Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

“And what of me and mine? Is there a purpose to my presence here, or am I truly no more than an honored guest?”

Now the Bishop turned his head to look at Will directly, a smile wrinkling the skin around his eyes. “Is that cynicism I hear, Sir William Sinclair? Surely you would not suspect our King or any of his representatives of an ulterior motive?”

Will found it easy to smile back. “Certainly not … at least, not with the intent of abusing us. But out of selfinterest and concern for the weal of the realm? That I would be foolish to doubt. So, what would King Robert have of me while I am in Ayr?”

De Moray’s headshake was brief. “Nothing more than you have freely given until now. Your ongoing support in the King’s cause, and the continuance of your successful efforts to conceal your presence here in our realm. That above all, for the reasons you already understand.”

“Aye. And how goes the struggle to have Pope Clement lift the ban of excommunication?”

“Poorly.” The Bishop’s voice was heavy with disgust. “When venal men have the handling of God’s affairs, change becomes … difficult … and sometimes nigh impossible. But we persevere. We have ambassadors at the papal court even as we speak, and Archbishop Lamberton continues, even in his captivity in England, to argue strongly on King Robert’s behalf by means of letters to the Pope and cardinals, smuggled out in greatest secrecy.”

“How is that possible, my lo—? How can he contrive to do that?”

“Because Edward of Caernarvon is not the man his father was. That is how, and why. England’s new King has a certain fondness for our Archbishop and so grants him more privacy and freedom than he ever had while the old King was alive. And Lamberton exploits that leniency, his main purpose being to support and indemnify our liege, King Robert, against the false charges of murder and treason leveled against him by unscrupulous enemies.”

Again they rode in silence for a while, but this time it was de Moray who broke it with a question.

“Tell me, Sir William, how have you succeeded with your decision to release your men from their vow of chastity? I’m certain they did not take the decision lightly.”

“True. Not all my men accepted the new freedom, but a few dozens did, promising to return to Arran with their wives and families as they acquire them.”

“But …” De Moray’s voice faded away, and Will smiled sadly.

“What would you have had me do, Bishop Moray? Sit there and watch my men die off, one by one, thus failing in my duty to safeguard the traditions and lore of the Temple? That would have been a greater sin than any I could commit by releasing my men from an oath in the interests of self-preservation. I have had a surfeit of betrayal by those to whom I have been loyal all my life and whom my men supported faithfully, honestly, and industriously. We were left with nothing, sir, not even the means of survival as men and monks. I sought to change that. Do you think me wrong?”

“There’s the castle. We’ll not be long now.”

The castle lay below them, perhaps two miles from where they had crested the ridge on which they now rode, on a low knoll dominating the countryside around it, and the ocher of the underlying earth shone clearly through the sparse grass that covered the surrounding terrain. There were no trees anywhere, just miles and miles of rolling, empty land. It was a bleaklooking spot, Will mused, and it had given de Moray an excuse for not answering his last question, but before he could go any further with that thought, the Bishop spoke again.

“No, Sir William, I cannot say I think you wrong. My training as a cleric and a bishop rails quietly against any usurpation of the right to forgive and nullify an oath, a right belonging only to God or his anointed representatives. And yet my gut convinces me you did the right thing. And have any of your people married?”

“Aye, they have. Eight of them are now wed and living on Arran with their families. Twelve children, between the ages of three months and three years. They are our future, our most precious treasure, and they are well cared for, you may trust my word on that.” He grinned. “For they have nigh on two hundred uncles, all of them concerned for their welfare.”

“Good. Excellent. We will speak more of this tonight, after we have supped, for I have other reasons to learn more from you about your Templars. For the nonce, enough. Let’s reach our destination and take our ease.”

He twisted in the saddle and waved to the men behind them, speaking Scots again. “Torrance, MacNeil, here, to me.”

He nodded once again to Will, who returned the gesture and then moved aside to let the others coming from behind cluster around their leader.

THREE

It was late that night by the time supper was over. Bishop Moray ordered his company to bed in preparation for an early start in the morning, but he bade Will stay behind and wait upon him until they were alone in front of the fire in the empty dining hall. The Bishop was by all accounts an abstemious man, but on this occasion, once the two were alone, he reached into a leather satchel that hung over the back of his chair and produced an earthen bottle of the fiery spirits his countrymen distilled from barley grain. He splashed a measure into each of two clay cups and handed one to his guest.

“This comes from near my own country in the north,” he growled, raising his cup. “One of the better things to come out of the Comyn lands. We call it uisquebaugh , the water of life. Let us drink together to the King’s grace.”

Will sipped the fiery spirits cautiously, and fought against the urge to catch his breath. “The water of life,” he croaked. “It has a potency akin to death, on first tasting.”

“It grows on you, you will find.” De Moray raised his cup again. “To the King’s grace.”

“Aye, then. To King Robert, and long may he reign.”

“Amen.” De Moray sipped and sat for a spell in silence, then set his cup down on the floor by his feet. “I want to talk to you about the Templars, William. Our Templars.”

“ Our Templars … I don’t understand. Whose Templars?”

“Ours, in Scotland. I—we, the King and I—want you to talk to them.”

“The Scots Templars? You told me all the Scots Templars had withdrawn to England with King Edward.”

“You misunderstood me. The Templars who went to England—the majority of the knights in Scotland—were all Norman French, not Scots. The true Scots knights remained, under their old Master, de Soutar. But since he died, five years ago, they have been purposeless—disorganized, to say the least. Now, with all the tidings coming in from France and England, they feel betrayed, even by His Grace, for though they enjoy their freedom here, where none else of their ilk do in Christendom, they know they stand under papal anathema and can expect no help from Holy Church.

“There are not many of them left—full knights, I mean. Between two and three score at most, widely scattered throughout the realm. And they are valuable men, dour fighters and staunch allies in the main who have supported King Robert since the outset. Now the King would like to bind them even closer to him, and he has asked me to seek your help in doing so.”

Will sipped again at his drink, finding it less fiery now. “Why would he do that?” He understood why, of course, but decided to make the Bishop explain himself fully.

“Because you will talk to them, letting them know who and what you are.”

Will could not conceal the smile that came to his lips. “Wait now … You would have me talk to these men openly, after years of concealing who I am and dissembling our presence in Scotland? That seems illogical, if you will forgive my saying so.”