Jack Whyte: Standard of Honor

And still no one moved in the crowded approach to the gates. Travelers and guards alike seemed petrified by the swiftness with which death had come to this pleasant, early evening.

“Well, have you all lost your wits?”

The voice was harsh, gravelly, and at the sound of it the spell was broken. People began to move again, and their voices sprang up, halting and tentative at first, as they were unsure how to begin talking about what had happened here. The guards stirred into motion, and several moved purposefully towards the three lifeless bodies in the open, unnatural space.

Tam had already crawled out of his hiding place by then and was preparing to mount his high seat, one foot raised to the hub of the front wheel and his left hand resting gently on the footboard of the driver’s bench, when Fate tapped him on the shoulder.

“Please, I heard you talking to the young man earlier. You are from Scotland.”

Tam froze then turned slowly, his face expressionless, to stare at the woman who had spoken from behind him, her voice a sibilant hiss. She was standing by the tailgate of his wagon, white-knuckled hands grasping the thick strap of a bulky, shapeless cloth bag suspended from her shoulder. Her shape was muffled in a long garment of dull green wool that was wrapped completely around her, one corner covering her head like a hood, exposing only her mouth and chin. She looked young, but not girlish, although the voluminous garment that concealed her left him no way of guessing at her maturity. She appeared to be comparatively clean, too, the skin on the lower part of her face fair and free of obvious dirt. He eyed her again, his gaze traveling slowly and deliberately, but with no hint of lechery, from her face down to her feet, and then he nodded.

“I am of Scotland. What of it?”

“I am, too. And I need help. I need it greatly. I can reward you.”

I need it greatly. I can reward you . This woman was no peasant. Her whisper had been replaced by a quiet, low pitched voice, her diction was clear and precise, and her words, despite the tremor as she spoke them, possessed the confidence born of high breeding. Tam pursed his lips, looking about him instinctively, but no one seemed to be paying them any attention, all eyes directed towards the drama nearby. There was something strange happening here, he knew, but now he sensed that this woman was somehow involved in it. He was favorably impressed by her demeanor, in spite of his wariness. She was wound tight with fear, yet had sufficient presence of mind to appear outwardly calm to any distant observer. His response was quiet but courteous.

“What kind of trouble are you in, Lady? What would you have of me, a simple carter?”

“I need to get inside the gates. They are . . . People are looking for me, and they mean me ill.”

Tam stared at her for the space of five heartbeats, his eyes fixed on the wide-lipped mouth, which was all he could really see of her. “Is that a fact?” he asked then, his Scots brogue suddenly broad and heavy. “And who are these people that harry and frighten well-born women?”

She bit her lip, and he could see her debating with herself whether to say more or no, but then she drew herself up even straighter. “The King’s men. The men of William de Nogaret.”

Still Tam stared at her, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts, although her words had startled him. William de Nogaret, Chief Lawyer to Philip IV, was the most feared and hated man in all of France, and the woman’s admission, clearly born of a desperate decision to trust him solely on the grounds of their common birthplace, invited him instantly to either betray her or become complicit. And complicity in anything involving the frustration of the King’s principal henchman invited torture and death. He remained motionless for a moment longer, his thoughts racing, and then he nodded and his face creased beneath his short, neatly trimmed beard into what might have been the beginnings of a smile.

“De Nogaret? You’re running from de Nogaret? Sweet Jesus, lass, you could not have named a better reason to be seeking aid. Stay where you are. You are hidden there. I need to see what’s going on ahead of us.”

JACK WHYTE was born in Scotland and emigrated to Canada in 1967. An actor, orator, singer, and poet, he is the author of the critically acclaimed Dream of Eagles series of novels set in post-Roman, fifth-century Britain. He lives in Kelowna, British Columbia.

Also by Jack Whyte

A DREAM OF EAGLES

The Skystone

The Singing Sword

The Eagles’ Brood

The Saxon Shore

The Sorcerer, Volume I:

The Fort at River’s Bend

The Sorcerer, Volume II:

Metamorphosis

Uther

THE GOLDEN EAGLE

Clothar the Frank

The Eagle

THE TEMPLAR TRILOGY

Knights of the Black and White

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First published in a Viking Canada hardcover by Penguin Group (Canada),

a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 2007

Published in this edition, 2008

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Copyright © Jack Whyte, 2007

Excerpt from Order in Chaos copyright © Jack Whyte, 2008

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ISBN: 978-0-14-301738-7

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