Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

Jessie’s eyebrows shot up. “That is a wonderful idea. Balmyle advises that?”

“Well, Bishop Moray mentioned it first, and everybody agreed it was the most sensible thing to do. I will carry letters of introduction to Cardinal Archbishop Bellini in Genoa, who is a lifelong friend of Archbishop Lamberton and a firm supporter of Scotland’s cause in the papal court, and his support should win me access to the best people for my purposes.”

“When will you go?”

“As soon as I can. Immediately after the Arran gathering, I expect.”

“And how long will you be gone?”

Will twisted his mouth down at the corners. “As long as I have to be, or am made to be, but I doubt it will be much more than a month … certainly not as long as two, unless something goes far wrong. We might find what we are looking for immediately, ready and waiting to be purchased, but that may well be wishful thinking. More likely we will have to commission a vessel—or more than one, depending upon what we can afford—to be built from the keel up. If that is the case, I’ll leave de Berenger there to oversee the building and equipping of whatever we end up buying, while I return to Arran and dispatch more crewmen to handle the new craft on sailing trials. That way, they will be accustomed to the new ships before they reach home again. There is a multitude of details to be considered before ever we leave Arran, but thank God, most of those arrangements will fall into de Berenger’s arena. I’ll have much to do on my own behalf, too, of course.”

“Of course.” She was almost smiling. “So you will leave sometime during the month after next, and you will be gone for several months thereafter. Leaving in September, perhaps returning in November.”

“Correct. Why are you so curious?”

“Because November is a sullen month and you will be crossing the North Sea, the stormiest in all of Christendom. You might not even be able to get back at all by then.”

“I will, somehow. Believe me. But if it truly is impossible, why then I will remain in Genoa for the winter, to return in the spring. Young Henry would enjoy winter in Genoa, I think.”

“Henry? Henry is not going with you.”

Will cocked his head. “He is not? That surprises me—he is my squire, after all. Why, then, is he not coming with me?”

She flapped her hands at him as if he were a chicken pestering her peace. “Tut, man! Because he is not yet fit to travel—nowhere near fit enough. I will not hear of it.”

“But … but I canna just leave him here with you, Jessie. That would be unseemly—”

“Un seem ly?” The look she threw him from beneath one arched eyebrow was filled with withering scorn. “Why should it be unseemly, Will Sinclair? You said yourself he is yet but a boy. I assume you mean he is not yet a rutting bull. Think you I might debauch him in your absence?”

“Jessie!”

She flung her head high, looking down her nose at him. “ Jessie! ” she mimicked. “What do you take me for, sir?”

Will, who had never flinched from an armed assailant, quailed at her scorn, and she immediately took pity on him, her voice sinking back into its husky gentleness.

“Will, the boy is too weak to travel, so he will stay here and there’s an end of it. You have too much on your mind, too many other things to see to and arrange, for me to be encouraged to entrust you with his well-being atop all else. He will be safe enough. Today’s attack was the first such we have known since I arrived here, and I will put out the word among the other folk in the dales, and we will be ready if the like occurs again. Believe me in that.”

“I do believe you. What I cannot believe is that it will not happen again. The English at least will be back, and sooner now, rather than later. Their barons’ greed will see to that, even had Edward Bruce not set a direct challenge for their King.”

“What do you mean? I know nothing of any challenge to the English King, and Robert keeps his headstrong brother under tight rein.”

“Not tight enough,” Will growled. “I heard about it in Arbroath. It is the talk of the taverns there. The King set Edward to the siege of Stirling, months ago, thinking to keep him safely occupied in taking one of the only two Scots castles still in English hands. But instead of doing as he was bidden and tightening the siege, the gallant Earl of Carrick grew bored and played the headstrong, thoughtless fool, as usual. He chose the route of chivalry, ignoring the fact that his brother has fought a war of brigandage these past eight years, scorning English chivalry and chivalrous battles in favor of the savage and effective style of the late William Wallace.”

“In God’s name, what did he do?”

“He negotiated a truce with Moubray, the English governor of Stirling Castle, the terms of which will be an iron gauntlet flung in England’s face. Robert is furious, but helpless. The damage is done.”

“What were his terms, in God’s name?”

“A year’s truce, to be concluded by the surrender of the castle next Midsummer Day in the event it is not relieved.”

“In the—? Dear God in Heaven! The man must be mad.”

“Mad as a rabid stoat.”

“He has given England a year to raise an army.”

“Worse than that. He has given Edward of England a cause to rally his mutinous barons and end the civil war that has kept him useless. He has caused affront to the very honor of every Englishman who thinks himself superior to the Scots. Edward Bruce has guaranteed a new invasion, and this house of yours sits squarely on the only route to Scotland’s west.”

Jessie said nothing more for a long time, but as Will watched her, she squared her shoulders and finally tossed her head. “Aye, well, perhaps it does,” she said defiantly. “But that’s another perfectly sound reason for taking me with you when you sail away to your new land.”

There was the merest hint of humor in her gaze, despite the gravity of threat he had outlined, but the unapologetic bluntness of her effrontery took his breath away again, making nonsense of his resolve to accept her forthrightness in future. He could only gape at her, aware his mouth was hanging open but unable to do anything about it, so that she snorted with inelegant laughter. “Your wits, Will Sinclair! Gather them up, for I fear you’re in danger of losing them. That was a jest. I was but toying with you.”

He swallowed hard. “A strange time to jest,” he muttered. “And a stranger topic on which to do it. Forgive me, my lady, I am ill accustomed to women and their humor, as you know, so you have me at a disadvantage … So much so, in fact, that I find myself wondering how often you have toyed with me before, without my knowledge or suspicion.”

“So I am to be ‘my lady’ again, am I?” She shook her head, exasperated. “Och, Will, I wouldna toy with you unkindly, and sure, the tidings here are dire, but sometimes we have to laugh at ourselves and at the Fates or go mad altogether. Forgive me. It’s simply that you can be so … so predictable at times that I canna resist the urge to make your eyes go wide like that.” She rose to her feet and looked towards the door. “I wonder if the house is settling back to normal yet. If ye’ll permit me a moment, I’ll return directly.”

He stood and pushed back his shoulders while she was gone, and looked about the room, and he became aware all at once of how dark it had grown and how cool the air was, even though the outside of the house yet basked in warm, late-July afternoon sunshine.

Jessie came back into the room and returned to her chair, waving Will down into his own as she did so. “Hector will send food in a little while, but in the meantime you are still wearing your armor.” She smiled at him. “I know you are accustomed to wearing it at all times, but it makes me feel confined merely to look at you.”