Order in Chaos

THE RETURN

ONE

Will Sinclair was about his own business on that magnificent June morning in the year of our Lord 1312, and it was business he wished to share with no one. His life as a monastic was generally without privacy, and his activities as Master and commander of the Temple on Arran exacerbated that condition. There was always someone needing to speak to him, seeking his approval or his advice, and any time he was out in plain sight he would end up in the center of a throng. Only in prayer and meditation could he find solitude, and seldom even then, since most of the Templars’ daily prayers and the rites surrounding them were communal. Today, however, Will had elected to be alone, for what he considered to be good and sufficient purpose.

He had been told the previous evening, by one of the old mariners off a trading vessel anchored in the bay at Lochranza, that the next day promised to be the finest of the year thus far, and on the spur of the moment, Will had decided to do something that he had been thinking about for more than a month. He sought out Richard de Montrichard, the island’s preceptor, and informed him that he was leaving then and there, alone, and would return within two days, on the last day of June. De Montrichard merely nodded, showing neither surprise nor curiosity, but Will knew that even if the preceptor saw nothing strange in the disappearance of the Master without the smallest escort, others would, and so he added, purely for the later benefit of those others, that he had much on his mind and needed time to be alone and to think without distraction. He then went and told Tam Sinclair that he would be sleeping under the sky for the next two nights, and asked him to keep his squire, young Henry, busy while he was away. He had expected an argument from Tam, but his kinsman had just shrugged and wished him joy of his privacy.

Will then packed one saddlebag carefully with all he thought he might need, threw a thick rolled blanket over one shoulder, then made a quick call upon the commissary for food to keep him going for two days. A good, sturdy mountain horse selected from the stables completed his preparations, and he disappeared into the hills just as the sun was beginning to set.

A strong wind came up before he was two miles from Lochranza, but he slept soundly that night on a bed of bracken in a deep, sheltered hollow by a mountain tarn while a howling gale shrieked and whistled above his head without harming him, wrapped warmly as he was in a thick woolen blanket and covered by piled bracken ferns. The wind subsided while he slept, and he was up and about long before dawn began to brighten the sky. He ate a breakfast of cold meat and oatmeal cake in the dark and struck camp before sunrise, heading south and east under the flanks of the great Fells that towered on his right, until he found the coast again. He reached his destination by mid-morning, when the sun was already hot on his face.

Will stood with his back to the sea, peering up at the slopes of the high mountains, searching for signs of human life but not expecting to see any. This was one of the most remote stretches of coastline on Arran, seldom visited because it had high cliffs and no shelving beaches in front, and massive, impassable mountains at its back. It was approachable only from the way he had come, and he had found the place by accident, two years earlier, while following a gut-shot stag.

He took his horse’s bridle and led the broad-hoofed beast down towards the cliff, where they descended into a narrow defile cut by a fast-flowing stream and vanished from view. Down there, however, was the jewel of this place. Fifteen paces beneath the lip of the cliff, invisible from every direction but the sea straight ahead and forming one side of the gully housing the cataract, a wide finger of rock jutted out into the sea, its upper surface coated with turf and bracken ferns. Once there, Will unsaddled his horse and left it to graze freely. Then, carrying his saddlebags and four lengths of alder sapling that he had cut from a grove a mile away to the north, he walked to the farthest point of the rocky finger and gazed down into the sea, less than ten paces beneath him.

The day was perfectly calm, and the sea reflected that, only the gentlest appearance and disappearance of isolated underwater rocks revealing that there was a five- or six-foot swell down there, its presence the only sign that a gale had been howling here mere hours before. The water was so clear and still-looking now, despite the swell, that he could see the occasional large fish glide by. He turned and gazed up again at the cliff top above. Nothing stirred up there; he was alone.

He stepped away from the edge of the rock and shrugged his long-sword belt up and over his head, dropping it and the weapon it bore onto the grass, to be followed by the waist belt holding his scrip and his sheathed dagger. He wore no mail or armor of any kind this day, for those things were never needed on the island. The people of the mainland and Kintyre might not know exactly who the strangers were who had recently occupied Arran, but they knew that they were numerous, they were womanless, and they were warriors, and so they kept their distance and left the islanders in peace.

Moving rapidly now, Will collected the four lengths of alder sapling and tied them together with strips of leather to form a four-foot-high tripod, after which he tied the fourth length across two of the legs. That done, he pulled off the plain brown summer surcoat he wore and folded it loosely before dropping it on top of his discarded weapons. Then he undid yet another narrow belt and removed his knee-length fold-over tunic of rough wool, baring his upper body and spreading his arms wide to embrace the freedom of the air against his skin. Moments later he dropped to his rump and pulled off his heavy riding boots, then eased his loose woolen breeches down until he could kick them off his feet, leaving himself clad only in a single undergarment.

He reached over, bending sideways, and pulled the saddlebags towards him, and from them he withdrew two objects, the first of them a heavy cake of rough, strong-smelling soap from the chapter’s laundry, and the other a white, carefully rolled and bound packet that he untied and flapped open. It was a plain rectangular sheet of bleached lambskin, more than twice as broad as it was long. Soft and supple, the inner side was scrubbed brilliantly white and clean, the outer still bearing the fleece, shaven to a depth of less than one quarter of an inch. A long thong of the same white leather was threaded loosely through the first few of a row of punched holes on one end, and the other end was similarly punched. Leaving the thing lying fleece side down on the short grass, Will rolled and swung himself up until he was kneeling. He reached down to his side and tugged at the knotted thong that held a soiled but otherwise identical lambskin wrapping tightly in place about his waist, from hips to just above mid-thigh. It took him some time to undo the bindings, pulling them loose from the eyelets through which they were threaded, and when the garment fell away he swept it up and walked naked to the edge of the promontory to look down at the fast-flowing stream hurtling down its deep gully to the sea. Sighting carefully, he lobbed the garment, and then the cake of soap, down to the one spot on the far bank of the narrow flume where there was sufficient space to do so, and then he turned and walked swiftly to the point of the promontory.

The decision to come to this spot had been precipitated by a recent encounter with Richard de Montrichard’s squire, Gareth. Will and de Montrichard had been reviewing the duty roster for the upcoming rotation of troops for King Robert when de Montrichard’s squire had come in, bearing a message for his master, and as the burly youth passed close by him Will had had to close his eyes and hold his breath against the sour, fecal stench emanating from him. He was practically immune to the smells of the people he lived among, some of whom gave off a rank and even feral odor, but even among a community of unwashed bodies, this young man stank. Will had forced himself to sit still and breathe only when he had to until the doors had closed behind the young man, and then he’d sucked in a deep breath.

“Sweet Jesus, Richard, that boy of yours stinks like an open latrine. A festering corpse would smell more wholesome. When did he last bathe, do you know?”

De Montrichard looked mystified. “I don’t know. At Easter, I suppose, with the rest of us. Three months ago? Should I have him bathe again?”

On the point of uttering an explosive “Yes!” Will shrugged and waved a hand mildly to dismiss the topic. He had already decided upon a course of action regarding the Gareth lad.

As soon as his business with the preceptor was concluded, Will sent word to the training yard to have his own squire, his nephew Henry Sinclair, report to him in his private quarters. He then went to one of the six small chests that lined the rear wall of the room that served him as a cell, pulled out a bar of rough soap, and wrapped it in one of his own towels. When the boy arrived he beckoned young Henry to approach, then bent towards him to sniff, searchingly, and his nose wrinkled.

“When did you last bathe?”

“Two weeks ago, Uncle.” The boy did not even blink at the question, having long since grown inured to his uncle’s strange regard for, and insistence upon, bodily cleanliness. Bathing was not a requirement of the Rule, so they did not bathe. Regarded as being effete and conducive to carnality, it was officially frowned upon.

“Then I have a task for you. It is high time you went for a swim.”

Young Henry smiled, a little uncertainly. He was one of only half a score of the two score squires in the community who could swim, and he loved nothing better than to do so on the very infrequent occasions when his duties granted him the freedom to enjoy it.

Will lobbed the towel and soap towards him and the boy caught it.

“You will take your friends with you—those who swim—and enjoy the afternoon in freedom. But there is a condition. You will take Preceptor de Montrichard’s squire, Gareth, as well. He needs a bath, and it is your task to assist him in taking one. That thing you are holding is a bar of soap. You know how to use it. You will use it on Gareth, and to good effect. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Uncle. Very clear. But—?”

“I’m not suggesting you throw Gareth from the cliff, you understand? He does not swim and might drown there. But you can drag him in from the beach and scrub him clean there. Now, let’s away.”

Will allowed himself a small chuckle now as he imagined the scene he had set in motion, Gareth forced to overcome what was clearly a lifelong aversion to soap and water. Anticipating the pleasure of the same experience, he paused briefly, studying the water below him, and then dived out and down.

