Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

He stood patiently throughout the events that followed, unseen in his pavilion and unaware that he was frowning, and remained practically motionless as the bishops and their acolytes landed on the beach and made their way in procession to the altar knoll. There they launched immediately into the celebration of the High Mass, concelebrated by the three bishops and supported by the massed voices of the choir of lay brothers, assisted by the congregation of monks. He was unaware that he stirred only three times during the entire ceremony, flexing the fingers of his right hand each time as he changed his grip upon the enormous black war helm that rested against his hip bone.

Eventually the ceremonies at the altar ended, and as the bishops and their acolytes filed off, Admiral de Berenger stepped forward to address the assembled company. As he did so, Will raised his arms and lowered the great war helmet into place on his head. The silence that greeted de Berenger’s arrival was absolute and respectful, and he stood silently for several moments as his eyes roamed across the assembled throng. Finally he nodded and raised his right hand, palm forward.

“Brethren,” he said, “I know you have been awaiting this moment, so I will make no attempt to delay it. Pray silence for our superior and sole representative of the Grand Master and the Governing Council of the Order of the Temple of Solomon.”

He stepped back and gestured towards the large tent where Will stood waiting, and as he did so, Tam Sinclair pulled strongly on the cords that controlled the tent flaps, and Will strode through the opening to mount the knoll and stand in front of the altar, flanked on either side by the two senior knights of the chapter of La Rochelle in their formal regalia. The sound that greeted Will’s appearance was more a sigh than anything else, for few among the assembly had ever actually seen the ceremonial garb worn by the members of the Governing Council, and this richly black and glossy apparition was more than most of them could have visualized. Its mere presence before them emphasized, more than anything any of them had seen before, the power represented by and vested in the organization that controlled their entire lives. The great crested helmet of shiny black steel with its towering black and white plumes concealed the identity of the man beneath the costume, but in these opening moments of the drama that was to unfold, the man within was unimportant; the embodiment of power that was the black apparition with its crested shield, its heavy chain of office, and elaborate enameled medallion was paramount.

Will waited patiently until the silence of the crowd was absolute, and then, feeling every eye focused upon him, he lowered his shield and raised his clenched fist to his left breast in a formal salute, and the entire assembly snapped to attention and returned it in a rattling roll of sound as metal struck upon metal. The senior knight on Will’s left, the veteran Reynald de Pairaud, stepped forward one pace and relieved him of the heavy shield, while his companion on the right, an equally grizzled elder called Raphael de Vitune, reached out to take possession of Will’s sword belt and weapons as Will released the heavy black buckles. Then, free of encumbrances, Will reached up slowly and undid the clasps securing his helm before lifting it slowly from his head and settling it in the crook of his right elbow, its rim against his hip bone once again.

“Hail, Brethren,” he intoned, and “Hail, Brother,” came the response. Will raised his voice. “In the name of Master de Molay, I summon you to chapter here in this fair place.”

“So mote it be!”

The response was deep and sustained, and when it faded away, Will turned and waved his hand to indicate the great bronze bell that hung behind the altar. “You all know the tocsin, though few of you have ever seen it before now. For nigh on two hundred years its tone has called our brotherhood to assemble in times of dire need. Now it will sound again, here in this new land, for the first time since it left the fortress of Acre, for once again our Order’s need is dire.” He nodded to his brother Kenneth, who had been waiting for the signal, and two men swung a heavy log between them until its end struck the tocsin and a thunderous bronze tone crashed out and echoed across the waters of the bay, sending birds flying in fright. No one moved or spoke until its echoes had died away.

“This island is called Arran, and it will be our new home for the next while, a temporary base for our operations, extended through the good graces of Robert Bruce, King of Scots. Here we will establish ourselves as a community again, for as long as may be required of us, while we do all that we must do to discover what is happening to our Order and its brethren in France and elsewhere. Until such times as we discover the truth and the effect it will have upon our future, we will conduct ourselves here exactly as though we were in our community in La Rochelle … save that we will have to build ourselves a home before we can enjoy it.”

He swept his eyes from side to side, watching the reactions among his listeners and gauging their temper. Most, he could see, were calm, almost fatalistic, waiting to see what would come next, but there were others who looked angry and others yet who looked merely perplexed. He raised his hand high and waited for silence again.

“I know that most of you know little of what happened back in La Rochelle on the day we left, and while we have been at sea there has been no opportunity to tell you what occurred or why. And thus you have been unable to distinguish truth from rumor or from wild imaginings. I intend now to tell you what we know, though even we, your senior officers, have had to bolster the little knowledge we have with intelligently formed opinions and theories. For the time being, here is the gist of what we know …”

For the quarter hour that followed, Will held his audience rapt as he related everything he knew of the events of Friday, October thirteenth, including his summons to Paris by Master de Molay, the Master’s doubts about the veracity of the warnings he had received, and the struggle de Molay had had with his own conscience in deliberating whether to break his solemn vow of loyalty to the Pope for the future welfare of the Order. He spoke, too, with clarity and openness about his own reactions to de Molay’s tidings, and about the uncertainties he had experienced thereafter, despite knowing that the Master himself was acting against his own instincts and solely in the best interests of the Order. He also told them about his brother’s mission to assemble one hundred men in secrecy and then lead them, in great secrecy, to collect the Order’s Treasure from its hiding place in the caverns of the great forest of Fontainebleau and transport it to the coast.

His listeners knew of the success of that venture, of course, for they themselves had picked the Treasure up and stowed it safely aboard their ships, but Will saw the benefit of permitting them to tie themselves into the arrangements that had been made to survive in the face of the French King’s duplicity; it would do no harm, he knew, to encourage them to believe that, even unwittingly, they had each been a part of the operation to ensure their Order’s survival.

When he had finished, he stood facing them for several moments, half expecting that someone would dare to ask a question, but the discipline of two centuries held strong and no man spoke. Finally Will nodded and took one step back, extending an arm to where Tam Sinclair stood behind his left shoulder, a package ready in his hand. Will hefted it twice before tightening his grip and raising it in both hands. It was a large wallet of leather, evidently of solid weight, its bulk approaching a foot in length and breadth, by half as much in depth, and he brandished it high, turning from side to side so that everyone could see its solid substance.