Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

She stared at him for a long moment. “Not with us , Will. With you .”

He blinked. “You need to move away from here, I ha’e no doubt of that, but coming with us is nonsense. The place where we are heading is unknown, Jessie, it is—”

“What, dangerous? Savage? Wild? Filled with perils and uncertainty, with savage, brutal men on every hand looking to ravage, steal, despoil, kill, and destroy? It will be nothing at all like the douce and placid land we live in now, will it? Nothing like this civilized Scotland. Is that what you were going to say?”

“No, it wasna that—”

“Good then, for I would rather live in the uncertainty of your unknown Merica than live here in the sure and certain knowledge of being killed and in the foolish, hopeless hope that my death, when it does come, will be swift and painless.” She inhaled sharply. “In God’s name, Will Sinclair, where will I go if I leave here and do not go with you to your Merica?”

“To Arran. We have room for you there. You will be safe in Lochranza Castle, and all your people.”

“Lochranza Castle.” She almost spat the words. “And when you sail away, what then? The lord there is Menteith.”

“Not now. He is disgraced.”

“ He may be, but the place is a Menteith fief and I will have no safety there. Take me with you, Will.”

“I cannot.”

“Why not, in God’s name? Will you be taking priests with you?”

His eyes widened. “I hadna thought to. That will be no place for clerics. Even then, all our surviving clerics stand excommunicate, like the rest of us. But then again … a few good men, sound of wind and limb and trusted by the brethren. Aye, we’ll take a few who once were priests.”

“Good. Then one of them can marry us.”

“ Marry us? I—” He stared at her, then drew his hand down his face, pressing hard as though smoothing out the wrinkles.

She watched him tensely as he turned his face away from her, his eyes screwed shut, his wide shoulders stiffening as though in outrage. But then his shoulders slumped and he turned back to her.

“I was on the point of telling you I am a monk,” he said calmly, “but that’s another nonsense. I am not a monk, not now. They stole that from me when they took my life and spat on it. Now I am a man—no more, no less.”

“You are a knight. No one can take that from you.”

“True, lass, and I am well aware of it. But I remain a man. And a man, after all is said and done, with little to offer anyone, God knows. But as for being goodman, husband …” He sucked in a great breath. “Would you … Are you truly offering to wed me … be my wife?”

He saw the flush rise in her face before she answered. “Wife, helpmeet, companion, concubine—whatever God sends us. Aye, Will Sinclair, and gladly.” She held up one hand and grinned. “Even adviser, should the need for such arrive in your new land, and should you require a woman’s common sense.”

A solemn stillness settled as they sat back in their two chairs, gazing at each other in the glow of the embers that had flared and crackled such a short time before.

“Adviser …” Will smiled more easily than she could ever recall. “Now there is a new idea. A woman advising a Templar knight, and through him a Templar community. Changes, indeed!”

“But only should you see such a need arise, in a new world.”

“Of course … But let me test you, as both woman and adviser. Give me some advice.”

“Now? On what?”

“You said tonight I have learned to listen. Well, I am listening now, and I have sufficient respect for you that I have no doubt you hold opinions on some things that I should do. Therefore I am asking you, sincerely, for your advice.”

Again they sat quiet, eyeing each other.

The man has just spoken to me openly of marriage. I would be a fool to risk that gain by saying something he might gauge as foolish for any of a score of reasons. And what could I tell him, anyway?

He was waiting patiently, and she noted that as another significant change in him. But when he raised a questioning eyebrow she spoke, surprising herself.

“The matter of Genoa. You intend to go, but do you need to?”

He pulled back his head and drew in his chin, and she was distracted for a moment by the columnar strength of his neck, and by the time she looked at his eyes he was already frowning.

“Do I need to go? Of course I do. I have business there, purchases to make.”

“I know the purchases have to be made, but must you be the one to make them? Could not Sir Edward make them on his own? The Archbishop’s letter of introduction could as easily be made for him as for you, could it not?”

“Aye, it could, but—”

“Tell me this, then. In the buying of these ships, however many there may be, will you make the decisions on design, size, and construction, or will you seek Sir Edward’s advice?”

“I would seek his advice, of course.”

“Of course you would, so let me ask you this. Would you trust this man with your life?”

“De Berenger? Wholeheartedly. I already have, with all our lives, your own included. He is my admiral.”

“The guardian, keeper, shepherd, and captain of your fleet. Then why would you not entrust him with the mission to Genoa? You have overmuch to occupy you at home on Arran, and ships are Edward’s life. He knows seagoing vessels and all their requirements the way you know and love the things you do that make you what you are—leading your squadrons of horse, training your men, administering your community, planning campaigns. And by your own admission, this journey to Genoa will take months, perhaps even half a year, depending on the weather. What will you do if Edward of England invades before you can finish what you hope to achieve on Arran?”

She fell silent, and he slouched sideways in his chair, one elbow on the arm in a position she had long since come to recognize as signaling consideration of a problem, his thumb hooked beneath his chin and the knuckle of his first finger pressed against his upper lip. His eyes were steadfast, drilling into her. She began to count silently, gazing back at him and schooling her face to be as unreadable as his own, but she lost her count in the second hundred, distracted by some random thought, and still he stared at her. She had never realized how big he was. He had always seemed enormous, bulked and bound in heavy metal that provided its own size, but now that he was unharnessed and wearing her late husband’s clothes, she could see the depth and breadth of chest, the width of shoulders, and the thick column of his neck, with an errant wisp of hair curling at the neck of his shirt. She kept her eyes unwaveringly on his upper body, daring not to look at his thighs.

“I should have started listening to you years ago, Jess.”

A rush of gooseflesh made her shudder when he used that name, and she felt her heart bound.

“You’re right,” he continued, more to himself than to her, she supposed. “It is foolish for me even to think about going to Genoa when de Berenger can do everything by himself. He has no need of me. My place is in Arran. No doubt of that. I must get back there, quickly. De Berenger knows what we need better than I do. And he may know better than either you or me the value of your hoard of gold.” He looked straight at her now. “And that’s another thing. That chest is too awkward for easy concealment. It’s too conspicuous and far too heavy. It would draw other people’s interest the way a rose draws bees, and that’s the last thing we need. So tomorrow we will split the gold into smaller parts, easier to carry, easier to hide. Do you have leather bags?”

“Small ones, suitable for coins? No …” She shook her head, then brightened. “But we have three old leather tents, in one of the sheds. We used to use them to cover the threshing floor, and they are old and moldy, but they are sound enough to be cut up into pieces, to make strong drawstring bags. I can set someone to that task tomorrow.”