Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

“What, cynical?”

“I was about to say merciless.”

“Ah. Merciless.” The young man grinned again, the same humorless grin with which he had spoken of his father’s rebelliousness. “How long have you been gone from Scotland, Sir William?”

“Many years, now, more than twenty.”

“And in France throughout that time?”

“Most recently, yes. But I served throughout the world before that … before we lost the Holy Land.”

“And how closely informed have you been about matters in Scotland during that time?”

Will shrugged. “Barely at all. My duties and my concerns have been with the Temple throughout, in accordance with my vows. My sole source of information has been a younger sister. She writes to me sometimes. Those letters, I fear, contain my entire knowledge of the state of affairs in Scotland, their contents filtered through a woman’s eyes.”

“I see … Well, sir, believe me when I tell you Scotland has seen savagery during those years the like of which was seldom seen in the Holy Land, even at the sack of Jerusalem. Unforgivable savagery, right here in this small kingdom, meted out against helpless folk by a man once known as the foremost knight in Christendom. Edward of England taught me and mine all about mercy and its uses. And his barons and their armies refined my education. We Scots are small in numbers and at the mercy of the English when they choose to march against us, as they have these past ten years and more. And in the years to come, more than ever and despite the death of the Plantagenet, they will come for us again, in ever greater strength and with ever greater hatred.

“You think me merciless. Well, I admit I am now. For I have learnt, in a hard and bitter school, that showing mercy to these enemies gains nothing for us but contempt, and ultimately death. The Englishry, be they king, barons, or earls, have no regard for us as people, let alone as a race. To them we are vermin, and they treat us as such, burning, raping, hanging, and plundering, slaughtering our folk wholesale without regard to their own humanity or ours.”

He held up a restraining hand, although Sinclair had made no attempt to interrupt. “I know what you are thinking, because I myself once thought the same way … long ages ago, when I was eighteen. You believe I am defiling the knightly code. Well I, too, once thought that way—jousting and tilting in the lists, making grand gestures, living my life according to the code. But once I returned to Scotland, England and its minions quickly taught me the error of my ways. There is no knightly code in Scotland today, my friend—certainly not among the English in Scotland. Oh, they all pay it lip service, and it fuels the fires of their outrage against what they call our atrocities.” He flung up his hand again, this time to interrupt himself. “Ach! There is no point in talking of such things. It only makes me angrier.”

He fell silent for a space of heartbeats, his young face dark and scowling, then resumed. “Let me say but one thing more, and then I will leave off. I have released English prisoners before—men of good birth and fair repute—and I have seen those self-same men come back and vent their spleen on helpless innocents—women and children and old men too spent to fight. And I have known whole towns, like Berwick, razed to the ground and all their burghers and their people slain, scores of them burned alive, walled up within a church where they had sought sanctuary. And all of this for no crime other than jeering at the Plantagenet when he brought his armies to their walls. So, if it please you, speak no more to me of mercy and the lack of it.”

He spun on his heel and glared at the small number of curious onlookers attracted by his raised voice, even though they understood not a word of what he had said. Abashed by his obvious anger, they scuttled away guiltily, and he turned back at length to Sinclair, who had barely moved. But Douglas had mastered himself by then, and the grin he offered this time was genuine, if rueful.

“I know what you are thinking, sir, and I acknowledge it. I am young.” He spoke in Scots now, as though that language were more suited to a gentler mood. “Hotheaded, King Robert says. But I swear to you, Sir William, I am bent on learning better.” He squared his shoulders suddenly, raising his head as though dismissing such intimacies. “Now, it strikes me we have business to conduct, you and I, and here I have been wasting your time. My question to you was, why have you come to Scotland, with an admiral at your command?”

Will turned away from the sea and leaned back against the palisades, crossing his arms over his chest, and he, too, spoke in Scots, keeping his voice low. “I come in search of your King, in hope of finding sanctuary.”

Douglas’s mouth fell open, and it was clear that nothing William Sinclair had said could have surprised and confounded him more. But before he could find words, the hall doors opened above them and noisy men came spilling out, among them the knight called Robert Boyd of Noddsdale. Facing them as he was, Will saw immediately that although the men around him were gone in drink, the Scots knight was sober, and his eyes found Douglas immediately.

“Sir James,” he called. “A word with you.”

Douglas beckoned him forward, and Boyd came down the stairs, nodding to Will as he arrived. He was concerned, he informed them, that instructions to the cooks should be issued now if, as he suspected, Sir James was to entertain his guests that night. Douglas agreed, and issued crisp instructions to dismiss the crowd above, bidding them return that night to eat as usual, and then to offer his apologies to the admiral and explain that he and Sir William would return very soon now. In the meantime, he added, Boyd should also ask the admiral if he would care to invite his men ashore, to share in the food and festivities. He watched Boyd hurry away, then turned to face Will again. The knot of men who had left the hall with Boyd were now drifting down to where Will and Douglas stood, and they were followed by others, voices raised in good-natured argument. Douglas ignored them, confident that they would not interrupt him.

“Sanctuary. You seek sanctuary in Scotland. Amid a civil war. Are you mad? And from what would the Temple require sanctuary?”

“It is a long story, but quickly told, once we have rejoined Sir Edward and the crowd has broken up. Where may I find His Grace the King, do you know?”

Douglas shook his head, glancing at the crowd. “That I cannot tell you. The King finds little comfort in his own realm nowadays. There’s a price on his head, and he has more enemies among the Scots, it seems, than among the English. He has been campaigning in the north, east, and west these past few months.”

“Against the Comyns.”

“Yes and no. Not yet against the Comyns, though their time is coming. And yet yes, against the Comyns and their ilk, John MacDougall of Lorn and the MacDowals of Galloway among them. The MacDowals are cowed for now, but not yet finished. Their land of Galloway is a smoking ruin, but they might yet rise again. Part of my task is to make sure they do not. His Grace spent much of his time in the past avoiding them while trying to raise an army with which to fight them, but he is ever sore pressed for funds and ye canna buy many good men with mere promises. But for much of the past autumn the MacDowal lands have paid the price of treachery.”

Will made a quick decision. “Aye, well I might help him there, could I but find him.”

Douglas was instantly alert. “What mean you, help him there ? In Galloway?”

“No, with funds. I have a treasure for him, aboard one of my ships.”

“ One of your—?” But Douglas had already jumped forward in his mind to the meat of what he had heard. “What kind of treasure?”