Order in Chaos

BISHOPS AND CARDINALS

ONE

Will had never seen St. Andrews town, and riding in he was awed by the sight of it, dominated as it was by the great unfinished cathedral church that had been more than one hundred and fifty years in the making. It was close to completion now, he knew, and it towered above the surrounding town, close to the sea’s edge, its bulk seeming to dwarf even the mighty St. Rule’s tower that shared its site and rose above its steeples. The town was also the principal center of the Catholic Church in Scotland, and it seemed filled with priests of all description. There were soldiers there, of course, and burghers, merchants and their families, along with tradesmen and the normal idlers one found in every town of any size, but the overwhelming impression was one of a plethora of priests and clerics. Monks and friars, priests and abbots and bishops bustled everywhere, most of them with parchment scrolls and writing implements about their person. Will inhaled deeply more than once, expecting to smell the bite of incense on the air.

It had taken Will and his two sergeants four days of hard riding in foul weather to cover the distance from Nithsdale, traveling north along the western edge of Ettrick Forest to Lanark, and from there to Stirling, where they crossed the River Forth before turning east on the last leg of their journey. But it was behind them now, the sun was shining again here on the eastern coast, and the prospect of spending the night in a warm bed beneath a sound roof was a cheering one, requiring only the discovery of a tolerable inn.

They found a prosperous-seeming hostelry on the broad main street facing the western façade of the church of St. Rule, and Will led his men into it and arranged lodgings for the three of them and stabling for their horses. He secured their stay with a silver mark to the landlord, then stripped off his cuirass and mailed shirt and left them, along with his shield, spear, and helmet, in the room he had rented, knowing they would be safe in the care of his two companions, who would see to the animals before making themselves at ease in their own shared quarters. He then set out to find Master Nicholas Balmyle, enjoying the sensation of walking the street unrestricted by his mail, though he still wore his sword belt with its weapons.

Bemused by the size and bustle of the place, and by the packed ranks of magnificent gray-stone buildings, he quickly realized that he had no idea where to begin his search, but his first question to a passing manat-arms brought the answer, and he was directed to the nearby Charter House of the new cathedral. His first thought on seeing its grand entrance and the burnished, liveried men-at-arms on duty was that he might be improperly dressed, but then he remembered the way Davie de Moray dressed, and decided that Master Balmyle would be too pressed for time to take note of what a man summoned in haste might wear.

He presented himself to the guards and asked where he might find the Bishop, and they directed him courteously to where he could report to one of the cathedral’s clerical officials. He did so, and a black-robed monk swiftly led him along a number of identical passageways. They eventually stopped outside an immense pair of magnificent doors fully twice Will’s height, where his guide knocked twice and opened one of the doors to allow Will to pass through.

The huge room, sumptuous by any standards, was high ceilinged and lit by floor-to-ceiling windows of clear leaded glass. The floor was of broad oak planks, stained towards blackness, and an enormous table of the same wood, with a lectern at one end, filled the central space, surrounded by matching chairs. The chill in the great chamber struck him immediately, and the place appeared to be deserted, but then he glanced to his right and saw a trio of men standing together in discussion in front of a giant fire in a stone hearth that could have housed an entire family. Now all three turned to him silently, and he saw them only as distant shapes, outlined against the great fire at their backs. He began walking towards them; it seemed like a long way, and with every step he felt them gauging him, weighing him. But then one of them came towards him, calling his name and bidding him welcome, and he grinned with relief to recognize David de Moray.

Within moments, feeling Davie’s arm about his shoulders, Will’s apprehension had vanished, and now it was he who did the weighing and gauging as they approach the other two men. There was no mistaking the former chancellor. Besides, Will had seen him before, although he had not met him, at the Parliament in Ayr mere weeks earlier. Master Balmyle wore a full, ferocious beard of snowy white, and shoulder-length hair the same color hung to his shoulders, but that was the only relief from the uniform black of his vestments. He wore a long black cloak over a priest’s cassock, a sash of shiny black cloth about his waist, and a polished pectoral cross of pure jet hung from a black cord around his neck.

His companion, far less richly dressed, somehow achieved the same air of distinction by making no attempt to do so. He, too, wore plain black, but his cassock was of coarse wool and its skirts were much stained and raggedhemmed. He wore no cloak and no cross, so Will accepted him as a mere priest, although no doubt a powerful one, judging by the company he kept. He was imposing, tall and straight backed, with short-cropped, graying hair receding at the temples. He was clean shaven and had startling eyes, deep-set and gray-blue, on either side of a great, formidable beak of a bony nose.

Will nodded affably to the priest as he approached, then bowed low to Balmyle, whose age and reputation alone demanded recognition.

“Master Balmyle,” he said, “I am William Sinclair. Forgive my tardiness, but I came as quickly as I could. Did my messenger arrive ahead of me? I hope he did.”

The old man smiled in welcome and reached out to take Will’s hand in both of his. “He did,” he said, in a deep, rolling voice that belied his advanced age. “He and his companion came last night with word that you would follow, but we did not expect you until tomorrow. Welcome, welcome.”

“And so we would have come tomorrow, had not your priest found me in Nithsdale and urged me to make haste. And so I left at once and made good time.”

“And how is your young squire?”

“Improving, my lord Chancellor. I left him well, in the care of the Baroness St. Valéry.”

“Ah, a fine woman. But I am no longer chancellor and have not been these many years. Plain Master Nicholas is all my title now.” He turned to the gaunt priest in the stained cassock. “This is the knight of whom you have heard so much, my lord, and I rejoice that you are here to meet with him.”

