Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

Since they had no hope of making themselves heard over the noise of the pipes, both men exchanged nods when they met, then stood smiling and waited for the tune to end. When it did, the strange, wailing music falling away with unexpected swiftness into a final, dying bleat, both were aware of the silent throng surrounding them, waiting for them to speak. Will moved first, nodding to the younger man and greeting him quietly in the Scots tongue.

“Good day to you, Sir James, although the day appears to have gone already. Welcome to our camp, temporary as it is.”

“Aye, my thanks.” Douglas nodded in return, grinning slightly, then lifted the heavy metal helmet from his head and tossed it to one of his men, before pulling a soft cloth cap with an affixed blackcock feather from under his cloak where it had been folded over his shoulder. He tugged it onto his head, adjusting it until it felt comfortable, then swung away to look back over his left shoulder at the fleet ranged in the bay. “I am impressed, I must say. You told us you had a fleet with you, but I had pictured nothing this grand. It gives you … a certain presence, shall we say?” He turned back, his eyes scanning the crowd around them. “The admiral is not here?”

“Oh, he is here … simply not here , if you take my meaning. He ate with me, but left some time ago to speak with some of his captains, now that they have all filled their bellies and are capable of speaking without pleading to be fed. Do you require to speak with him?”

“No, I was merely curious. And what of my people from Brodick? Are any of them here in your camp?”

Will shook his head, surprised by the question. “No, none at all. We have been about our own affairs all day, coming ashore and finding our land legs, then rededicating ourselves to our Order and our way of life.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Knowing it would be thus, therefore, I invited no one from among your captains. Of course, the exceptions are the men you can see behind the fires—the cooks and scullions who prepared the food—and incidentally on that matter, our thanks to you for that service are heartfelt.”

He switched smoothly into French and raised his voice for the benefit of the Templars standing all around them.

“Brethren, my friend here is Sir James Douglas, Guardian of this Island of Arran in the name of Robert, King of Scots. Sir James is the man responsible for providing the food on which we have just dined this day, and the cooks who prepared it for us, so it would be meet to offer him thanks.” His last words were drowned out by a concerted roar, and when it died away Will raised a hand to recapture their attention. “If any of you speak the Scots tongue, you will already have heard me welcome Sir James to our temporary encampment. I would like to promise him now that by the time he visits us again, he will not have to sit on the rocks of the beach to talk with me.” That earned a shout of laughter. “In the meantime, though, he and I have matters of some delicacy to discuss, so if you will permit us, I should like to take him up to my pavilion and speak with him there. Remain you where you are and continue to enjoy yourselves for a while. But get you then to your beds. Our new lives will begin right here on this beach tomorrow with Matins, hours before the sun rolls around to shine on us again. Come, Sir James.”

He ignored the chorus of groans stirred up by his last announcement and led the Douglas chief away, followed by his escorting party. He took them along the shelf above the beach, to where his large pavilion had been erected earlier that day. They walked in silence, because of the need to watch their footing in the dark on the uneven ground, and as they went Will wondered what had brought the Douglas here at this particular time, and aboard a galley.

Even in his absence, it was clear that someone had plainly had an eye to his welfare for the evening, for Will could see the glow of a bright fire inside the pavilion from a long way distant, and the intensity of the light told him it was burning in a brazier on the stone slab at the center of the tent.

“That fire is going to feel good,” Douglas remarked, but Will stumbled then, misjudging a step, and the jarring impact drove the breath from his lungs, so that he made no further attempt to speak until he and Douglas were safely inside the pavilion. They handed their heavy cloaks to a waiting lay brother and made their way directly to stand on either side of the blazing brazier, hands outstretched to the heat. Douglas’s men-at-arms had melted away silently as they approached the great tent, distributed themselves around the outside of it, and although Will had said nothing at that time, he was curious enough to speak of it now.

“Why the escort, today of all days, and here in front of all my men?” He grinned, taking the sting out of what he was saying. “I warrant you, if we wished to harm you or molest you, there are sufficient of us to overcome your eight guards without a deal of trouble.”

“You think so? There’s only a few hundred of you, and you’re all French at that, so don’t be too cocksure.” He paused then, and when he spoke again all humor had been set aside. “The guards are an official escort, Will, just in case of need, and nothing to do with you or yours. I came to bring you a gift.”

Will looked at the young Scots chief in surprise. “Gifts are always welcome, my friend, but what kind of need would require you to keep guards at hand here, among your own folk?”

Douglas shrugged. “Dire need, if only on occasion, and always unpredictable. I have come here directly from the north end of the island. I remembered that your fleet was to put in today and so I thought to find you among them. I was right, and I am glad.”

“You came seeking me directly? Why?”

“To offer thanks for your keen sight.”

Will shook his head. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Your keen insight, perhaps I should say. Remember the long-eared fellow with the need to eavesdrop on French conversations? Well, I set two of my men to watching him and he left here that same night, in something of a hurry, but fortunately unaware that he was being watched. One of my men followed him while the other waited for me. He headed northeast, across the hills and through the mountain glens, clearly headed for Lochranza, since there is nowhere else up there. It was difficult to follow him though, without being seen—that is empty country up there—but we had ample grounds for suspecting him of deviltry and so we picked him up that afternoon and asked him a few questions.”

Will was well aware of the euphemism, but when Douglas showed no signs of continuing, Will asked him outright. “And what did you discover from your … questions?”

“That you had detected a plot … against the King, as all such plottings are.”

“And this fellow was the ringleader?”

“God’s blood no! He was but a messenger—an observer and a spy. He was on his way to his master with tidings of the arrival of a large body of French soldiery in Arran.”

“So who was his master, did you find out?”

“MacDougall of Lorn. The old chief’s son, Lame John himself. Nothing surprising there, the dastard being who and what he is, but what was surprising was the next piece of information our songbird spat out, concerning his most recent employer. It transpires that Menteith himself, our beloved and much-trusted hereditary chieftain of Arran, has made alliance with MacDougall, upon the understanding that he will be given the rule of both Arran and Kintyre once the Bruce is dead and the MacDonald upstarts crushed. More fool him for believing any word from Lame John’s mouth, but the deed was done, the alliance made, and now he himself has been betrayed and his fate is sealed. Menteith will see no mercy from our King for this piece of treachery, I’ll warrant you. There have been too many like matters, and far too many foresworn traitors set free to rebel again.”