Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

Sinclair smiled at him. “Do you find that hard to credit?”

The vice-admiral shook his head. “Not at all. I believe it makes perfect sense. What you see in my face as doubt is mere amazement, born of my own disbelief that no one, myself included, has ever thought of this before.”

“Why should you have—you or anyone else? It is an obscure legend, forgotten by everyone except a few. It was by merest accident that I found out about the ancient Egyptian roots. Had Brother Anselm not been who he was—and had he not been in Carcassonne when I went there—I would never have been able to envision such antiquity.” He straightened his shoulders and turned towards the sea again, spreading his arms and leaning his hands on the galley’s rail as he gazed towards the southwest, where a rift had occurred among the clouds and a single brilliant shaft of light shone down clear edged, illuminating one patch of water.

“Look at that. A single ray of sunshine changing the world as we see it. What petty, ineffectual things we are, we men. We vaunt our prowess and our power, thinking to alter the world, building empires and Orders, only to watch them scattered and destroyed by things we can never hope to control … Three days ago, we had a fleet at our command—nigh on thirty ships. A month before that, we had an enterprise, a mighty Order, that we thought inviolable, invincible. And what do we have now?” He scanned the seas around them. “I count three ships. And none of them, I think, is Admiral St. Valéry’s.” He grimaced wryly at de Berenger. “I have a fear, in my heart, Edward, that we may be lost out here, helplessly witnessing the ending of an era. The ending of the world we have known.”

“Not so, Sir William, in God’s holy name. Our ships will reassemble when the winds die down, I promise you.”

“Aye, I’m sure they will. But will our fortunes do the same? Philip Capet and his creature de Nogaret have wrought great things within these past few days, evil things, to be sure, from where we stand, but they have achieved them nonetheless. And I cannot foresee them giving up what they have won. They hold La Rochelle, our Order’s chief stronghold, the center of our worldwide naval power, and I fear that we—this fleet—are all that is left of the Order of the Temple within France. I say I fear it, but I mean I believe it in my heart, for by the time de Nogaret took La Rochelle, the Temple in Paris had already fallen, all its adherents taken into the King’s custody.”

De Berenger had nothing to say to that, and Sinclair continued. “Until the very moment when we broke into that room in the Commandery and found the assassins waiting for the admiral, I had regarded the truth of what was happening as unthinkable, a monstrous misunderstanding. But it was the truth that was monstrous … and our wide-eyed disbelief that was unthinkable. France has become a dungeon, an oubliette , not merely for the bodies of our brethren but for the ideals and the principles that we stood for. I believe that. And because I do, I find myself considering giving Admiral St. Valéry my permission to sail upon the quest he thinks to undertake.”

The vice-admiral stirred, shifting from foot to foot, his face settling into a frown of puzzlement. The silence between the two men was broken only by the sounds of the ship and the surging waters.

“Well, what think you?” Sinclair said. “Your face is black with your thoughts, so spit them out. Talk to me.”

Tam, who had been huddled in a corner beneath the deck rail, was no longer where he had been, and Sinclair assumed he had gone belowdecks again. He closed his eyes, concentrating upon the freshness of the air blowing against his face.

De Berenger shook his head. “I know not what to say, Sir William. At first glance, the idea seems like folly … and yet, having listened to what you said about the legend, I find myself unsure that it is, after all. But there has been no record, anywhere or at any time, of any living person—other than our own brethren who have heard of the legend—having heard tell of such a place, such a land, and the Western Sea is limitless. To permit Sir Charles to sail off thus would be to send him to his death.”

Will Sinclair grinned, beginning to enjoy himself for the first time in days, now that the wind had died and the sea was less turbulent. “The sea can not be limitless, Edward. Think of what that would involve. There must be some kind of rim to it, somewhere, else the ocean waters would pour off into the Abyss and the seas themselves would run dry. That is logical, is it not … even though it be incredible?”

His companion only blinked at him, and Sinclair laughed out loud. “Do not despair, Sir Edward, I have not said I will let the admiral go, for what you argue is self-evidently true. It would be tantamount to sending him off to die.” He sobered as quickly as he had broken into mirth. “And yet, I feel it would be a kindness to indulge St. Valéry in this, when he most needs indulgence. In the space of a few days, without warning of any kind, he has lost everything he holds most dear—his oldest friend and companion foully murdered, his command usurped and rendered useless, and the instrument to which he dedicated his entire life snuffed out and perhaps destroyed by forces against which he is impotent. Now, without superiors to guide him, he faces a life he must perceive as futile, exiled in a foreign land about which he knows nothing. What can he have to look forward to in such circumstances, an admiral with no purpose? He has these ships, and whatever vessels may join us off Finisterre, but what ends will that serve? He has nowhere to go.”

“With respect, Sir William, that is not really so. The admiral would be welcome in any other country. We have Temples and commanderies throughout Christendom and across the world. It is in France alone that we are beset.” Sinclair looked at him levelly. “True, at this moment. But how long, think you, before other kings follow Philip Capet’s example? Capet has his tame pope on his side, which means his blessing will extend to all who wish to move against our Order and seize its wealth for themselves. Any king, Edward, and with one exception that I know of, they are all that greedy. Robert Bruce alone, the King of Scots, stands excommunicate, and more because of that than for any other reason, he is the sole man—the sole king—whom I might be prepared to judge as trustworthy in this matter, for I am told the Scots Templars number strongly among his staunchest supporters. You mark my words, my friend. It will happen, and it will happen quickly. And when it does, we, all of us, the admiral included, will have no place where we can go in safety, other than the dubious sanctuary we may find in Scotland.”

“You paint a grim picture, Sir William.”

“No grimmer than it truly is, Edward.” Sinclair looked around him again, noting that the patch of blue sky had widened greatly. “It really looks as though the weather might be clearing. If we meet up with the admiral again, I will talk to him at more length on this subject. Mayhap he will convince me to let him go off on his quest, but his arguments will need to be more solid than they are at this point.”

POISONED

ONE

Several miles from where the two knights were discoursing and scanning the horizon, Jessie Randolph had been among the first of the fleet’s passengers to notice the storm dying down, although she paid it little heed for some time, her attention fully taken up with more urgent matters. Now she finished what she was doing and straightened up over the sleeping form of her serving woman Marie, using the back of her wrist to push her hair out of her eyes as she dug with the fingers of her other hand into the small of her back, probing at the nagging pain caused by stooping for too long over both of the women whose sole duty supposedly consisted of looking after her. That thought made her smile, for all her tiredness, and she looked down again at the two faithful souls who lay there, drained and sleeping by her feet, their bedding open to the air but protected overhead and on the sides by a number of tightly stretched and skillfully bound leather screens. The beds themselves, though no more than piles of skins and blankets, were set in the angle of the stern bulkhead, barely enough space separating them to allow her to step between them.