Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

“Twenty thousand men, at modest count, poised to strike into Scotland. And King Robert will confront them close to Stirling, the narrowest point of their invasion route and perhaps the only spot where they might be stopped. The odds against the Bruce’s army, including those of you who choose to stand with him, will be at least four to one, and perhaps greater.”

He drew the black bag towards him, raising the flap with one hand while he reached inside with the other, and he drew out the great blazing jewel of red and white enameled metal depicting an all-seeing eye atop a pyramid that marked his rank as a member of the Governing Council of the Temple. He held it up for them to see, suspended from its heavy chain of silver links.

“I set this aside last night, in chapter, for the last time, laying down my role and rank as Knight Commander of the Temple Council. I will not wear it again because for now the Council has ceased to exist and I see no reason to replace it, since we are so few. And so I speak to you now as plain Sir William Sinclair, one of you—no more and no less. I have done my duty as prescribed, with the help of my own counselors, and all the arrangements are in place for our dispersal as a community, everything as planned, and for the good of all.

“But now I find that, as a man, I am far from happy and farther from content. I am, in fact, sick at heart. We have changed ourselves outwardly, disguising who we were. We have accepted what has been done to us, in silence and without open protest. We have been meek, and turned the other cheek, accepting undeserved shame and degradation from the hands of those we once were proud to serve. Well, I have had my fill of that!

“Pride is a sin, they tell us. But those very speakers, in their arrogance and pride and greed, have stripped us of everything that made us men and dutiful monks. So if pride be a sin, I am prepared to die in sin, rather than live in shame.”

As he stooped to his bag again, he heard a growl of discussion arising among his listeners, shockingly loud in this chamber where silence was an inviolable rule, but he ignored it, pulling out a folded square of cloth, which he shook out and held up to their eyes.

“I doubt any of you will recognize this thing, so I will tell you what it is.” He held it higher then, above his head, stretching it between both hands to show it clearly: a broad band of black forming the top half, against the lower half of purest white. “This was the first baucent to grace our banners, before we adopted the cross pattée. This was the Temple’s standard in our earliest days. It represented the choices and the changes we had made in embracing the brotherhood of our Order: the black of former ignorance replaced by the white of enlightenment. This banner symbolizes everything we were and marks the progress that we made in assuming the responsibilities of brotherhood: from darkness to light, from ignorance to awareness, from despair to hope, from ignominy to honor. A simple standard, but containing more than we ourselves could ever voice.”

He lowered his arms and stood a moment gazing at the banner, then raised it again, spreading it wide once more.

“I had this from the hand of Master de Molay himself, the last of its kind from the last of his kind. He gave it to me when we two last met, seven years ago, and bade me take good care of it and bear it with me everywhere. Look at it well, for you may never see it again. I am taking it to Stirling, to raise it in the cause of Robert Bruce. And I will go there as a Templar, fully armed and armored in my true colors—the white of knowledge and the black cross pattée of my Order’s glory. I have had enough of hiding and dissembling! Enough of skulking with a lowered head! This King in Scotland intends to make one last, defiant stand, and I am going to stand with him, in defiance of Pope and Church and Kings of France!”

The roar of approval had begun before he finished speaking, drowning out his raised voice, and he waited, motionless, his arms still high, until it had subsided.

“Will you come with me?”

This time the noise was pandemonium and the crowd began to sway as men turned from side to side to pummel each other, roaring with enthusiasm. He stood smiling, waiting, and eventually they stilled themselves again, staring at him hungrily.

“So mote it be, then. But hear me! No red crosses, for this is no crusade.” He lowered his arms, folding the baucent again with measured care, then draping it lengthwise over his left shoulder. “We will ride as Templars, knights and sergeants, in black and white, and for the last time. As who and what we are, in pride, and in defiance of all who have disowned and betrayed us. Knights to wear their white mantles, with black armor. Sergeants will wear black surcoats, with the white cross pattée. All shields, the same—white cross on black. And the same for horses’ trappings. The two stone buildings at the rear of this house contain all of those, and there is paint, both black and white, to use as required.” He eyed them now, seeing them straining like hounds at leash.

As he answered the few questions, Will was aware that the formal gathering had changed into an extended council of war, the planning of a campaign. He dealt rapidly with the timing of the matter—it was already the third week of May, the testing date of Midsummer Day mere weeks away. But everything had altered. Instead of riding piecemeal to support the Bruce as mounted individuals, they would now move as a powerful, unified force of heavy chivalry reinforced with disciplined light cavalry. Of the four weeks between now and Midsummer Day, therefore, two would be spent in renewed training on Arran, regaining their former battle skills as a single, cohesive entity. At the start of the second week of June, they would transport their various units, under the command of de l’Armentière as vice-admiral, from Arran to the mainland. Their two-day sailing route would take them up the estuary of Clyde to Dumbarton, where they would disembark and strike overland, eastward across the thirty miles to Stirling while avoiding being seen by any English forces that might be in that area. Two days at sea and four days on the march over the rough terrain between Dumbarton and Stirling: sufficient time to put them within easy reach of King Robert well before the English arrived.

He held up his hands.

“So, Brothers, it is decided, and so mote it be. We will ride as Templars once again, one final time in honor of our Order’s ancient glory, and we will make our presence seen and known, in support of the one man, the single King, who has treated us with honor and compassion, Robert Bruce, the King of this Scots realm. And if we die in what we are to do, what matters that? Our Order is already dead, and so we will but ride from death, into death. Go, then, and make yourselves ready.”

He had spoken in French, and as he fell silent one single voice, its owner unseen among the throng, took up what he had said, repeating it in measured cadence, “ From death, into death ,” and as he shouted it others joined him, until all the men assembled there were shouting it. “ From death, into death! ”

“Go, then!” Will turned and crossed to the stairs against the rear wall without looking back, and as he went he heard the sounds of moving feet as the assembly broke up, the shouted chant finally dying to silence. He had no notion that he had just witnessed, indeed initiated, the birth of a legend that would be retold down the years, the tale of how a company of unknown knights, like a deus ex machina from some improbable Greek tragedy, had swept down, in the moment of Scotland’s greatest need, to turn the tide of King Robert Bruce’s greatest battle from defeat into a glorious victory. Instead, as he climbed the stairs to the gallery above, he was thinking about wearing his armor once again, and about sending Tam Sinclair to bring Jessie to him from Lochranza.