Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

“Years ago, when I was first crowned King and had to flee into the hills after the Methven fight, in what I now can see to be the bleakest, grimmest period of our struggle, a lady came to me from France bearing great wealth from her own estates, to give it to me on behalf of Scotland. Wondrous and, at that moment, seemingly miraculous gifts. Chests of royal treasure when our coffers held none—coin and ingots, gold and silver that sustained me, sustained all of us, throughout those few dark years.” He raised a solitary finger. “Few of you here assembled know her, but she is our bride today, and she deserves all our goodwill and our gratitude.” He raised his hands commandingly to quell the rising murmur of comment and curiosity, and when he had their attention again he continued.

“Her goodman stands beside her in our esteem, blessed and joined to her in matrimony this very day by our good Archbishop here, and he is another unknown to most of you. But believe me when I tell you all that he is one of—and perhaps the foremost among—the true heroes of Bannock Burn, for it was he who led the unexpected charge that day, the charge of chivalry that breasted the Coxet Hill and threw the English into panic and confusion, thinking they had to face a second, new Scots army.”

He waited for the buzz to die down, then spoke again, in a driving, rhythmic flow that held his listeners spellbound. “Had it not been for this man and his companions, for the perfect timing and surprise of their charge at the head of a new army that was no army at all, we might have lost the fight at the Bannock Burn. But come he did, and so we won the day, wreaking a storm upon the English that they will not soon forget and sending them home with their tails between their legs, lacking the flower of their vaunted chivalry and leaving us with prisoners for ransom sufficient to keep us in food and weapons—and in peace—for years to come.

“This man, too, is with us here tonight, from France, but a Scots knight, both namesake and nephew to our own beloved William Sinclair, Bishop of Dunkeld.”

He paused dramatically, and beckoned to Will and Jessie to come forward, and then raised his voice almost to a shout. “Scotland! Join me in bidding welcome to our newest and fairest bridal couple. Sir William and Lady Jessica Sinclair of Roslin!”

The crowd erupted into a storm of applause, with more and more people turning around as it became clear that Will and Jessie were approaching from the rear, along the length of the central aisle. And as Will felt his wife’s fingernails digging into the crook of his elbow, approaching the royal dais and the welcoming, applauding party there, his mind flashed back over all the years and grand occasions since his knighthood, and he could not remember ever having felt so proud or so grateful for his lot.

TWO

Later, hours later, after a long and wonderful evening of which he remembered very little other than his total enjoyment of being there and experiencing it as a married man, Will sat at ease in front of a roaring fire in a small, tapestry-hung room with the King of Scots and a few of his closest friends. None of them was drinking, for they were there ostensibly to discuss matters of state. The Queen and her ladies had all retired, and Jessie had left with them, after whispering to her husband, with sharp, warning nails on the inside of his wrist, that although she knew he had to spend time speaking with the King, he had better not forget that this was his wedding night, because she would be waiting hungrily for him.

Will smiled contentedly, aware that in the armchair next to his the King sat staring into the fire, his chin propped on one fist. On Will’s other side, Douglas and Randolph were speaking quietly together, while beyond the King, Lamberton, Angus Og, and one of the other Gaelic chiefs—MacNeil, Will thought—seemed to be talking earnestly and with great solemnity about a possible new Bishopric of the Isles. Balmyle, an old man, had retired long since, and the two other bishops, Moray and Dunkeld, had gone about some business of the King’s.

Will straightened his back, and as he did so the King spoke to him.

“I have been meaning all evening to ask you how you were able to time your arrival so perfectly that afternoon.”

“To time it?” Will found it easy to smile and be himself with Robert Bruce, since first meeting him on Arran, masquerading as an ordinary knight. The man addressing him now might well be the fearsome and renowned King of Scots, his stature already approaching legendary size, but in person he remained the same soft-spoken, pleasant, but incisive man of that first meeting. “To time it … Aye …” His smile widened to a grin. “Well, Sire, it ill behooves me to—”

“ Sire? ” Bruce tilted his head to look at Will directly, one eyebrow raised. “You have not called me Sire save the once, when first you came to our land. Whence comes it now?”

Will hesitated, taken aback. “Well—it was …” He snatched a deep breath. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I could not do so, in the past. Not as long as … as long as I held true to my vows as a Templar. But the Temple is no more, and now I am free to lay my allegiance where I choose.”

“Ask me not to forgive you, Will Sinclair. There’s nothing to forgive. So now you offer your allegiance to me freely?”

“Aye, my lord, and willingly.”

“Accepted, then, though I have never doubted it. It comes to me you would be a fine Baron of Roslin. What say you to that, Archbishop? Should not our faithful friend here be awarded the estates and title of a barony for his services?”

The Archbishop, interrupted, leaned forward and looked at Will, his lips curling up at one corner in a tiny smile. “Apparently not, I should say, judging by his reaction.”

The King, who had not been looking at Will as the Archbishop spoke, now swung back to him. “What, man? You are ghost white. Have I offended you?”

Will managed to shake his head, raising his hand in a silent plea for patience and waiting for Bruce to grow angry, but the King showed only good humor, smiling in disbelief. “What is it, then?”

“Forgive—Pardon me, Sire, your offer took me unawares, but I have no wish to be a baron. That rank, should you bequeath it, should be held by my nephew, young Henry Sinclair.”

The King laughed, slapping a knee in his delight. “You would turn down a barony and give it to someone else? Who is this paragon and why do I not know him?”

Will felt his face flushing. “You do, Your Grace. He is my squire.”

“Your squire? The boy who was wounded? He’s but a lad. I cannot dispose a barony upon a squire , Will.”

“I know, Sire, but the barony of Roslin should be his, by right of birth. And he is due to undergo knighthood, and well deserving of it.”

“Then I will knight him with my own hand, upon your word. Bring him to me tomorrow and we will make the arrangements. But he is yet far too young to be a baron.”

“I know that, Sire. But he will grow quickly. The lad who leaves with me for our new land will return to you a man, and worthy of the honor.”

“So … you yet intend to seek this new and fabled land?”

“Not fabled, Sire. We know now it is there. But yes, I do, with Your Grace’s permission.”

“You have that, though I could use you better here in Scotland. But how will you get there? Have you the ships?”

“We do, Sire. Four new ships, built in Genoa.”

“And what of your new wife? Will you leave her behind?”

Will grinned. “Only in death, Your Grace. Jessie will come with me, as will two score and more of others, wives and mothers to my men.”

“Hmm … And so, it seems, would my niece, young Marjorie. She came to me today and all but threw herself at my feet, begging my permission to accompany your wife on this venture of yours. What think you of that?”