Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

“Aye, well … you may learn more tomorrow, but let us hope that won’t be necessary.” He brandished the papers in his hand again. “In any case, my deputies must know of this, de Berenger and Montrichard. Guard!”

When the summoned guard stepped into the room, the admiral sent him to find the two deputies at once. As the man closed the doors behind him, St. Valéry hesitated and turned back to Sir William.

“What would you have done had I been killed tonight? Would you have delivered the Master’s instructions to de Berenger?”

Sir William nodded. “Of course. And to the other man, Sir Arnold’s deputy Montrichard. They would have assumed command immediately, and so the orders would have applied to them.”

“You have been very tactful, Sir William, but it is clear that I am now your subordinate. Only a member of the Governing Council would be entrusted with the safety of the Treasure.”

Sir William merely inclined his head in response to that.

St. Valéry pursed his lips slightly. “May I be curious, then, while we await the arrival of the others? Where do you intend to go when we leave here? Where will you take the Treasure for safety? Do you have orders from Master de Molay?”

“No, Sir Charles. At this moment, all I know is that we will go to sea, and I am still hoping against hope that this is all some kind of elaborate hoax.” He held up his hands to indicate that he knew nothing more. “To sea. That is all I know. Master de Molay originally wished me to sail to England, to the court of Edward Plantagenet, but word reached us while I was in Paris that King Edward died several months ago, on his way to invade my homeland again. So that changed everything, since Edward’s son is manifestly not to be trusted.”

“The King of England is not to be trusted, even before he assumes the Crown? How so? And how can I know nothing of this? Am I so insulated, here in La Rochelle, that I know nothing of the outside world?” St. Valéry’s voice betrayed genuine surprise.

Sir William looked directly at the older man and shrugged his wide shoulders. “The Order is your world, Admiral. You have had no time to waste on lesser things, and the nature of the new King of England is not something that would interest you at the best of times. The fellow is unnatural, sir. A pederast who would rather play the woman than the man. He flaunts his deviance openly in front of his barons, uncaring what they think, and he is notoriously indiscreet in matters of state. He parades his lovers shamelessly, showering them with gifts and privileges and bestowing rank upon them that they are not qualified to exercise. His barons have neither respect not tolerance for the man, and it is anticipated that he will not be long for this life unless he mends his ways. In the meantime, he is certainly of no value to us in this affair of ours.”

“I see. Then be equally blunt about this, if you will: where will you go, should things come to pass as you predict? You must have some idea.”

Sinclair straightened his shoulders and pushed himself up from his chair, drawing himself up to his full, imposing height. “To Scotland,” he said, as though issuing a challenge.

A long silence followed his words as the admiral absorbed what he had said, weighing his words against those he had uttered mere moments earlier about England. Finally, St. Valéry exhaled loudly and exchanged an expressionless glance with Tam before turning his head towards Sir William.

“Scotland … Aye, indeed. We have a strong fraternity in Scotland.” There was no discernible hesitancy or uncertainty in the older man’s voice, and yet his words somehow conveyed both.

“Aye, we do,” Sir William said, “and it has flourished these two hundred years. Our black and white baucent has been a common sight the length and breadth of the land, most recently engaged against the English Plantagenet on behalf of the people of Scotland. We will be welcome there.”

“Aye, by our brethren in the Order, certainly. But what of this new King of theirs, this Robert … ?”

“Robert Bruce, King of Scots. I know him. He will not turn us away.”

“You know him?” St. Valéry frowned. “How so, as a friend, or as a king?”

“Need there be a difference?”

The admiral’s frown deepened in annoyance. “No, my lord Sinclair, there need not, but all too frequently there is. Kings are not ordinary men, and even I, immured in my ignorance, have heard that this new King of Scots is wild—rash and headstrong, and a sacrilegious murderer to boot, killing a man on the steps of God’s own altar.”

“Aye, Admiral, I know all that, and much of it, although not all of it, was as you say. But I know whereof I speak. The provocation was dire, and I doubt the Bruce was even aware of where he was at the time. I dare say the blow was struck and beyond recall before he even took note of his surroundings. Yet it was not a killing blow, and it was not Robert Bruce who killed the Comyn Lord of Badenoch. He stabbed him, certainly—struck him down with a dagger and then fled from the church, distraught at what had happened. But it was his men who, hearing him tell what he had done, rushed back inside and killed the Comyn. The killing was done, and there’s no denying that, but I would hesitate to call the Bruce himself a murderer.”

“You would? For the killing of a man on the steps of the altar? How can you say such a thing?”

Sir William cocked one eyebrow. “It was not I who said it, my lord Admiral. It was the Church in Scotland, in the person of Robert Wishart, the Bishop of Glasgow, with the full backing of William Lamberton, Bishop of St. Andrew’s and Primate of the Realm, who absolved Robert Bruce of the taint of murder less than a week after the event and thereafter had him crowned King of Scots. The Bruce had few possessions of his own at the time, and clothing was the least of those. He was crowned King wearing Bishop Wishart’s own ceremonial robes, lent to him by the Bishop himself for the occasion.”

He paused to let that sink home. “I would submit that no churchman, even the most venal and corrupt, would dare to align himself so openly and publicly with a man he truly suspected of the crime of murder, in a church or anywhere else.

“I would remind you of your own words, Sir Charles,” said Sir William as he crossed to sit in the armchair again. “Kings are not ordinary men … nor was this killing an ordinary matter. It was not a petty quarrel, a squabble that went wrong. It was a confrontation between two strong, proud, ambitious men, each of them jointly Lords Protector of the Realm of Scotland, each of whom believed the crown rightly belonged to him alone. Bitter, angry words led to sudden blows. One man left the chancel, and thereafter the other died.

“It was John Comyn’s supporters, one of them Pope Clement himself, who called the outcome murder at the hands of Bruce. What, I wonder, would they have called it had it been Bruce who died on the altar steps? Would John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch and the Pope’s favorite, now stand condemned? He would be King, certes, but would he be papally damned and excommunicate? Bear in mind, this is the same pope who now colludes to permit Philip Capet and de Nogaret to destroy our brotherhood. Was this pope, I wonder, less greedy and more honest last year than he is today?”

St. Valéry cleared his throat. “By your own admission, we do not really know if that is true or not, Sir William. The destruction of our brotherhood, I mean. It is merely what we have been told, and it may yet be proved false.”

“Aye, well, we will know tomorrow, beyond doubt, but I know what I believe this night.” Sir William stood up again suddenly, clapping his hands together decisively. “Robert Bruce is a true man, Sir Charles. He is young, I will grant, and he is rash and he tends to be hot-headed when provoked, which is not the greatest attribute a king may have. But he learns quickly and he never makes an error twice. Fundamentally, I trust the man and hold great hopes for him. But I firmly believe that we, our Order, may trust him. We have been strong in Scotland these two hundred years, but most recently we have been stronger than ever, in Scotland’s cause and for the King himself against the English. The Bruce will acknowledge that and give us refuge.”