Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

“So pardon me, Master Nicholas, if I seem ignorant, but all this happened before I came to Scotland. On what grounds could you legitimately contest the Pope’s verdict?”

Balmyle grunted again, almost smiling. “A good head for questions, Sir William. On grounds of morality and common law, first and foremost. There is theology involved, but most of it is cant, obscure and dense to common folk. We chose from the outset to take the common law as our defense. William?”

Lamberton was ready. “Intent and culpability in the death of Red John Comyn. Our defense of the King is built upon those elements and the doubts surrounding them. There is no doubt that the slaying took place. But there is ample room for doubt that King Robert did the slaying … You never knew John Comyn, did you?” Will shook his head. “I thought not. Had you but met him even once, there would be no need for me to tell you this. He was a … a difficult man, in all respects—difficult to like and hard to deal with. He was arrogant. Well, who among all these noblemen is not? But he was also obdurate and full of angry pride and self-esteem, greatly ambitious, with a firm belief that he himself should be the King of Scots. And, latterly, he had been proven treacherous, almost to the cost of Bruce’s life at the hands of Edward of England. Bruce was forewarned by an English friend and barely escaped with his life from Lanercost Abbey, where Edward sought to hold him. He fled, barely ahead of his executioners, and crossed the border south of Dumfries, where he confronted John Comyn with the proof of his perfidy. You know the story?”

“No, I have not heard it.”

“Aye, well, the two, as you know, were joint Guardians of the Realm at the time. And they had made a pact, in writing, to defend the realm against the claims of Edward. There were but two copies of that pact, one held by each of them and signed by the other. But when Bruce was called to Lanercost Abbey, he was warned that Edward had his signed copy of the pact. It could only have come from Comyn, with the intent of causing Bruce’s death, for Comyn knew the temper of Plantagenet. Anyway, the guardians met in Dumfries, both of them angry and afraid of what had been done, and went together into the church to talk privately, alone …

“We cannot truly know what transpired between them, for there were no witnesses, but tempers flared and blows were struck and Bruce came reeling from the church, distraught, to where his companions waited. From then on there are witnesses who swear he said that he feared he might have slain the Comyn. He feared he might have. At that point, one of the Bruce supporters shouted something like, ‘Might have? Then let’s make sure of it,’ and ran inside the church with a drawn sword. And when the others followed him inside, they found him standing above the Comyn’s corpse, his blade bloody.”

The Archbishop fell silent again, his gaze focused elsewhere, then shook his head as though to clear it. “What happened then is well known. The Bruce was hurried away by his own men, and when he had gathered his wits sufficiently, he saw the die was cast. He seized the Castle of Dumfries, expelled the Comyns from the town, and claimed the kingship.

“Bishop Wishart and I were told of this soon after, and our duty, unpleasant as it was, was clear. It fell to us, as senior bishops of the Scottish see, to investigate the matter thoroughly, discerning what had truly happened, and it became very quickly obvious that there was room for reasonable doubt of the Earl of Carrick’s guilt in the crime of murder. It was a time of chaos, with the fate of the realm itself in jeopardy, for Edward Plantagenet, we knew, would invade the moment that he heard of the affair, and would declare the crown of Scotland vacant and forfeit to his own overlordship. And it was then we decided that our only route, the only proper course of action, was to support the Earl of Carrick and ensure that he became our King, anointed with the blessings of Holy Church. It was barely done when the writ of excommunication was served, but by then we had already initiated our counterclaim, and the debate began.”

“And now?”

“Aye, now … In the past three months, our suit has enjoyed much support in Rome. Our own bishops there, among them your own uncle William Sinclair, Bishop of Dunkeld, have made wide inroads into the bog of claim and counterclaim, of outright lies and obscured truth surrounding this affair, and they are sanguine that we will have a favorable verdict within months.”

“Then that is excellent,” Will said, glancing sideways at the unreadable expression on Bishop Moray’s face before turning back to Lamberton. “But what has it to do with me and my Templars?”

“Nothing, on the surface, but we have Templars of our own here in Scotland, and they have no knowledge of your presence here among us. Those Scots Templars themselves are become a problem.”

“An embarrassment, you mean, akin to us.”

“A potential embarrassment, because as you know Pope Clement has called for the arrest of Templars everywhere.”

“That was expected.”

“I know. But what was unexpected is King Robert’s obdurate reluctance, his refusal to disown the Order here in Scotland. He is being stubborn over that, and though I can see why he takes the stance he has adopted, it increases our fears for the welfare of our cause with the Pope. Should Clement, and with him Philip of France, suspect recalcitrance on the King’s part in this Templar matter, he will not feel inclined to be merciful in the matter of the writ.”

“The King must surely see the danger in it.”

“He does. But he has received loyal support from his Scots Templars, and few though they are—the fighting knights, at least—he has no wish to disown them. And the fact that the penalties for failing to take such action are being held as a threat over his head by people who know nothing of affairs in Scotland makes him the more stubborn. As we say in this land, he winna thole it.”

“So … there it lies.” Will stood up from the table and stretched backwards, loosening a kink at the base of his spine. “Forgive me. A saddle I can master, but a wooden chair is altogether different … Bishop Moray, you have not yet said a word.”

Moray looked up at him and grinned. “I’ll ha’e enough to say when you’re a’ done. Dinna forget I’ve known a’ this for years. My colleagues here are new to you and your thoughts, so I’m content to bide here and think my own thoughts.”

“Aye, I have no doubt of that. And that brings us back to what you said, Archbishop—that this matter is of greater import now than it was at first. I see the why of that, but not the how. What would you have me do that is different now?”

The burnt-out logs in the huge grate behind Will collapsed into embers, releasing sparks and billowing smoke, and Lamberton turned his head to look at them.

“That,” he said, pointing at the fireplace.

Will looked around to see what he was pointing at. “What?”

“When you came in, those logs were hard alder. Now they are glowing ashes.” He smiled. “You did the same with your people on Arran.”

Will looked from Lamberton to Balmyle. “Forgive me, my lord, but I still do not see your point.”

“It is very simple, Will. We want your help in making the Scots Templars vanish, just as you did on Arran. It is something we ourselves cannot do, lacking the authority that you alone possess as Master here. That is the increased import of the convocation to be held. Originally it was to revive a sense of community among the Scots knights, to reassure them that they were not alone. But now the King’s own fate, and the fate of this realm, may depend upon it.”

“Hmm. I suppose all your Templars must wear the beards and tonsure.”