The sea was fairly warm, he knew, at the end of June, but the initial shock of plunging into it was enough to drive every vestige of breath from his lungs, and as he fought his way to the surface he found himself thinking how fortunate he was to have no fear of swimming, or of water. Most people did, he knew. They found it an alien and terrifying reality, a threat of death over which they had no control. Will had learned to swim as a small boy, taught by one of his father’s men, who had been a fisherman all his life and had learned to swim and to love doing so. Will had been an eager pupil, and though he had had little opportunity to swim since the age of eighteen—he could count the separate occasions on his fingers—he had never forgotten the exhilarating freedom of swimming in deep, clear water.

He swam for what he believed to be a quarter of an hour, feeling at once guilty and liberated, diving down to the sea bottom and then returning to the surface time after time. He could see, down there, the kelp and tangle anchored to the rocks, and the limpets and other shellfish that abounded there, but the salt water stung his eyes and blurred his vision, and when the sensation became uncomfortable he remained on the surface, floating on his back and gazing at the promontory above him, occasionally kicking strongly to counteract the tidal drift that pulled him southward along the coast. He became acutely aware of his genitals, of their freedom in his unaccustomed nakedness. And that awareness made him aware of his reason for being there, so that he struck out strongly towards the shore and dog-paddled his way into the tiny estuary of the freshet that bounded down from the hillside above.

The fresh water, splashing heavily and urgently against his body, was far colder than the sea he had just left. He scampered upwards against its pounding, bent over and using hands and feet to scramble over the rocks in the streambed until he reached the cauldron beneath a six-foot waterfall and climbed onto the shelf beside it, where he had earlier thrown the soap and the sheepskin.

It was cold in the gully, the sun blocked out by the steep sides, and he moved quickly now, spreading the lambskin fleece over a good-sized stone and scrubbing at it with the cake of soap until it began to work up a lather. It was hard going, for the soap was primitive and had little capacity to generate bubbles, but he kept at it and soon was able to knead the fleece, feeling the slickness of the soapy wool under his hands and between his chilled fingers. He worked single-mindedly, kneading and pummeling at the cold fleece to dislodge the accumulated dirt and grime, adding fresh soap occasionally, then repeating the entire process until he was satisfied that he had washed out as much as he could. He gathered up the fleece and went back to the foot of the waterfall. He draped the garment over another, larger stone with a flat surface, where the thunderous deluge from above fell straight onto it, the sheer weight and pressure of the water scouring the soap from the wool until no trace of suds or discoloration could be seen draining into the pool below the rock.

He felt cold to his bones now, and he had difficulty hauling himself up the remainder of the steep gully, carrying the waterlogged fleece over one shoulder to the nearest point at which he could climb safely up onto the sunlit surface of the rocky outthrust. The sun felt wonderful against his bare skin, but he knew it would take some time to burn off the chill that afflicted him. He quickly spread the streaming fleece over the tops of the tripod poles and left it to drip while he launched himself into a familiar series of physical exertions designed to loosen his limbs and increase his heartbeat. And when he felt warm again, he collapsed limply on the grass, luxuriating in the sun’s warmth before he fell asleep.

He awoke some time later to find a large, heavy beetle crawling across his torso, its scrabbling claws tickling him awake. He flicked it away and it took to the air, droning heavily as it vanished into the gully by his side. A glance at the tripod told him the fleece had stopped dripping, although it still looked waterlogged. He grunted and rose smoothly to his feet, taking the sheepskin in both hands and shaking it hard, trying to snap the ends of it to expel as much water as possible. That, too, was hard work, but he kept at it, changing his grip from end to end, until he was convinced no more water could be shaken free. He was wet again by then, his skin covered in water droplets, but he was warm this time, too.

He used the white leather binding thongs of the garment itself to tie it securely to the tripod, stretching it and draping one end across the crossbar on two of the three legs. When he was satisfied, he angled its surface directly towards the sun, estimating as he did so that it must be close to midday, and feeling quite sure that by the time the remainder of the day had elapsed—at least eight hours at this time of the year—the sheepskin, if not completely dried, would be at least dry enough to be packed and rolled without damage.

He walked to the edge of the spit of land and turned in a full circle, scanning the cliffs above him and the empty sea ahead of him and seeing no single sign of life anywhere. He might have been the only person alive in the world, and that thought spurred him to urinate, aiming deliberately towards the mainland visible in the distance and watching the arc of his urine rise high into the air before falling into the waves below. But then, suddenly aware of his nakedness, he turned back and scooped up the fresh white garment he had brought with him. It was known as an apron. Every member of the Temple wore one, receiving it as a mark of belonging on the occasion of his being admitted to the fraternity, and none of them wore it easily, for it was intended as a barrier against sexuality—a safeguard against concupiscence—to be worn constantly, day and night. And Will, his face wrinkling involuntarily, conceded to himself that it was effective if only because the majority of the Temple brethren chose to interpret the Rule literally and never thought to remove their apron once it was in place. The stink of the rancid thing was in itself a guarantee of chastity. Thinking this, Will grunted to himself and, the lacing completed, stepped into the restrictive garment, shrugged and pulled it into place, then laced it up tightly, bidding farewell to naked freedom.

He then collected his weapons and unsheathed both sword and dagger. After examining the blades critically, he dug again in his saddlebags for the small package containing his whetstone and the tiny vial of oil he used to protect the blades against rust, and for a while he worked on the weapons with total concentration, using the stone to burnish the metal wherever he thought he saw a blemish or the threat of one, then honing the edges with great care before applying a thin film of the protective oil to each blade. Throughout it all, he was aware of the tightness and familiar restriction of the fresh, tightly laced apron around his hips,

The real tradition underlying the use of the garment, Will knew, had nothing to do with the Order of the Temple or with the Catholic Church’s strictures on sexuality. The apron sprang from far more ancient roots and was a symbol of membership in the Order of Sion, representing the white apron of lambswool worn by the Egyptian priests of Isis and Osiris in the days of the Israelite captivity. Later, when Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt, their priests took that association with them and wore the white lambskin aprons to denote their spiritual purity as servants of the living God, Jehovah, and the original priestly caste of the Temple in Jerusalem wore the aprons long before the advent of Herod’s Pharisees, who saw no need to wear them. The white apron had then been taken up by the Essenes, who called themselves the Followers of the Way, the movement espoused by the man Jesus and his brother James, who was known as the Just.

Will knew, too, the tale of how the Templars had come to adopt the tradition of the lambswool apron, and now he smiled as he remembered it. Hugh de Payens and one of his closest friends, Payn Montdidier, had been surprised by some of their fellow knights one day when they were bathing. Asked about the strange garments they were wearing, Montdidier had retorted that it was a penalty they had imposed upon themselves during their years of excavating for the Treasure. It was a form of enforced chastity, he said, because it was sewn in place and could never be removed, and such was the reverence in which he was held that his explanation was accepted immediately, and the apron was worn thereafter by every Templar knight upon joining the Order.

Will smiled again at the thought and began giving his sword blade a final, careful wipe. The Templars wore a lambswool apron, but it was vastly different from the shaved and supple aprons worn by the Brothers of Sion. The Temple apron was a much bulkier apparatus, bearing the entire fleece, almost a thumb’s length thick. It was unbearable in hot weather, whereas Will and his fellows in the Brotherhood of Sion suffered no such discomfort.

Satisfied with the edges of his blades, Will replaced them in their sheaths and ate a simple meal of dry, salted fish and fresh bannock, then made his way down to the stream to slake the thirst the food inspired. When he returned to his place he checked the dryness of the washed fleece, then lay down with his back on a wad of his castoff clothing to think in comfort, and perhaps to sleep again, relishing the luxury of being able to do so in broad daylight, and conscious, too, that he might not have much opportunity to sleep anywhere in comfort in the days that lay ahead.

The King of Scots had summoned a Parliament of the Realm to be convened at Ayr, in the heart of Bruce country and just across the Clyde from Arran, in the coming weeks of July, and Will had been invited. He had no idea why, but the word had come to him in the form of a letter telling him that King Robert would be well pleased to have him attend the Parliament. The letter itself came from the Bishop of Moray and had been delivered in person by a Benedictine friar who had made his way from Edinburgh on foot to the west coast and crossed the Firth of Clyde to the island aboard one of the MacDonald galleys. The Parliament, Will knew, would be a glittering assembly, all the finest and strongest in the land in attendance, but he had no slightest pang of regret over being unable to wear his full Templar panoply. Sir William Sinclair would attend the King’s gathering as a simple well-armed and clean-smelling knight, and he would leave Arran to do so in three days’ time.

