Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

“It surprises me to see you still here, Sir James,” he said when they met. “Do you not have a war to fight?”

Douglas grinned. “In due time I do, but for the nonce, I remain here. The King wishes to speak with you.”

“Now, you mean?”

“Aye, if you have the time.”

It was Will’s turn to grin. “Or the inclination to ignore a royal command? I’ll suspend all my important activities immediately and come with you now. Lead on.”

Douglas led him back through the length of the hall and out through a postern door to where a small encampment had been set up for the King’s party within a square yard protected by high, sharply pointed palisades. Will glanced at the unexpected fortifications and the heavy presence of guards, but said nothing, and within moments they came to the King’s pavilion, where their entrance was barred by a pair of vigilant men-at-arms. They knew the Douglas by sight and stepped aside without comment to let him and his companion pass, and Douglas raised the protective curtain of the large tent’s doorway to allow Will to precede him.

The interior of the massive pavilion seemed dim after the sudden brilliance of the July sun outside, and Will was unsurprised to find it crowded with men, most of them nobles and high officers of the realm, standing around in groups, some small, others larger. Will looked about for the King, his eyes moving rapidly from group to group without finding the Bruce. His brother Edward was there, as was Sir Thomas Randolph, the latter conversing with three of the King’s oldest and most trusted friends, Sir Robert Boyd of Noddsdale, Sir Gilbert de Hay the Lord of Erroll, and Sir Neil Campbell of Lochawe. Behind them, huddled together and muttering solemnly, stood a group of mitered prelates, only one of whom Will recognized: Master Nicholas Balmyle, Bishop of Dunblane, a scholarly, ascetic-looking man who had served for years as chancellor of Scotland and must now be close to eighty years old, although he still retained his faculties. Will had never met Bishop Balmyle, but he knew the old man was one of King Robert’s most able and respected counselors.

The crowd eddied and parted as a procession of servitors moved among the assembly bearing trays of sweetmeats, and Will saw the King, seated at a table towards the rear of the huge space, deep in an earnest conversation with the Bishop of Moray. His heart skipped a beat the moment he saw the two talking together so privately, for the first thought that leapt into his head was that de Moray was telling the monarch about the discovery of the new land in the west. He dismissed the thought immediately, knowing it was unworthy, and fell in behind Douglas, who was already making his way towards the royal table, beckoning him to follow.

As Douglas reached the table, bowing slightly in greeting, Bruce looked up. The beginnings of a frown ticked between his brows at being interrupted, but his face cleared immediately on recognizing Douglas, and his eyes went immediately to Will, standing close behind Sir James.

“Sir William. Welcome to you, my friend.” He rose to his feet at once and stepped around the edge of the table, extending his hand, but as Will was on the point of bending over it, he snatched it away. “It is for clasping as a friend, William, not for kissing. You owe me no liege loyalty and I expect none from you. Your friendship, and the willing support you extend to us without being asked, are more than I could expect, so take my hand as friend and brother.” And then he clasped Will by the hand and pulled him into an embrace that was but slightly hampered by the half armor both men wore. Will was aware that every man in the great pavilion was watching this and taking note, and he wondered if any of them might resent him because of it, seeing his reception as a threat to their own situation.

“So, Sir William, did you enjoy our gathering? I swear to you, these Scots crows and peacocks far too seldom come together at one time, save only for our Parliaments. I trust you were impressed.”

“I was, Your Grace. I have seldom seen so much achieved so skillfully in so little time.”

“Aye, it was well done, I think. And now we must disperse and see to it that all we decided upon is done, too, and quickly. My men are being marshaled as we speak and will move out as soon as I can join them—which is why I sent for you. Would you care to ride with us?”

“Into England, Your Grace?”

“I have an abbot or two down there I intend to press for funds … for charitable work, the rebuilding of this realm of ours after the depredations England has wreaked upon it. Will you come?”

“I will, Your Grace, and gladly. But I have no more than a few men with me—my squire and an escort of four others. We would not contribute greatly to your fighting strength, I fear.”

Bruce laughed. “I have no need of your fighting skills, William. It is your company I seek … your conversation on civilized matters that have nothing to do with the ailments that beset my kingdom. Though mind you, if it does come to fighting, five extra swords would be very welcome. What say you?”

“I will be ready to depart when you are, Your Grace, but I will need to warn my people to strike camp and be ready.”

“Aye, go then and do that speedily, and meet me in the marshaling yard when you are ready.”

FIVE

They had crossed the shallow tidal flats of the Solway several days after leaving Ayr, and had struck first at the wealthy Lanercost Abbey, near the walled town of Carlisle. Bruce had taken great satisfaction in capturing the abbey that had for so long offered sustenance and support to England’s King, and within which he himself had almost died at Edward Plantagenet’s hands a few years earlier. A vast sum of money in gold and silver coinage had been surrendered by the Abbot to avert the flames of Bruce’s vengeful wrath, and Bruce had ordered the chests of coin to be transported back to Scotland and into the care of Master Balmyle at St. Andrews for safekeeping.

The wagons and the treasure they carried were the responsibility of a young knight called Sir Malcolm Seton, another nephew of the King, being the son of his sister Christina, the Countess of Mar. Sir Malcolm’s squire was of an age with young Henry Sinclair, Will’s own squire, and the two had become fast friends during the short time they had spent together on the ride south, so when Henry had come seeking permission to ride out to watch his friend’s departure, Will had granted the permission and then decided, on a moment’s whim, finding himself with nothing to do at that time, to accompany the boy.

Henry had changed greatly in the space of four years, shooting upwards and outwards to transform the slight, wide-eyed boy he had been at the outset. Now he was tall and strikingly attractive, with wide shoulders, a narrow waist, and strong, well-formed legs. His face was open and guileless, with a wide-lipped mouth and strong white teeth beneath a long, straight nose and sparkling eyes the color of the bluebells that covered the ground here every spring. He was now a fine young man, and Will had no doubt that in two years he would grace the ranks of knighthood as well as any knight he had ever known.

It was a bright, clear summer’s afternoon, and Will and young Henry, both of them glad to be free of responsibilities for a spell, had ridden hard, galloping from time to time to stretch out their horses, to the top of a wooded ridge above the road the treasure party would use. Will thought about the spectacle they might have made, charging uphill like a pair of fools, but quickly decided that on this day he cared nothing about threats to his dignity from cavorting on horseback with his young squire. His dignity had begun to irk him lately, anyway. Having committed so unexpectedly to the excursion across the border into England, he had determined to make the most of it, keenly aware that he had not swung a sword against an enemy in earnest for more than four years. But after ten days of raiding he had not encountered a single Englishman with whom to trade blows, and had now resigned himself to the possibility that he might not find one at all. A linnet sang brilliantly among the trees at the two horsemen’s back, and far below them, though not so far as to make recognition and a wave of farewell impossible, the advance contingent of guards led the first of the three loaded wagons up the steeply winding road from the Scottish camp.