My lord?

Before Will could suppress his surprise, Master Nicholas spoke again. “Sir William Sinclair, may I present you to his Lordship William Lamberton, Archbishop of St. Andrews and Primate of the Realm.”

Again! He has broken parole again!

Lamberton smiled, and his austere, gaunt face was transformed into a thing of beauty and shining light as he extended his hand to Will. Sinclair was so taken aback that he caught himself on the point of stooping to kiss the archepiscopal ring. He hesitated, wondering at himself, for he had never willingly kissed even a bishop’s ring, but then, seeing the radiant smile on that careworn face, he stooped and kissed the ring nonetheless, as a gesture to the man rather than an obeisance to his rank.

The Archbishop seized his hand warmly and pressed it in his own, then spoke, in the liquid Angevin tongue of Will’s former home. “Thank you for your concern,” he said, still smiling.

“Concern, my lord?”

The blazing smile widened. “For my immortal soul, over the matter of this breach of my parole.”

Will felt his face flush. “My lord, I had no—”

“I saw it in your eyes, my son.” Lamberton’s face grew solemn again. “I had to seek the quantum of my sins, and weigh the one of leaving my confinement temporarily against the other of neglecting my sworn duties to my church, my King, and this realm of ours. Leaving was thus a minor lie, a venial sin with which I can live. The alternative was far more grave. And so I am here, to meet with you.”

“To meet with me?” Confusion made Will more forthright than he might have been. “Why would you wish to meet with me? I mean, I am honored to be here, but to what end? I am a simple knight. I live in obscurity and have no wish to be involved in the affairs of state. Indeed I cannot be, for I am sworn by oath never to bend the knee in allegiance to any king.”

Again Lamberton smiled, glancing this time at Balmyle and Moray. “That is precisely why I wanted to meet you,” he said. “Because of who and what you are. And here we are, standing when we could be sitting, and fasting while we could be refreshing ourselves. Davie, would you send one of the brethren to find us food and drink? We will sit at the table end there, closest to the fire. Come, Sir William.”

As Will unfastened his sword belt and laid it, with the weapons attached, across the table far over to his right, the Archbishop asked him, “Would you object if I called you Will, Sir William?”

“No, my lord, of course not.”

“Good, then I shall do so. It is a good name—my own, before they lengthened it to William and thence to Archbishop and My Lord. And in return, you may call me William.”

Will half grinned. “That would not be easy, my lord. Your fame and reputation discourages that. I might as lief call the King’s grace Rob.”

The Primate’s eyebrows rose. “And why should you not? He would not be offended. You have proved to be too good a friend and worthy of respect for him to take ill of such a small thing. So you will call me William.”

“And I am Nicholas to you,” said Balmyle, taking a seat across from Will. “You have earned that right, and by the time we four leave here you might have harder names for us.”

“Might I? How so?” Will’s eyes were narrowed now.

Moray returned from issuing orders and glanced from Will to his colleagues. “Did I miss something? Ye all look gey dour.”

“Young Will is justly concerned over what we might seek from him,” Balmyle said, “since he has heard nothing to indicate our reasons for summoning him here. We were about to speak of that when you came back.”

“Aha! Well, speak away then, until they bring us to eat. I’ll just listen and grunt from time to time to prove I’m no’ asleep. Ye both know my mind on it.” He crossed his arms on his chest and slumped down into his chair, shifting around until he was as comfortable as he could be. This was the first time Will had ever seen de Moray in his bishop’s garb, weaponless and unencumbered by chain mail, and he was surprised to see that the Bishop was less cumbersome, less corpulent than he would have guessed. The man was massive in the shoulders, but his belly was flat and his chest deep and strong, and he looked to be in peak fighting trim.

“Well,” the Archbishop said quietly. “Shall we begin?” But no sooner was the question asked than the doors swung open and a column of servitors entered the room, each of them carrying a heavy tray laden with food and drink.

“That was quick,” Balmyle observed, and de Moray grunted.

The food was plentiful and hot, a full dinner even though it was but afternoon, the bread fresh baked and crusty, and the ale brewed in the cathedral church’s own vaults, which had been in use for decades while awaiting the completion of the roof and façade. Will chose roasted pork with savory crackling and made his meal of that, followed with fresh raspberries and blackberries and strong, rich cheese. He devoured it, aware that his tablemates were eating as devotedly as he. Lamberton also chose the pork, while de Moray demolished a roast duck stuffed with apples and breadcrumbs and chopped berries. Balmyle, perhaps because of his great age, ate sparingly, confining his meal to fresh berries followed by bread and cheese, and he drank milk, which had been provided for him, rather than the ale the others drank.

The Archbishop was the slowest eater of the four, but eventually he pushed the wooden platter from in front of him, took note that the others were finished, and summoned the steward to clear away the remains of the meal. The steward waved his minions forward, and within moments, it seemed to Will, they were gone, the steward himself having taken a clean cloth to wipe the tabletop before departing, leaving the four men with their drinks.

For a moment after the doors closed behind the monks there was silence, and Archbishop Lamberton sat back contentedly, hoisting his ale pot to his mouth, though he did not drink deeply. He set the pot back on the table and looked over at Will.

“So, let us begin. You said, Will, that you had sworn an oath never to bend the knee in fealty to any king, did you not?”

Will crinkled his brows, wondering what was coming. “I did.”

“And to whom did you swear that oath?”

“To our Grand Master. I was eighteen, and I have lived by it for two score years and more now.”

The Archbishop nodded. “Forgive me for these questions I must ask, for there is no slightest hint of judgment or of condemnation entailed in any of them. But in whose name did you swear your oath?”