A large seabird swooped low over the coast, and Will watched it idly as it reared up in a sudden tilt of wings, then dived into the sea right in front of him to emerge moments later with a fish in its beak, the weight of it forcing the bird to fight hard to climb into the air again. He half smiled in admiration of the beauty of the bird’s maneuver, how it had plunged vertically into the water with hardly a splash, and then as he went to lie back again, something caught his eye, a half-recognized anomaly at the edge of his vision, to the south, almost obscured by the reflection of the sun off the water.

He sat up straighter, shading his eyes with one hand and squinting against the glare, and eventually identified the outline of a ship out there, evidently becalmed, miles from where he sat, its shape indistinct against the hills of the mainland at its back. It appeared dilapidated and tawdry, hard worn and ill used, and it seemed to pose no threat. But whom did it belong to, and where was it going? The thought was not alarming, but it was enough to banish his hard-won peace of mind just the same, and Will dressed again, wondering how many more hours he might steal for himself before he was summoned to return and assume his responsibilities once more.

TWO

David de Moray had been recognizable to Will even from the deck of his ship as it approached the small stone jetty at Ardrossan, the only fishing village on that stretch of mainland coast, near Ayr, that possessed such a feature. As Will Sinclair leapt down onto the small wharf, he was still struggling with his surprise to find the Bishop waiting there, evidently having anticipated his arrival. De Moray shouted his name and waved, then stepped forward from the small group of men with whom he had been talking and came striding towards Will, smiling broadly, looking no more like a bishop of Holy Church than he had the last time they had met.

“Sir William!” he cried. “Welcome to the King’s realm. His Grace sends his best wishes and hopes you will be able to join him, even briefly, before our great affairs of state begin to unfold.” He threw wide his arms to embrace Will, who, unsure of what behavior might be proper, had been considering kneeling to kiss the episcopal ring Moray wore as the only visible symbol of his ecclesiastical office. Instead, he succumbed to the bear-like hug the armored clergyman bestowed upon him, then stepped away, searching for words.

“Bishop Moray,” he managed to say. “I am greatly surprised to see you, sir … and greatly honored. How did you know when I would be arriving?”

The Bishop grinned and waved a hand towards the heavens. “Dinna forget my office, Sir William. Holy Church has spies and informants everywhere, and was it no’ one of my own who brought you my invitation? He came back and sent word to me o’ your plans. I was nearby myself, on my way to Ayr, and so I stopped to meet you. Come away, now. I ha’e a horse for you and a roof to shelter you tonight and we ha’e much to talk about.”

Will glanced over to where Tam Sinclair and young Henry were already haranguing the ship’s crew from the wharf, preparing to supervise the unloading of his party, including the ten horses they had brought with them from Arran.

“Permit me, then, to instruct my steward on what we are about. Where will we be staying tonight?”

“Two leagues from here, on the road south. There’s a stone keep there, belonging to my cousin Thomas Moray, and we have the use o’ it. Tell them to follow us there. They canna miss it, it’s in plain sight o’ the road.”

Will nodded and went to speak with Tam. There were ten men in his party: himself, Tam and young Henry, three knights, and four sergeants, although by this time no eye, no matter how well trained, could have detected any distinction in the latter seven’s appearance. The men were traveling light, each carrying his own bedding and provisions since they anticipated no hardship on this excursion, but all were armed and armored in plain harness.

A few minutes later, Will had been introduced to the men in the Bishop’s group and swung himself up into the saddle of the fine bay gelding de Moray had brought for him. He waved a salute to Tam and his squire, then spurred his mount forward with the others, heading inland in a clatter of hooves.

Tam turned to young Henry. “Take note o’ that. Our patron is the only Templar left in Christendom who gets welcomed by a prince of Holy Church. Does that no’ make ye want to laugh?”

The boy looked after the departing group in surprise. “A prince of … That was a bishop?”

Tam barked a laugh. “Aye, that was a bishop. But ye’d never find his like in France. That was David de Moray, though his real name’s David de Moravia, and he’s Bishop o’ Moray. He’s a wild man, though, and a warrior, wi’ balls as big as a stallion horse. One o’ the Bruce’s staunchest supporters. Now come on, we have to get this ship unloaded.”

He moved towards the gangway, already shouting orders to the men above, but young Henry stood a moment longer, gazing towards where his master and the party of Scots knights had disappeared into the distance. A fighting bishop who wore armor—worn and battered armor—instead of vestments and miter! Henry had never seen the like.

Will Sinclair was thinking approximately the same thing at the same moment as he rode just behind and to the right of David de Moray. De Moray was one of the triumvirate of prelates who had made it possible for Robert Bruce to become King of Scots, supporting him in spite of the writ of excommunication that hung over him after the murder of Sir John Comyn on the altar steps of Dumfries Cathedral in 1306. De Moray’s support since then had always been actively militant, his sword constantly bared in support of King and realm, his loyalty to both unwavering and unimpeachable. But apart from the episcopal ring he wore on his finger and the heavy pectoral cross of plain silver at his breast, de Moray looked nothing like a bishop most of the time. There were occasions, Will knew, most of them ceremonial and ritual, when the bishop would don his chasuble and miter, and he expected that the forthcoming Parliament might be one such, but de Moray’s normal attire was that of a fighting warrior: plain brown woolen shirt and trousers beneath a leather jerkin, and a muchscarred steel breastplate with armored epaulettes complemented, from time to time, with heavy chain-mail leggings over stout boots with armored toes and ankles. Although not particularly tall, the Bishop was strongly built, with the carriage and demeanor of a fighting knight, broad shouldered and narrow in the hip, and he carried a long sword at all times, sheathed at his back, while a heavy battered and dented shield on which his personal colors had been painted and had faded long ago hung from his saddlebow. As though he had become aware of Will’s gaze, de Moray swung around in his saddle, looking back over his shoulder, and beckoned.

“Sir William. Ride with me for a while. I would speak with you.”

Will spurred his horse to ride alongside the Bishop as the other men in the party, obedient to their leader’s unvoiced wish, slackened their pace to permit the two to draw ahead in privacy. De Moray rode on in silence for a few moments, listening to the receding sounds of their escort’s hooves, then turned his head to look Will up and down.

“You look fine, man. No trace of the Templar left visible in you. I’m impressed. And I must tell you that you have made a like impression upon the King himself and those of us who seek to safeguard and guide him. You and your men have made a great contribution to the King’s cause, notwithstanding your Order’s standing restrictions upon paying service to a king. That has not gone unnoticed.” He was speaking polished, fluent, accentless French, and Will noticed that there was no trace now of the rough informality he flaunted so carelessly in speaking Scots. Here, he thought, was the urbane Bishop, trained in diplomacy and statecraft as much as in ecclesiastical administration and procedure.

“We both know, you and I, that your initial commitment here was one of necessity—a quid pro quo in return for a place for your people to stay, allied with your need to keep your men in training for their own sakes and the principles of your Order. I will not even say ‘belonged to,’ but that is the plain truth, I fear. As an officer of the Temple, you held no allegiance to our King or his concerns—and that is as it should be, so no one has tried to convince you otherwise. But you yourself have gone further, and of your own free will, in supporting King Robert’s cause than many a Scot I could name. Your contributions, and those of your men, are greatly valued, and that is what has led to this—the King’s invitation to attend his Parliament as an honored guest.” He glanced at Will. “This will be your first Parliament, I suppose?”

Will smiled. “Aye, my lord Bishop, it will. Philip of France believes he rules by divine right. He sees no need to involve any of his people in that.”

De Moray grunted, and Will was encouraged to ask the question that had been on his mind for some time. “Why Ayr, my lord Bishop? For the Parliament, I mean. And why in the height of summer?”

His companion switched the reins to his left hand and scratched idly with gloved fingers at his cheek. “First, I am not your lord Bishop until you see me wearing robes and miter. To you, I am plain Davie otherwise. That is what my friends call me and I would like to count you among those. Second, we are riding to Ayr because the King has chosen Ayr, as is his right. Ayr is King Robert’s home, the home of his own folk, and they have been ill used these past years, with armies coming and going over their lands in all directions. And so the King decided that it was high time the people of Ayr and its surrounding lands had the privilege of seeing how their land is governed under the King’s stewardship.

“The King of France rules his land and his domains as his personal fiefdom and, as you say, he sees no need to deal with the common folk. But the King of Scots rules his people, not the land. He is the steward of his people, and the folk need governance. Hence our Parliaments—a gathering of the estates of the King’s realm, including the common folk since the days of Wallace, to ensure the safety and protection of the people. Scots in general, and in particular.” He paused briefly. “Right now the English are at war among themselves, as you must know—Edward of Caernarvon and the Earl of Pembroke against a host of other nobles calling themselves the Lords Ordainer, led by the Earls of Warwick and Lancaster, who would dearly love to ordain the future governance of England and Scotland to their own benefit. And long may they wrangle, for while they are at one another’s throats, we can have peace in Scotland, free of the threat of invasion, for a while at least. A good opportunity for our Parliament.”

