Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

“Mary, Mother of God!” No one so much as glanced at St. Valéry when he breathed the words.

De Berenger made a face. “It makes perfect sense now, even though it didn’t seem to make much at the time … I believe now that the Jewish arrests last year were a rehearsal for what is to take place tomorrow. There is not the slightest doubt of it in my mind.” He nodded his head slowly and deliberately. “The Grand Master’s warning is genuine, and he does not exaggerate the peril in which we stand. This thing has been long in the planning, but it has been done before. I think tomorrow will be a day of much terror and upheaval for our Order.”

He sat up straighter. “I am not suggesting that we will see slaughter in the streets, nor am I accepting that this will be or even could be the end of us. We are a military and religious order, when all is said and done, not a scattering of disconnected and defenseless Jews, so we will survive this travesty with more success than they were able to achieve. Besides, we have numbers on our side—not overwhelmingly so, but perhaps adequately—and we have our history of service, which is exemplary. Interference and interruption of our affairs may come out of tomorrow’s doings, but I seriously doubt there can be any chance of the total dissolution of our Order. Not even Pope Clement, weak vessel though he be, would countenance such a barefaced travesty.”

The Baroness spoke again, her voice cold. “Pope Clement will countenance whatever he is told to countenance. He is every bit as much Philip’s creature as is de Nogaret, but he is worse, weaker and even more dangerous, because he fears for his own position. Therefore you must look for no help from him. Before Philip himself elevated him to the papacy, Clement was plain Bernard de Bot, an obscure nonentity who had somehow managed to have himself appointed Archbishop of Bordeaux. Philip found him there and promoted him because de Bot was known even then to be a greedy weakling, much given to vanity and flattery, and easily manipulated. He was greatly over-fond of worldly honors and recognition, and was notorious for his procrastination, so timorous and spineless that he would rather crawl a hundred miles on his belly than make a firm decision. He will offer you neither assistance nor hope, believe me, for he lives in terror of being un-poped by Philip.”

De Berenger shook his head. “Even were we to believe that implicitly, my lady, it would matter little in the long term. And the long term is what we must look to here. It may take months or even years for this matter to go through whatever kind of arbitration may be arranged, and in the meantime it may hit our coffers hard, but our holy Order will survive. It would be insanity to think otherwise. There will be—must be—some kind of resolution eventually, some form of reparation, and when—”

“Reparation? Spare me your arrogant and silly male certainty, sir!” Jessie’s face flushed with sudden, flaring anger, and de Berenger sat back, as open-mouthed as the others, none of whom had ever witnessed such behavior from a woman.

“Have you not listened to a word I’ve said? In God’s holy name, when will you people learn that you are not dealing with men hidebound by the concept of honor like yourselves? You call yourselves men of goodwill, and believe all others must be just like you. Men of honor and goodwill! Pah! This King believes himself ordained by God . He believes himself God’s Anointed, incapable of being wrong or doing wrong. He has no honor, as you think of it, and no goodwill or any need of it. God save us all from the blindness of men of honor!

“The man is desperate , see you! He is consumed and driven by the need for money . It is all he ever thinks of and all he ever strives for. He is mired in debt and his treasury is a bottomless pit. He will tax, take, steal, snatch, and tear funds from the hands of anyone and everyone he suspects of having money or of hiding it. His greed and his needs are insatiable, and he believes that God understands his needs completely and has given him carte blanche to satisfy those needs according to whatever remedies occur to him.”

“You sound as though you know the King passing well, Baroness, for one who has met him but once.” The voice was Montrichard’s, and it emerged as a condescending drawl.

She rounded on him like a lioness, her eyes seeming to spit fire. “I said I saw him once, sir knight. I never met him, so spare me your disdain. My husband was for years the King’s agent at the Court of England, laboring endlessly and thanklessly to generate funds in any way he could to throw into the Capet’s treasury. The result was not sufficient to please Capet, and so he had my husband killed. Rely upon it, sir, I speak not out of ignorance.”

De Montrichard appeared undaunted, but he was flushing, and his voice was less certain as he responded, “Your husband discussed the King’s affairs with you, madam?”

“My husband trusted me, monsieur . Far more so than his exalted monarch trusted him. The King received reports that the Baron had funds of his own and set de Nogaret to hunt them down. He failed, but Philip the Fair killed my husband in the searching.” She turned away as if to walk from the room, but then spun back again, her skirts swirling, her eyes flashing, and her hand chopping at the air in exasperation before coming back up to point straight at de Berenger.

“And he will kill all of you, if he sees need, to lay his greedy hands on your Order’s wealth. Do you truly think there will be reparations made in the future? Reparations for what? The royal confiscation of your wealth by divine right? Do you really think Philip Capet will give back what he takes, or settle for taking less than everything, once the die is cast? If you do, sir, you are a fool, vice-admiral or not. I am merely amazed that he has not taken action against you before now.”

Since the woman first began to speak, Sinclair had been sitting entranced, slack mouthed and unaware that he was staring at her openly. She was a superb woman, wide hipped and broad shouldered, with a narrow waist, long, clean-lined legs, and high, proud breasts that were emphasized by what she wore. He had never seen anything like her and was hypnotized and fascinated by the way she looked and moved, her bosom heaving, eyes scintillating, and her cheeks flushed a hectic red, but far less red than her wide and mobile mouth.

It was only when she called the vice-admiral a fool that he regained his composure, snapping his mouth shut and sitting up straighter in his chair, flushing again at the awareness of what he had been watching and thinking about. But her last words were still ringing in his ears, and he suddenly found himself speaking.

“I am not,” he said.

It was the first time he had spoken since belittling his sister, and he felt all their eyes come upon him at once, but now he was in command of himself. The Baroness had thrust herself into a discussion among men, and had demonstrated her superiority to all of them, but here, among his peers, Sinclair’s voice was supreme. As a woman, Lady Jessica Randolph unsettled him. As a Baroness, however, she had intruded upon his domain and could be summarily dealt with like any other subordinate.

“Not what, Sir William?” St. Valéry asked.

“I am not surprised, Admiral. The Baroness said she is amazed the King has not moved against us until now. It came to me then that I am not at all amazed. It has taken him until now to arrange a suitable reaction.”

There was a long pause before St. Valéry responded. “A suitable reaction to what? Forgive me, Sir William, but your meaning escapes me.”

“Aye, and so it should.” Sinclair sat back in his chair, gripping its arms and pushing his shoulders against the wood at his back, his face twisted into a grimace as he debated whether to explain, but then he realized how ludicrous it was, under the present circumstances, to worry about the confidential nature of what he had to say. “King Philip made application to join our Order, a year and a half ago, after the death of his wife, Queen Jeanne.”