Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

Will Sinclair stood stunned, his senses swimming at the unexpected revelation, but the King seemed unaware of it and was still speaking.

“Jamie told me I could trust you. He has a keen nose for such things. But I had to judge for myself. It may be the single greatest curse of this life I live nowadays, but I always have to judge for myself.” He stood even straighter, drawing himself erect and seeming to collect his thoughts. “But that is neither here nor there. The die is cast and we have work to do—atop the work we gathered here to do.” He turned to de Berenger, then waved a hand in invitation and spoke in serviceable Norman French. “My lord Admiral, you are welcome here. Take off your mantle, if you will, and sit with us. We have much to discuss, though I fear the brunt of it will be done in Scots. Sir William will serve as translator to both of us when the need arises.”

As the two knights began to divest themselves of their heavy capes, he spoke to Will. “Your ships, Sir William—where are they now and in what strength?”

Will stopped, his mantle halfway off. “They are Sir Edward’s ships, Majesty—the galleys at least—not mine.”

The Bruce looked him straight in the eye, one eyebrow slightly raised. “Yours or his, it matters not. They are the Temple’s ships, and they are in my waters. And save the Majesty for England’s King, should ever you be misfortunate enough to meet him. Here in Scotland we speak of the King’s grace, not majesty.”

“Of course. Forgive me, my lord King, I had forgotten.”

Bruce nodded. “Off with that coat, then, and sit ye down.” He groped for the back of his own chair, waving Douglas back into his seat at the table’s head as the young man made to stand up, and as the two knights and Bishop Moray settled themselves at the table, he pointed with his thumb towards the black-bearded scowler at the center of the table. “This is my brother, Edward Bruce, Earl of Carrick. The others I believe you know, but just in case, here is Sir Neil Campbell of Lochawe, chief of Clan Campbell, and here Colin, son of Malcolm MacGregor of Glenorchy. The man you made weep is Sir Gilbert de Hay, my standard-bearer, and Sir Robert Boyd of Noddsdale has been with me since Dumfries, lending me his support, as well as his name in time of need. And now, about your ships … ”

Will cleared his throat and rephrased the comment in French for the admiral’s benefit before continuing in Scots. “We have a mixed fleet, Your Grace, made up of the ships that were in La Rochelle on the day of the … the strike, plus three that joined us from Marseille. In all, we have a score of vessels, ten of them galleys, the others cargo ships.”

Across from the King, Sir Neil Campbell whistled softly, and Bruce leaned back in his chair. “Those would be Temple galleys, I’m thinking—naval ships. How big?”

“They are all different, Your Grace. The three largest, the admiral’s included, are of twenty oars a side—two-man sweeps, arranged in the ancient fashion of double banks.”

“Biremes.”

“Aye, my lord, biremes—all save one, built in Araby and captured by the man who captains it today. It has eighteen sweeps to a side, in two single ranks. All told, we have four ships of thirty-two oars, three of forty, and three of thirty-six.”

“Impressive. How many men in all?”

“In total, perhaps five hundred men. We have not made a formal tally.”

Bruce looked impressed. “A strong force,” he said quietly.

“Aye, Sire, but a naval force.”

“What mean you by that?”

“Nothing, save that they are mariners, not men-at-arms. But we have more. We brought the entire garrison from La Rochelle, snatched from beneath the nose of de Nogaret.”

“You mean the French King’s henchman?”

“Aye, a good word.”

“You dislike the man, I jalouse.”

“Sire, the measure of my dislike of him could scarce be comprehended.”

“How many men there, then?”

“One hundred and fifty-four, of whom thirty and six are serving lay brothers. Of knights and sergeants, therefore, one hundred and eighteen.”

The monarch’s eyes, silver-gray and piercing, narrowed perceptibly. “And you were hoping to gain my permission to lodge these many men within my realm?”

“More than that, Your Grace. I also have a complement of Temple knights and sergeants, under the command of my own brother, Sir Kenneth Sinclair. Twenty full knights and four score regular sergeants.”

Sir Edward Bruce stirred in his chair, but everyone else sat motionless while the King pursed his lips and nodded slowly. “And the cargo vessels?”

“Ten of them, all trading vessels. Seven of them carry my brother’s men and horses, with all of their gear and supplies. Two more carry the garrison from La Rochelle and their equipment. The last of them contains general supplies.”

“Horses, you say? You bring horses in your train?”

“We do. We scarce could leave them all behind to benefit King Philip and de Nogaret.”

“And so you brought them here with you. In ships. Where do you hope to keep them?”

Will shrugged his shoulders, dipping his head at the same time. “I confess, my lord, I had not thought of that. I simply knew I had no wish to leave them stranded in France, and I presumed you might advise me on where to keep them. Some of them, the knights’ mounts, are destriers, bred to the fight. The rest are common stock, sturdy and versatile.”

The King leaned an elbow on his wrist, plucking at his lower lip. “We are going to have to talk, you and I, Sir William, about loyalties and quid pro quo . In the meantime, though, there is a problem that must be resolved without delay. Jamie tells me you left your ships off Sanda, close to Kintyre’s Mull. That is MacDonald country, and should they espy your ships, they would come running, which would serve no useful purpose to me. I will need you to fetch your fleet, as quick as you may, and bring them to Arran. They may shelter in the wide bay to the south of us, the bay of Lamlash. Will you do that?”

“Aye, at once. But might they not be more easily seen coming here than they would remaining there?”

“They might, but if they sail at night they should be fine. Off Kintyre, they might be open to attack by MacDonald, but here in Arran they will be safe. Who will you send?”

“Sir Edward, of course.” Will turned to the admiral and repeated the entire conversation between himself and the King, and de Berenger immediately stood and reached for his mantle.

“I’ll go at once,” he said, “under oars. It is a fourhour journey—”

“Wait!” said Bruce, holding up his hand. “No need for such haste. Not now. Your crew has been invited ashore, Sir Edward. Let them eat first, rest for an hour, then put them to work. What difference between leaving at nightfall and leaving at midnight? The journey will still be in darkness, and it will pass more quickly on a full stomach than on a cramped and empty one. Bide ye, then, until midnight. In the meantime, we’ll go down and eat. But bear in mind my name is simple Rob this night, plain Robert Boyd of Annandale. When we ha’e supped, then we, too, will return to work.”

TWO

For Will Sinclair the banquet—it seemed more elaborate to him than a normal daily meal must be—passed by in a blur of raised voices—there were no women present—roasted meats including venison and mutton, a vague awareness of free-flowing drink, and the strident music of the Scots Highlands and Isles, harps and bagpipes and the seemingly interminable sagas of a string of bards and singers, all of them mouthing unintelligible Erse, or the Gaelic, as they called it. Will sat with Douglas and de Berenger at what was nominally the head table, but few there paid attention to it, its other occupants scattering to sit with their own friends as soon as the main meal was eaten, leaving the high dais to the three French speakers. Will’s mind was still reeling with the unspoken implications of the Bruce’s presence, and he found it inconceivable that the monarch could sit out there among his own followers and not be recognized. He said as much to Douglas, and the young man smiled.