He cocked an eyebrow towards Will. “You understand why they are at war?”

“Aye. It was caused by the assassination of Piers Gaveston, in May, was it not?”

“It was. Gaveston had surrendered to Pembroke, upon Pembroke’s guarantee that his life would be safe, but Warwick intercepted him on his way south and executed him out of hand, on Lancaster’s orders. Assassination is too good a word for that. Murder, blatant murder, is what it was. And Edward was rightly furious, as was Pembroke, whose own honor was impugned, his authority flouted and set at naught. As for the King, I have no time for pederasty, and the last thing any land needs is a womanish king who likes to bed with men, but that is neither here nor there. The King’s honor, little as that might be, was besmirched, his puissance, however slight it may have been, sneered at and disdained by greedy, mutinous nobles lusting for power and wealth. And so they are at war. And we are not, for once.”

“But there are still Englishmen under arms in Scotland, are there not? Or have they been withdrawn?”

“No, they are still here. But they are garrisons, not armies. They hold our strongest castles for the time being, but King Robert is determined they be ousted soon. Berwick and Dumfries, Caerlaverock, Buitle, Bothwell, Perth, and Stirling and Edinburgh, the strongest of all. We will take them all soon, I have no doubt, but in the meantime the King has neither time nor men to waste besieging them.”

“And what of me and mine? Is there a purpose to my presence here, or am I truly no more than an honored guest?”

Now the Bishop turned his head to look at Will directly, a smile wrinkling the skin around his eyes. “Is that cynicism I hear, Sir William Sinclair? Surely you would not suspect our King or any of his representatives of an ulterior motive?”

Will found it easy to smile back. “Certainly not … at least, not with the intent of abusing us. But out of selfinterest and concern for the weal of the realm? That I would be foolish to doubt. So, what would King Robert have of me while I am in Ayr?”

De Moray’s headshake was brief. “Nothing more than you have freely given until now. Your ongoing support in the King’s cause, and the continuance of your successful efforts to conceal your presence here in our realm. That above all, for the reasons you already understand.”

“Aye. And how goes the struggle to have Pope Clement lift the ban of excommunication?”

“Poorly.” The Bishop’s voice was heavy with disgust. “When venal men have the handling of God’s affairs, change becomes … difficult … and sometimes nigh impossible. But we persevere. We have ambassadors at the papal court even as we speak, and Archbishop Lamberton continues, even in his captivity in England, to argue strongly on King Robert’s behalf by means of letters to the Pope and cardinals, smuggled out in greatest secrecy.”

“How is that possible, my lo—? How can he contrive to do that?”

“Because Edward of Caernarvon is not the man his father was. That is how, and why. England’s new King has a certain fondness for our Archbishop and so grants him more privacy and freedom than he ever had while the old King was alive. And Lamberton exploits that leniency, his main purpose being to support and indemnify our liege, King Robert, against the false charges of murder and treason leveled against him by unscrupulous enemies.”

Again they rode in silence for a while, but this time it was de Moray who broke it with a question.

“Tell me, Sir William, how have you succeeded with your decision to release your men from their vow of chastity? I’m certain they did not take the decision lightly.”

“True. Not all my men accepted the new freedom, but a few dozens did, promising to return to Arran with their wives and families as they acquire them.”

“But …” De Moray’s voice faded away, and Will smiled sadly.

“What would you have had me do, Bishop Moray? Sit there and watch my men die off, one by one, thus failing in my duty to safeguard the traditions and lore of the Temple? That would have been a greater sin than any I could commit by releasing my men from an oath in the interests of self-preservation. I have had a surfeit of betrayal by those to whom I have been loyal all my life and whom my men supported faithfully, honestly, and industriously. We were left with nothing, sir, not even the means of survival as men and monks. I sought to change that. Do you think me wrong?”

“There’s the castle. We’ll not be long now.”

The castle lay below them, perhaps two miles from where they had crested the ridge on which they now rode, on a low knoll dominating the countryside around it, and the ocher of the underlying earth shone clearly through the sparse grass that covered the surrounding terrain. There were no trees anywhere, just miles and miles of rolling, empty land. It was a bleaklooking spot, Will mused, and it had given de Moray an excuse for not answering his last question, but before he could go any further with that thought, the Bishop spoke again.

“No, Sir William, I cannot say I think you wrong. My training as a cleric and a bishop rails quietly against any usurpation of the right to forgive and nullify an oath, a right belonging only to God or his anointed representatives. And yet my gut convinces me you did the right thing. And have any of your people married?”

“Aye, they have. Eight of them are now wed and living on Arran with their families. Twelve children, between the ages of three months and three years. They are our future, our most precious treasure, and they are well cared for, you may trust my word on that.” He grinned. “For they have nigh on two hundred uncles, all of them concerned for their welfare.”

“Good. Excellent. We will speak more of this tonight, after we have supped, for I have other reasons to learn more from you about your Templars. For the nonce, enough. Let’s reach our destination and take our ease.”

He twisted in the saddle and waved to the men behind them, speaking Scots again. “Torrance, MacNeil, here, to me.”

He nodded once again to Will, who returned the gesture and then moved aside to let the others coming from behind cluster around their leader.

THREE

It was late that night by the time supper was over. Bishop Moray ordered his company to bed in preparation for an early start in the morning, but he bade Will stay behind and wait upon him until they were alone in front of the fire in the empty dining hall. The Bishop was by all accounts an abstemious man, but on this occasion, once the two were alone, he reached into a leather satchel that hung over the back of his chair and produced an earthen bottle of the fiery spirits his countrymen distilled from barley grain. He splashed a measure into each of two clay cups and handed one to his guest.

“This comes from near my own country in the north,” he growled, raising his cup. “One of the better things to come out of the Comyn lands. We call it uisquebaugh, the water of life. Let us drink together to the King’s grace.”

Will sipped the fiery spirits cautiously, and fought against the urge to catch his breath. “The water of life,” he croaked. “It has a potency akin to death, on first tasting.”

“It grows on you, you will find.” De Moray raised his cup again. “To the King’s grace.”

“Aye, then. To King Robert, and long may he reign.”

“Amen.” De Moray sipped and sat for a spell in silence, then set his cup down on the floor by his feet. “I want to talk to you about the Templars, William. Our Templars.”

“Our Templars … I don’t understand. Whose Templars?”

“Ours, in Scotland. I—we, the King and I—want you to talk to them.”

“The Scots Templars? You told me all the Scots Templars had withdrawn to England with King Edward.”

“You misunderstood me. The Templars who went to England—the majority of the knights in Scotland—were all Norman French, not Scots. The true Scots knights remained, under their old Master, de Soutar. But since he died, five years ago, they have been purposeless—disorganized, to say the least. Now, with all the tidings coming in from France and England, they feel betrayed, even by His Grace, for though they enjoy their freedom here, where none else of their ilk do in Christendom, they know they stand under papal anathema and can expect no help from Holy Church.

“There are not many of them left—full knights, I mean. Between two and three score at most, widely scattered throughout the realm. And they are valuable men, dour fighters and staunch allies in the main who have supported King Robert since the outset. Now the King would like to bind them even closer to him, and he has asked me to seek your help in doing so.”

Will sipped again at his drink, finding it less fiery now. “Why would he do that?” He understood why, of course, but decided to make the Bishop explain himself fully.

“Because you will talk to them, letting them know who and what you are.”

Will could not conceal the smile that came to his lips. “Wait now … You would have me talk to these men openly, after years of concealing who I am and dissembling our presence in Scotland? That seems illogical, if you will forgive my saying so.”

“It might, to you, but it is logical enough seen from our viewpoint. These men are Templars, bound to the Church by oath and loyalty that once forbade them from accepting allegiance to any king. Their support of King Robert has been voluntary. But now they are lost and lacking purpose in their own eyes, abandoned by the Pope to whom they swore allegiance and unable to conduct their offices as monks and members of their Order. They are rudderless, lacking a Chapter House or preceptory. They perceive no return support coming from the King for whom they have fought these long years, and, as you know, because of papal politics, we churchmen can do little overt to assist them.”

“And so you fear to lose their loyalty through seeming unwilling to welcome them … Very well, then, what would you have me do?”

“Convene a special gathering of all the brethren in Scotland, under the aegis of the Grand Chapter of France.”

“There no longer is such a thing.”

