Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

“Who are you, whoreson? I promise you—”

“Stifle him.”

Tam had been standing by with a piece of filthstained, wrinkled cloth in his hands, awaiting this command, and now he ripped the cloth in two, wadding one piece and forcing it into the Englishman’s mouth before tying it in place with the other half.

William Sinclair sat forward, resting his weight on his elbows, his chin on his raised fists. “Now, Englishman, listen to me. That man there,” he said, pointing to St. Valéry, “is the other man you came to kill tonight. Sir Charles de St. Valéry, Admiral of the Temple Fleet. You failed, failed even to wound him, and your master will not be pleased by that. But you succeeded in killing his oldest friend, the preceptor of this commandery, a man who was a hundred times more worthy of life than you have ever been. You murdered him, and every man here will bear witness to that. And you shot down two garrison guards, also brothers of the Temple. For any one of those, you deserve death, and were I your sole judge you would die here and now.

“For reasons of his own, however, Admiral St. Valéry does not wish me to kill you out of hand.”

He was watching Godwinson closely and saw the man’s eyes widen involuntarily as hope surged into him with the realization that he was not to die this night, for if he could survive the night, he knew he would walk free come the dawn. Sir William took grim satisfaction in stepping on that newborn hope before it could burgeon. He sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his breast again.

“I have fought men among the Turkish Sultan’s Mamelukes who know more of honor than you do, Englishman. Heathens they may be, and beyond redemption, but at least they fight in defense and belief of their God and his false prophet. Your only inspiration is greed.” He saw the assassin’s eyes narrow down to slits.

“Do you really think de Nogaret expected you to survive this day’s events? That would make you a fool, as well as a murderer. And do you think he will welcome you back, knowing you failed in what he set you to do? William de Nogaret is a hard man, Englishman. He will not raise a hand to help you now.

“Oh, I know …” Sinclair held up one hand, palm outward. “I know he will be here tomorrow. At dawn. I know that.” He saw consternation blossom in the Englishman’s eyes, but he kept talking, spacing his words evenly and allowing each thing he said to register before he said more. “But how think you he will react when he discovers that the admiral yet lives, and that the fleet is at anchor offshore, out of his clutches? Will he be happy with you?

“Of course, you may tell him that I arrived here in time to thwart you, and that I was aware of the festering plot he has dreamed up with the Capetian King and had come to remove the fleet from their greasy grasp. But will he take the time to listen, Godwinson? Will he let you speak?

“If he does, then I would wish you to tell him that I, William Sinclair, Knight of the Temple and member of the Order’s Inner Circle, have removed the fleet from France, and with it the fabled Templar’s Treasure for which he and his malevolent master lust so avidly. I would wish you to tell him that from me, and I would also wish you joy of his reward for your faithful service.”

Sir William stood up then, aware that Godwinson’s eyes were very different now above the gag that stifled him, and tipped his chair forward so that its back rested against the table’s end.

“Of course, that is only what I would wish, if I believed you would be able to tell him anything. Hear me now, assassin, for I am passing judgment on you, in my capacity as senior member of our noble Order and duly witnessed by these assembled here. You are thrice condemned for foul and cowardly murder, carried out under the concealment of the robes of this Order, which adds blasphemy to your crimes. At the request of Sir Charles de St. Valéry you may live on, but you will never thank us for that. You will never kill a man again, Godwinson, unless you choose to kill yourself. And you will never speak to anyone, ever, of what you did this day.”

He turned to Tam. “Hold him steady. Now, two of you seize the manacle chains and pull his arms straight, towards me. Good. Now tie the slack around the back of this chair. Make the chains secure.”

In moments, Godwinson was stretched face down along the table, incapable of struggling, his hands secured against the chair at one end, his feet restrained by the chair he was in. Sinclair’s face remained expressionless as he turned to one of his veteran sergeants, pointing to the heavy battle-axe that hung as always from the man’s belt and then extending his hand to receive it.

The sergeant fumbled at his belt and unclipped the weapon. Sinclair took it with a nod, testing its edge with the ball of his thumb. From the table, Godwinson began to moan, stifled by his gag and knowing what was coming. Sinclair pressed his lips together, and then intoned, “For the triple crime of murder you will lose the hands that killed. For the heinous sin of plotting those same murders, you will lose the tongue that accepted the task and thereby sealed your fate. So mote it be.”

The two heavy, chopping blows from the razor-sharp axe silenced Godwinson’s muffled screams.

“There are irons in the fire. Cauterize the stumps. Quickly. Now remove the gag.” He laid the axe down and drew the dagger from his belt, then bent down to open the unconscious man’s mouth and insert the point of his knife.

A moment later, he straightened up again, his face white, his mouth a lipless line. “Take him to the surgeons, as quickly as you may. And carry him face downward, lest he choke on his own blood.” He dropped his dagger into the heart of the fire in the brazier, then wiped his bloody fingers on the cloth of the maimed man’s gag.

“So mote it be,” he said again, mouthing the Templars’ ancient invocation, and then he turned and walked from the cell block.

FIVE

“Sir William!”

Sir William stopped on the threshold of the Day Room.“I have summoned de Berenger and de Montrichard,” said the admiral, hurrying towards him, “but I want to talk with you before they come. So if you will wait for me in the Day Room, I shall be but a moment.”

St. Valéry vanished into another doorway, and before Sinclair even had time to settle into a chair by the fire in the Day Room, the admiral had returned, clutching a plain, shiny black bottle and a pair of small glass tumblers. He set down the glasses and poured two measures of liquid into them, measuring them with a squinting eye.

“Here, I want you to taste this … It is a wonderful elixir, but I have to keep it safely hidden, lest it tempt my brethren. God knows, I have been tempted by it myself on a few occasions, and Arnold, may God rest his noble soul, had a marked taste for it. Sit you down. Sit anywhere, but choose a soft chair. We have very few of those, but that one over there, I’m told, is very comfortable. Pull it up to the fire.”

He picked up the brimming tumblers and brought them to Sinclair. “Here, drink. You will find it interesting.”

Sir William, wordless, took the proffered glass and raised it to his lips, but at the first taste from it, he broke into a fit of coughing.

The admiral chuckled. “Aye. Careful now, don’t spill it! It is a fiery potion, is it not? Made by the Benedictines in their abbey not far east of here. But persevere with it. The burning does not last, and I find that the essence is calming in times of severe stress. And as God is my judge, Sir William, I have seldom seen anyone more in need of calming than you are at this moment. You’re wound tight as a windlass. Drink, drink more.”