Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

“He is a good man, but how can he expect to do that?” Douglas asked as the admiral marched away towards his men. “I wouldna dare leave my men within smellin’ distance o’ a drink if I had work for them to do. What kind of power does he hold over them?”

“The power of God, my friend. Don’t forget that they are monks of the Temple, every one. They fight like demons, but they live like anchorites and pray like priests.”

He followed de Berenger with his eyes as he spoke, watching him head directly to the table where the four knights who were his ship’s officers sat with the six senior sergeants who actually ran the galley’s crew. The differences between knights and sergeants were clear, even could one disregard the white surcoats of the knights and the black of the others. The knights, to a man, wore the forked beards that marked them as Temple knights, an affectation that sometimes amused Will but more frequently annoyed him as typifying, it seemed to him, the elitist arrogance within their ranks that so offended outsiders. The sergeants were more sober in their demeanor, although their uniform close-clipped beards were equally a mark of belonging to the Temple.

The wrestling match was still going on in the middle of the room. One man had already been thrown off his feet, and a shifting circle of onlookers milled about them, variously shouting oaths and encouragement. The Bruce had vanished, no sign of him to be seen, although he might simply have been hidden by the press of bodies.

Looking at the array of clothing in the room, Will supposed that he might have seen a more riotous confusion of colors in France at some time, but he doubted it. Most of the men present were Highland Gaels, wrapped in plaids, their hair and beards unshorn, many of them even plaited into strips, and they were tricked out with barbaric jewelry and decorations ranging from eagle feathers to brightly woven sashes of startling hues.

Will did not know what it was that captured his attention, but once aware of the man, he observed the fellow keenly. The man was too busy watching others to think of being noted himself. He was unremarkable, apart from being one of the few among the common throng who was not dressed as a Gael. Will could not see what he had on below the waist, but the man wore a plain thick tunic beneath a worn leather vest, and his head was bare, showing a balding scalp and stringy, nape-length brown hair. He had a beard and mustache, but both appeared sparse, as though his facial growth was light enough to deny or defy masculinity. But he was very interested in de Berenger and what the admiral was saying to his men … so interested that he was bending sideways from his chair to hear, while ludicrously attempting not to seem so.

Will nudged Douglas to distract his attention from the brawl. “Don’t be obvious about it, but take a look over there, where de Berenger is talking to his men. See you the fellow craning to overhear them? Bare headed, balding, in the leather jerkin. Do you know him?”

Douglas’s eyes slitted in concentration. “No, I don’t, but he is one of ours. From the mainland, I mean—a Lowlander, by his clothes. He must have come with Rob Boyd or one of the others. What about him?”

“I don’t know, except something about him set my teeth on edge … the way he’s bent on hearing everything that’s being said over there. De Berenger is probably telling his men what he expects of them when they pull out later tonight, and it’s plain he has seen no reason to be secretive … but that made me think of what our friend from Annandale was saying, about how spies, traitors, and informers are everywhere in this land. If someone were to slip away from here with information on what is happening on Arran, he might earn a fine supply of English silver.”

“Aye. Like Judas. I will ask about this fellow. And in the meantime, I will watch him like a hawk. They’re speaking French, are they not?”

“What else? They’re all Frenchmen.”

“Aye … so how then does a ragged Borders moss-trooper gain the skills to understand what they are saying? Dougald!”

A huge man stood up from the table in front of the dais and lowered his head to what Douglas had to say. After a whispered monologue, he turned casually, glanced at the man Douglas had described, and nodded before sauntering away.

Douglas turned back to Will. “You have a good eye, Sir William. By this time tomorrow morning we will know everything there is to know about our long-eared friend. Dougald’s lads will count the number of his breaths between now and then.” His eyes focused beyond Will’s shoulder. “I think we are about to be summoned.”

THREE

Only Will had been summoned, and he left Douglas at the dais and followed the man who had been sent to fetch him. They made their way up the wooden stairs to the gallery, threading their way between two burly characters who sat indolently on the stairs themselves, one above the other, and pulled their knees aside to let them pass.

King Robert was waiting for him in the chamber they had met in earlier, sitting alone by the table, close to the replenished fire in the iron grate and staring into the flames as he scratched the head of a big, gray-haired wolfhound. He pushed the dog’s head away with a muttered command as Will entered, and it lay down at his feet. When the King stood and turned to face him, Will was immediately struck by the air of exhaustion that emanated from the man, but then the monarch drew himself erect, casting weariness aside like a discarded cloak, so that even the etched lines in his face seemed to recede and fill out.

The King addressed the other man. “See to it that we are undisturbed. No one to come up here except David Moray, and him not for at least the next half hour.” He waited until the doors had closed before he next addressed Will. “De Moray’s a doughty fighter, but his head is even longer and sharper than his sword, so we’ll be glad of his advice.”

The King hauled his heavy chair to one side of the fire. “Throw your coat on the table and sit with me, Sir William. Pull a chair up to the fire. It gets cold these nights, with the wind off the water, and I find myself being grateful to the English for their need to build sound flues to hold big fires. Were it left to my Scots, we would be squatting now in the open air, wishing for firewood. There is some wine on the sideboard. Help yourself and sit down, sit down. Is the admiral away?”

“Preparing to leave, Sire. I left him chivvying his men. He will be at sea within the hour, or close to it.” Will eschewed the offer of wine and did as bidden, tossing his folded mantle onto the tabletop and dragging a heavy chair close to the fire.

“Good, that pleases me,” the King said. “I like that man. Now, before anything else, tell me about this treasure that you bring to me. Jamie was agog with it, but wouldn’t tell me of amounts, probably for fear of listening ears. He’s aey canny that way. You say it has been sent by Lady Jessica Randolph?”

“Aye, Sire, the Baroness St. Valéry. But it was not sent. It was brought.”

“What? She is in Scotland?”

“She is, aboard one of our galleys. We did not expect to find you on Arran, you understand. I merely came in search of a safe anchorage and, I hoped, a tolerant reception. Once we knew what we were doing, I would have headed to the mainland in search of you, and the Baroness would have come with me, making her way homeward from wherever we landed.”

“Then it was fortunate that I was here, for you would have found scant welcome in Scotland. Every castle left standing, save Inverness, and every single harbor is in English hands, though by the will of God, this money you have brought may make it possible to change such things. How much is there?”