Order in Chaos

EPILOGUE

ONE

Stirling Castle sat solidly on its great stone crag, dominating the wide flatlands below, where the River Forth wound in great serpentine loops through the far-flung, treacherous bogs known as the Carse of Stirling. On a clear, moonlit night, the sentries on their high walkways might have been able, if they chose to look, to discern the black clump of the distant Tor Wood, knowing that beside and beyond it lay the stillchurned ground along the Bannock Burn, and, if their imaginations stirred at all, they might have recalled the chaos and the slaughter that had occurred there mere months earlier, when King Robert had wreaked havoc on the overwhelming numbers of the invading English.

They had thought of it before, and talked of it in great detail—every man in Scotland had—rejoicing but unable to believe the miracle that had happened there on the banks of the Bannock on that Midsummer Day, when it seemed that the massed schiltroms of Scots spears would be incapable of halting the surging, implacable English advance; when King Robert himself, attacked and challenged to single combat between the armies, had come close to death, saving himself only by his own dauntless skills and the unerring sweep of a mighty thrust of the battle-axe that had been his only weapon.

And they had recalled the sudden, unforeseen appearance of a fresh Scots army, led from the west by heavy chivalry, an irresistible charge of heavily armored Temple knights—more Templars than had ever been seen in Scotland—that had tipped the balance of the day and thrown the densely packed masses of the English, chivalry and common soldiery, into fleeing, destructive panic, trampling and hampering themselves and their own, killing one another in their desperate attempt to find safety and solid footing in the slippery, murderous bogs between the Bannock Burn and the banks of Forth. They foundered there in the killing muck, drowning and dying in their thousands in the panic-stricken crush and leaving the Bruce and his men victorious …

But that had been in midsummer, months earlier, when the amazing victory was bright and fresh in the mind of every Scot and it seemed the golden light of joy would never fade. On this night, though, there was no hope of such a thing. Men had the reality of freezing winter to keep them mindless of such thoughts tonight. The cloud mass was so low that it boiled over and between the battlements as a swirling, icy, roiling fog, impervious to the wind and rain that lashed through it to flail at the castle’s palisaded walls. The miserable sentries stood hunched in whatever shelter they could find on their walkways along the sheer drop of the giant crag’s side, each man measuring the slow passage of time remaining until his relief, when he could shed his sodden cloak and escape from the brutality that howled across the flat and open miles from the Firth of Forth and the too-close, cold North Sea.

Within the stone walls of the central keep, however, no one knew or cared about the weather outside. The interior of Stirling Castle that late-autumn night was warmer and brighter, the atmosphere more joyous and carefree, than it had ever been in the memory of anyone who was there. Torches flared all along the interior walls, illuminating every entry, passageway, and stairwell, and within the enormous rooms on the main floor, the darkness was banished by massed banks of blazing candles, augmenting the flaming cressets on the walls and the giant fires that blazed in every fireplace. People thronged everywhere, all of them dressed in their finest clothes, with scarcely a piece of armor to be seen, and music swelled up from every direction, some of it fierce and warlike, some of it bright and brilliant, and all of it melding and blending distractingly in those places where differing sounds overlapped.

One such place was the wide flagstoned passageway that led from a suite of smaller anterooms to the massive, iron-studded oak doors of the King’s Hall, the castle’s largest and most ornately finished room. Will Sinclair had gone to collect Jessie from one of the anterooms set aside for ladies’ use, and most particularly for those ladies’ women and children, nursemaids and suckling infants. There had been a harpist playing there, soothing the babies’ cries with gentle music, but as Will and Jessie moved away, bound now for the King’s Hall, the sounds of the harp were quickly drowned in the skirl of wild, Gaelic music spilling from the narrow gap between the slightly open doors of the great chamber.

The two of them were alone in the passageway, walking easily, Will with one protective and possessive hand on Jessie’s waist, when the great doors ahead of them swung open and the wailing music suddenly crashed through the widening space, engulfing the approaching pair. Will stopped abruptly, his eyes widening in surprise, and without thinking, he grasped Jessie’s arm gently above the elbow and drew her aside to stand beside him with her back to the wall, watching what was happening.

