Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

“And that gave King Robert opportunity to turn to cleaning his own realm of turncoats and traitors. He took the MacDowals first, in Galloway, and gave them a taste of what treason entails. And then he turned to the MacDougalls in Argyll, and wrung a truce from them, from their chief’s son, Lame John MacDougall of Lorn. The father, old Alexander, can no longer march or fight, so Lame John rules there in all but name now. But the King made a truce. No more hostilities between now and June of next year. I fear he should have finished it then and there, but he was loath to risk losing too many men in formal battle. We are not yet strong enough for that. But then he headed north and east, marching along the Great Glen, and took the castle at Inverness—the first such victory he has won since taking up the crown. All the other castles in the realm remain in English hands.”

Sinclair struggled to encompass the enormity of what he had been told, trying to imagine the effect such a progression of family catastrophes must have had on the man Bruce. How had he managed to survive such things without losing his ability to function as a man, let alone a king? He shook his head, trying to clear it, and Douglas spoke again, quietly, as if he had read Will’s thoughts.

“His family’s losses hit him hard, but they strengthened him too. A lesser man would have been beaten to his knees. I know I would. But not King Robert … Even so, I sometimes wonder how he restrains himself from hunting down his enemies, one by one, and killing each one privily, in person. But he will not do so. He sees himself as Monarch first, responsible for his people, and only after that, his duty done, as family man, responsible for kinsmen and friends.

“And yet, within these past few months, we have seen signs that the tide is turning. Not sufficiently, not yet. But there is hope, increasing all the time. We have won a few tulzies, and folk are coming to our cause more and more all the time—not the great nobles, but the common folk—and we have more strength now than we have had since Methven. But King Robert will not hear of set battles, not when he can field fewer than three thousand men against English and Comyn hosts of tens of thousands … But that will change, once he carries the fight to the Comyns.”

“Then how come you to be here, in Arran, Sir James? I would have thought your place is with the King.”

“No, my place is here, holding the southwest and maintaining it against the King’s return. I have it safe for now, but every castle in the land is still manned by English garrisons. Above us, to the north and east, the MacDougalls and the MacDowals still swarm like maggots in Lorn and Galloway, nursing their hatred. We are safely based here on Arran, for the time being, but that could change with the next sail that comes over the horizon … Speaking of which,” he added, taking a new tack, “you said ships when you spoke of your treasure— one of your ships. I see but one, so plainly you have others.” Will pursed his lips and nodded, and Douglas’s eyes came close to squinting. “How many, and where are they?”

“They are nearby, awaiting word from me. I told you I came seeking sanctuary, but I knew not how I might be received or what, if anything, I might find here. I left my ships behind, in a safe anchorage, whence they might come or go without hindrance whatever we found.”

Douglas was nibbling on his upper lip now, deep in thought as the noise and horseplay nearby swelled in volume. But then he straightened and drew a deep breath. “Come you with me, if you will. There are others who should hear what you have to say … and many others who should not. So mind you, guard your tongue henceforth until I give the nod. Will you agree to that?”

Will Sinclair smiled widely, unable to resist his inexplicable liking for this dark-skinned young man with the brilliant and expressive blue eyes. “Happily,” he said, and then followed Douglas back across the wide forecourt and up the flight of sturdy wooden steps to the castle hall.

SIX

The vast room was almost empty now and, pausing just inside the threshold, Will was surprised to see that it was not as he had first perceived it. In the crush of people who had filled it earlier, he had taken it to be a single great space, its high roof supported by pillars and huge beams, but now he saw that there were doors at each end, leading to two more full-width chambers, and that wide stairways against the wall facing the main entry doors led up to partitioned spaces above both. The platform on his left held several rooms, each curtained off and served by a common passageway along the gallery they formed. The one on the right, presumably similar in layout, was fronted by a wooden wall, affording privacy to whoever lived there, and he supposed that it would be occupied by the commander.

The place was new, and crudely but strongly built, its wooden beams still showing the fresh cuts of axe and adze, but already he saw signs that carpenters had been at work, smoothing and finishing the main surfaces, particularly the wall that fronted the upper space reserved for the commander. A fire blazed in a great, open stone fireplace against the rear wall, too, between the two flights of steps, and by just looking at it and smelling the gently drifting haze of smoke from it he could tell that it was freshly lit. Along the walls to his immediate right and left, a small army of men was starting to prepare tables and benches for the coming feast, manhandling them from where they had been piled on end in the far corners and carrying them out into the middle of the floor, laying them out in rows from there.

All of this he absorbed in moments, along with the awareness that the place now seemed to be full of large dogs—lean, rangy, spike-coated hounds that he remembered from his boyhood but had seldom seen in France. Three knots of men, the largest of them a quartet, were talking quietly in various parts of the main room, each far enough away from the others to remain unheard. De Berenger was there, too, standing about ten paces ahead of Will in the middle of the floor and turning to look at him. He had been talking to one of the Scots knights Will had met earlier, although the man’s name was long since beyond recall, and as Will focused on the stranger he felt Douglas place a hand on his elbow.

“Come, I see your admiral has met Bishop Moray. I will leave you with them for a while, with your permission, for I have things to do before we can continue.”

He started to move forward, but Will restrained him with a touch on his arm and a question. “Bishop Moray. Is he the same one who rode north with the Queen and her ladies?”

“The same.”

“And is he one of those you trust, or no?”

Douglas grinned, a flash of brightness in the gloom. “David is one to trust, believe me.”

He led Will forward then to join the other two, introducing him again to the Bishop, who looked less like a bishop than any other Will had ever seen or known. David de Moray, Bishop of Moray, was not a tall man, but he was enormously broad and deep across shoulders and chest, and he was self-evidently a practicing member of the Church Militant, armored from head to foot. The open skirts of his calf-length coat of rusting but still pliable chain mail clearly showed three bright scars where they had recently been struck by hard-swung weapons. Beneath the coat he wore leggings of the same mail, and on his feet, sturdy, well-worn boots with thick, many-layered soles. His head was covered by a close-fitting hood of felted wool, the bindings at its chin undone, and the mailed cap that would cover it dangled between his shoulders. A long, plain-hilted dirk hung from a sheath at his waist, and a broad belt slung across his chest from his right shoulder supported a heavy broadsword in a scuffed scabbard.