Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

Moments later he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and Tam Sinclair came around the base of the tower, followed by the man Talressin. Tam drew up short as soon as he came into view, his gaze sweeping along the kneeling men and coming to rest on the pile of weapons at Will’s feet.

“You want them locked up, Sir William?”

“I do. And in chains, hand and foot.”

Tam nodded abruptly, his face expressionless. “Aye. My men will be here quickly, and we’ll have these fellows out o’ here.” He stepped smartly backwards as Sir Richard de Montrichard came hurrying towards them, accompanied by two of his officers, all three of them bareheaded and wearing the new, closely trimmed beards that signified the new order. De Montrichard held up a hand to stop his two companions and made his way directly to Will, although he never took his eyes from the kneeling men in front of them. The helmeted one was recovering quickly, reeling drunkenly but still propped up by his neighbors on each side.

“What has been happening here, Sir William?” De Montrichard spoke from the corner of his mouth, his eyes on the prisoners, and still distant, Will heard nailed boot soles thumping in double time, Tam’s hastily summoned guards approaching.

“A breach of discipline,” Will answered, his voice a monotone. “Fighting among themselves, with full intent to kill. One of them, as you can see, sustained a wound. His assailant attacked me when I sought to stop them, and I had to deal with him.”

De Montrichard gasped. “Are you injured?”

“No, I am well enough. He caused me no difficulty.”

“I’ll have him flogged for this. Who is he?”

“No, Sir Richard.” Will took de Montrichard by the arm and led him aside to where they could not be overheard. “You will not punish him, nor will I. This transgression goes well beyond the bounds of normal punishment within the ranks. What happened here was an assault against the Rule that binds us all, and it must be dealt with formally, in full chapter, as soon as may be arranged. The brethren in chapter, after due process, may decide to have him flogged, but that decision is beyond the jurisdiction of you or me.”

De Montrichard glanced sidelong at Will, then nodded and turned back to face the brawlers, clasping his hands at his back as the arriving guards clattered up and were ordered by Tam Sinclair to take the eight prisoners into custody. But before they moved away, De Montrichard stepped forward and held up a hand to stay them, then indicated the knight in the helmet.

“That man. Remove his helmet and show his face.”

One of the guards unlaced the tight cap covering the prisoner’s head and pushed it back to reveal the fellow’s face, freeing the unkempt mass of the beard that had been concealed beneath it in defiance of Will’s recent order that all beards should be close-trimmed if not completely shaven. Will looked closely at the man but felt no stir of recognition. The prisoner was clearly one of the garrison knights from La Rochelle, and most of those were still unknown to him, despite the close quarters in which they had all lived for more than a month now.

De Montrichard, on the other hand, clearly knew the man now standing before them.

“Martelet,” he said, his voice cold with distaste. “I should have known. The rest of you, show your faces.”

One by one, the group surrounding the man called Martelet loosened the thongs binding their armored caps and pushed them back to expose their bearded faces. Without exception, they were closely shorn, all of them showing varying degrees of recentness in their barbering.

De Montrichard nodded. “Take them away,” he ordered.

Tam barked a string of commands, and the entire column of prisoners and guards straightened in response and was soon following him away towards the building in the inner bailey that held the iron storage cages that served as temporary cells. Will watched them go, one arm across his waist, its wrist supporting his other elbow as he stroked his lower lip with the side of his finger.

“What should I know of this Martelet, Sir Richard?”

De Montrichard sniffed. “A malcontent and a hothead. Did you hear about the affair off the Isle of Sanda, when several knights tried to go ashore and their boat had to be sunk in order to stop them?” Will nodded. “Well, that was Martelet, the ringleader as always. It is good that he be tried in chapter. Perhaps the seriousness of that will have an effect on him.”

Will straightened, dropping his hand from his mouth to his shoulder. “I doubt it. He strikes me as being too arrogant, and too far gone from the way of the Rule, to change his ways now without … redirection. A flogging and a month of bread and water might bring him to heel, but it might not. And if not, what then? We will have to deal with him according to the Rule. When was the last time we walled up one of our own to die, can you remember? I can’t. It must have been fifty years ago at least. Not since the fighting years in the Holy Land, as far as I know. But that could be what we are facing here …” He paused, considering what he had said, then nodded. “Thank you for coming, Sir Richard. I regret having had to summon you, but I thought it best you should be informed, as preceptor.”

“And you were correct. You spoke of convening a chapter meeting. When will that be?”

“The day after tomorrow, in Brodick Hall, if that suits you. But I know it is your right to choose the time and place, so if you wish—”

“Not at all. You are the senior here, and charges of this seriousness cannot be made to wait on convenience. I am content.”

“My thanks, then. I will make the arrangements today and send off word to Brodick, so that they’ll be ready. We ourselves, the entire garrison, will march down there tomorrow at dawn. Can you be ready by then?”

“I’m ready now, but tomorrow is the Feast of the Epiphany. The bishops will not be happy to forgo their ceremonies.”

“Regrettable, but they have no choice. We will march before daybreak, and if Fortune serves us well, we will get to Brodick Hall by nightfall. The bishops can then have their postponed ceremonies that day, prior to chapter opening. A day late, certainly, but no less sincere … God knows what we are about, and knows the difficulties that we face here. I have no doubt He will accept the necessity of what we have to do, and will make allowances for us.”

De Montrichard nodded, his face somber. “I agree with you completely. So mote it be. And now I will leave you to your arrangements … Unless you have some other use for me?”

“My thanks, Richard. I will not hesitate to call on you if I do have need of you.”

Will watched as the other man rejoined his officers and went away. Sir Richard de Montrichard was nominally in charge of all garrison affairs, as his rank of preceptor decreed, but he had been a major disappointment to Will, for he had turned out, under pressure, to be a weak reed. As vice-preceptor in La Rochelle, working under the redoubtable Arnold de Thierry, he had shown all the necessary promise of becoming an excellent commander in due time, but in the event—perhaps because of the murder of his superior, or perhaps because of the unsettling events of October thirteenth—he had fallen far short of his promise and had been largely ineffectual as a leader and commander. Will could find nothing to put his finger on that would justify replacing him with someone else, but he felt, nonetheless, that de Montrichard might be better off, to the advantage of everyone else involved, relieved of his responsibilities and relocated, indeed relegated, to a more contemplative and less active role in the Order’s affairs on Arran. It was a problem Will had spent time considering in the month since their arrival on the island, but as yet he found himself unable to decide upon a satisfactory resolution. There was no one at this point, at least no one obvious, whom he could promote to fill de Montrichard’s position satisfactorily, and that troubled him.