Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

“You will hear no contention from me over that matter,” the Archbishop said, “but Philip Capet is not of grave concern to us right now. For now, let us remain with the matter of your oath, and others. I am told you have released your men from their oath of chastity.” Will nodded, and Lamberton eyed him, twisting his ring around on his finger as he did so. “On whose authority did you do that?”

“On my own authority, as ordained Master in Scotland.”

“Your authority is that strong?”

“Of course it is. I am acting Master, and until our Grand Master de Molay is released and reinstated, I have complete responsibility for those brethren under my care. I did not make the decision lightly or suddenly.”

“I would not think you could, but would you tell me why you did it? It seems like an intemperate thing to do, to free an entire Order from a sacred oath.”

“Pardon me if I seem to contradict you, my lord, but we are speaking of the last surviving remnants of a oncegreat Order. By freeing my marriageable men from their oath, I have created the possibility, the hope at least, that our Order might survive our deaths.”

“Is that not fanciful?” This was Balmyle. David de Moray was sitting listening, his eyes moving from face to face.

Will looked back at the former chancellor and dipped his head slightly. “Perhaps so, Master Nicholas, but the alternative—to do nothing—is the death of our Order, preordained. Therefore I seized the chance to contest the odds.”

“I see. So now there are women on Arran? Married women?”

“There are a few, and there are children.”

“Tell me,” interrupted Lamberton, “to whom do you pay your allegiance now?”

“Not to Pope Clement. I hold my allegiance to Master de Molay, even while he is buried in some unnamed prison. And from him, my allegiance goes directly to my God.”

Archbishop Lamberton leaned his elbow on the arm of his chair and pinched the bridge of his great, bony nose. But then he straightened again. “I am told there are French mercenaries on Arran. Sir Edward Bruce relies on them greatly.”

“Is that so? Well, my lord, it had to come out sooner or later.”

“Aye it did, and I am gratified that it took as long as it did … I am even more amazed, though, to have heard no single report, no slightest whisper, of Templars on Arran. From anyone. I trust you will accept my profound appreciation of that.”

“I do, my lord Archbishop. It has been almost five full years since anyone might have recognized us as belonging to the Temple. Now we are simply islanders, French mercenary islanders, kept close enough to be useful but far enough removed to pose no threat to any honest Scot.” He stopped, struck by a thought he should have mentioned earlier. “Has Bishop Moray spoken of the convocation we are to assemble there soon?”

“Of course he has, and that is why I am here. We need to plan this carefully, we four, for it is of far greater import than Davie might have realized when he arranged it through your goodwill.”

Will twisted sideways in his chair to look at Moray, but the Highland Bishop merely shrugged and waved a hand, as though to say “How could I have known?” and Will turned back to the Archbishop.

“How can it be of greater import? I understood the urgency of what was being asked of us. The King’s need was all-important.”

Lamberton inclined his head. “And so it was, but it has taken on a far greater significance of late.” He sat straighter and smoothed the fabric of his cassock, pressing it flat against his lean belly with one hand before looking Will straight in the eye. “Davie has told me all that I know of you, Will Sinclair, and though I liked all that I heard, I felt I had to see you for myself, judge you with my own eyes.”

Will stared back at the Archbishop’s unsmiling face, unsure of how to react to that, but eventually he nodded. “And have I passed your scrutiny, my lord Archbishop?”

That startling luminescent smile broke over him again. “None here would think to blackball you, if that is what you are wondering.”

“Then …” Will reached up and scratched the stubble on his left cheek. “Now will you tell me what this is all about?”

The radiant smile faded, replaced with a solemn look. “Aye, and willingly, with no further ado. It is about politics and the struggle for men’s souls and freedom … weighty matters, Will. When first you came here, there was no question of refusing you sanctuary. But Bishop Moray told you of our concerns about your presence in our realm—the difficulties associated with the writ of excommunication against King Robert and the dangers of your presence here becoming known to the King of France, and thereby to the Pope. And you have dealt with that to everyone’s great satisfaction, so no more need be said of it.

“Now, I have listened to your opinion concerning our Holy Father, and bluntly, your concerns echo my own, in all respects but one … one highly distinctive respect. As Primate of this realm, my first responsibility is to its people. If the King of Scots stands excommunicate, then so does all of Scotland. If his excommunication is confirmed, then all the land goes down with him into perdition. No sacraments may be bestowed on anyone who does not abjure King Robert’s kingship instantly, and there will be many who abjure him thus—some out of fear for their immortal souls, and some through jealousy and envy, for their own ends. And if that happens, Scotland will fall.” His voice dropped in volume. “It is unthinkable, but the threat of it is very real and waxes stronger every day.”

Will sat frowning, having heard all of this before, but never stated so bluntly or so passionately, and now he raised a hand. “Pardon me, my lord Archbishop, but is not the ban supposedly in place? I know it to be in abeyance, but is it not a fact?”

Lamberton took a deep breath, and Will found himself holding his breath as he waited for the Archbishop to respond.

“In existence, yes, but not in abeyance … not really that. The matter lies under canonical dispute, at the instigation of myself and the senior prelates of Scotland, among whom is numbered Wishart of Glasgow, now a prisoner, like myself, in English hands. But Robert Wishart is an old, old man, and sick, expected not to live much longer …” He made the sign of the cross before resuming. “But the dispute is coming to a resolution. Master Nicholas can tell you more of this, since the coordination of our case before the Pope and the Curia is largely in his hands today, now that I am unable to see to it in person. He and Master de Linton of Arbroath share joint responsibility for the conduct of the affair. Nicholas?”

The former chancellor grunted deep in his chest and took up the explanation where Lamberton had left off, his sonorous voice solemn, his words clear and precise. “The original excommunication was for the sin of murder—murder aggravated by its commission in a church, on the very steps of the high altar. But there was ever a question of intent and culpability. The charges came from the enemies of Bruce, from the relatives of the man he supposedly slew, John Comyn, Laird of Badenoch. The house of Comyn, as you know, Sir William, was very powerful six years ago—more powerful than the Bruce faction by far, and very well connected, with several bishops among the family who added their official voices to the plaints being sent to Rome. And they moved quickly, lodging their accusations while yet the confusion here was unresolved. They deemed Bruce in rebellion against the true King, John Balliol.

“That was a specious nonsense, for John Balliol had abdicated by then and removed himself to France and the protection of King Philip, and the truth was that they had a claim to the throne almost as strong as Bruce’s was. Whatever, they were heeded by the pontiff. The writ was passed, and we contested it immediately. And we were not without our own influence. We, too, were heard, if not by the Pope himself, then at least by some of his most powerful cardinals. And the debate has lasted ever since, enabling the Church in Scotland to continue its mission.”