Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

“At least a hundred but probably closer to two hundred … They were too spread out for accuracy.”

“That’s much as I thought, close to two hundred. But there might be others inland, out of sight. So, we wait. I will be in my cabin. Call me when something begins to happen.”

He barely had time to shrug out of his green woolen cloak before Tam knocked on his door and thrust his head inside. “Ye’re wanted on deck, Will. There’s somebody comin’ out, a party o’ three, wi’ a white flag.”

Back on deck, Will walked directly to join de Berenger and Boulanger the shipmaster, who were standing side by side, observing the events on the shore. The narrow strand was crowded with armed men watching a small boat fighting its way out towards their galley, six oarsmen pulling hard against the current. Three men stood in the stern of the boat, behind the rowers, one of them holding aloft what was probably a spear, with a white cloth attached.

“A parley,” Will murmured to the admiral. “Well, that tells us at least that the leader here is no hotheaded fool, whatever else he might be …”

They watched the boat approach in silence after that, crossing to the entry port in the side rail only when the small craft disappeared beneath their own side. The rowers shipped their oars, and the man at the prow snared the dangling rope, all eyes looking up to where Will stood with his companions. Finally, one of the three standing men, a red-bearded bantam of a man shrouded in the single, voluminous garment that the Gaels called a plaid, tilted his head back and called out in execrable French, “Is this a Temple galley?”

Will leaned forward over the rail. “It is. Who asks?”

“I am Alexander Menteith of Lochranza, Chieftain of Arran. I bring greetings and invite you to come ashore in peace.”

Will hesitated for a mere moment, then called, “Greetings from whom, Master Menteith? You said you bring greetings, rather than offer them as your own, so on whose behalf do you speak?”

Menteith pointed backwards with his thumb. “I am sent by Sir James Douglas, King Robert’s custodian in Arran,” he shouted back.

Will fought down the urge to look at de Berenger beside him, for fear of betraying that the name meant nothing to him. He had heard of one Sir William Douglas, a noted knight with a reputation for gallantry and hotheadedness, but had never heard of a James Douglas. Perhaps his son? But William Douglas was not an old man, and therefore any son he had must be too young, surely, to be a King’s officer.

Awaiting an answer, Menteith glanced at his companions before shouting again. “Will ye come?”

Will had no choice; this was what he had been hoping for. Surely the King’s custodian would know where the King was to be found. He nodded. “We will. Tell Sir James we will follow you. How many men may we bring?”

The question clearly surprised the Scot. “As many as you like,” he shouted back, then gave an order to the leadsman, who released the gaff and sat down at his oar again, using it to push the bow off strongly from the side of the galley until his fellow crewmen could lower their oars into the water again.

Will turned to Edward de Berenger. “Will you come with us?”

“If you want me to. Is it important?”

Will sniffed and wiped a bead of moisture from his nose with the back of his hand. “It might be … Could be. Tell me, do your sergeants have surcoats?”

“They do, but they are kept in storage at sea. In chests.”

“Can you retrieve them easily? I want your oarsmen to look like Templars when they take us ashore, so have them uniformly dressed, if you will—black or brown, it makes no difference, so be it they are all the same.” Without waiting for an answer he turned to where Tam Sinclair stood listening. “You too, Tam. Put on your surcoat and bring Mungo with you, in his. But first ask Captain Boulanger to prepare the admiral’s boat for launching.”

As Tam turned away to obey, Will spoke again to de Berenger. “Edward, it’s mantles for us. Full regalia and all decorations—surcoats, belts, swords, and shields … but no mail, I think. We may be asked to lay aside our weapons, but I think I would rather not be pent up in chain mail all the time we are here. But comb your beard, for Heaven’s sake. You are supposed to be a Temple knight, an admiral, not a seaborne hermit.”

FOUR

The silence was oppressive, broken only by the lapping of the waves against the shore and the distant crying of gulls. Gazing at the watchers thronging the beach in the final moments before his longboat grounded, Will realized that he could hear the water dripping from the upraised oars, and found himself wondering how so many men could be so utterly quiet for such a length of time. He took time, too, to admire how distinctive his crewmen appeared. Facing him where he stood in the stern with de Berenger, Tam Sinclair, and Mungo MacDowal, the twelve oarsmen looked appropriately impressive: veteran, tightly disciplined sergeants of the Temple, the scarlet crosses on their black surcoats glowing richly in the afternoon sun. Tam and Mungo wore the same black surcoats, borrowed from de Berenger’s men purely for effect, but bearing badges of rank equivalent to their own. Both men wore helmets and were fully armed, the black, equal-armed cross pattée of the Order emblazoned on their white shields. Every eye on the crowded beach, however, was fastened upon himself and de Berenger, their thick, snowy mantles of felted wool proclaiming them as knights of the Order.

As the boat crunched into the gravel of the shore, the four lead oarsmen leapt nimbly over the sides, waited for the next incoming wave, then hauled the longboat bodily up and onto the shelving beach. The remaining oarsmen leaned sideways to permit Will and his party to walk forward and leap down to the pebbled beach dry shod. Will was in the lead, and as his feet struck the land, the crowd ahead of him parted, opening a lane to where the chieftain called Menteith stood waiting for them, flanked by three others, one of whom, tall and broad shouldered, wore the same kind of single garment as Menteith, wrapped about him from neck to knees.

The other two members of the group, a man and a boy, he decided, were much different, dressed in tunic and leggings, the elder of them wearing a shirt of muchused chain mail beneath a plain brown cloak that was thrown back over his shoulders to leave his arms free. He stood watching Will approach, his face inscrutable, idly flexing the fingers of his right hand, the palm of which rested on the end of a short, heavy battle-axe hanging from his waist. Will’s eyes missed nothing, his mind racing as he sought to identify and rank the men before he reached them.

The plaid-wrapped man on Menteith’s right towered over the Arran chieftain, his bulk emphasizing Menteith’s slightness, and he was a picture of barbaric splendor, so that Will immediately suspected this might be the King’s custodian, Douglas. His plaid was the color of fresh honey, and he wore it kilted like a tunic to just above the knees and then wrapped about his upper body to hang down his back from his left shoulder. It was held in place at the waist by a heavy belt of intricately fashioned silver links, and at the shoulder by a massive, ring-shaped brooch of hammered silver. He wore a loose cap of some kind on his head, arranged to one side, another silver ring brooch gleaming at the left temple and securing a large, decorative eagle feather, and his feet were encased in leather brogans, the straps wound crosswise about his long, bare legs. Beneath the tight, leather-bound brim of the cap, the eyes were bright and challenging, a pale, luminescent yellow-brown that was enhanced by the color of his clothing. The long hair that spilled down to his left shoulder from beneath the cap was golden red, as were his eyebrows and beard, the latter close-trimmed, and the entire face was defined by high, cleanly chiseled cheekbones. Clearly a leader and a man to be reckoned with, Will thought, and then eyed the last of the waiting quartet.