Jack Whyte: Order in Chaos

“Hmm. What of the knights commanding them?”

“Five of them, Your Grace, all but one killed. The fifth one fled back the way they had come. The fight was straightforward, but it cost us nigh on half a day when all was said and done.”

“And kept six hundred fresh Englishmen from striking at our flanks from the westward. How many were with you?”

“Sixty knights, Sire, and half as many again of lighter cavalry.”

At the rear of the room a door creaked open, and everyone turned to see Bishop Moray entering, clutching a document. He nodded to the King and, with a muttered word of apology, held up the document to Archbishop Lamberton, beckoning with a finger. The Archbishop grunted an apology and rose to his feet, then followed Moray to a far corner of the room, where they stood close, murmuring quietly.

King Robert looked back at Will. “So, a hundred and fifty men against six hundred.” Will shook his head, his mouth quirking. “A hundred mounted Templars, Your Grace. Small odds.”

“Hmm. True. But I was thinking more of the advance you led later. Whence came that army? I know who they were, but how did you conscript them?”

Will grinned again, broadly this time. “From your own camp, Sire. They were hostlers and wagoners, grooms, cooks and pot boys, even women—but brave, all of them. They thought us English when we first approached, and would have stood against us to protect your back, despite the certainty that they would all be killed against a force like ours. Then, when we had identified ourselves as Templars, there to fight alongside Your Grace, they told us the battle was already joined, beyond the hill that sheltered them, along the high road to Stirling and the vale of the Bannock Burn. And hearing that, one of my men, a kinsman of mine called Tam Sinclair, was inspired to say we should use them as they had first attempted to appear to us, as fighters. We quickly formed them up into ranks and blocks, pillaged some of your own banners from the wagon train, furbished them further with some of our own, and then had them march behind us as we advanced over the hill.”

“Aye. We all noticed your arrival—have no doubt of that. Accidental the timing might have been, but it was fortuitous and Heaven sent. The sight of your advance up there, a mass of black and white chivalry, an army of Templars when no Templars could be there, was like … what was it the Archbishop said? Like an oncoming host of avenging angels. And that’s what it was—an intervention from Heaven. It gave new heart to our own men and kicked the guts out of the English. They were in dire straits already by that time, God knows, ploutering about in that killing bog, but the sight of a new army coming down on them panicked them completely, and they broke. When you bring your squire to me tomorrow, see you that you bring this kinsman, too, this Tam Sinclair. Scotland, it seems, owes much to his quick thinking. Would knighthood suit him, think you?”

“Suit him! Tam? My lord, he has been with me since I was a boy, and is an honorable and worthy knight in everything but name. But Tam is not of noble birth.”

“That recks nothing nowadays. William Wallace was knighted on his merits, not on his birth. Why not this champion of yours? If it was his idea to conscript the camp followers, then he has all the initiative and insight required for knighthood. Will he, too, go with you to this new land of yours?”

Will’s mind was agog as he thought of the effect this unexpected honor would have on his unassuming kinsman. “That he will, Your Grace,” he said, knowing now that he was speaking to everyone there. “He and nigh on two hundred others. But if I may speak more on this, Sire, there is no uncertainty in any of our minds in this venture. We know the land is there. Admiral St. Valéry found it, God rest his soul, and sent word of it home to us. And this time, when we arrive there, we will have friends awaiting us, to welcome us. And we will make the most of what we find and send word of it back here to you. That will be when young Sir Henry Sinclair returns, triumphant, as my messenger to you, to take up his barony from your hands, and to make preparations for another, larger expedition.”

The King placed his hands over his face and drew his fingers downwards until his fingertips came to rest against the end of his nose. He sat blinking into the space above the fire for a few moments, then nodded. “So be it. There is nothing I can do to persuade you to stay here. Your men are French, and free. When will you leave?”

“As soon as the winter storms die down, Your Grace. April, or early May.”

“Can you be ready by then?”

“We are ready now, my lord.”

“Hmm … You should go there as a baron. There are people living there you say, aside from your own? If so, they will have kings.”

“They have no kings, Your Grace. Or none that our people found.”

Robert Bruce looked at Will wearily now, and twisted up his face. “You were a Templar, Will—you ought to know better than to say such things. Where men gather, there will always be kings, and others who want to be kings. It is human nature. Men breed kings, no matter what they name them. So be you careful in your new land … What is it called again?”

“Merica, Your Grace.”

“Aye, Merica. A strange name, and it sounds ancient, not new at all.” He pulled himself upright and flexed his shoulders. “A long day … and your wedding day. You should be abed by now, holding your wife, as I should mine. But you can go and do that now, whereas I still have work in hand here. A good night to you then, Sir William Sinclair, and may you prosper in all you undertake.” He smiled and extended his hand. “This realm is in your debt, my friend, accident or no. So go now. We will speak tomorrow.”

“Sire, if I may?” Archbishop Lamberton approached the fire again and held up one hand as if to detain Will. “I need to say one more thing about your charge, Sir William.”

Will shook his head. “No, Master Lamberton, you do not, for I know what you would say. This charge of ours at the Bannock Burn was a final act of pride in what we once were, so I presume you are going to tell me that there will be a formal denial of any Templar involvement in the battle.”

The Archbishop smiled. “No, Sir William, no. There will be no denials made. How could we deny it? Men saw what they saw, and there were many there that day. Thus, no denial, though we might, in time to come, omit your presence from our final records, stating that the appearance on the Hill of Coxet was, as you have told us, an army of camp followers. An omission, therefore, made in polity, but no denial. I merely thought to put your mind at rest and offer you some solace in the knowledge that the men you leave behind when you depart this realm will know no hardship or impediment when you are gone, for Scotland owes them much.

They may continue as before, observing the rites and rituals they wish to preserve, in secrecy, within the boundaries of Scotland. That I can assure you, on my word as Primate of the realm.” He paused. “You will be taking representatives of Holy Church with you, will you not?”

Will met the Archbishop’s glance squarely, feeling a tension in his jaw as he nodded. “Aye my, lord. Our own bishops and clerical brethren sail with us, prepared to tend to our souls and bring the Word of God to the people we find living there.”

He did not enjoy lying to the churchman, even obliquely, but he could give no hint that the Word of God his people would bring to the new land would be different from that preached by the Catholic Church. The bishops and clerics to whom he referred were all brothers of the Order of Sion, and in their new land the Truth that would be spread was the truth of the ancient fraternity: the Way to communion with God, as pursued by the man Jesus and his friends of the Jerusalem Assembly.