Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

“Aye, and one of them’s mine and another yours, and I’ll feel safer keeping three more reserved for our own use, should the need arise. That leaves five.”

“Of course it does. I had forgot those first two.” The King smiled, and his entire face was transformed, appearing years younger. But then the smile faded. “So now you will have but half as many men to feed and house, since Angus Og will have the keeping of your oarsmen. What about the rest of your men?”

“Kenneth’s party, plus the garrison from La Rochelle—two hundred and thirty, all told, not counting the galley crews. The same needs apply to them. Stuck here on Arran for months on end, they will grow soft. Now clearly you need good men. I can lend you mine—not all at once, mind you, but in rotating groups, knights and sergeants both. Three groups of five-and-seventy, say, all of them mounted and equipped, the complement changing every four months.”

“You would do that?”

Will shrugged. “Without hesitation. But there would be conditions.”

The King held up his hand. “Before you say another word, I cannot undertake to keep them from the fighting—”

“Nor would I ask you to. War is war. I make exceptions for the galleys because they are all that remains, at this time, of the Temple fleet and they are my responsibility. Regular fighting men are another matter altogether. I will ask for volunteers, then select the first group of seventy-five from among those. Every man I have will volunteer, no doubt of that, but they will fight as Temple sergeants, under their own officers. That is the single stipulation I will make there. What say you?”

“I say aye. What else could I say? But what do you expect to gain from this?”

“The King’s blessing upon our use of Arran, and a free rein while we are here. Also the King’s open and freely bestowed goodwill in speaking for us with our neighbors, on Kintyre and the Isles if not the mainland, so that our ships will be free to come and go for as long as we remain. I hope our stay will not be long, that we will return to France one day soon, but in the meantime we would have a place to live and to think of as our own.”

Bruce nodded and slapped his hands on his thighs, then turned to Moray, who had been listening intently. “There, we’re done. And now it is your turn, David, as representative of Mother Church. D’ye want to stay back there or will we make room here by the fire?”

Moray had been working with the fastening of his mail coat and now he stood up and shrugged out of it, tossing it to the tabletop where it landed with a heavy crunching of links. “I’ll come by the fire, Your Grace.” He set his wine on the table’s end as the three of them rearranged themselves around the heavy iron grate. Will took it upon himself to add fuel to the fire while the King summarized all that they had talked of for the Bishop’s information.

“So,” the Bishop said eventually, looking into the fire rather than at the King, “you have considered all I had to say o’ this and decided to ignore it.”

“I ignored nothing, merely sought ways around it. Besides, you were but stating the obvious that first time.”

“No, Sire. The obvious is that you have decided to proceed despite my warnings. It is the needful wi’ which we now have to deal.” David de Moray, Prince of the Church, had no compunction about risking the displeasure of his monarch. Bruce, however, showed no sign of disapproval. He merely sat with his chin on his breast, peering sidewise at the Bishop from beneath raised brows, and when he spoke his words came from the corner of his mouth, directed to Will, seated on his right.

“He can be testy when he’s crossed, our Davie, but he’s a solid lad. Very well, my lord Bishop, explain this needful …”

Moray huffed in exasperation, and Will was sure that this was not the first time he had done so in his dealings with the King. “I would to God Archbishop Lamberton were here at times like this.”

“As do I, Davie.” There was no hint of levity now in Bruce’s voice. “Our superior in Christ, William, is sorely missed, and by far more folk than you and me. But that canna be helped. God has decreed, for reasons of His own, that the Archbishop spend these days in England, and until England releases him to return to his flock there is nothing we can do about it—for the present, at least. But in the meantime, you know as do I that he believes my temporal and spiritual welfare to be well served at your hands, so an end to this moaning. It’s your counsel I need, not your complaints.”

“I have had a thought or two on that.” Moray raised both hands in front of his face and turned them back and forth, scrutinizing them, then bent forward to look across the King to where Will sat. “Sir William, you have no beard.”

Will raised a hand to scratch at his stubbly chin. “I will have, soon enough. I had to shave it off a few weeks ago.”

“And why would you do that? I thought a Templar’s beard was sacrosanct.”

Will almost grinned, his lips twisting in wry agreement. “Most people think so, my lord, but it is merely an affectation. The tonsure is sacrosanct, but the forked beard is no more than a tradition born out of the desert wars in Outremer, and it is one to which I refuse to subscribe. I wear a plain beard, uncut, but unforked, too. I shaved it off with scarce a thought when necessity demanded it.”

“Necessity?”

“I had a need to pass unnoticed among de Nogaret’s men.”

“Ah!” Moray sat back in his chair, apparently satisfied, but Bruce was not.

“What was all that about?” He glared from one of them to the other.

Moray merely glanced at him. “Did you not hear? I was asking Sir William about his beard.”

“I know that, man, but why?”

The Bishop raised his eyebrows. “Because I need to think, and pray over the thoughts. I shall tell you all about it tomorrow.” He leaned forward to address Will again. “I meant what I said earlier, you know, about the Pope and the King of France. Neither of them will be happy when they learn that you are here and that King Robert has granted you sanctuary. King Philip will be greatly vexed, if what you say is true. Perhaps even more than the Pope.”

“Why do you say that, my lord?”

“Because if he and his man de Nogaret were as successful in his coup against the Temple as you suspect, then your escape with the fleet would, in all probability, be the single greatest error of that day. Philip Capet is not a man to enjoy failure—especially so public a failure, with the plain proof of it abroad in other lands. He will not look kindly upon the King of Scots—a suitor for his assistance—granting any kind of clemency to his quarry.”

“Not clemency, my lord Bishop. Sanctuary.”

“Think you King Capet will see the difference?” Moray’s eyebrows had risen even higher with his astonishment.

Will looked crestfallen. “No, sir, he will not.” He hesitated, looking at Moray. “ King Capet , you called him. Have you met the man?”

“Aye, three times. I still believe him more statue than flesh and blood. But that is neither here nor there. This sanctuary you have won may cost King Robert dearly.”

“Let King Robert fret over that,” the monarch answered. “Tell us about the Pope. You said he would be more vexed than Philip. How could that be?”

Moray twisted sideways in his seat to look at his friend. “Do you really have to ask that? He has declared you excommunicate, Robert, and with you all the people of this realm. That means damned: condemned and excluded from the affairs of Christian men and from the sacraments of Holy Church. No Eucharist. No penance, absolution, or salvation. No marriages, nor burials in consecrated ground. And withal a complete lack of hope.” He looked over to Will. “The sole thing standing between His Grace here and the weight of that anathema is the intervention of the body of the Church itself in Scotland. We, the bishops of the realm, are his only shield, and we ourselves are divided by loyalties, for and against the Bruce claim to the Crown. Mind you, the dispute of that claim is impious, since His Grace is now God’s Anointed, duly crowned and ratified at Scone by the senior prelates in the realm, the Primate himself, Archbishop of St. Andrews, presiding.”