“In the name of God.”

“Apart from that, I mean, since every oath is to God.

In whose earthly name did you swear it?”

“In the name of the Master of our Order, the Knights of the Temple.”

“Aye. And through him to the Pope, is that not so?”

A jerk of the head was Will’s sole response to that. “Did you ever expect that what has occurred might happen? That your Order might be impeached, its brethren deemed excommunicate?” He raised his eyes now to examine Will’s reaction.

“No, my lord,” he said, fighting hard to keep his face unreadable. “No thought of such kind ever crossed my mind.”

“Why not?”

Will spoke slowly, calmly, digging his nails into the palms of his clenched fists beneath the table. “Because until the moment that such blasphemous infamy first spilled from the sewers that pass for minds in the lickspittle servants of the King of France, no such thought would ever have been possible. For almost two hundred years our Order had stood as the champion of Holy Church. The primary force behind the Christian presence in the Holy Lands and one that never faltered in its duty or its dedication. Its record was spotless, its reputation and integrity unimpeachable. But it became too strong, too rich, too wealthy—too large a target for a rapacious vulture like Philip Capet to resist …” He wondered if he had gone too far, but none of the other three made any attempt to interrupt him, and so he continued. “He sought to sway us first by seeking entry to our brotherhood, thinking that he could thus gain access to our treasury. Do any of you know the word ‘blackball’?”

Lamberton nodded. “A secret ballot. A white ball means approval, black, denial. A single black ball kills the vote.”

“Precisely so, my lord. Capet underwent the same close examination of character and morality that every other candidate for brotherhood must undergo. I sat on the Council that voted on his admission. Eight of eleven voted to deny him.” He grimaced. “I know a wise woman who, on hearing that story, defined that vote as the moment the Temple began to fall. She said the Temple was destroyed by eight black balls …”

“She may well have been right,” said Master Balmyle. “Who was this woman?”

“It was the Baroness St. Valéry, whose own husband had died by Philip’s greed and treachery.”

Archbishop Lamberton cleared his throat. “And thus you see the malefactor in this stew as being the King of France? What of the Pope?”

Now is where I give offense, Will thought, and squared his shoulders. “What of him? What might I say to you, as princes of the Church, to express my loathing and disdain for a man who will bend the craven knee to the willful spite of an un-Christian king and permit him to commit such an outrageous felony? The blessed Clement vacillates like an inflated bladder in a wind. He changes his mind with every hour that passes. And he unleashed the Inquisition on our Order to flesh out the untenable charges spewed out against us by de Nogaret, himself a murderer of popes. What of the Pope, you ask? He is a disgrace to his faith and to his calling, a spineless panderer to an ambitious monster whom he fears will turn and rend him if displeased … and he is right in that. Capet has caused the death of one pope who displeased him, perhaps two. He will not hesitate a third time, if he deems it justified by his divine right.”

“You will hear no contention from me over that matter,” the Archbishop said, “but Philip Capet is not of grave concern to us right now. For now, let us remain with the matter of your oath, and others. I am told you have released your men from their oath of chastity.” Will nodded, and Lamberton eyed him, twisting his ring around on his finger as he did so. “On whose authority did you do that?”

“On my own authority, as ordained Master in Scotland.”

“Your authority is that strong?”

“Of course it is. I am acting Master, and until our Grand Master de Molay is released and reinstated, I have complete responsibility for those brethren under my care. I did not make the decision lightly or suddenly.”

“I would not think you could, but would you tell me why you did it? It seems like an intemperate thing to do, to free an entire Order from a sacred oath.”

“Pardon me if I seem to contradict you, my lord, but we are speaking of the last surviving remnants of a oncegreat Order. By freeing my marriageable men from their oath, I have created the possibility, the hope at least, that our Order might survive our deaths.”

“Is that not fanciful?” This was Balmyle. David de Moray was sitting listening, his eyes moving from face to face.

Will looked back at the former chancellor and dipped his head slightly. “Perhaps so, Master Nicholas, but the alternative—to do nothing—is the death of our Order, preordained. Therefore I seized the chance to contest the odds.”

“I see. So now there are women on Arran? Married women?”

“There are a few, and there are children.”

“Tell me,” interrupted Lamberton, “to whom do you pay your allegiance now?”

“Not to Pope Clement. I hold my allegiance to Master de Molay, even while he is buried in some unnamed prison. And from him, my allegiance goes directly to my God.”

Archbishop Lamberton leaned his elbow on the arm of his chair and pinched the bridge of his great, bony nose. But then he straightened again. “I am told there are French mercenaries on Arran. Sir Edward Bruce relies on them greatly.”

“Is that so? Well, my lord, it had to come out sooner or later.”

“Aye it did, and I am gratified that it took as long as it did … I am even more amazed, though, to have heard no single report, no slightest whisper, of Templars on Arran. From anyone. I trust you will accept my profound appreciation of that.”

“I do, my lord Archbishop. It has been almost five full years since anyone might have recognized us as belonging to the Temple. Now we are simply islanders, French mercenary islanders, kept close enough to be useful but far enough removed to pose no threat to any honest Scot.” He stopped, struck by a thought he should have mentioned earlier. “Has Bishop Moray spoken of the convocation we are to assemble there soon?”

“Of course he has, and that is why I am here. We need to plan this carefully, we four, for it is of far greater import than Davie might have realized when he arranged it through your goodwill.”

Will twisted sideways in his chair to look at Moray, but the Highland Bishop merely shrugged and waved a hand, as though to say “How could I have known?” and Will turned back to the Archbishop.