“I beg to differ, lad. You yourself gave the lie to that but moments ago. You are now the ultimate Grand Chapter, and you are all French. You may call yourselves Angevins, Poitvins, Gascons, Normans, Bretons, and all the rest of the names you have for yourselves, but you all come from the same land, and Philip Capet has deemed it to be France, and there is no one, it seems, who cares to contradict him. So your community on Arran is now the Grand Chapter of France, for all intents and purposes.”

Will gazed at him for several moments, his eyes narrowed to slits. Then he grinned and sipped at his drink again. “That is a dubious and duplicitous argument, Davie Moray, even for a bishop, but I’ll accept your case for the moment. Where, then, do we go next? Where do I find these three or four score knights? I have no notion of where to start.”

“No matter. I know all of them and will contact them … or most of them.”

“So be it. And where is our venue to be?”

“Is that not obvious? It must be Arran. They need to see that you are established there, a Temple community, and that they can join you and renew their vows, refresh their commitment.”

“Bishop, you sound disapproving.” There was a hint of a smile on Will’s lips as he spoke, and de Moray shrugged.

“That’s the Bishop in me, intruding again. The Church dislikes secret societies, and the Temple is the most secretive of all …”

“Apart from Holy Church herself, you mean.”

De Moray narrowed his eyes for a moment, then nodded, reluctantly, Will thought. “As you say. But I can accept that secrecy—your Order’s, I mean—so be it the loyalty extended to our cause is heartfelt and sincere.”

“Has it not always been so? We served as the standing army of the Church for nearly two hundred years, and none found us wanting, until this French King grew greedy.”

“I do not dispute that.”

“And what do you hope to achieve through this gathering? There are, you said, a mere few of them.”

“Fifty at least … perhaps sixty, mayhap even eighty. But they all have sergeants in their ranks, just as you do, so their sum totals a deal of fighting men.”

“And you fear they may be disillusioned and become unreliable.”

“Not so much unreliable as unpredictable … You can treat with some certainty with someone who is unreliable, but such certainty vanishes in the face of unpredictability.”

“Aye, I see your point. Who are they, these Scots Templars? Are there Highlanders among them?”

“Gaels, you mean? No. They are largely Norman French by descent, but bred here, unlike the men who returned to Edward’s England. These men are Randolphs, Morays, Buchans, Boyds, even some Comyns. My clerics have all their names, but I do not. I simply have not yet had time to gather them.”

“The names, you mean. And what about the men themselves, how will you gather them?”

“Circuitously. They will have to be approached with some caution. The air is rife with rumors of what has taken place in France, and elsewhere since then, so any direct summons from myself, as a representative of Holy Church, will be viewed with suspicion and might even be ignored. Most of them will be contacted by King’s messengers, their instructions delivered from the King himself.”

“But you said some of them are Comyns and Buchans, and therefore the King’s sworn enemies. They would pay no heed to King Robert’s summons, through simple fears for their own safety.”

“That is true. And that is why the King hopes that you will be willing to contact such as those yourself … as a French Templar, not as a messenger of his. He hopes that you would issue this summons on your own authority, from within the Temple, using whatever secret means you possess to convince them to attend your gathering.”

“I see … And once I have them assembled as brethren, their external enmities set aside under the Temple Rule, I can then press upon all of them, both friends and enemies of Bruce, the reminder of their vow of obedience to their Master and his wishes. Whose idea was this?”

A tiny frown ticked at de Moray’s brows. “What mean you, whose idea? I told you, the King—”

“No, Davie, no. There is a longer head behind this than the King’s … longer even than yours, I suspect. When did you last see King Robert?”

“A month ago. At Dunfermline.”

“And you discussed this at that time?”

“Aye.”

“How long were you there?”

“Three days. But what has that to—?”

“It has much to do with everything, Bishop, and you know it. This task you would seek to place on me calls into play my deepest obligations to my brethren and my Order. And the idea behind it did not spring full fledged into place in a matter of days, no matter how hard you might have applied your minds to it. So I will ask you again, whose idea was this?”

De Moray glared at him for a moment, then grunted and smiled, grudgingly. “You are no man’s fool, are you? I will answer you, but only on condition that you swear to reveal what I say to no one else.”

“You have my solemn word on it.”

The Bishop nodded. “The idea was conceived, and the whole thing planned, by the Primate of Scotland.”

Will’s eyebrows shot up. “Lamberton is in England, a close-held prisoner.”

“Aye, and England is at war. The Archbishop took advantage of the chaos and the King of England’s laxity. He broke his parole briefly, traveling to Scotland to meet with King Robert and advise him of everything he knew to be happening in England. That is why you must breathe no word of this. Lamberton remained here less than a week, advising King Robert in many areas, then returned to his captivity. It was his idea to hold this gathering and to enlist your aid on King Robert’s behalf.

“He yet deems it unwise, on the one hand, to encourage and foster the Temple’s welfare officially within the Realm of Scotland, since it could greatly endanger the King’s cause in the matter of having the excommunication lifted, but on the other, he sees the necessity to retain the loyalty of the Scots Templars who support the King, and to court the loyalty of those who, in the past, have not. And so he devised this stratagem. Your presence as a community on Arran, living by the Rule of the Order, and your reception and welcome of the Scots Templars, will demonstrate the King’s goodwill towards your brotherhood. It will also demonstrate that the Temple community can flourish within the King’s realm, as long as it proceeds with discretion. And last, but not least, it will subject some of the King’s most intransigent enemies among his own folk to the requirements of the brotherhood’s obedience. That may not work with all of them, but it should give them grounds for reflection, and if any of them do decide to change their minds, the King will make them welcome to his peace with no demands and no obligations other than their ongoing fealty from that time.”

“Hmm.” The fiery spirits he had drunk had induced a gentle feeling of tolerant well-being in Will, and now he sat nodding. “Your Archbishop is a clever man. He has impressed me greatly, even on the matter of his interrupted parole … So mote it be. I will convene a chapter, but it will not be soon. This thing will take much planning, much collaboration between you, as the King’s spokesman, and myself. And your life is far more demanding nowadays than mine, the way you ride constantly the length and breadth of Scotland. Who, then, will coordinate things between us two?”

“A very clever young cleric from the Abbey of Arbroath, Master Bernard de Linton. He has the King’s ear and the absolute trust of Archbishop Lamberton, as well as my own. He will arrange a schedule of messengers, to ply constantly between yourself and him. Which reminds me that when last I met Bernard, he was escorted by your brother Kenneth. Are you close, you two?”

Will smiled. “Aye, we are, but that renders him useless in approaching these enemies of whom you speak, the Buchans and Comyns and their ilk. He has fought them, so they may know him as a King’s man. The people I will send to summon those must be unknown to any of them, so I will select them from our resident brethren on Arran, the stay-at-homes who do not ride with Bruce …” His voice trailed away.

“What is it? Something new has occurred to you—I saw it in your eyes.”

“You did.” Will sat thinking for a moment longer, then grunted and looked down at his hands, examining his callused palms. “It came to me that I have good news for you and Lamberton both.”

“You do? On what matter?”

“Our presence on Arran, and the embarrassment it could cause you. I will be taking my men away one of these days.”

“Away? To where? There is no safer place in Christendom for you. Where would you take them?”

Will thought for a moment longer, then sat back, smiling, his decision made. “To a place far beyond Christendom.” He watched now with amusement as a series of expressions swept across the Bishop’s face, culminating in pure lack of comprehension.

“Far beyond Christendom …? That can only mean the Holy Land, for even Spain, swarming with Moors as it is, lies within the bounds of Christendom. But such a course would be suicide. You would be completely alone there, among thousands—countless thousands—of enemies. You would be wiped out as soon as you set foot there.”

“Aye, we would, but that is not where I intend to go …” He looked intently at de Moray, who sat gazing back at him, his face now deeply troubled. “Davie, I gave you my solemn oath of silence mere moments ago on the matter of the Archbishop’s parole, and you accepted it. I will now ask the same of you, and if you bind yourself to equally solemn secrecy, I will tell you a tale that you will find hard to credit, though every word of it be true.”

De Moray’s eyes widened in surprise, but there was no trace of hesitation in his agreement. “You have my oath. Tell me this tale.”

“Then pour me some more from that bottle, for this will be thirsty work. And have some more yourself. It will be thirsty listening, too.”

HAVING MADE THE UNFORESEEN DECISION to confide in the Bishop, Will sat gathering his thoughts while he watched de Moray replenish their cups, and when the other had finished pouring and returned the clay bottle to its pouch, he sipped the uisquebaugh again and launched directly into the tale of Admiral St. Valéry and his wish to take some men and ships and sail in search of the legendary land mentioned in the Templars’ lore, the place called Merica that lay beyond the Western Sea.

De Moray sat rapt throughout, his only movement an occasional raising of his cup to his lips, and when Will had finished, detailing his last sighting of the admiral’s ships on the western horizon, the Bishop sniffed and sat for a while, scratching at his nether lip.

