Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

As Will unfastened his sword belt and laid it, with the weapons attached, across the table far over to his right, the Archbishop asked him, “Would you object if I called you Will, Sir William?”

“No, my lord, of course not.”

“Good, then I shall do so. It is a good name—my own, before they lengthened it to William and thence to Archbishop and My Lord. And in return, you may call me William.”

Will half grinned. “That would not be easy, my lord. Your fame and reputation discourages that. I might as lief call the King’s grace Rob.”

The Primate’s eyebrows rose. “And why should you not? He would not be offended. You have proved to be too good a friend and worthy of respect for him to take ill of such a small thing. So you will call me William.”

“And I am Nicholas to you,” said Balmyle, taking a seat across from Will. “You have earned that right, and by the time we four leave here you might have harder names for us.”

“Might I? How so?” Will’s eyes were narrowed now.

Moray returned from issuing orders and glanced from Will to his colleagues. “Did I miss something? Ye all look gey dour.”

“Young Will is justly concerned over what we might seek from him,” Balmyle said, “since he has heard nothing to indicate our reasons for summoning him here. We were about to speak of that when you came back.”

“Aha! Well, speak away then, until they bring us to eat. I’ll just listen and grunt from time to time to prove I’m no’ asleep. Ye both know my mind on it.” He crossed his arms on his chest and slumped down into his chair, shifting around until he was as comfortable as he could be. This was the first time Will had ever seen de Moray in his bishop’s garb, weaponless and unencumbered by chain mail, and he was surprised to see that the Bishop was less cumbersome, less corpulent than he would have guessed. The man was massive in the shoulders, but his belly was flat and his chest deep and strong, and he looked to be in peak fighting trim.

“Well,” the Archbishop said quietly. “Shall we begin?” But no sooner was the question asked than the doors swung open and a column of servitors entered the room, each of them carrying a heavy tray laden with food and drink.

“That was quick,” Balmyle observed, and de Moray grunted.

The food was plentiful and hot, a full dinner even though it was but afternoon, the bread fresh baked and crusty, and the ale brewed in the cathedral church’s own vaults, which had been in use for decades while awaiting the completion of the roof and façade. Will chose roasted pork with savory crackling and made his meal of that, followed with fresh raspberries and blackberries and strong, rich cheese. He devoured it, aware that his tablemates were eating as devotedly as he. Lamberton also chose the pork, while de Moray demolished a roast duck stuffed with apples and breadcrumbs and chopped berries. Balmyle, perhaps because of his great age, ate sparingly, confining his meal to fresh berries followed by bread and cheese, and he drank milk, which had been provided for him, rather than the ale the others drank.

The Archbishop was the slowest eater of the four, but eventually he pushed the wooden platter from in front of him, took note that the others were finished, and summoned the steward to clear away the remains of the meal. The steward waved his minions forward, and within moments, it seemed to Will, they were gone, the steward himself having taken a clean cloth to wipe the tabletop before departing, leaving the four men with their drinks.

For a moment after the doors closed behind the monks there was silence, and Archbishop Lamberton sat back contentedly, hoisting his ale pot to his mouth, though he did not drink deeply. He set the pot back on the table and looked over at Will.

“So, let us begin. You said, Will, that you had sworn an oath never to bend the knee in fealty to any king, did you not?”

Will crinkled his brows, wondering what was coming. “I did.”

“And to whom did you swear that oath?”

“To our Grand Master. I was eighteen, and I have lived by it for two score years and more now.”

The Archbishop nodded. “Forgive me for these questions I must ask, for there is no slightest hint of judgment or of condemnation entailed in any of them. But in whose name did you swear your oath?”

“In the name of God.”

“Apart from that, I mean, since every oath is to God.

In whose earthly name did you swear it?”

“In the name of the Master of our Order, the Knights of the Temple.”

“Aye. And through him to the Pope, is that not so?”

A jerk of the head was Will’s sole response to that. “Did you ever expect that what has occurred might happen? That your Order might be impeached, its brethren deemed excommunicate?” He raised his eyes now to examine Will’s reaction.

“No, my lord,” he said, fighting hard to keep his face unreadable. “No thought of such kind ever crossed my mind.”

“Why not?”

Will spoke slowly, calmly, digging his nails into the palms of his clenched fists beneath the table. “Because until the moment that such blasphemous infamy first spilled from the sewers that pass for minds in the lickspittle servants of the King of France, no such thought would ever have been possible. For almost two hundred years our Order had stood as the champion of Holy Church. The primary force behind the Christian presence in the Holy Lands and one that never faltered in its duty or its dedication. Its record was spotless, its reputation and integrity unimpeachable. But it became too strong, too rich, too wealthy—too large a target for a rapacious vulture like Philip Capet to resist …” He wondered if he had gone too far, but none of the other three made any attempt to interrupt him, and so he continued. “He sought to sway us first by seeking entry to our brotherhood, thinking that he could thus gain access to our treasury. Do any of you know the word ‘blackball’?”

Lamberton nodded. “A secret ballot. A white ball means approval, black, denial. A single black ball kills the vote.”

“Precisely so, my lord. Capet underwent the same close examination of character and morality that every other candidate for brotherhood must undergo. I sat on the Council that voted on his admission. Eight of eleven voted to deny him.” He grimaced. “I know a wise woman who, on hearing that story, defined that vote as the moment the Temple began to fall. She said the Temple was destroyed by eight black balls …”

“She may well have been right,” said Master Balmyle. “Who was this woman?”

“It was the Baroness St. Valéry, whose own husband had died by Philip’s greed and treachery.”

Archbishop Lamberton cleared his throat. “And thus you see the malefactor in this stew as being the King of France? What of the Pope?”

Now is where I give offense , Will thought, and squared his shoulders. “What of him? What might I say to you, as princes of the Church, to express my loathing and disdain for a man who will bend the craven knee to the willful spite of an un-Christian king and permit him to commit such an outrageous felony? The blessed Clement vacillates like an inflated bladder in a wind. He changes his mind with every hour that passes. And he unleashed the Inquisition on our Order to flesh out the untenable charges spewed out against us by de Nogaret, himself a murderer of popes. What of the Pope, you ask? He is a disgrace to his faith and to his calling, a spineless panderer to an ambitious monster whom he fears will turn and rend him if displeased … and he is right in that. Capet has caused the death of one pope who displeased him, perhaps two. He will not hesitate a third time, if he deems it justified by his divine right.”