“How can it be of greater import? I understood the urgency of what was being asked of us. The King’s need was all-important.”

Lamberton inclined his head. “And so it was, but it has taken on a far greater significance of late.” He sat straighter and smoothed the fabric of his cassock, pressing it flat against his lean belly with one hand before looking Will straight in the eye. “Davie has told me all that I know of you, Will Sinclair, and though I liked all that I heard, I felt I had to see you for myself, judge you with my own eyes.”

Will stared back at the Archbishop’s unsmiling face, unsure of how to react to that, but eventually he nodded. “And have I passed your scrutiny, my lord Archbishop?”

That startling luminescent smile broke over him again. “None here would think to blackball you, if that is what you are wondering.”

“Then …” Will reached up and scratched the stubble on his left cheek. “Now will you tell me what this is all about?”

The radiant smile faded, replaced with a solemn look. “Aye, and willingly, with no further ado. It is about politics and the struggle for men’s souls and freedom … weighty matters, Will. When first you came here, there was no question of refusing you sanctuary. But Bishop Moray told you of our concerns about your presence in our realm—the difficulties associated with the writ of excommunication against King Robert and the dangers of your presence here becoming known to the King of France, and thereby to the Pope. And you have dealt with that to everyone’s great satisfaction, so no more need be said of it.

“Now, I have listened to your opinion concerning our Holy Father, and bluntly, your concerns echo my own, in all respects but one … one highly distinctive respect. As Primate of this realm, my first responsibility is to its people. If the King of Scots stands excommunicate, then so does all of Scotland. If his excommunication is confirmed, then all the land goes down with him into perdition. No sacraments may be bestowed on anyone who does not abjure King Robert’s kingship instantly, and there will be many who abjure him thus—some out of fear for their immortal souls, and some through jealousy and envy, for their own ends. And if that happens, Scotland will fall.” His voice dropped in volume. “It is unthinkable, but the threat of it is very real and waxes stronger every day.”

Will sat frowning, having heard all of this before, but never stated so bluntly or so passionately, and now he raised a hand. “Pardon me, my lord Archbishop, but is not the ban supposedly in place? I know it to be in abeyance, but is it not a fact?”

Lamberton took a deep breath, and Will found himself holding his breath as he waited for the Archbishop to respond.

“In existence, yes, but not in abeyance … not really that. The matter lies under canonical dispute, at the instigation of myself and the senior prelates of Scotland, among whom is numbered Wishart of Glasgow, now a prisoner, like myself, in English hands. But Robert Wishart is an old, old man, and sick, expected not to live much longer …” He made the sign of the cross before resuming. “But the dispute is coming to a resolution. Master Nicholas can tell you more of this, since the coordination of our case before the Pope and the Curia is largely in his hands today, now that I am unable to see to it in person. He and Master de Linton of Arbroath share joint responsibility for the conduct of the affair. Nicholas?”

The former chancellor grunted deep in his chest and took up the explanation where Lamberton had left off, his sonorous voice solemn, his words clear and precise. “The original excommunication was for the sin of murder—murder aggravated by its commission in a church, on the very steps of the high altar. But there was ever a question of intent and culpability. The charges came from the enemies of Bruce, from the relatives of the man he supposedly slew, John Comyn, Laird of Badenoch. The house of Comyn, as you know, Sir William, was very powerful six years ago—more powerful than the Bruce faction by far, and very well connected, with several bishops among the family who added their official voices to the plaints being sent to Rome. And they moved quickly, lodging their accusations while yet the confusion here was unresolved. They deemed Bruce in rebellion against the true King, John Balliol.

“That was a specious nonsense, for John Balliol had abdicated by then and removed himself to France and the protection of King Philip, and the truth was that they had a claim to the throne almost as strong as Bruce’s was. Whatever, they were heeded by the pontiff. The writ was passed, and we contested it immediately. And we were not without our own influence. We, too, were heard, if not by the Pope himself, then at least by some of his most powerful cardinals. And the debate has lasted ever since, enabling the Church in Scotland to continue its mission.”

“So pardon me, Master Nicholas, if I seem ignorant, but all this happened before I came to Scotland. On what grounds could you legitimately contest the Pope’s verdict?”

Balmyle grunted again, almost smiling. “A good head for questions, Sir William. On grounds of morality and common law, first and foremost. There is theology involved, but most of it is cant, obscure and dense to common folk. We chose from the outset to take the common law as our defense. William?”

Lamberton was ready. “Intent and culpability in the death of Red John Comyn. Our defense of the King is built upon those elements and the doubts surrounding them. There is no doubt that the slaying took place. But there is ample room for doubt that King Robert did the slaying … You never knew John Comyn, did you?” Will shook his head. “I thought not. Had you but met him even once, there would be no need for me to tell you this. He was a … a difficult man, in all respects—difficult to like and hard to deal with. He was arrogant. Well, who among all these noblemen is not? But he was also obdurate and full of angry pride and self-esteem, greatly ambitious, with a firm belief that he himself should be the King of Scots. And, latterly, he had been proven treacherous, almost to the cost of Bruce’s life at the hands of Edward of England. Bruce was forewarned by an English friend and barely escaped with his life from Lanercost Abbey, where Edward sought to hold him. He fled, barely ahead of his executioners, and crossed the border south of Dumfries, where he confronted John Comyn with the proof of his perfidy. You know the story?”

“No, I have not heard it.”

