Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

The frown slowly faded from Sinclair’s face, to be replaced by an expression of thoughtfulness. “A rudderless ship, you said. But if you are correct, there will be no ship … no Order. How, then, could matters grow worse?”

St. Valéry waved a hand as though dismissing the obvious. “Well, let us suppose for a moment that Philip and de Nogaret are successful, and they wrest control of the Order’s wealth and assets from our hands—those assets that are left within the realm of France, I mean. That will bring instant and enormous benefits to their treasury—freedom from debts, and real funds with which to operate … my greatest reason for doubting that this matter will be settled to our satisfaction. But if that does occur and goes unchallenged, condoned by Holy Church, think you the other Christian monarchs will hang back from behaving similarly against the Temple in their own lands? I doubt it.”

The Scots knight turned his back to the chill rain that had begun to slant inland. “I agree with you on that, at least. The same thought had already occurred to me earlier. And yet … you describe a bleak prospect, my lord Admiral. Unwilling as I may be to concede to it entirely, however, I fear you may be right. But again, what has this to do with your Merica?”

“Everything, William, and nothing. I believe the other kings of Christendom will flock like ravens to a carcass once Philip has shown the way. And I choose not to live in such a world. I am an old man, all at once and unexpectedly, coming to the end of my usefulness precisely at a time when I have most need to be capable of great things, and that awareness galls me. I know the time has come to hand my duties and my admiral’s rank and badge of office to a younger man, and I know, too, that de Berenger will be an excellent successor—so be it there is something left to which he can succeed.” He paused, then shook his head. “I would languish and die in this Scotland of yours, my friend. It is your home, and Lady Jessica’s, but it is far from mine. And besides, you are a landsman, bred to horsemanship. I am a seaman, trained in navigation, and I have been a mariner my entire life. It comes to me that I would rather die at sea, in a worthwhile quest for something I believe in, than wither away in a strange, cold land among folk with whom I cannot even converse.

“Be that as it may, you have ships aplenty here for your needs and mine, and who is to say this Scottish king of yours will not see more than a score of strange vessels as a threat? I—” The admiral cocked his head. “Someone is calling you.” He glanced around and then pointed. “Over there, on the quay.”

Sinclair saw a man waving at him. “Your ears are better than mine, Sir Charles. It’s Tam, and that cannot be good. He would not interrupt me here without cause.”

“Then go to him. But first, let me leave you with this in mind: I may sail off and die hundreds of miles from land of any kind, and I will be content, as I have said. And the men who come with me will have made the choice to do so of their own free will. But think, Sir William … what if the lore of Merica should prove as true as that of Jerusalem and the Treasure that lay hidden there? What if I were to find the place? And what then were I to return to you bearing proofs of what I found? Would that not serve to rally all our brethren, of Sion and the Temple both?” He spread his hands, palms upward. “It is no more strange than digging for the ruins of a Temple no one knew was there. Is it?”

Sinclair raised a hand to Tam to indicate that he should wait a little. “No, it is not, Admiral, when you say it like that. So be it. I will think on this between now and our arrival off Cape Finisterre. But now, if you will permit me, I must see what Tam requires of me.”

Charles St. Valéry watched him walk away, then scratched idly at his beard with the tip of one finger. He was surprised when his young superior stopped and turned back.

“Tam seems to want you to come with me,” Sir William called. “If his tidings are important they will probably affect you, too.”

St. Valéry began to walk again, digging his heavy soles into the yielding pebbles with renewed purpose.

FOUR

“What is it, Tam?”

“I’m not sure.” The sergeant wasted no time on formalities, nodding in greeting to St. Valéry and then addressing him directly. “One of your captains just arrived, Admiral. One of the two you turned back this morning. He asked me to deliver his respects and to ask you to board his galley to speak with him.”

St. Valéry and Sinclair exchanged questioning glances, and then St. Valéry turned his eyes towards the harbor entrance, where a sleek galley floated at anchor, closer than any other of its kind but concealed from where they had stood by the bulk of the ship at the quay.

“It’s Parmaison. But where is de Lisle? And why would he not come to me directly?”

“There’s urgency involved. Great urgency,” Sinclair said. “Look at the oars. He’s ready to put out to sea again immediately, once he has spoken with you.”

“Hmm. Find us a boat, Sergeant.”

“I have one ready, Admiral, at the end of the pier.” After quitting La Rochelle that morning, St. Valéry, with Sinclair’s concurrence, had sent two of his swiftest galleys to return to the roads approaching the harbor and to remain there for the remainder of that day, keeping watch to see what might develop. It had been an afterthought, no more than a precautionary measure, for they had been under way for more than two hours before the thought occurred to either man, and although they considered it highly unlikely that anything untoward might actually take place, since they had burned the only ships remaining in the harbor, they had agreed that it might be a good idea to keep a watchful eye on the fort and the headlands flanking it. But now one of the delegated vessels had caught up to them, far ahead of schedule.

The captain of the returned galley, Sir Geoffrey Parmaison, watched them pull alongside from the narrow forecastle, then helped the two senior officers aboard in person before leading them to a small folding table and three chairs he had set up beneath an awning on the upper foredeck. He dismissed the watchman at the prow, and then all three men sat down.

“Tell us, Sir Geoffrey,” St. Valéry began without preamble.

Parmaison nodded and then spoke tersely. “We returned to La Rochelle as ordered, Admiral, and arrived in sight of it just in time to see three of our own galleys entering the harbor. We saw them, I say, but we were too far away to attract their attention and could do nothing to stop them sailing into La Rochelle.”

“Who were they? Do you know?”

“Aye, Admiral. De Lisle was closer to them than I was, and swears he recognized one of the galleys as being Antoine de l’Armentière’s.”

“De l’Armentière? He is supposed to be in Cyprus.”

“That’s what I thought, sir, but de Lisle is cousin to him, and he swears it was Antoine’s galley that he saw leading the flotilla. Apparently it differs from any other.”

“Aye, it does. It is Moorish, a prize of war—a pirate vessel, captured off Gibraltar some years ago. De Lisle was sure of this?”

“As sure as he could be from a distance of miles, but whoever it was, he took three Temple galleys into La Rochelle and stayed there.”

“Hmm. Where is Captain de Lisle now?”

“On station, Admiral, waiting for whatever might happen. He sent me back to bring you the word.”

“And you saw nothing more than you have described?”

“Nothing, sir. They went in, and they did not come out.”

“Very well. Thank you, Captain Parmaison. Return to your station, rejoin Captain de Lisle, and bid him remain where he is until he has something more to report.” He held up one hand to stay the man and turned to Sinclair. “Do you have anything to add, Sir William?”