Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

The real tradition underlying the use of the garment, Will knew, had nothing to do with the Order of the Temple or with the Catholic Church’s strictures on sexuality. The apron sprang from far more ancient roots and was a symbol of membership in the Order of Sion, representing the white apron of lambswool worn by the Egyptian priests of Isis and Osiris in the days of the Israelite captivity. Later, when Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt, their priests took that association with them and wore the white lambskin aprons to denote their spiritual purity as servants of the living God, Jehovah, and the original priestly caste of the Temple in Jerusalem wore the aprons long before the advent of Herod’s Pharisees, who saw no need to wear them. The white apron had then been taken up by the Essenes, who called themselves the Followers of the Way, the movement espoused by the man Jesus and his brother James, who was known as the Just.

Will knew, too, the tale of how the Templars had come to adopt the tradition of the lambswool apron, and now he smiled as he remembered it. Hugh de Payens and one of his closest friends, Payn Montdidier, had been surprised by some of their fellow knights one day when they were bathing. Asked about the strange garments they were wearing, Montdidier had retorted that it was a penalty they had imposed upon themselves during their years of excavating for the Treasure. It was a form of enforced chastity, he said, because it was sewn in place and could never be removed, and such was the reverence in which he was held that his explanation was accepted immediately, and the apron was worn thereafter by every Templar knight upon joining the Order.

Will smiled again at the thought and began giving his sword blade a final, careful wipe. The Templars wore a lambswool apron, but it was vastly different from the shaved and supple aprons worn by the Brothers of Sion. The Temple apron was a much bulkier apparatus, bearing the entire fleece, almost a thumb’s length thick. It was unbearable in hot weather, whereas Will and his fellows in the Brotherhood of Sion suffered no such discomfort.

Satisfied with the edges of his blades, Will replaced them in their sheaths and ate a simple meal of dry, salted fish and fresh bannock, then made his way down to the stream to slake the thirst the food inspired. When he returned to his place he checked the dryness of the washed fleece, then lay down with his back on a wad of his castoff clothing to think in comfort, and perhaps to sleep again, relishing the luxury of being able to do so in broad daylight, and conscious, too, that he might not have much opportunity to sleep anywhere in comfort in the days that lay ahead.

The King of Scots had summoned a Parliament of the Realm to be convened at Ayr, in the heart of Bruce country and just across the Clyde from Arran, in the coming weeks of July, and Will had been invited. He had no idea why, but the word had come to him in the form of a letter telling him that King Robert would be well pleased to have him attend the Parliament. The letter itself came from the Bishop of Moray and had been delivered in person by a Benedictine friar who had made his way from Edinburgh on foot to the west coast and crossed the Firth of Clyde to the island aboard one of the MacDonald galleys. The Parliament, Will knew, would be a glittering assembly, all the finest and strongest in the land in attendance, but he had no slightest pang of regret over being unable to wear his full Templar panoply. Sir William Sinclair would attend the King’s gathering as a simple well-armed and clean-smelling knight, and he would leave Arran to do so in three days’ time.

A large seabird swooped low over the coast, and Will watched it idly as it reared up in a sudden tilt of wings, then dived into the sea right in front of him to emerge moments later with a fish in its beak, the weight of it forcing the bird to fight hard to climb into the air again. He half smiled in admiration of the beauty of the bird’s maneuver, how it had plunged vertically into the water with hardly a splash, and then as he went to lie back again, something caught his eye, a half-recognized anomaly at the edge of his vision, to the south, almost obscured by the reflection of the sun off the water.

He sat up straighter, shading his eyes with one hand and squinting against the glare, and eventually identified the outline of a ship out there, evidently becalmed, miles from where he sat, its shape indistinct against the hills of the mainland at its back. It appeared dilapidated and tawdry, hard worn and ill used, and it seemed to pose no threat. But whom did it belong to, and where was it going? The thought was not alarming, but it was enough to banish his hard-won peace of mind just the same, and Will dressed again, wondering how many more hours he might steal for himself before he was summoned to return and assume his responsibilities once more.

TWO

David de Moray had been recognizable to Will even from the deck of his ship as it approached the small stone jetty at Ardrossan, the only fishing village on that stretch of mainland coast, near Ayr, that possessed such a feature. As Will Sinclair leapt down onto the small wharf, he was still struggling with his surprise to find the Bishop waiting there, evidently having anticipated his arrival. De Moray shouted his name and waved, then stepped forward from the small group of men with whom he had been talking and came striding towards Will, smiling broadly, looking no more like a bishop of Holy Church than he had the last time they had met.

“Sir William!” he cried. “Welcome to the King’s realm. His Grace sends his best wishes and hopes you will be able to join him, even briefly, before our great affairs of state begin to unfold.” He threw wide his arms to embrace Will, who, unsure of what behavior might be proper, had been considering kneeling to kiss the episcopal ring Moray wore as the only visible symbol of his ecclesiastical office. Instead, he succumbed to the bear-like hug the armored clergyman bestowed upon him, then stepped away, searching for words.

“Bishop Moray,” he managed to say. “I am greatly surprised to see you, sir … and greatly honored. How did you know when I would be arriving?”

The Bishop grinned and waved a hand towards the heavens. “Dinna forget my office, Sir William. Holy Church has spies and informants everywhere, and was it no’ one of my own who brought you my invitation? He came back and sent word to me o’ your plans. I was nearby myself, on my way to Ayr, and so I stopped to meet you. Come away, now. I ha’e a horse for you and a roof to shelter you tonight and we ha’e much to talk about.”

Will glanced over to where Tam Sinclair and young Henry were already haranguing the ship’s crew from the wharf, preparing to supervise the unloading of his party, including the ten horses they had brought with them from Arran.

“Permit me, then, to instruct my steward on what we are about. Where will we be staying tonight?”

“Two leagues from here, on the road south. There’s a stone keep there, belonging to my cousin Thomas Moray, and we have the use o’ it. Tell them to follow us there. They canna miss it, it’s in plain sight o’ the road.”

Will nodded and went to speak with Tam. There were ten men in his party: himself, Tam and young Henry, three knights, and four sergeants, although by this time no eye, no matter how well trained, could have detected any distinction in the latter seven’s appearance. The men were traveling light, each carrying his own bedding and provisions since they anticipated no hardship on this excursion, but all were armed and armored in plain harness.

A few minutes later, Will had been introduced to the men in the Bishop’s group and swung himself up into the saddle of the fine bay gelding de Moray had brought for him. He waved a salute to Tam and his squire, then spurred his mount forward with the others, heading inland in a clatter of hooves.