“Aye, well, the two, as you know, were joint Guardians of the Realm at the time. And they had made a pact, in writing, to defend the realm against the claims of Edward. There were but two copies of that pact, one held by each of them and signed by the other. But when Bruce was called to Lanercost Abbey, he was warned that Edward had his signed copy of the pact. It could only have come from Comyn, with the intent of causing Bruce’s death, for Comyn knew the temper of Plantagenet. Anyway, the guardians met in Dumfries, both of them angry and afraid of what had been done, and went together into the church to talk privately, alone …

“We cannot truly know what transpired between them, for there were no witnesses, but tempers flared and blows were struck and Bruce came reeling from the church, distraught, to where his companions waited. From then on there are witnesses who swear he said that he feared he might have slain the Comyn. He feared he might have. At that point, one of the Bruce supporters shouted something like, ‘Might have? Then let’s make sure of it,’ and ran inside the church with a drawn sword. And when the others followed him inside, they found him standing above the Comyn’s corpse, his blade bloody.”

The Archbishop fell silent again, his gaze focused elsewhere, then shook his head as though to clear it. “What happened then is well known. The Bruce was hurried away by his own men, and when he had gathered his wits sufficiently, he saw the die was cast. He seized the Castle of Dumfries, expelled the Comyns from the town, and claimed the kingship.

“Bishop Wishart and I were told of this soon after, and our duty, unpleasant as it was, was clear. It fell to us, as senior bishops of the Scottish see, to investigate the matter thoroughly, discerning what had truly happened, and it became very quickly obvious that there was room for reasonable doubt of the Earl of Carrick’s guilt in the crime of murder. It was a time of chaos, with the fate of the realm itself in jeopardy, for Edward Plantagenet, we knew, would invade the moment that he heard of the affair, and would declare the crown of Scotland vacant and forfeit to his own overlordship. And it was then we decided that our only route, the only proper course of action, was to support the Earl of Carrick and ensure that he became our King, anointed with the blessings of Holy Church. It was barely done when the writ of excommunication was served, but by then we had already initiated our counterclaim, and the debate began.”

“And now?”

“Aye, now … In the past three months, our suit has enjoyed much support in Rome. Our own bishops there, among them your own uncle William Sinclair, Bishop of Dunkeld, have made wide inroads into the bog of claim and counterclaim, of outright lies and obscured truth surrounding this affair, and they are sanguine that we will have a favorable verdict within months.”

“Then that is excellent,” Will said, glancing sideways at the unreadable expression on Bishop Moray’s face before turning back to Lamberton. “But what has it to do with me and my Templars?”

“Nothing, on the surface, but we have Templars of our own here in Scotland, and they have no knowledge of your presence here among us. Those Scots Templars themselves are become a problem.”

“An embarrassment, you mean, akin to us.”

“A potential embarrassment, because as you know Pope Clement has called for the arrest of Templars everywhere.”

“That was expected.”

“I know. But what was unexpected is King Robert’s obdurate reluctance, his refusal to disown the Order here in Scotland. He is being stubborn over that, and though I can see why he takes the stance he has adopted, it increases our fears for the welfare of our cause with the Pope. Should Clement, and with him Philip of France, suspect recalcitrance on the King’s part in this Templar matter, he will not feel inclined to be merciful in the matter of the writ.”

“The King must surely see the danger in it.”

“He does. But he has received loyal support from his Scots Templars, and few though they are—the fighting knights, at least—he has no wish to disown them. And the fact that the penalties for failing to take such action are being held as a threat over his head by people who know nothing of affairs in Scotland makes him the more stubborn. As we say in this land, he winna thole it.”

“So … there it lies.” Will stood up from the table and stretched backwards, loosening a kink at the base of his spine. “Forgive me. A saddle I can master, but a wooden chair is altogether different … Bishop Moray, you have not yet said a word.”

Moray looked up at him and grinned. “I’ll ha’e enough to say when you’re a’ done. Dinna forget I’ve known a’ this for years. My colleagues here are new to you and your thoughts, so I’m content to bide here and think my own thoughts.”

“Aye, I have no doubt of that. And that brings us back to what you said, Archbishop—that this matter is of greater import now than it was at first. I see the why of that, but not the how. What would you have me do that is different now?”

The burnt-out logs in the huge grate behind Will collapsed into embers, releasing sparks and billowing smoke, and Lamberton turned his head to look at them.

“That,” he said, pointing at the fireplace.

Will looked around to see what he was pointing at. “What?”

“When you came in, those logs were hard alder. Now they are glowing ashes.” He smiled. “You did the same with your people on Arran.”

Will looked from Lamberton to Balmyle. “Forgive me, my lord, but I still do not see your point.”

“It is very simple, Will. We want your help in making the Scots Templars vanish, just as you did on Arran. It is something we ourselves cannot do, lacking the authority that you alone possess as Master here. That is the increased import of the convocation to be held. Originally it was to revive a sense of community among the Scots knights, to reassure them that they were not alone. But now the King’s own fate, and the fate of this realm, may depend upon it.”

“Hmm. I suppose all your Templars must wear the beards and tonsure.”

“All of them. And they ride beneath their black and white baucents, defiantly, knowing they stand alone—or thinking that they do. They flaunt their Temple emblems—they call them jewels, do they not?—and the cross pattée. They no longer wear the red cross of the Holy Land campaigns, but they take pride in being seen for what they are.”

“And that you cannot have. I see …” He thought for a moment. “So then, tell me this. If we were able to accomplish what you wish here, what would become of these Scots knights?”

Now Lamberton frowned, his glance flicking towards his two companions. “Become of them? Nothing would become of them. They would continue as before, but simply unseen … at least unrecognized. No more than that.”