“This was five years ago, you say?” he asked eventually. “And you have never seen him since?”

“No, I have not. But I had tidings of him four days ago, just before I left to come here.”

“Whence came these tidings?”

“From the place he sought.”

The Bishop sat up straighter, alert.

“The admiral is dead,” Will continued, “but his quest was successful. He found his Merica—or some other, unknown land, though I believe it must be Merica—eight weeks after setting sail. He and his people wintered there, in brutally cold weather, in a wilderness of snow-bound, primal forest that happily teemed with life and game—enormous deer the like of which no man in Christendom has ever seen. In the spring they sailed again, southward along a never-ending coast, until they came to warmer climes. And there they formed a settlement, among the dark-skinned people they found living there. A noble, stoic people, it appears, of great charm and warmth. They lived there for two more years and prospered, by and large, until the admiral died last year, struck by a falling tree in a fierce windstorm. They had refurbished one of their four ships before he died, to return home with the word of their discovery. And it found us in Arran, after an arduous and tedious voyage. More than half the crew was lost to tempests and to sickness in the crossing, but they came safe to shore.”

“Had you expected them?”

“No. I had thought them all dead long since, after years of hearing nothing. But I was wrong. They had found their new land, a sanctuary far from the world of Christendom with all its madnesses.”

“So why did they return, so few in number?” “Because they were so few in number. They came back seeking reinforcements and fresh blood to sustain them in their efforts to survive in their new home.”

“And they are now on Arran?”

“They are, regaining their health and strength after their voyage.”

“And they have found a new land … Great God, Sir William, do you know what this means?”

“Aye, I do, and fully, Bishop Moray. It means our Order has found true sanctuary, far removed from the politics and villainy of this sad, present world. It means I have a place to take my charges, where they will be safe to live and worship without threat from the petty princes and prelates of this Christendom, wherein Christ’s message has been sorely lost.”

“But there are people there, you said. No doubt savage and Godless, ripe for salvation in the form of Holy Church.”

“Your thoughts are dancing in your eyes, Davie, and they are a bishop’s eyes. But think of this, two things: you are under oath of secrecy on this matter; and we who go to this new land are Christian clerics … bishops, priests, and monks, well suited to the spreading of God’s word among the natives there. When we have civilized this place, with God’s own help, there will be time to return and announce its existence to the world here. For the time being, it is my belief that it would be sheerest folly, utter madness, to bring this new and unknown land to the attention of the predators who swarm in Christendom. God has revealed this place to us, His faithful servants in the Order of the Temple, for reasons that must be His own. It is ours now, through God’s will. It is our refuge, our salvation … our single hope in the bleak grimness of the undeserved night surrounding us and ours. And therefore we will guard the secret of it with our lives, for as long as may be required, and certainly for the present time, until it is safe and fitting to announce it. The land is there, Davie. It will not disappear.”

“And it is vast, you say …”

“Vast enough that St. Valéry could sail south along its eastern coast for months on end, from one clime to another. That could make it as large as all Christendom …”

De Moray’s eyes were staring into emptiness. “A whole new land,” he whispered. “Were word of this to spread, every king and baron in Christendom would be launching fleets to find it and claim it for his own.”

“Aye. So the word must not spread … not before we have taken possession of it.”

“In whose name? The King of France?”

Will laughed. “Do you think us mad? Nor in the name of the Pope, for Clement V cannot govern his own see, let alone a new, untested land. We will hold it in the name of our Order, and if the powers here at home should ever vindicate us honestly and make it possible for us to return, we would then dedicate it in good faith to our proper Master at that time. Some other pope, perhaps, but no mere king.”

“What of the King of Scots?”

Will expelled an explosive breath and sat frowning at the Bishop. “Why would you even say that? The King of Scots barely has legitimacy here in Scotland. How could he lay claim to a new land?”

“As readily as any other king, and I believe he is a better man than all of them combined. Your new land will need a king someday.”

“It might. Who is to know? But if it does, mayhap we will have bred one of our own by then … a Christian king in his own right, untainted by the stink of politics or corruption.”

Unable to restrain himself any longer, Bishop Moray sprang to his feet and went to stare into the heart of the dying fire for so long that Will wondered what he might be seeing in there. When he eventually turned back, his eyes were steady and somber. “You have the right of it, I think, William, and so I will say nothing of this to anyone for now. Not even to the King. But I will expect you to keep me informed of everything you know or learn of this new land. When will you leave?”

Will grinned, relieved to have an ally in this man. “Not for a long time, and certainly not before the convocation you have asked me for. We have ships, but they will have to be refitted for such a long journey—their crews retrained, the lessons of the crossings there and back studied and absorbed and mastered. Two years, at least, I would say, perhaps three … and four would not surprise me. Can you put up with us for four more years, Bishop Moray?”

“I can, and gladly, and His Grace the King has come to rely heavily on your armed support, so you need have no fears there. Now let us to bed, though God alone knows how I will find sleep this night. It must be nigh on dawn already and tomorrow will be a busy day, with a full Parliament to see to in the coming week and my head filled with wonderings about this strange new land of yours …”

FOUR

With all his excitement over the discoveries beyond the Western Sea, and the ever-growing possibilities and challenges that entailed, Will found the Parliament at Ayr vaguely disappointing and anticlimactic. He had heard much about the grand and exciting Parliament at St. Andrews, three years before. That gathering, in the ecclesiastical center of the kingdom, had been the first of King Robert’s reign, as well as the first formal Parliament to have been assembled in Scotland in more than a decade. This one, in July of 1312, was a far less imposing affair—even though it was attended by all the loyal peers, bishops, abbots, and officers of the realm—because rather than a celebration of the King’s advent to the throne, this Parliament was an affair of governmental procedures overshadowed by the preparations for a bold campaign to carry the Bruce’s war into the northern reaches of England.

The King himself urged the immediate mounting of a swift thrust into the rich vales of northern England, now that the barons and nobles there were preoccupied with their own war in the south. There were fat, rich priories down there, he emphasized, places like Lanercost and Hexham, and towns like Carlisle, and Durham and Hartlepool in the east, all of which had grown prosperous at Scotland’s cost, through serving as staging posts for the assembly of England’s armies of invasion before they headed across the border into Scotland. Such places were ripe for chastisement and ransom, he pointed out, and Scotland’s coffers were empty. His suggestions were met with unbridled enthusiasm by those assembled, all of whom were excited by the prospect of striking back and carrying the fight to the enemy for once, and the matter was soon settled, the commitment made. Edward Bruce, the King’s ferocious brother and the kingdom’s most able cavalry commander, would lead a hard, swift-riding strike against the English strongholds and cities in the northwest, starting at Carlisle, while the Bruce himself led a similar raid in strength against Westmoreland, Coupland, and Cumberland.

Will had heard much about Edward’s skills and exploits, for his own mounted contingents from Arran had been assigned to the man’s command for almost two years, and now he made full use of the opportunity to observe him from a distance. Will remembered the scowling, black-bearded man he had met the same day he had met the King himself. Edward was much more of a hothead than the King; that was plainly visible in his demeanor and his brusque way of dealing with the others around him. The new Earl of Carrick was an imposing but humorless man, swarthy and everfrowning. Intense and impatient and remarkably unlike his regal brother in those respects, he was renowned for his impetuosity and his intolerance of diplomacy in any form, believing implicitly in the rule of force above the rule of law, to the frequent annoyance of his older brother. But his undoubted talents as a commander of horse—he was far and away the most competent in the Realm of Scotland—enabled him, time after time, to sidestep all but the worst of his royal brother’s displeasure. And the Earl made few demands of the Frenchmen—his own dismissive term for the Templars in his train—other than that they be ready and available at all times to carry out his wishes.

Still, Edward was a martinet and an autocrat by nature, and watching him, even from a distance, Will could see how galling it must be to the man to be forever held in check by his elder brother, who possessed a mind far more appropriate for kingship than the volatile, belligerent Edward’s. That inability to behave at all times the way he doubtless wanted to behave must have provoked much of the glowering discontent that flashed so often in his dark eyes.

Will was glad, too, to renew his acquaintance with Sir James Douglas, for the two had not met with each other in two years. And he was intrigued to meet Douglas’s close friend, the notorious and now famed Sir Thomas Randolph, nephew to both Jessie Randolph and to the King himself. From being a traitorous champion of England and a close-held prisoner after his return, Randolph had reversed his loyalties dramatically, swearing allegiance to his kinsman the King, and had since then distinguished himself in Bruce’s service, quickly becoming one of the realm’s most able commanders. Will also met the chancellor of Scotland, the High Constable, and several earls and Highland chiefs of whom he had heard but had never met, and to a man they greeted him with dignified respect and civilized tolerance of his alien status as a visitor and a guest of King Robert. They all knew him by name, and knew that he was high in the esteem of the King and his close supporters, but he found himself smiling inwardly on several occasions, wondering what their reaction might have been had they even suspected that he was the highest-ranking Templar left free in Christendom.

