Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

“I don’t rightly know, Tam. Much will depend on what we find when we arrive. I told Sir Charles this morning that I would first seek a safe anchorage—for I can’t be sure Arran will be safe—then make enquiries about the King—his whereabouts, for one thing. But since then I have come to think that neither of those might be as simple as I thought … For one thing, I doubt that I’ll be able to strike out towards the King immediately. There’s too much to be done first among our own. Our party is too large, and many of the knights too proud and stiff-necked to be left too suddenly to their own devices. It comes to me that I might have to spend some time laying down the rules and asserting my authority before I ride away leaving them behind.

“And then again, there is the matter of the King of Scots himself. The last I heard, he was sore beset with troubles, his own lords and barons being as bad as the English. Particularly the Comyns, in the north. They claim the kingship as their right and name Bruce usurper, so the land is steeped in civil war. And then the threat from England atop all of that. Edward Plantagenet may be dead, but his earls and barons are no less hungry than before to subdue the Scots. For all I know, the Bruce may not even be alive by now, although I pray God that that be not the case. It must be considered, nevertheless, and other plans made against the possibility. Thus I must think about approaching Sir Thomas Randolph and the other members of the Temple in Scotland. They will receive me, I know, but whether they will have the power to succor us must remain to be seen.”

“So where will you seek safe anchorage?”

“On Arran first, I think. It has been Scots-held, part of the Bruce holdings, since King Alexander thrashed the Norwayans and dislodged them at Largs Battle. We will go there, find out what holds sway. It lies within the Firth of Clyde but is remote enough to hide us. I doubt it will be much occupied nowadays, for as I recall it is a barren place, yet suited to our purpose well enough.”

“There will be folk there, nonetheless.”

“Aye, probably, but we will talk with them. We mean them no harm.”

“Mayhap. But they’ll no’ know that. They’ll see a fleet o’ foreign ships and they’ll hide in the hills … Scots folk—and Islanders mair than most—ha’e little trust o’ foreigners.”

Will sat mum for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, that’s a bridge we’ll have to cross when we reach it …”

Neither man had any more to say and they lay quiet for a while, enjoying their inactivity and the solid ground beneath them, dozing on the grass as they waited for time to pass, and it seemed to Tam Sinclair that he had barely closed his eyes when the slap of Will’s hand against his thigh startled him awake.

“Come, you, let’s away. The man Mungo should be waiting for us by now. Scotland awaits us, and the tide is rising.”

Tam rolled over and pushed himself to his feet, but before they set out along the winding cliff-top path that would lead them down the long and difficult descent to the beach, he looked out again at the vastness of the waters. “D’you think Sir Charles will find his Merica?”

“No, Tam, I don’t. No more than I believe, in my heart, that King Robert the Bruce is dead. Pray God that neither should turn out to be the case.”

Wordlessly, Tam turned almost a quarter circle and gazed to the north, where the sea looked just as vast and limitless, but he knew that in that direction lay his homeland, and that, weather permitting, they would find it in mere days.

THE ISLAND OF ARRAN

THE HOLY ISLE

ONE

“There’s folk up there, watchin’ us.”

Tam Sinclair’s voice was little more than a murmur, but all three of the men standing with him turned their eyes to look where he was pointing.

The bearded, barrel-chested sergeant called Mungo MacDowal hawked and spat cleanly over the side. “We’re on Eilean Molaise,” he said, his voice little more than an elongated grunt. “It’s a holy place, folk say, so they’ll be monks, friars mair likely. There’s aey three or fower o’ them up there, livin’ in caves like wild beasts. They’ll no’ bother us.”

“Not even when we land?” This was Will Sinclair, and Mungo barely favored him with a glance.

“No’ even if we kill them,” he growled, moving away to the ship’s rail, where he continued peering up towards the distant watchers.

Will turned with a lopsided grin to Admiral de Berenger, who stood slightly behind him. “Did you understand that?”

De Berenger blinked. “I heard the grunting of a boar. Should I have understood?”

Sinclair’s grin grew wider. “Mungo was saying that the men up there are friars, monks without a community, living as they can. The islet here is called Eilean Molaise, Saint Molaise’s Island, in honor of a Celtic saint who once lived here. He says they live in caves up there, like wild beasts, but they will offer us no ill.”

The admiral cleared his throat. “I shall accept that … the recommendation of one wild beast concerning another. I find it hard to believe the man is one of our sergeants.”

“Aye, well he is, and has been for two decades, earning himself his captain’s trust sufficiently to hold officer’s rank for more than twelve of those. He knows his work, and he knows these islands and their people. I do not. And he speaks Scots by choice because he is with Scots today and has not had the opportunity to speak it for many years.” Will grinned again, to take the potential sting out of his next words. “Show him some tolerance, Edward, and try not to be so disdainful when you look at him. He is a good man, merely uncouth by your standards.”

De Berenger nodded. “You like the fellow. Very well, then, I shall take you at your word and be more tolerant. When do you want to move on?”

Will’s face grew pensive. “Not yet, I think.” He turned to gaze up to where the men on the hill yet stood, clearly illuminated by the rising sun. Between them and him, however, closer inshore, the sea mist still hung thick above the water, obscuring the land. “We could be up there in an hour or two,” he mused, “given that we had a place to land. From the top, we would have a clear view of what’s over there, behind the bay on the far side.” He raised his voice. “Mungo, could we see the Arran mainland from the top?”

“Aye, ye could count the deer. It’s no’ even a mile across the bay.”

“Excellent, then that’s where we’ll go. Is there a beach ahead of us where we could land?”

“No, it’s sheer cliff, but there’s a slopin’ beach farther back, on the edge we passed comin’ in.”

“Edward, can you find us a place to land and still remain hidden from the main island?”

“No, but my captain will.” De Berenger called over his newly promoted subordinate and began issuing instructions to bring the galley under way, and as he did so Will glanced back to where Tam Sinclair and Mungo stood beyond earshot, talking together in a blend of Scots and Gaelic, and again a half-formed grin plucked at the corner of his mouth.

Mungo MacDowal had turned out to be a treasure beyond price, for Tam had been wrong in thinking the man came from the MacDowal territory of Galloway on the mainland. He had spent time there as a boy, but he was a native Islesman, born on Arran itself. He’d traveled widely throughout the Isles before his father’s death, after which, at the age of fourteen, he had moved with his uncle to the mainland. His gruff, surly façade was no more than that, and once he had accepted Will as a worthwhile companion—mere worldly rank had no significance for him—Mungo had lent himself willingly to their endeavors, proving his value immediately.