A solid block of garishly colorful Gaels now filled the open doorway, five wide and occupying the entire space behind the towering figure of the saffron-and-scarlet-clad man in front, and all of them were blowing mightily on the wild bagpipes that were so much of their ancient, traditional way of life. Will could not see how dense the files of clansmen were behind the first rank, but he could see roiling smoke above and behind their heads from the fireplaces in the great hall at their back, and had the impression of masses of people swirling behind them, laughing and shouting in enjoyment and encouragement.

The man in the lead began to pace on the spot, raising his right knee high and beating time with one foot to set the tempo as the tune they were playing changed into another. Six times he brought his foot down on the floor, and then he began to march forward, his cheeks bulging with the effort of keeping his air bag full, frowning in concentration as his fingers flickered over the holes in the long pipe that produced the notes of the melody. As he passed in front of Will and Jessie, Will was astounded to hear that every man behind him was playing the same tune, keeping and sustaining the tempo perfectly. As they marched past him in a solemn phalanx, Will counted twenty men in the block behind the tall leader, and as the last rank passed him he turned to watch them go, aware that behind him the crowd was now spilling through the doorway, shouting and cheering and whistling.

When the sound of the pipes died away, Jessie smiled up at him.

“I never was able to make the French believe that the sound the pipes make is music,” she said. “Who were those men? They have obviously practiced playing together like that. My guardsmen in France could never do that.”

He grinned at her, lowering his voice to where only she could hear him. “Your guardsmen in France had other things to occupy them, my love. But you’re right, nonetheless. I didn’t know that could be done. Twenty men, all playing together and keeping the tune. I never thought to hear the like. But then, I’ve been told the Romans used the same kind of pipes, though smaller. Apparently they used them to keep their men inspired on long marches, so they must have known how to play in unison like that, now that I think about it.” He straightened up and scanned the crowd around him, few of whom were known to him. “Anyway, they were all MacDonalds. The big fellow at their head was Calum MacDonald of Skye, and he’s Angus Og’s shadow, so that means Angus himself must be inside with the King.” He reached down and took her hand in his, placing it on his arm. “So then, wife, shall we go in?”

Lady Jessica Sinclair saw no trace in her new husband of the grim and forbidding Templar knight she had encountered on that now distant day in La Rochelle. The William Sinclair who walked beside her now was another man altogether, tall and imposing as ever, but clad in a tunic and tight-fitting hose of the latest French style, in pale blue velvet from her own stores and made by her own hands. The yoke and padded shoulders made his width immense, and the tunic glittered, front and back, with silver studs, sewn onto lozenges of satin that was the mere hint of a shade darker than the tunic itself, while from his shoulders, sweeping down his back, was a magnificent cloak of light blue shimmering silk that she had bought years earlier from a merchant who had traveled widely in Asia and brought back the most wonderful fabrics she had ever seen. She knew that she matched Will in splendor, because she was still wearing the dress in which she had been wed earlier that day, a deep-bosomed gown of dark blue, its cuffs and bodice edged with French lace identical to the delicate lace that formed the now-raised veil on her high headdress.

Will, for his part, was highly conscious of Jessie’s presence by his side, and of the still not-quite-accepted reality that she was now his spouse and consort, their marriage sanctified by the rites of the Church earlier that afternoon. He cupped his free hand more firmly over hers as they made their way to the door, and people parted to let them pass, many eyeing them with open curiosity. Will knew none of them, but he knew much of their curiosity must spring from the fact that they knew nothing of him, save that he had emerged somehow from obscurity as an established friend of King Robert, highly enough regarded by the monarch to have been wed in Stirling Castle, with the King himself in attendance to witness the event and share the celebrations.

Will and Jessie paused just inside the doors, scanning the vast, crowded room. An open aisle, roped on each side, stretched from where they stood to the far end of the hall, where it ended in a shallow flight of steps leading to a broad platform. Above their heads, the high, vaulted roof of soaring, hammered beams was barely visible, shrouded in darkness and flickering, hazy shadows reflected upwards into the drifting smoke clouds by the lights below. But it was the distant platform that captured their attention, for there, above the crowd, stood Robert I, by God’s grace King of Scots, surrounded by, but distinct from, the small group of people attending him, and backed by a line of attentive heralds trumpeter.