The Parliament was brief, a mere three days as dictated by the urgency of the need to mount the raiding campaign into England, and at the end of the third day those in attendance were scurrying from the great Hall of Ayr, relieved that the business was over, while hundreds of clerics swarmed like ants, allocating the mountains of written records to be transcribed. Will, as a mere observer, stood alone by the main doors after the adjournment, watching the nobles and commoners disperse and wondering if anything might be expected of him, or whether he could simply take himself off and return to Arran. Before he could decide on anything, however, he heard his name being called and turned to see Sir James Douglas striding towards him and waving to catch his eye.

“It surprises me to see you still here, Sir James,” he said when they met. “Do you not have a war to fight?”

Douglas grinned. “In due time I do, but for the nonce, I remain here. The King wishes to speak with you.”

“Now, you mean?”

“Aye, if you have the time.”

It was Will’s turn to grin. “Or the inclination to ignore a royal command? I’ll suspend all my important activities immediately and come with you now. Lead on.”

Douglas led him back through the length of the hall and out through a postern door to where a small encampment had been set up for the King’s party within a square yard protected by high, sharply pointed palisades. Will glanced at the unexpected fortifications and the heavy presence of guards, but said nothing, and within moments they came to the King’s pavilion, where their entrance was barred by a pair of vigilant men-at-arms. They knew the Douglas by sight and stepped aside without comment to let him and his companion pass, and Douglas raised the protective curtain of the large tent’s doorway to allow Will to precede him.

The interior of the massive pavilion seemed dim after the sudden brilliance of the July sun outside, and Will was unsurprised to find it crowded with men, most of them nobles and high officers of the realm, standing around in groups, some small, others larger. Will looked about for the King, his eyes moving rapidly from group to group without finding the Bruce. His brother Edward was there, as was Sir Thomas Randolph, the latter conversing with three of the King’s oldest and most trusted friends, Sir Robert Boyd of Noddsdale, Sir Gilbert de Hay the Lord of Erroll, and Sir Neil Campbell of Lochawe. Behind them, huddled together and muttering solemnly, stood a group of mitered prelates, only one of whom Will recognized: Master Nicholas Balmyle, Bishop of Dunblane, a scholarly, ascetic-looking man who had served for years as chancellor of Scotland and must now be close to eighty years old, although he still retained his faculties. Will had never met Bishop Balmyle, but he knew the old man was one of King Robert’s most able and respected counselors.

The crowd eddied and parted as a procession of servitors moved among the assembly bearing trays of sweetmeats, and Will saw the King, seated at a table towards the rear of the huge space, deep in an earnest conversation with the Bishop of Moray. His heart skipped a beat the moment he saw the two talking together so privately, for the first thought that leapt into his head was that de Moray was telling the monarch about the discovery of the new land in the west. He dismissed the thought immediately, knowing it was unworthy, and fell in behind Douglas, who was already making his way towards the royal table, beckoning him to follow.

As Douglas reached the table, bowing slightly in greeting, Bruce looked up. The beginnings of a frown ticked between his brows at being interrupted, but his face cleared immediately on recognizing Douglas, and his eyes went immediately to Will, standing close behind Sir James.

“Sir William. Welcome to you, my friend.” He rose to his feet at once and stepped around the edge of the table, extending his hand, but as Will was on the point of bending over it, he snatched it away. “It is for clasping as a friend, William, not for kissing. You owe me no liege loyalty and I expect none from you. Your friendship, and the willing support you extend to us without being asked, are more than I could expect, so take my hand as friend and brother.” And then he clasped Will by the hand and pulled him into an embrace that was but slightly hampered by the half armor both men wore. Will was aware that every man in the great pavilion was watching this and taking note, and he wondered if any of them might resent him because of it, seeing his reception as a threat to their own situation.

“So, Sir William, did you enjoy our gathering? I swear to you, these Scots crows and peacocks far too seldom come together at one time, save only for our Parliaments. I trust you were impressed.”

“I was, Your Grace. I have seldom seen so much achieved so skillfully in so little time.”

“Aye, it was well done, I think. And now we must disperse and see to it that all we decided upon is done, too, and quickly. My men are being marshaled as we speak and will move out as soon as I can join them—which is why I sent for you. Would you care to ride with us?”

“Into England, Your Grace?”

“I have an abbot or two down there I intend to press for funds … for charitable work, the rebuilding of this realm of ours after the depredations England has wreaked upon it. Will you come?”

“I will, Your Grace, and gladly. But I have no more than a few men with me—my squire and an escort of four others. We would not contribute greatly to your fighting strength, I fear.”

Bruce laughed. “I have no need of your fighting skills, William. It is your company I seek … your conversation on civilized matters that have nothing to do with the ailments that beset my kingdom. Though mind you, if it does come to fighting, five extra swords would be very welcome. What say you?”

“I will be ready to depart when you are, Your Grace, but I will need to warn my people to strike camp and be ready.”

“Aye, go then and do that speedily, and meet me in the marshaling yard when you are ready.”

FIVE

They had crossed the shallow tidal flats of the Solway several days after leaving Ayr, and had struck first at the wealthy Lanercost Abbey, near the walled town of Carlisle. Bruce had taken great satisfaction in capturing the abbey that had for so long offered sustenance and support to England’s King, and within which he himself had almost died at Edward Plantagenet’s hands a few years earlier. A vast sum of money in gold and silver coinage had been surrendered by the Abbot to avert the flames of Bruce’s vengeful wrath, and Bruce had ordered the chests of coin to be transported back to Scotland and into the care of Master Balmyle at St. Andrews for safekeeping.

The wagons and the treasure they carried were the responsibility of a young knight called Sir Malcolm Seton, another nephew of the King, being the son of his sister Christina, the Countess of Mar. Sir Malcolm’s squire was of an age with young Henry Sinclair, Will’s own squire, and the two had become fast friends during the short time they had spent together on the ride south, so when Henry had come seeking permission to ride out to watch his friend’s departure, Will had granted the permission and then decided, on a moment’s whim, finding himself with nothing to do at that time, to accompany the boy.

Henry had changed greatly in the space of four years, shooting upwards and outwards to transform the slight, wide-eyed boy he had been at the outset. Now he was tall and strikingly attractive, with wide shoulders, a narrow waist, and strong, well-formed legs. His face was open and guileless, with a wide-lipped mouth and strong white teeth beneath a long, straight nose and sparkling eyes the color of the bluebells that covered the ground here every spring. He was now a fine young man, and Will had no doubt that in two years he would grace the ranks of knighthood as well as any knight he had ever known.

It was a bright, clear summer’s afternoon, and Will and young Henry, both of them glad to be free of responsibilities for a spell, had ridden hard, galloping from time to time to stretch out their horses, to the top of a wooded ridge above the road the treasure party would use. Will thought about the spectacle they might have made, charging uphill like a pair of fools, but quickly decided that on this day he cared nothing about threats to his dignity from cavorting on horseback with his young squire. His dignity had begun to irk him lately, anyway. Having committed so unexpectedly to the excursion across the border into England, he had determined to make the most of it, keenly aware that he had not swung a sword against an enemy in earnest for more than four years. But after ten days of raiding he had not encountered a single Englishman with whom to trade blows, and had now resigned himself to the possibility that he might not find one at all. A linnet sang brilliantly among the trees at the two horsemen’s back, and far below them, though not so far as to make recognition and a wave of farewell impossible, the advance contingent of guards led the first of the three loaded wagons up the steeply winding road from the Scottish camp.

Will felt a swelling sense of well-being to be alive and free on such a perfect summer day, the mid-morning sun warm on his armored back and the lazy droning of a fat bumblebee briefly catching his attention. He was aware, as young Henry suddenly spurred his horse higher onto a rocky knoll that crowned the escarpment, that behind him the linnet had stopped singing, but he paid it no heed as he set spurs to his own mount, pulled hard on his reins, and sawed at the bit, wheeling the horse around in a rearing spin for no other reason than that he felt like doing something to express his own high spirits.

He neither heard nor felt the impact of the crossbow bolt that struck the back of his cuirass. The missile glanced off the curved surface of the steel covering at his back, digging a deep gouge into the metal and hammering him from the saddle to crash senseless to the ground.

He regained his wits moments later and opened his eyes, but was unable to draw a single breath, every ounce of wind smashed out of him by his fall, so that he could only splutter and whoop in agony, vainly trying to suck air through the flattened air passages in his breast.

