Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

Tam turned to young Henry. “Take note o’ that. Our patron is the only Templar left in Christendom who gets welcomed by a prince of Holy Church. Does that no’ make ye want to laugh?”

The boy looked after the departing group in surprise. “A prince of … That was a bishop ?”

Tam barked a laugh. “Aye, that was a bishop. But ye’d never find his like in France. That was David de Moray, though his real name’s David de Moravia, and he’s Bishop o’ Moray. He’s a wild man, though, and a warrior, wi’ balls as big as a stallion horse. One o’ the Bruce’s staunchest supporters. Now come on, we have to get this ship unloaded.”

He moved towards the gangway, already shouting orders to the men above, but young Henry stood a moment longer, gazing towards where his master and the party of Scots knights had disappeared into the distance. A fighting bishop who wore armor—worn and battered armor—instead of vestments and miter! Henry had never seen the like.

Will Sinclair was thinking approximately the same thing at the same moment as he rode just behind and to the right of David de Moray. De Moray was one of the triumvirate of prelates who had made it possible for Robert Bruce to become King of Scots, supporting him in spite of the writ of excommunication that hung over him after the murder of Sir John Comyn on the altar steps of Dumfries Cathedral in 1306. De Moray’s support since then had always been actively militant, his sword constantly bared in support of King and realm, his loyalty to both unwavering and unimpeachable. But apart from the episcopal ring he wore on his finger and the heavy pectoral cross of plain silver at his breast, de Moray looked nothing like a bishop most of the time. There were occasions, Will knew, most of them ceremonial and ritual, when the bishop would don his chasuble and miter, and he expected that the forthcoming Parliament might be one such, but de Moray’s normal attire was that of a fighting warrior: plain brown woolen shirt and trousers beneath a leather jerkin, and a muchscarred steel breastplate with armored epaulettes complemented, from time to time, with heavy chain-mail leggings over stout boots with armored toes and ankles. Although not particularly tall, the Bishop was strongly built, with the carriage and demeanor of a fighting knight, broad shouldered and narrow in the hip, and he carried a long sword at all times, sheathed at his back, while a heavy battered and dented shield on which his personal colors had been painted and had faded long ago hung from his saddlebow. As though he had become aware of Will’s gaze, de Moray swung around in his saddle, looking back over his shoulder, and beckoned.

“Sir William. Ride with me for a while. I would speak with you.”

Will spurred his horse to ride alongside the Bishop as the other men in the party, obedient to their leader’s unvoiced wish, slackened their pace to permit the two to draw ahead in privacy. De Moray rode on in silence for a few moments, listening to the receding sounds of their escort’s hooves, then turned his head to look Will up and down.

“You look fine, man. No trace of the Templar left visible in you. I’m impressed. And I must tell you that you have made a like impression upon the King himself and those of us who seek to safeguard and guide him. You and your men have made a great contribution to the King’s cause, notwithstanding your Order’s standing restrictions upon paying service to a king. That has not gone unnoticed.” He was speaking polished, fluent, accentless French, and Will noticed that there was no trace now of the rough informality he flaunted so carelessly in speaking Scots. Here, he thought, was the urbane Bishop, trained in diplomacy and statecraft as much as in ecclesiastical administration and procedure.

“We both know, you and I, that your initial commitment here was one of necessity—a quid pro quo in return for a place for your people to stay, allied with your need to keep your men in training for their own sakes and the principles of your Order. I will not even say ‘belonged to,’ but that is the plain truth, I fear. As an officer of the Temple, you held no allegiance to our King or his concerns—and that is as it should be, so no one has tried to convince you otherwise. But you yourself have gone further, and of your own free will, in supporting King Robert’s cause than many a Scot I could name. Your contributions, and those of your men, are greatly valued, and that is what has led to this—the King’s invitation to attend his Parliament as an honored guest.” He glanced at Will. “This will be your first Parliament, I suppose?”

Will smiled. “Aye, my lord Bishop, it will. Philip of France believes he rules by divine right. He sees no need to involve any of his people in that.”

De Moray grunted, and Will was encouraged to ask the question that had been on his mind for some time. “Why Ayr, my lord Bishop? For the Parliament, I mean. And why in the height of summer?”

His companion switched the reins to his left hand and scratched idly with gloved fingers at his cheek. “First, I am not your lord Bishop until you see me wearing robes and miter. To you, I am plain Davie otherwise. That is what my friends call me and I would like to count you among those. Second, we are riding to Ayr because the King has chosen Ayr, as is his right. Ayr is King Robert’s home, the home of his own folk, and they have been ill used these past years, with armies coming and going over their lands in all directions. And so the King decided that it was high time the people of Ayr and its surrounding lands had the privilege of seeing how their land is governed under the King’s stewardship.

“The King of France rules his land and his domains as his personal fiefdom and, as you say, he sees no need to deal with the common folk. But the King of Scots rules his people, not the land. He is the steward of his people, and the folk need governance. Hence our Parliaments—a gathering of the estates of the King’s realm, including the common folk since the days of Wallace, to ensure the safety and protection of the people. Scots in general, and in particular.” He paused briefly. “Right now the English are at war among themselves, as you must know—Edward of Caernarvon and the Earl of Pembroke against a host of other nobles calling themselves the Lords Ordainer, led by the Earls of Warwick and Lancaster, who would dearly love to ordain the future governance of England and Scotland to their own benefit. And long may they wrangle, for while they are at one another’s throats, we can have peace in Scotland, free of the threat of invasion, for a while at least. A good opportunity for our Parliament.”

He cocked an eyebrow towards Will. “You understand why they are at war?”

“Aye. It was caused by the assassination of Piers Gaveston, in May, was it not?”

“It was. Gaveston had surrendered to Pembroke, upon Pembroke’s guarantee that his life would be safe, but Warwick intercepted him on his way south and executed him out of hand, on Lancaster’s orders. Assassination is too good a word for that. Murder, blatant murder, is what it was. And Edward was rightly furious, as was Pembroke, whose own honor was impugned, his authority flouted and set at naught. As for the King, I have no time for pederasty, and the last thing any land needs is a womanish king who likes to bed with men, but that is neither here nor there. The King’s honor, little as that might be, was besmirched, his puissance, however slight it may have been, sneered at and disdained by greedy, mutinous nobles lusting for power and wealth. And so they are at war. And we are not, for once.”

“But there are still Englishmen under arms in Scotland, are there not? Or have they been withdrawn?”

“No, they are still here. But they are garrisons, not armies. They hold our strongest castles for the time being, but King Robert is determined they be ousted soon. Berwick and Dumfries, Caerlaverock, Buitle, Bothwell, Perth, and Stirling and Edinburgh, the strongest of all. We will take them all soon, I have no doubt, but in the meantime the King has neither time nor men to waste besieging them.”