Until that afternoon, when the King had attended his wedding, Will had not seen the man since the Bannock Burn fight, and even then, with a thousand details to attend to in the aftermath of his miraculous victory, the King had had time only for a firm handclasp, a smile of recognition, and a word or two of gratitude accompanied by a promise of meeting and talking later, at more leisure. Since then, four months and more had elapsed, and this great gathering here in Stirling, the first purely joyous event of the King’s reign, was a landmark celebration to recognize the return of his Queen, Elizabeth, recently freed from the English prison in which she had been confined for eight years. Jessie had told him that the Queen had survived those years intact and unharmed solely because of who she was: her husband might have been a traitorous and rebellious dog in the eyes of her merciless captor, Edward Plantagenet, and that alone might have condemned her as it had Bruce’s brothers, but her own father was Richard de Burgh, the Earl of Ulster, one of England’s greatest nobles and King Edward’s oldest and most loyal friend. Now Queen Elizabeth stood beside and slightly behind her husband, a tall and stately red-haired vision of regal dignity herself, dressed in a dark green gown that glittered, even from where Will stood, with gold wire and pearls.

The Primate of Scotland, Archbishop Lamberton of St. Andrews, stood on Bruce’s left, and beside him ranged another cluster of well-known faces, among them David Moray and Angus Og MacDonald. Will scanned the crowded platform for Douglas, but neither he nor Sir Thomas Randolph was there.

Will hesitated, then grasped Jessie’s fingers more tightly and began to make his way down the long aisle to the far end, but even as he started to move he saw the King look at him and raise a straight arm, fingers spread, to stop him.

Will halted in mid-step, almost off balance, and felt his own confusion matched in the sudden increased pressure of Jessie’s grip on his arm as she stopped, too, beside him. Was the sudden frown on the King’s face for them? He glanced quickly at her and found her looking back at him the same way, her brows wrinkling, and then both of them looked back towards the distant dais, where a flurry of movement had disrupted the group about the King. Two men had come forward, holding the King’s tabard between them, the massive, ritualistic, and ornately rigid vestment that was the armorial symbol of the royal rank and presence.

Will could see that few of the revelers thronging the floor had even noticed as King Robert spread his arms and shrugged into the imposing tabard, with its crimson, gold-encrusted lion rampant on a field of purest yellow, embroidered so thickly, and in so many varying shades and hues of colored wire, that it seemed made entirely of metal. But they all took note, freezing into silence, when the royal heralds lining the rear wall stepped forward, raised their trumpets in unison, and blasted out the opening notes of a strident, brazen fanfare.

By the time the final tones died away and the heralds stepped smartly back to line the wall again, the stillness in the great hall was absolute, and every eye was trained upon the phalanx on the royal platform, where King Robert, in his formal surcoat, stood holding the hand of his Queen, gazing down at the assembled crowd and backed by a wedge of the most powerful magnates of his realm. He raised his right hand, holding his Queen’s hand high.

“My friends,” he began, filling the hall with his deep, sonorous voice, “hear me, and mark my words. Tonight is a joyous occasion for our realm, the first unthreatened celebration we have ever known since the moment I took up the reins of this sad land and set myself to ousting England from our bourns. But tonight, tonight our country is no longer sad … for we are free!” The crowd roared.

Bruce raised his hand again. “And we are here this day, this night, in peace and in unity, to give our thanks to God and to each other for the strength that we have found, the strength we have used so puissantly, to cleanse our land of the filth of invasion and foreign occupation.”

Someone whistled loudly and started to applaud, but it was evident that the King had not finished and the sound died away quickly.

“That strength, the massed determination of the community of Scotland represented by all of you here, nobles, churchmen, burghers, and commonality combined, has made this gathering, this celebration, possible. Our Queen stands here tonight, gracing our festivities by God’s grace, as does my beloved daughter Marjory, imprisoned in an English convent these long years for her father’s sins. And here are our greatly revered bishops, of St. Andrews and Glasgow, tried and loyal friends so newly released from England’s prisons.”

This time he made no attempt to stem the applause and approbation, and the Queen, Archbishop Lamberton, and several whose faces were unknown to Will acknowledged the plaudits, smiling and waving into the heart of the crowd. But as soon as the sustained roar began to lessen, the monarch raised both arms high, silencing them again, then spoke in a more measured, less formal tone.