His sight was as sharp as ever, nonetheless, and he saw every feature of the four men running towards him, weapons drawn. They were unarmored and poorly dressed, and he assessed them instantly as local peasantry who had seized the opportunity to attack and rob an unescorted knight. One of them carried a crossbow, useless now that it had shot its bolt, but two others carried daggers and the last of them held a long-bladed, single-edged dirk as though it were a sword. Will tried to draw his own blade, but although he held the hilt of it in his hand, the sheath was trapped between his legs, hampering his draw.

Time must have seemed suspended, he realized later, but at that moment he heard the clatter of hooves as a charging horse smashed into the four running men, sending three of them flying. Young Henry Sinclair had no weapon at all, for squires were not allowed to carry a lethal blade before they were knighted, but he spurred into the fight as though he were fully armed. His horse snorted and reared after the collision with the runners, and the man holding the crossbow swung it like a club and caught the young squire on the thigh, drawing a high-pitched shout of pain. He threw down his weapon and grasped Henry by the booted heel, wresting his foot from the stirrup and heaving upwards, unseating the boy, who fell heavily on the other side of the horse, and after that things started happening far too quickly for Will’s taste.

He was just beginning to catch his breath. The unmanning pain in his chest had abated and he had managed to untangle his legs and the sheathed sword between them, but he still had not enough strength to rise to his feet, although he was fighting to do so, both hands crossed on the guards of his still-sheathed sword and using it like a crutch to pull and push himself erect. The three downed men righted themselves quickly, little the worse for being knocked aside, and now two of them scrambled towards the supine Henry while the other two scuttled towards Will, splitting to take him from opposite sides like rats converging on a wounded squirrel.

Still gasping for air, Will managed to stand up at last and drew himself as erect as he could, finally stripping the sheath from his sword blade and casting it aside, and even though he was weaving on his feet and plainly weak in the legs, the sight of the long, lethal blade was enough to give his attackers pause. They glanced uncertainly at each other, and Will gave silent thanks, for he could feel the strength flooding back into him with every heartbeat as his breathing steadied towards normal. Looking from one to the other of them, he moved his point from side to side in concert with his eyes, waiting all the while for his breathing to steady, yet trying to give no indication that he was recovering. The two hovered there, now glancing at each other for support and growing more apprehensive by the moment. And then Will saw the other two rush on the boy Henry with their daggers raised.

He exploded into movement, leaping towards the man on his right and felling him with a single angry overhead slash before spinning, sword rising again, towards his companion. As the fellow turned to flee from him, his upraised arms bent over his head for protection, Will hacked around and down, severing the tendons behind the running man’s knee and dropping him like a stricken ox, and at once leapt towards the other two men and the unmoving form of his young squire.

One of the two heard him coming and turned to face him, drawing himself up to his full height, but as he did so Will heard a tearing sound in the air and three arrows hit the fellow in the torso at the same time, their combined force clubbing him to the ground. Again Will paid no attention, his entire being focused on what was happening to Henry Sinclair. The ruffian above the boy had him by the hair, and his hand, clutching his long dirk, plunged down even as Will threw himself forward with a despairing howl and stabbed his blade deep into the murderer’s back. Raging with grief and disbelief, he wrenched the steel free and struck again, this time at the killer’s neck, and as the severed head went bouncing down the slope of the hill, he kicked the torso violently aside and dropped to his knees beside the boy who had saved his life.

He was aware of the sound of hooves galloping towards him, but he could not pull his eyes from young Henry, whose face was the color of whey, his cheek pushed out of shape by the blade of the dirk that thrust upward, dripping blood, from the neck hole in the boy’s long shirt of mail. He felt hands grasping him and pulling him up and away, and saw someone else take his place, kneeling above the still form and slicing with a sharp blade at the leather thongs holding the mailed shirt in place from neck to waist, stripping the garment back before cutting the coarse shirt beneath it and ripping it away to expose the boy’s white skin and the thumb-wide hole in which the dirk was lodged. Thick blood welled from the wound and spilled sluggishly down the dead boy’s chest, coating his skin and soaking into the wadded cloth beneath his armpit.

“My fault, my fault.” He heard the voice repeating the words and knew it was his own, but he could do nothing other than keep repeating it. “My fault, my fault.”

The hands bracing him gripped him tighter and he felt himself being swung around until he was facing the man who had spoken. It was the King’s nephew, Sir Malcolm Seton, and the young knight’s face was creased in a deep frown as he looked at Will.

“Sir William, are you hurt? You are covered in blood.”

“I killed him.”

“You killed more than one of them. You killed two and spared another to hang.”

“No, young Henry. I killed him. Brought him up here blindly, without looking.”

“Sir William, the lad is not dead. Sore wounded, but not dead, not yet. Look at him. Dead people do not bleed.”

The words penetrated the buzzing that filled Will’s head and he frowned, then turned and glanced sharply down at his squire, seeing the still-welling blood. The sight of it brought him to his senses immediately, and the strangeness fell away like a discarded cloak.

“Sweet Jesus, he is alive.” He swung around, searching the hillside below. The three treasure wagons had halted on the road, guarded by roughly half the men who had set out; the others had come charging up the hill as soon as they saw what was happening. “I have to get him to safety—to where he can be tended. Let me carry him.”

“No need for that. We’ll make a litter.” Seton pointed to the two men closest to him. “You two, use your spears, quickly, and your belts. Tie them across the poles—here, take mine, too—and spread a cloak over them to wrap the lad in. No!” He had turned to where one of the men crouching above the motionless boy was gripping the dirk’s hilt securely. The fellow hesitated, caught by the urgency of the knight’s shout as young Seton dropped to one knee beside him and caught hold of his wrist. “Leave the blade where it is, Robbie. If you pull it out he’ll bleed to death. Leave it there for someone who knows what he is doing. Hurry with that litter, you two.”

Moments later, Will stood side by side with Seton, watching as four men carried the boy carefully, moving slowly and taking great pains to keep the litter level on the steep hillside. Will had not spoken since the younger knight had assumed command of the operation, but now he huffed through his nostrils and looked at the other man.

“Thank you, Sir Malcolm, for your assistance.”

“Don’t thank me, Sir William. You owe your thanks to the sharp eyes of my squire, who was looking up at you when this began. I did not even know you were here, but young Donald saw you knocked from your horse and raised the alarm.”

“Where is he now, then? I should like to thank him.”

“He’s still down there. I ordered him to stay. He’ll see enough dead friends once he is knighted, and I doubted you or your squire would be alive by the time we reached you. I thought to spare him the sight of that.”

“Then you are a good master, as well as a true knight. You have my deepest gratitude, Sir Malcolm.”

Seton cocked his head and eyed Will with concern. “And you yourself are well? Are you sure? You are drenched in blood.”

Will looked down at himself and shook his head. “None of it is mine, although it should be. I should be flogged for dereliction, riding up here like a fool without taking a moment to check the woods for enemies.”

“That was unfortunate but understandable. These were not soldiers.”

“No, but they were enemies. I should have—”

“Pardon me for a moment.”

He turned aside to where two of his men had bound the hamstrung survivor’s hands in front of him and were holding him upright with a spear shaft thrust across his back between his elbows. No one had made any attempt to stanch the bleeding from his damaged leg. Sir Malcolm looked the man up and down. “We will have the devil of a time getting you down to the camp in that condition, and you might die before we reach it. On the other hand, you will certainly hang if you do reach it, and for good and ample reason. You are guilty of brigandage and the attempted murder of a guest of Robert, King of Scots, and his squire might yet die.” He addressed the two men flanking the prisoner. “Take him into the woods and find a tree strong enough to hang him from. And be quick.” Seton caught the look on Will’s face. “Do you object to that, Sir William?”

Will looked at the prisoner, whose face had blanched on hearing the death sentence Seton had pronounced. The man had not yet begun to scream in protest, but he soon would, and now his eyes fastened imploringly on Will, sensing that his intended victim now had the power to spare his life. Will, however, was not in a forgiving mood. He looked at the fellow and saw again the bloodstained body of his young squire, and he knew the man would hang, one way or the other.

“I doubt there’s a tree in there big enough to hang him from,” he said. “Hawthorn scrub and stunted trees for the most part. And I think you have the right of it, he could die if we attempt to take him down the hill—to be hanged there anyway. We could leave him here to starve, since he cannot walk, but that would be inhuman.” He turned and spoke directly to the prisoner. “There is nothing I can do for you. You condemned yourself when you decided to murder us from ambush, shooting me in the back and slaying my unarmed squire. Now, whatever way things might turn out, you are a dead man. May God have mercy on your soul, for I can have none on you.” He shifted his eyes to the senior of the two guardsmen. “Obey your commander. Hang him, but if you can’t find a suitable tree, behead him, quick and clean.”