, and for a while he worked on the weapons with total concentration, using the stone to burnish the metal wherever he thought he saw a blemish or the threat of one, then honing the edges with great care before applying a thin film of the protective oil to each blade. Throughout it all, he was aware of the tightness and familiar restriction of the fresh, tightly laced apron around his hips,