Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

“Hmm.” The fiery spirits he had drunk had induced a gentle feeling of tolerant well-being in Will, and now he sat nodding. “Your Archbishop is a clever man. He has impressed me greatly, even on the matter of his interrupted parole … So mote it be. I will convene a chapter, but it will not be soon. This thing will take much planning, much collaboration between you, as the King’s spokesman, and myself. And your life is far more demanding nowadays than mine, the way you ride constantly the length and breadth of Scotland. Who, then, will coordinate things between us two?”

“A very clever young cleric from the Abbey of Arbroath, Master Bernard de Linton. He has the King’s ear and the absolute trust of Archbishop Lamberton, as well as my own. He will arrange a schedule of messengers, to ply constantly between yourself and him. Which reminds me that when last I met Bernard, he was escorted by your brother Kenneth. Are you close, you two?”

Will smiled. “Aye, we are, but that renders him useless in approaching these enemies of whom you speak, the Buchans and Comyns and their ilk. He has fought them, so they may know him as a King’s man. The people I will send to summon those must be unknown to any of them, so I will select them from our resident brethren on Arran, the stay-at-homes who do not ride with Bruce …” His voice trailed away.

“What is it? Something new has occurred to you—I saw it in your eyes.”

“You did.” Will sat thinking for a moment longer, then grunted and looked down at his hands, examining his callused palms. “It came to me that I have good news for you and Lamberton both.”

“You do? On what matter?”

“Our presence on Arran, and the embarrassment it could cause you. I will be taking my men away one of these days.”

“Away? To where? There is no safer place in Christendom for you. Where would you take them?”

Will thought for a moment longer, then sat back, smiling, his decision made. “To a place far beyond Christendom.” He watched now with amusement as a series of expressions swept across the Bishop’s face, culminating in pure lack of comprehension.

“Far beyond Christendom …? That can only mean the Holy Land, for even Spain, swarming with Moors as it is, lies within the bounds of Christendom. But such a course would be suicide. You would be completely alone there, among thousands—countless thousands—of enemies. You would be wiped out as soon as you set foot there.”

“Aye, we would, but that is not where I intend to go …” He looked intently at de Moray, who sat gazing back at him, his face now deeply troubled. “Davie, I gave you my solemn oath of silence mere moments ago on the matter of the Archbishop’s parole, and you accepted it. I will now ask the same of you, and if you bind yourself to equally solemn secrecy, I will tell you a tale that you will find hard to credit, though every word of it be true.”

De Moray’s eyes widened in surprise, but there was no trace of hesitation in his agreement. “You have my oath. Tell me this tale.”

“Then pour me some more from that bottle, for this will be thirsty work. And have some more yourself. It will be thirsty listening, too.”

HAVING MADE THE UNFORESEEN DECISION to confide in the Bishop, Will sat gathering his thoughts while he watched de Moray replenish their cups, and when the other had finished pouring and returned the clay bottle to its pouch, he sipped the uisquebaugh again and launched directly into the tale of Admiral St. Valéry and his wish to take some men and ships and sail in search of the legendary land mentioned in the Templars’ lore, the place called Merica that lay beyond the Western Sea.

De Moray sat rapt throughout, his only movement an occasional raising of his cup to his lips, and when Will had finished, detailing his last sighting of the admiral’s ships on the western horizon, the Bishop sniffed and sat for a while, scratching at his nether lip.

“This was five years ago, you say?” he asked eventually. “And you have never seen him since?”

“No, I have not. But I had tidings of him four days ago, just before I left to come here.”

“Whence came these tidings?”

“From the place he sought.”

The Bishop sat up straighter, alert.

“The admiral is dead,” Will continued, “but his quest was successful. He found his Merica—or some other, unknown land, though I believe it must be Merica—eight weeks after setting sail. He and his people wintered there, in brutally cold weather, in a wilderness of snow-bound, primal forest that happily teemed with life and game—enormous deer the like of which no man in Christendom has ever seen. In the spring they sailed again, southward along a never-ending coast, until they came to warmer climes. And there they formed a settlement, among the dark-skinned people they found living there. A noble, stoic people, it appears, of great charm and warmth. They lived there for two more years and prospered, by and large, until the admiral died last year, struck by a falling tree in a fierce windstorm. They had refurbished one of their four ships before he died, to return home with the word of their discovery. And it found us in Arran, after an arduous and tedious voyage. More than half the crew was lost to tempests and to sickness in the crossing, but they came safe to shore.”

“Had you expected them?”

“No. I had thought them all dead long since, after years of hearing nothing. But I was wrong. They had found their new land, a sanctuary far from the world of Christendom with all its madnesses.”

“So why did they return, so few in number?” “Because they were so few in number. They came back seeking reinforcements and fresh blood to sustain them in their efforts to survive in their new home.”

“And they are now on Arran?”

“They are, regaining their health and strength after their voyage.”

“And they have found a new land … Great God, Sir William, do you know what this means?”

“Aye, I do, and fully, Bishop Moray. It means our Order has found true sanctuary, far removed from the politics and villainy of this sad, present world. It means I have a place to take my charges, where they will be safe to live and worship without threat from the petty princes and prelates of this Christendom, wherein Christ’s message has been sorely lost.”

“But there are people there, you said. No doubt savage and Godless, ripe for salvation in the form of Holy Church.”

“Your thoughts are dancing in your eyes, Davie, and they are a bishop’s eyes. But think of this, two things: you are under oath of secrecy on this matter; and we who go to this new land are Christian clerics … bishops, priests, and monks, well suited to the spreading of God’s word among the natives there. When we have civilized this place, with God’s own help, there will be time to return and announce its existence to the world here. For the time being, it is my belief that it would be sheerest folly, utter madness, to bring this new and unknown land to the attention of the predators who swarm in Christendom. God has revealed this place to us, His faithful servants in the Order of the Temple, for reasons that must be His own. It is ours now, through God’s will. It is our refuge, our salvation … our single hope in the bleak grimness of the undeserved night surrounding us and ours. And therefore we will guard the secret of it with our lives, for as long as may be required, and certainly for the present time, until it is safe and fitting to announce it. The land is there, Davie. It will not disappear.”

“And it is vast, you say …”

“Vast enough that St. Valéry could sail south along its eastern coast for months on end, from one clime to another. That could make it as large as all Christendom …”