Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

“You are deep in thought, Sir William. Should I banish everyone?”

Will turned, startled, to see James Douglas standing by his side, and he felt himself flushing because he did not know how long the young knight had been standing there, watching him.

“Your pardon, Sir James, I was woolgathering … It is a habit of which I ought to rid myself.”

“Oh, I would not do that, if I were you.” Douglas’s smile was open and sincere. “The ability to lose yourself in thought among so many clacking tongues is an uncommon one … valuable. I think were it my fortune to have such a gift, I should treasure it.” He tilted his head to one side, his eyes narrowing as he tried to gauge Will’s expression. “What is it? Come, walk with me as far as the door. The rain may have stopped by now and the fresh air will be cool and welcome.”

As they picked their way through the crowd towards the doors, the Scots knight glanced sideways at the emblem that hung about Will’s neck.

“That is a pretty bauble,” the young man said. “And plainly it’s a potent one, judging from the look and heft of it. What does it represent?”

Will fingered the piece, looking down his nose to where it dangled heavily on his breast. “It is my badge of rank within the Order, probably the best known but least seen symbol of the Temple. Some members may live full lives and die without ever setting eyes on one of these.” He grasped the emblem between fingers and thumb, feeling its thick, solid, highly polished smoothness. “This is the emblem worn by serving members of the Governing Council of the Temple—the Inner Circle, as some call it. But in reality it serves no other purpose than to set its wearer visibly apart and mark him as the entitled representative and deputy of the Grand Master.”

They had stopped, and Douglas was leaning forward, gazing at the medallion, and Will knew it was worth gazing at. It hung suspended from his neck by a thick chain of intricately carved, S-shaped links of solid silver, each one a thumb’s length and thickness, carved to represent a thick cable of rope. The emblem itself, of thick, glossy enamel, was mounted on a heavy silver oblong lozenge that hung suspended from two of the lowest links and portrayed the cross pattée on a square field of white, surrounded by another field of brilliant red, the color of the Savior’s blood worn for so long by the Temple knights. He waited patiently, allowing Douglas to gaze his fill, and the young knight reached out a hand as if to touch the emblem, but he stopped at the last moment and lowered his hand, dipping his head quickly to one side in a nod of admiration.

“Beautiful piece” was all he said.

“I have been marveling, Sir James—evidently too openly—at the way you speak. Your French is perfect—flawless—and I was wondering where you learned it.”

Douglas laughed. “In France, of course. Can you think of any better place to learn it? I spent five years in Paris when I was a boy.”

It was on the tip of Will’s tongue to point out that the young knight was still little more than a boy, but he thought better of it and allowed Douglas to pull the doors open for him, waving aside the guards who stepped forward to attend him.

“We’ll go down to the wall, there.” He pointed and moved on, leading the way down the wide wooden stairs for a few paces before stopping halfway and looking about him. The rain had stopped long since, although a cold wind was still blowing fitfully from the northwest, but the few remaining clouds were scattered now, glowing pink and golden in the late-afternoon sun, and both men inhaled the clean, briny air.

The young knight continued where he had left off. “I came home three years ago, just before my eighteenth birthday.”

“What sent you there, may I ask?”

“Not what, Sir William— who . Edward Plantagenet did. He liked to call himself Malleus Scottorum , the Hammer of the Scots. And he did not like the idea of my remaining alive after the death of my father.” He glanced sidewise at Sinclair and his face twisted into a humorless grin. “Another Sir William, my father, and a rebel, dyed in the wool. Sir William Douglas was no man’s puppet. He died in London’s Tower, some say of grief at being caged. Others say he died demented. And there are others, well placed and of good character, who have told me Edward had him murdered. I may never know the truth of that. But the truth in force at the time led to my family sending me to France, for my education and safety, and there I spent five formative years in the household of William Lamberton, Archbishop of St. Andrews and Primate of Scotland. Do you know the Archbishop?”

Will shook his head. “I have heard his name spoken, but have never met the man.”

Douglas set off again, down the steps to the courtyard of packed earth and across to the earthen parapet that backed the fronting palisades of recently hewn logs. There were others about, talking in twos and threes, but none of them paid the two newcomers any attention, and Douglas kept moving to where they could stand alone on the top of the defensive wall, their view over the bay uninterrupted. Will laid one hand on the sharpened top of one of the heavy log palisades, then turned from the sea to look about him.

“Where did the trees come from?”

“The English cut them and hauled them here from the uplands above the moor on the west side of the island. There’s a forest there on the slopes—or there was, before they cut down all the biggest trees. They must have shipped the logs down around the south coast …” He fell silent, crossing his arms on his chest, then looked at Will speculatively. “So tell me, Sir William, how does a Knight Commander gain superiority over the admiral of the Order?”

Will smiled. “It is all a matter of degree, Sir James. I am a member of the Governing Council of our Order, and was sent here by our Grand Master, Sir James de Molay himself.”

“Which means you stand high in the Master’s esteem, even if it says little else that I can understand.” Douglas inclined his head, then asked, “Why are you here, Sir William, in King Robert’s Scotland, accompanied by the admiral of the Temple fleet? You may speak plainly, for we are alone here and I command on Arran.”

Will looked at the young man, pondering his next words, and Sir James Douglas seemed content to let him take his time. “I will tell you, bluntly,” Will said eventually. “But before I do, I would appreciate your courtesy were you to answer several questions that you might think impertinent.” The younger man cocked his head. “How come you to hold the command in Arran?”

“I hold command in all the southwest, at King Robert’s pleasure. But as to Arran, I took it in January of this year—both the island and the title. We came to steal supplies, but the garrison of Englishry here was busy building the fort. We threw them out, then captured the ships that came to reprovision them and declared Arran ours, a part of the realm of Scotland. Merely reinforcing a point … Arran has been a possession of the house of Bruce since King Alexander defeated Haakon and his Norwayans at Largs, forty years ago. The English may come back, but we’ll be ready for them, and they’ll be less confident than they were before. The King has made some notable advances here in the south these past few months, and elsewhere as well.”

“So where do you keep your prisoners?”

“What prisoners? We have none.”

“I—” Will caught himself. He chose his words carefully. “You sent them home? To England?”

“No. There were no prisoners.” He saw the disbelief in Will’s eyes and added, “We took none.”

“You … took none.” Will could think of nothing more to say for several moments, but then he cleared his throat. “This may offend you, my lord Douglas, but it seems to me you are very young to be so …”