Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

It had taken Will and his two sergeants four days of hard riding in foul weather to cover the distance from Nithsdale, traveling north along the western edge of Ettrick Forest to Lanark, and from there to Stirling, where they crossed the River Forth before turning east on the last leg of their journey. But it was behind them now, the sun was shining again here on the eastern coast, and the prospect of spending the night in a warm bed beneath a sound roof was a cheering one, requiring only the discovery of a tolerable inn.

They found a prosperous-seeming hostelry on the broad main street facing the western façade of the church of St. Rule, and Will led his men into it and arranged lodgings for the three of them and stabling for their horses. He secured their stay with a silver mark to the landlord, then stripped off his cuirass and mailed shirt and left them, along with his shield, spear, and helmet, in the room he had rented, knowing they would be safe in the care of his two companions, who would see to the animals before making themselves at ease in their own shared quarters. He then set out to find Master Nicholas Balmyle, enjoying the sensation of walking the street unrestricted by his mail, though he still wore his sword belt with its weapons.

Bemused by the size and bustle of the place, and by the packed ranks of magnificent gray-stone buildings, he quickly realized that he had no idea where to begin his search, but his first question to a passing manat-arms brought the answer, and he was directed to the nearby Charter House of the new cathedral. His first thought on seeing its grand entrance and the burnished, liveried men-at-arms on duty was that he might be improperly dressed, but then he remembered the way Davie de Moray dressed, and decided that Master Balmyle would be too pressed for time to take note of what a man summoned in haste might wear.

He presented himself to the guards and asked where he might find the Bishop, and they directed him courteously to where he could report to one of the cathedral’s clerical officials. He did so, and a black-robed monk swiftly led him along a number of identical passageways. They eventually stopped outside an immense pair of magnificent doors fully twice Will’s height, where his guide knocked twice and opened one of the doors to allow Will to pass through.

The huge room, sumptuous by any standards, was high ceilinged and lit by floor-to-ceiling windows of clear leaded glass. The floor was of broad oak planks, stained towards blackness, and an enormous table of the same wood, with a lectern at one end, filled the central space, surrounded by matching chairs. The chill in the great chamber struck him immediately, and the place appeared to be deserted, but then he glanced to his right and saw a trio of men standing together in discussion in front of a giant fire in a stone hearth that could have housed an entire family. Now all three turned to him silently, and he saw them only as distant shapes, outlined against the great fire at their backs. He began walking towards them; it seemed like a long way, and with every step he felt them gauging him, weighing him. But then one of them came towards him, calling his name and bidding him welcome, and he grinned with relief to recognize David de Moray.

Within moments, feeling Davie’s arm about his shoulders, Will’s apprehension had vanished, and now it was he who did the weighing and gauging as they approach the other two men. There was no mistaking the former chancellor. Besides, Will had seen him before, although he had not met him, at the Parliament in Ayr mere weeks earlier. Master Balmyle wore a full, ferocious beard of snowy white, and shoulder-length hair the same color hung to his shoulders, but that was the only relief from the uniform black of his vestments. He wore a long black cloak over a priest’s cassock, a sash of shiny black cloth about his waist, and a polished pectoral cross of pure jet hung from a black cord around his neck.

His companion, far less richly dressed, somehow achieved the same air of distinction by making no attempt to do so. He, too, wore plain black, but his cassock was of coarse wool and its skirts were much stained and raggedhemmed. He wore no cloak and no cross, so Will accepted him as a mere priest, although no doubt a powerful one, judging by the company he kept. He was imposing, tall and straight backed, with short-cropped, graying hair receding at the temples. He was clean shaven and had startling eyes, deep-set and gray-blue, on either side of a great, formidable beak of a bony nose.

Will nodded affably to the priest as he approached, then bowed low to Balmyle, whose age and reputation alone demanded recognition.

“Master Balmyle,” he said, “I am William Sinclair. Forgive my tardiness, but I came as quickly as I could. Did my messenger arrive ahead of me? I hope he did.”

The old man smiled in welcome and reached out to take Will’s hand in both of his. “He did,” he said, in a deep, rolling voice that belied his advanced age. “He and his companion came last night with word that you would follow, but we did not expect you until tomorrow. Welcome, welcome.”

“And so we would have come tomorrow, had not your priest found me in Nithsdale and urged me to make haste. And so I left at once and made good time.”

“And how is your young squire?”

“Improving, my lord Chancellor. I left him well, in the care of the Baroness St. Valéry.”

“Ah, a fine woman. But I am no longer chancellor and have not been these many years. Plain Master Nicholas is all my title now.” He turned to the gaunt priest in the stained cassock. “This is the knight of whom you have heard so much, my lord, and I rejoice that you are here to meet with him.”

My lord?

Before Will could suppress his surprise, Master Nicholas spoke again. “Sir William Sinclair, may I present you to his Lordship William Lamberton, Archbishop of St. Andrews and Primate of the Realm.”

Again! He has broken parole again!

Lamberton smiled, and his austere, gaunt face was transformed into a thing of beauty and shining light as he extended his hand to Will. Sinclair was so taken aback that he caught himself on the point of stooping to kiss the archepiscopal ring. He hesitated, wondering at himself, for he had never willingly kissed even a bishop’s ring, but then, seeing the radiant smile on that careworn face, he stooped and kissed the ring nonetheless, as a gesture to the man rather than an obeisance to his rank.

The Archbishop seized his hand warmly and pressed it in his own, then spoke, in the liquid Angevin tongue of Will’s former home. “Thank you for your concern,” he said, still smiling.

“Concern, my lord?”

The blazing smile widened. “For my immortal soul, over the matter of this breach of my parole.”

Will felt his face flush. “My lord, I had no—”

“I saw it in your eyes, my son.” Lamberton’s face grew solemn again. “I had to seek the quantum of my sins, and weigh the one of leaving my confinement temporarily against the other of neglecting my sworn duties to my church, my King, and this realm of ours. Leaving was thus a minor lie, a venial sin with which I can live. The alternative was far more grave. And so I am here, to meet with you.”

“To meet with me?” Confusion made Will more forthright than he might have been. “Why would you wish to meet with me? I mean, I am honored to be here, but to what end? I am a simple knight. I live in obscurity and have no wish to be involved in the affairs of state. Indeed I cannot be, for I am sworn by oath never to bend the knee in allegiance to any king.”

Again Lamberton smiled, glancing this time at Balmyle and Moray. “That is precisely why I wanted to meet you,” he said. “Because of who and what you are. And here we are, standing when we could be sitting, and fasting while we could be refreshing ourselves. Davie, would you send one of the brethren to find us food and drink? We will sit at the table end there, closest to the fire. Come, Sir William.”