“But people here already know them as Templars.”

“Aye, and people forget readily. Within the year, once they have changed their outward show, no one will care or remember what they once were. They themselves will not talk of it, will they?”

Will smiled, grimly. “No, they will not. You may rest assured on that. They are Templars, doubly bound in secrecy and obedience.”

“Then you will help us? It would increase your own community, perhaps substantially … And we would be greatly in your debt.”

“I have no interest in incurring debts, nor have I need to add to our community.” Will moved back to his chair and sank into it, deep in thought. The others waited, watching him closely, until he straightened up a little and raised a finger. “Although we may agree upon a quid pro quo.”

“A quid pro quo on the matter of what?” It was Master Nicholas who asked the question, and Will answered him directly.

“Aid from you, in return for aid from me.” Will could hardly believe that he was about to say what was in his mind, for the decision had come to him fully formed, based upon a sudden recollection of what Jessie Randolph had said about his obtaining help from Davie de Moray. “Do any of you have contacts in the area of Genoa?”

“I have a friend in Genoa,” Lamberton said. “The Cardinal Archbishop there, Giacomo Bellini. We were in seminary in Rome together and have remained close, despite the distance separating us. He is one of our strongest allies in the Curia. What interest have you in Genoa?”

“They have the finest shipyards in the world, my lord, and until recently they built most of the ships in the Temple fleet. I have a need for ships now, but I know nothing about buying them. Therefore I need to find an agent there, to represent me—an honest agent, which might be hard to find from afar. It came to me that you, with all your connections throughout Christendom, might be able to assist me.”

Lamberton pursed his lips, plainly not understanding. “You need Temple galleys?”

“No, not galleys. Trading ships. Stout, strong-hulled ships, the best I can find, and as soon as may be. It may be that the Genoans will have to build them for me, and that will require time, and I have none to waste. On the other hand, they may have ships already built, awaiting purchase by a Temple that no longer exists. I need to find that out.” Will looked around the table, at each of the three men. “I will soon be leaving Arran with my people, taking them to safety, which should ease your minds on the matter of our being discovered here.”

“Leaving Arran?” Lamberton sounded appalled. “But you are safe here, Sir William.”

“I know that, my lord, but we pose a risk to you and to King Robert by being here. So we will go elsewhere.”

“But there is no elsewhere … none that would be safe for you, not in all of Christendom.”

“That is true. And yet I have a place in mind, my lord. A place where we will be safe and secure to live our lives with honor.” He glanced at de Moray, who was staring at him, one eyebrow raised in surprise. “Bishop Moray knows whereof I speak. We have discussed it. But he cannot speak of it to you. He has sworn to hold it close.”

The Archbishop rubbed his long, bony beak with a forefinger and then gazed at Will with narrowed eyes, his fingertip pressing idly on the end of his nose, flattening it slightly. “And if I were to swear the selfsame oath of confessional silence, would you entrust me with your confidence as you have Davie?”

Will nodded. “Gladly, and Master Nicholas, too, if he will swear the same.”

“Then mine is gladly given, witnessed by my brothers here.”

“As is mine,” Master Nicholas added. “Though where your proposed sanctuary may be is beyond my grasp.”

Will looked again from man to man, and then told them the story of Merica and how the admiral had gone in search of it. He held them rapt as he related the tales the mariners had brought back with them. When he was finished, no one spoke, each of them lost in his own thoughts, and as usual it was Lamberton who spoke first.

“You were wise to enjoin the seal of the confessional. This place of which you speak, this enormous land with such a lengthy coast and differing climes, might be a whole new world. If word of this were to escape, bloody wars would be fought to win it.” He lapsed into silence again, then added, “But how do you intend to keep it secret once you are gone?”

Will’s face creased in a gentle smile. “We will leave no one behind to talk of it. Our entire community will take the secret with us. Folk may wonder where we went, but no one will know, save you three.”

“And what of the King?”

“The King has much to see to, settling this land and building a stable realm, without his knowing about this. Once we are gone, you may tell him, if you think it needful. By then, no one will be able to find us and we will be safe. But it will be a secret no less dire then than now. Knowledge of it might still set off a race to find it, with all the threats of war you spoke about.”

“Hmm. Would you ever return, think you?”

Will nodded. “Almost certainly. Our people have already been there and returned, in search of aid. I have little doubt we will do so again in the future.”

“And would you return here?”

“To Scotland? Most certainly.” Will’s smile grew wider. “Think you we might return to Philip’s France, to spur his greed?” He shook his head. “We will come here, in search of information about our Order and its fate. By that time, if God smiles upon all of us, King Robert might be secure upon his throne, and therefore able to send new folk back with us, officially … Who can tell such things? But if it comes to pass, we will be well established in our new home by then.”

“When will you go?”

This was the first time Bishop Moray had joined the conversation, and Will shrugged. “As soon as we have new ships. The few we have are too old and done for the voyage we will undertake. The returning ship barely survived the ocean’s storms homeward bound. I want no such risks in our crossing.”

Balmyle cleared his throat. “Have you the funds for these new ships?”

“We do. We have our own exchequer, brought from La Rochelle to keep it out of Philip’s grasping clutch. We have enough.” He decided to say nothing of Jessie Randolph’s offer.

Lamberton sat musing, his head bobbing gently as he thought about what was involved. Finally he nodded decisively.

“I can send an envoy to Cardinal Bellini at once, but we will need to know how many ships you will require.”

