Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

The black-bearded man at the middle of the table grunted. “Send them home, then,” he drawled. “Back whence they came. We have enough to occupy us now, with what we have in hand, without seeking further troubles.”

“Oh aye? And take the treasure off them first, is that what you mean? Just relieve them o’ the gold they bring in our time o’ need and then wave them farewell?” The Bishop’s voice was cold, filled with dislike of the man to whom he spoke, and the two glared at each other until Sir Robert Boyd of Annandale sat forward, raising a hand.

“A word, if I may.” He scratched slowly at his close-trimmed beard. “Our black-bearded friend is but newly arrived, from Rathlin island, so he knows but little of who you are. He bears an unfortunate English name, too—Edward—and the burden makes him unmannerly at times. But he is chief captain of his clan and brother to the chief himself. Sir William, were you aware of any of these things—the things the Bishop mentioned—before you came here?”

Will shook his head. “This is the first I have heard of any treaty with King Philip. It surprises me in a way, knowing the kind of man Philip is, but I can see how the need for it might arise. As for the writ of excommunication, I was aware of it.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But I admit I had not seen the connection between King Robert’s case and our own.” He hesitated. “Not quite true—I had seen it, but thought the connection to be a common ground, one which might lead your King to grant our wish. It had not occurred to me that there would be plans in place to acquire a dispensation, or that we might cause embarrassment to King Robert because of it.”

Boyd pursed his lips and sniffed. “Sir James was saying you have been long away from Scotland. Tell us, then, what, if anything, do you know about our King, Robert Bruce?”

Again Will was prompted to smile, even knowing as acutely as he did that he was on trial here. He bent his head slightly sideways, the smile widening. “I think it might be easier and less troublesome were you to ask me to reveal the inner secrets of the Temple, Sir Robert.” No one smiled in return, and he continued. “In truth I know little of your King, and most of what I have learned before today came from two single sources, both of them women. My life and my duties, these past decades, have been dedicated to the Temple, bound thereto by oath, by duty, and by loyalty. I was born in Roslin and spent my boyhood there, and when I left Scotland as a lad, there was no strife between this realm and England. I have lived in ignorance of all that has transpired here since then, but I feel no guilt over that, for I renounced the world when I entered the Order, and the Temple owes allegiance to no temporal lord or monarch other than the Pope.

“My sister Margaret wed Sir Edward Randolph, long after I left home, and she was the prime source of my knowledge of the troubles here in Scotland, and of the travails of King Robert when he was yet the young Earl of Carrick. In her letters, she spoke very highly of the man, and of the esteem and love her husband held for him and his cause. And since she was always a levelheaded lass, I accepted her judgment. The second woman of whom I spoke is Lady Jessica Randolph, the Baroness St. Valéry. I do not know that lady well at all, but her determination to deliver her dead husband’s wealth into the hands of Robert Bruce, together with her belief in the man’s righteousness and his destiny as King of Scots, was a persuasive argument that fitted well with my sister’s opinion. And so I am here.”

“Hmm. What else do you know of him—the man, if not the king?”

“Little enough. I have never set eyes on him. But from what Sir James has told me in a very brief time, I have formed … opinions of my own. He must be a man of extraordinary fortitude and honor to generate such reverence among his friends.”

“Aye, that may be. But what of his enemies? Have you not heard it said that the King’s numbered friends are few, less than it would take to fill up both sides of a table?”

Sir James Douglas broke in, smiling. “Or that his enemies abound like fleas on a moudiewort, leaping over and across each other to infest him?”

Will stood staring from one man to the other, perplexed, aware that all eyes around the table were fixed on him and that he was suddenly unsure of what was happening here. Not knowing what to say next, he gave in to his instincts and shrugged. “I have no doubt that must be what folk say, if, as you say, you have heard it said … But I think you need no reminding that folk are great tellers of lies. Being recently arrived, I have heard nothing of the kind myself—nothing, that is, from ‘they’ who hold so many opinions. For myself, I would choose to believe things differently. If your King has, as they say, so few friends, then you would do him honor to add the word remaining , for he strikes me as a man who holds friends close. But even more, above that, he seems to me to be a man—and perhaps even a king—who brings out the best in those who love him. Therefore either his friends die willingly, in support of his cause, or they are easy to identify and find … and kill thereafter. He may indeed have but few friends remaining, but I am sure he never forgets those friends whom he has lost. That must grieve the man day and night, from what I have heard of him, and in enduring it, tholing it all and moving on, he must be like a blade tempered in fire and blood, and withal a king worthy of the name.” Again he was aware of the silence as he concluded. “That is my opinion of your King, gentlemen, no matter if he or you send me on my way or not. It is a judgment newly formed, but it is in my heart, and should I ever come face-to-face with him, I will believe myself honored to do so.”

Looking back on it, Will would see that it had been an astonishing statement, one that he had not known he was going to make until the words were spilling from his mouth, evoked by a deep and formless, unsuspected anger that had left him trembling with tension by the time he finished. He could sense, without looking, that even de Berenger, who could barely have understood a word of what he said, was staring at him in surprise. It must have been something in his tone, he thought.

He sucked in a deep breath and held it, looking straight ahead and waiting for a reaction from the motionless group around the table, three of whom had not spoken a word since he and his companions entered the room, but when one came he could scarcely believe what he was seeing. It was a tiny glimmer of light, trembling almost unseen at the edge of his vision, and when he sought the source of it, it sprang sharply into focus: a single teardrop, reflecting the glow of one of the candles on the table, had welled up in the eye of the stern-faced knight called de Hay. The man sat rigid but unapologetic, making no attempt to wipe the drop away before it spilled over and ran down his cheek into his beard. Only then did he blink and glance at Will, both eyes awash, before looking over at Sir Robert Boyd of Noddsdale, then turning his head further, to look at the other Boyd, of Annandale, who was already watching him.

The expression on Annandale’s face was hard to define, but there was no hint of pity or derision in it as he gazed at the mail-clad veteran, tears now running openly down both cheeks. He held de Hay’s eyes a moment longer, then looked down the table to where the Temple knights stood waiting.

“Well, Sir William, your sentiments have won the approval of Sir Gilbert.” The noise his chair made as he pushed it back and stood up was loud in the quiet room, and from somewhere down below a loud crash echoed it as someone dropped what sounded like a heavy table. “So be it—no more subterfuge. I am Robert Bruce, King of Scots, and I regret the mummery. Suffice to say, alas, it was not uncalled for. My presence here is not for common knowledge and few, even downstairs, know who I am.”