Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

“Well, so much for your saying they would not bother us.”

Mungo grunted. “Pay him nae heed and he’ll go awa’. As Tam says, he’s just a cateran, half mad, mayhap mair … ye’d have to be, to live up here.”

The watching friar, or whatever he might be, stood motionless, staring at them, and it occurred to Will that Mungo’s description of him as a cateran , a wandering ragamuffin, might be an accurate one. Ignore him, Will thought, or approach him? The fellow, half mad or not, might have information they could use, and if he had, then learning of it would be far from a waste of time.

He straightened up and turned to face the man directly, catching his eye and holding it in silence, making no other move or gesture. The fellow tilted his head slightly to one side in an unmistakable inquiry. Will nodded and beckoned him forward, then watched in growing amazement as the stranger approached. The man was enormously tall, Will realized as he breasted the rise that had concealed him, and as he drew closer, it became clear, too, that he was old enough to be considered ancient. He was also incredibly ragged and indescribably filthy, his hair and beard a matted, singular tangle that had known neither water nor comb for years, and his only clothing an ankle-length black robe so tattered and torn that large patches of skin were exposed on his chest and legs. He carried a tall walking staff of blackthorn, its thick end towering above his head, and a single, empty-looking leather pouch or scrip hung from the frayed old length of rope that served him as a girdle. His enormously long legs were bare and skinny, and his feet were thrust into two much-scuffed flaps of what might once have been goat skin, bound into place with strips of leather thong.

The visitor stepped forward slowly, advanced to within two paces of where Will stood, and stopped short, meeting him eye to eye. He did not acknowledge the presence of Tam and Mungo, both of whom, Will knew, were gazing at him wide eyed.

Will nodded to the old man. “A fine morning,” he said in Scots, not knowing what to expect.

The apparition nodded in return, and then turned his head to look down to where their galley floated offshore at Will’s back. When he spoke, it was in flawless French. “It is, a fine morning indeed. What brings the admiral of the Temple to Eilean Molaise?”

Will was stunned for a moment, taken aback as much by the purity of the liquidly fluent French coming from such a raddled hulk of a man as by the question he had asked, and all he could think to say was, “You are familiar with the Temple?”

The ancient’s deep-sunk eyes, dark and strangely brilliant beneath their bushy, unkempt brows, swung back to him. “I was, upon a time … familiar enough to recognize the admiral’s baucent. But that was long ago.”

“And how … whence came your familiarity?”

The old man nodded and shrugged at the same time.

“From involvement. I belonged once, until I perceived it for what it was.”

“You … perceived it … the Temple … for what it was.” Will could hear himself being banal and fought to recapture his self-possession. “And what, sir, did you perceive?”

“A whited sepulcher, rotting from within.”

There was no rational response to such a statement, but Will took a deep breath, searching for words with which to continue this bizarre conversation. “You say you … belonged … In what capacity?”

“I was a knight. But as I said, that was long ago.” “A Temple knight? What is your name, sir?”

The aged features cracked in a smile, revealing toothless gums behind the riotous hair that masked much of the gaunt face beneath. “My brethren call me Gaspard.”

“No, I meant, what was your name when you served the Temple?”

“That is of no import. It was a former life and I have abandoned it.”

“You left the Temple … you mean you broke your vows? You are apostate? How then—?”

“I broke no vows. I merely walked away. I was sworn to poverty, chastity, and obedience and so I remain—in poverty, as befits a seeker of the Way, in chastity, which has never been threatened, and in obedience to my superior, the abbot of our small community here.”

Sinclair frowned. “A seeker of the way. What way is that?”

The old man looked at him, quirking one eyebrow. “There is only one Way.”

Will Sinclair shivered, unwilling to countenance the outrageous thought that had formed within his mind, but once it had occurred to him, he had no other choice than to pursue it, yea or nay, no matter how outlandish or incredible it might appear. He glanced towards Tam and Mungo, then jerked his head, indicating that they should move away. As they obeyed, looking mystified, he reached out his right hand to the old man, who took it in his own and met grip with countergrip, the strength sand confidence with which he did both surprising Will. This eldritch, tatterdemalion apparition was a member of the Brotherhood of Sion. Will kept hold of his hand and gazed at the old man, shaking his head and smiling in amazement.

“Well met, Brother,” he said eventually. “I would never have believed I would find one of my brethren here, in such a place … I hope now that you were not referring to our brotherhood when you spoke of whited sepulchers.”

“One of your elder brethren,” the other answered wryly. “And no, I was not referring to our own, solely to the Temple, another creature altogether. An edifice, built to the glory of God, that has not merely forgotten its own roots but denies its God in its daily mercantile activities. The Temple was built by men, in unseemly haste and for purposes of gathering worldly wealth and power. Small wonder that its members have become as corrupt as their commerce … But you still have not told me what brings the Temple to Eilean Molaise.”

“I will, but first you must tell me your name and what brought you to speak to us.”

“How old are you , Brother, and what is your name?”

“I am William Sinclair of Roslin, and I am six and forty years old.”

“Well, William Sinclair of Roslin, the man I once was died while you yet lacked the use of reason, and his name died with him. Even were I to tell you who that man was, it would mean nothing to you. Suffice to say that I wandered for years thereafter, before I found this little island, more than thirty years ago. I have been here ever since, and here I shall die, someday.” He tilted his head. “It was when I mentioned the Way that you began to think me what I was, was it not?”

“Aye, it was. But what led you to approach us? I have the feeling you speak to few folk nowadays.”

The old man smiled again. “Curiosity. After all this time, I still cannot restrain it. Are you the admiral?”

“No, Brother, not I.”

“But you have influence, I think. You are no simple knight. What brings you here?”

“Need,” Will answered. “My companions, as you will have guessed, are not of our brotherhood, but they themselves have heard you say you were a Temple knight, so if you would like to break bread with us, we may talk of matters that contain no secrecy. Will you eat?”

The man called Gaspard tilted his head to one side again, in what Will took to be an unconscious gesture. “Aye, and gladly. Goat’s milk and ground oats grows tedious after thirty years. I hope you have some meat?”

Will was tempted to ask how he would chew it with no teeth, but he turned instead and waved Tam and Mungo forward again, then introduced them. “Brother Gaspard here will share our noonday meal with us, for we have much to talk about, I think. What have we to eat?”

“No’ much,” Tam said. “Some bannock, dried venison, a bite o’ cheese.”