“Four at least—six if we can afford them. That is the sticking point right now. I have no slightest knowledge of the costs involved. Therefore the first thing I will need to know is the price of a new ship of the finest quality, and the choices available to us. Once we know that, then we simply divide our treasury among the ships.”

“That could leave you penniless.”

“It could.” Again Will smiled, remembering what Jessie Randolph had called the place. “But in our wild new land we will have no need of money. The people there, I have been told, do not use it at all. They trade and barter what they have for what they need, but they have no use for either gold or silver. So penniless is how we will go.”

“Could you not buy your ships here in Scotland? We have fine shipbuilders in Aberdeen, and they build large, fine ships.”

“Aye, they do, Master Balmyle, but for local waters, the seas of Christendom. I need ships to go where only four have gone before. The Genoese have been building the kind of ships I need for more than a hundred years, since first the Temple went to sea as traders.”

“So be it, then.” Lamberton’s tone was incisive. “I will write to Giacomo tonight and send the missive to him by fast ship from Leith. My messenger will await a reply and bring it directly back. It should be done within the coming month, and you will have your fundamental information.” He nodded, dismissing that. “Now, back to our Scots Templars. What would you advise?”

“Much.” Will sat thinking deeply, aware of all three men watching him and waiting. “There is much to be done, but none of it should be difficult. All it will take is time, and that time will begin with our convocation on Arran. In some ways we are fortunate. The brethren we will invite to Arran already know themselves outlawed and banned. They will not be expecting to find an established community of their own. Once they see the changes we have achieved—the disappearance of distinguishing beards and all other signs—they will all join us, out of obedience to my will as Master, if for no other reason. That does not concern me. Everything you require of them will be achieved as soon as we convene in chapter. From then on, the eventual vanishing of Templars from Scotland will be simple and ongoing …”

“But yet you sound concerned,” Lamberton said. “Why?”

“Because I am concerned, and gravely so, about their future. When we leave Arran, these Scots knights will be bereft again. And yet I cannot take them with us. The numbers are too great. But so are the odds against their survival here, unless you will extend me your support in what I seek. First of all, why is King Robert so concerned about these brethren?”

“Because he feels an obligation to them, one that they have earned. They have supported him loyally and he has no wish to reward them by outlawing them, far less arresting them, at the demand of outsiders to the realm, irrespective of whether those be churchmen or otherwise.”

“They are all Bruce supporters?”

“Aye, they are. Those who were of the Comyn camp retired to England with the other knights when the Temple here was closed. Those who remained were Bruce adherents, and the King is well aware of that.”

Will nodded. “But what of afterwards, when these wars be settled, if they ever are? What will become of these men then? They are sworn to poverty, under the protection of their Order, but their Order is gone—and its protection with it—which leaves these men incapable of providing for themselves as knights and warriors.”

Lamberton raised his hand. “They have managed until now. How should that change?”

“Because times change, my lord Archbishop. These men have armor, horses, and weapons, but all provided by the Temple. What will happen when the horses die, the armor rusts, and the weapons must be replaced? The commanderies that provided them are no more, and the cost will be too much for paupers. We in Arran can survive because we brought our Commandery’s wealth with us from La Rochelle. These Scots Templars of yours will starve without renewed assistance. Can you understand my concern now?”

“Aye, when you put it like that, of course I can. What, then, do you propose?”

“A resolution, but as I said before, I would like your support. As Master in Scotland, I may release Scots Templars from their vows, both chastity and poverty, for good and ample reasons of necessity and moral need. But these men might not take easily to such a radical change, and I would therefore ask for your support in assuaging their minds and consciences.”

Lamberton looked at Master Balmyle and then sat frowning. “I do not know if I can do that, Will,” he said eventually. “I doubt I have the authority for such a thing. As you have observed yourself, the Templars are sworn to obey their Grand Master, and through him the Pope, not an arguably heretical Archbishop.”

“Forgive me, my lord, but I disagree. You are Primate of Scotland and this is a Scots matter. The men involved are Scots, and your concern is to enable them to conceal themselves from the eyes of others who would use the knowledge of their freedom to cause further strife for the King’s grace. You have already established your primacy, your authority and spiritual leadership, in this realm by your championship of King Robert’s cause in the face of opposition from the Pope himself. Why then should you be impotent in this? Do you doubt the morality involved?”

The Archbishop had been gazing at Will levelly as he said this, and now he shook his head slowly. “No, Will, I do not. What would you require of me?”

“A letter, written from your viewpoint as Primate, or perhaps a delegate to speak on your behalf at our gathering, voicing your understanding and compassion in this matter of revoking vows. Your official recognition that, at certain times, drastic steps must be taken to address grave wrongs. That alone—the knowledge that they could provide for themselves thereafter—would make your Templar followers feel better about accepting the changes I decree. They would not talk of it afterwards—they are Templars, after all—so you need have no fears of being embarrassed later.”

“A delegate, then, since I shall be back in England. Nicholas, would you do that on my behalf?”

“Happily, my lord Archbishop. The cause is just. And I will make it clear your approval is heartfelt.”

“Thank you, old friend.” He sat up even straighter. “So we are agreed. This will be done. When will the convocation take place?”

“As soon as it can be arranged,” Will told him. “How long will you require to contact the King’s people? Give me a list of those you wish me to approach and I will see to it as soon as I return to Arran.” He turned to Moray. “Davie, have you made progress on any of that?”

“Aye, all of it. We can ha’e the whole thing done within the month from now, including your part. I have your list prepared—some twenty men. They’ll bring their own sergeants. So will we call assembly for a month from this date?”

“A month from today, then. At Brodick Hall. So be it.”

