Jack Whyte: Order in Chaos

St. Valéry grunted. “Does Jacques de Molay know you intend to go to Scotland?”

The Scots knight hesitated. “No, sir, he does not, although, to be truthful, I suspect he might anticipate my going there. But we did not speak of it, and the name of Scotland was never mentioned between us. Master de Molay left the choice of finding sanctuary to me and made no attempt to influence my judgment. It is my belief that he himself is not really convinced that the events we are preparing for here will actually take place. He is hoping the warnings that have come to us are false, but as a prudent warden, he has taken steps to avoid the worst of outcomes. In the event that tomorrow proves to be the day we have been warned against, he told me that God will make clear to me where I should go when the time is right, and he instructed me to require of you, as I have now done, that you hold yourself prepared, with all your fleet, to safeguard my flight.”

“But … ? I hear a ‘but’ in your tone.”

“Aye, you do. It is my own belief the Master had no wish to know my destination. In ignorance of that, I think he believes he could not divulge it under torture.”

“Torture! Torture the Grand Master of the Order of the Temple? They would never dare commit such an outrage. The Pope would condemn them publicly.”

Sir William’s expression did not change. “The Pope, Sir Charles, will do whatever Philip Capet requires of him. Philip made him pope. He can unmake him just as quickly. And as for outrages and condemnation, de Nogaret already stands excommunicate for having kidnapped the last pope at King Philip’s behest. The old pope died of that outrage, but de Nogaret does not seem to be unduly inconvenienced by the consequences.”

They sat silent for a moment, and then Sir William spoke again.

“What will you do about the Englishman, Admiral? The assassin Godwinson.”

“Do about him? He will be brought to justice, condemned for murder.”

“When? And by whom, my lord? Come dawn, de Nogaret will set him free, and Godwinson will laugh as our own men file past him into his present cell. Little justice there, it seems to me.”

The admiral turned a little paler. He sat blinking for a moment and then shook his head in bewilderment. “What would you have me do, then? Kill him out of hand? That would be murder.”

“No, Sir Charles, I would merely remind you of your own words spoken earlier. As a member of the Governing Council, I hold higher rank than you. Thus the responsibility for such decisions is mine, not yours.”

“And what will you do?”

“I will see justice done. And I will do it now, tonight. I should have done it earlier. Godwinson forfeited his life when he left Paris with this deed in mind, and to allow him to evade just punishment would be a travesty. Tam, gather our men who witnessed what occurred in here and bring them to the cells. I’ll join you there.”

Tam nodded and left without a word, leaving the two senior men alone.

“You really intend to do this, to kill the man?” St. Valéry’s question was matter-of-fact.

“What option have I, Sir Charles? To let him live to boast about his triumph? You may wait here, if you so wish. No need for you to see this. We have sufficient witnesses to bear testimony to the man’s crimes.”

The admiral stood up and arranged his mantle carefully, then stepped forward to Sir William and did the same for the younger knight, adjusting the white garment so that it hung perfectly, the emblem of the Order pristine upon the left breast. He stepped back and examined his efforts critically, and then nodded, satisfied. “Good. And now I will bear witness with the rest of your tribunal. I owe it to Arnold’s memory and to his lingering soul. Lead on, Sir William.”

FOUR

The judicial proceedings did not take long. Tam Sinclair and his sergeants were waiting at the entrance to the cells when Sir William and the admiral arrived, and Tam led the way into the gallery lined with individual cells, those on the left equipped with solid, iron-studded wooden doors with tiny inset grilles, and those on the right open cages, with thick iron bars on three sides and a solid stone wall at the rear. Godwinson was in one of the latter, sitting in deep shadow on the edge of a narrow wooden bunk and shackled hand and foot. His two guards sprang to attention and backed away as Sir William, St. Valéry, and their companions entered and then grouped together, looking into the prisoner’s barred cage. The Englishman grinned at them and spat sullenly.

“Come to gloat, have you? Gloat away, then, and be damned to you. But don’t take too long about it, for I won’t be here much longer.” He spoke in French but he was unmistakably English, his broad-voweled accent butchering the French words.

Sir William ignored the man after his first glance and looked about the space between the cells. It was a narrow, dark, windowless coffin of a place, with a high, peaked roof of red clay tiles over bare rafters, and it was filled with chill drafts that would, Sir William knew, keep it cold and dank even in the heat of summer. The walls were bare, uneven stone, chinked with plaster or dried mud, and the only furnishings were a long, narrow table of plain wood, three chairs, and a smoldering charcoal brazier set on a stone slab against the wall by one end of the table.

He crossed to the brazier and examined it, ignoring the awestruck silence of the two garrison guards. The charcoal had burned past its prime, and a hard, brittle crust of cinders covered the glowing ashes beneath. Behind him, Godwinson was still ranting, his raucous voice sounding more and more guttural as his diatribe grew more intense. Sir William picked up one of the iron pokers from its place by the fire basket and thrust it through the crust of clinker, breaking the carapace and sending up a shower of sparks. He stirred the embers hard, churning them into a sullen mass of flames, then left that poker in the fire and grasped the second one, forcing it into the burning embers beside its twin. That done, he hoisted up the guards’ bucket of fresh charcoal, using both hands to tip it forward and fill the brazier with fresh fuel, and as he did so, Admiral St. Valéry stepped beside him.

“What are you doing, Sir William?”

“I am remaking the fire, Sir Charles. It is cold tonight, and this place is drafty. Can you not feel it?” He moved away, to the front of Godwinson’s cell, where he crossed his arms over his chest, tucked in his chin, and then stood silently, staring at the raging man on the other side of the cage’s bars.

It seemed to take a long time before Godwinson realized that his rage and scorn were making no impression on the tall, white-robed knight who was obviously the one in charge of this party, but eventually his ravings died away and he sneered contemptuously at Sir William, who gazed back at him stonily, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts. Then, just as the silence in the high, dark chamber approached the absolute, he stalked away again, towards the table.

“Bring him out here.”

Godwinson fought strongly as they laid hands on him, but he was shackled and his struggles were useless against the six men who picked him up bodily and carried him out to where Sir William now sat at one end of the long table, his hands flat on the boards in front of him.

“Sit him there,” the knight said, pointing to the chair at the table’s other end. “Wrap his chains around the chair legs, lest he try to rise.”

Once again, Godwinson was powerless to resist, and quickly accepted it as two sergeants knelt by his sides and looped his leg chains around the legs of his chair. As soon as they had finished, however, he spoke to Sir William, his heavy voice filled with disdain.