Lamberton clapped his hands together. “Excellent! We have done well here, my friends, and I look forward to better things ahead. Are we concluded, then? Poor Nicholas has far to travel ere he sleeps.”

Moray intervened. “I ha’e a few questions I would ask o’ Will, if we can take the time?”

“Ask away,” Will said.

“Your friend de Berenger, the admiral. Is he still on Arran?”

“Most of the time, aye. He is in France now, in Aix-en-Provence, gathering information, but he should be back soon.”

“Do you trust him?”

“Without reservation.”

“And as an admiral, he kens his business, I suppose.”

“Beyond dispute. None better. Why do you ask?”

“Bear with me. You have ships on Arran, too, do you not?”

“Sometimes. We have ships at sea, trading, and they come back from time to time. And we have galleys, as you know.”

“I know, but I was thinking of ships. Archbishop Lamberton and you spoke of a letter to be sent to Cardinal Bellini, to await reply, and you said you have nae time to waste. It will take a month to receive the Cardinal’s response, and then you’ll ha’e to come and get it, and then arrange what to do next.” He threw his hands wide. “Tak’ the letter to Genoa yoursel’—in one o’ your ain ships, with your admiral—and speak to the Cardinal in your ain voice. See for yoursel’ what it will tak’ to buy up your new fleet, then have de Berenger flesh out the purchase, as a seaman. You’ll save months.”

Will was twisted sideways in his chair, gaping at Moray, and now he laughed. “Davie, that is an inspiration! That is what we’ll do. Of course it is.” He turned back to Lamberton. “May we do that, my lord? Will you write your letter for me to carry in person?”

“Of course I will. I’ll do it now, as soon as we adjourn here. You will have it in the morning. And now, I believe, we are done here, with much to do in consequence.”

WILL SINCLAIR RETURNED to his hostelry to sleep and to warn his men to be ready to ride come daylight, when they would return to Nithsdale, to check on young Henry and take him back to Arran if he was yet well enough, and to tell Jessie Randolph of what had been resolved in the matter of buying his ships. And for the first time, he found himself looking forward to seeing her again.

That gave him pause, and his own awareness of the pleasure he was feeling was even slightly startling. He lay on his back for a long time. What was it that had changed? he asked himself. And the answer came immediately that it was the woman herself who had precipitated everything, by her very being and by her matter-of-fact assumption that he would be willing to take her with him to the new land. No thought of hazards or the risks of sailing into an unknown ocean, but merely the straightforward acceptance of the truth of things: that he would go, and that he would take her with him. That conversation in the byre, so startling at the time, had worked a spell on him thereafter, for he had never stopped thinking about it—even, he now admitted to himself, when he had been unaware of thinking of it.

Lying there in the darkness with no thought of sleep in his mind, he found himself smiling at the bald effrontery of her demand, until it came to him that there had been no effrontery involved. Now he acknowledged to himself, somewhat ruefully, that the “effrontery” had been but one more manifestation of the straightforward and uncompromising lack of guile that had fascinated him since first meeting this woman in La Rochelle years earlier.

He remembered, too, the guilt that had racked him then over his own simple awareness of womanliness—her beauty, he now acknowledged. He remembered inhaling the warm, disturbing scent of the subtle perfume she had worn that night, a wafting, heady aroma filled with the suggestions of body warmth and formless feminine intimacies, and he remembered gazing at, and trying not to focus upon, the way her clothes moved against her limbs and body. But only now could he admit to himself that the task of ignoring her presence had been akin to that of the legendary Danish King Cnut who had commanded the incoming tide to reverse itself and flow away at his royal behest.

But then, lying alone in the dark, the reason underlying the change in him broke over him like one of those same incoming waves, and the stark truth of it was so incontrovertible that it left him amazed that he should have failed to see it before, when it had been as plainly evident as an unsheathed sword in the hand of an angry man. The guilt that had left him hagridden from the outset with this woman had been false, ill founded. His guilt had all been Christian. But he had never been a Christian, he now realized, and he found himself wanting to laugh and whoop out loud. Though his outward affiliation was to the Order of the Temple, his more profound allegiance was sworn to the Order of Sion. And the Order of Sion, founded mere decades after the deaths of Jesus and his brother James, was not, and had never been, a Christian order. It was Jewish at its roots, and its ancient rituals and lore, its teachings and its beliefs, were those of the Jewish sect to which both Jesus and his brother had belonged, the sect known sometimes as the Nazarene but known to all the Brotherhood of the Order of Sion as the Essenes, the Seekers of the Way to the knowledge and presence of God, the Way so often spoken of, but never explained, in the Christian gospels.

Will grunted suddenly and sat upright, blinking wide eyed into the blackness surrounding him, his mind whirling. He had sworn only two great oaths upon joining the Order of Sion: to own no goods in person but to share all things in common with his brethren, and to lead a life of obedience to his superiors within the Order. Those vows had essentially been the same as the Christian monastic oaths of poverty and obedience. The third monastic vow, the oath of chastity, he had sworn only on joining the Order of the Temple monk knights, and it had cost him not a thought at the time, for asceticism and celibacy had been entrenched in him by choice and dedication—regardless of the fact that the Order of Sion placed no expectation of chastity or celibacy upon its brotherhood.

He felt as if someone had lifted the weight of the earth from his shoulders. He was free to acknowledge, and to pursue, his attraction to Jessie Randolph—perhaps not without his customary awkwardness and difficulty, born of a lifetime of avoidance, but certainly without guilt. He knew now there was no impediment, moral or otherwise, to bar him from accepting the proposal she had made to him.