“But there is something more to celebrate this night, an occasion already begun, but yet to be completed. Some of you already know we had a wedding here today. A bridal service months in the planning but meant to be held far from here, until I asked both celebrants, as close and trusted friends—which means, you all must know, close and trusted friends of this realm of Scotland—to delay their nuptials and join us here in Stirling for the happy and long-awaited occasion of their joining.”

Will felt Jessie’s hand tighten on his arm again. Their wedding earlier that day had been small and private, officiated by Archbishop Lamberton himself, assisted by Bishop William Sinclair of Dunkeld and the colorful Bishop David Moray, dressed for once in the episcopal robes of his office. But apart from the glittering assembly of celebrants, the service had been attended only by the bridal pair’s closest kin and by the royal party, King Robert and Queen Elizabeth, and their most intimate friends and advisers, among them Sir James Douglas and Sir Thomas Randolph, the august Master Nicholas Balmyle, and Angus Og MacDonald, Lord of the Isles. He squeezed her hand back, feeling relief uncoiling in him as he began to discern the King’s reason for stopping their approach when he had. Now he could see the people ahead of him beginning to look around at their neighbors, wondering what the King was talking about and who might possibly be involved. None turned to look at the far rear of the room.

“Years ago, when I was first crowned King and had to flee into the hills after the Methven fight, in what I now can see to be the bleakest, grimmest period of our struggle, a lady came to me from France bearing great wealth from her own estates, to give it to me on behalf of Scotland. Wondrous and, at that moment, seemingly miraculous gifts. Chests of royal treasure when our coffers held none—coin and ingots, gold and silver that sustained me, sustained all of us, throughout those few dark years.” He raised a solitary finger. “Few of you here assembled know her, but she is our bride today, and she deserves all our goodwill and our gratitude.” He raised his hands commandingly to quell the rising murmur of comment and curiosity, and when he had their attention again he continued.

“Her goodman stands beside her in our esteem, blessed and joined to her in matrimony this very day by our good Archbishop here, and he is another unknown to most of you. But believe me when I tell you all that he is one of—and perhaps the foremost among—the true heroes of Bannock Burn, for it was he who led the unexpected charge that day, the charge of chivalry that breasted the Coxet Hill and threw the English into panic and confusion, thinking they had to face a second, new Scots army.”

He waited for the buzz to die down, then spoke again, in a driving, rhythmic flow that held his listeners spellbound. “Had it not been for this man and his companions, for the perfect timing and surprise of their charge at the head of a new army that was no army at all, we might have lost the fight at the Bannock Burn. But come he did, and so we won the day, wreaking a storm upon the English that they will not soon forget and sending them home with their tails between their legs, lacking the flower of their vaunted chivalry and leaving us with prisoners for ransom sufficient to keep us in food and weapons—and in peace—for years to come.

“This man, too, is with us here tonight, from France, but a Scots knight, both namesake and nephew to our own beloved William Sinclair, Bishop of Dunkeld.”

He paused dramatically, and beckoned to Will and Jessie to come forward, and then raised his voice almost to a shout. “Scotland! Join me in bidding welcome to our newest and fairest bridal couple. Sir William and Lady Jessica Sinclair of Roslin!”

The crowd erupted into a storm of applause, with more and more people turning around as it became clear that Will and Jessie were approaching from the rear, along the length of the central aisle. And as Will felt his wife’s fingernails digging into the crook of his elbow, approaching the royal dais and the welcoming, applauding party there, his mind flashed back over all the years and grand occasions since his knighthood, and he could not remember ever having felt so proud or so grateful for his lot.

TWO

Later, hours later, after a long and wonderful evening of which he remembered very little other than his total enjoyment of being there and experiencing it as a married man, Will sat at ease in front of a roaring fire in a small, tapestry-hung room with the King of Scots and a few of his closest friends. None of them was drinking, for they were there ostensibly to discuss matters of state. The Queen and her ladies had all retired, and Jessie had left with them, after whispering to her husband, with sharp, warning nails on the inside of his wrist, that although she knew he had to spend time speaking with the King, he had better not forget that this was his wedding night, because she would be waiting hungrily for him.

Will smiled contentedly, aware that in the armchair next to his the King sat staring into the fire, his chin propped on one fist. On Will’s other side, Douglas and Randolph were speaking quietly together, while beyond the King, Lamberton, Angus Og, and one of the other Gaelic chiefs—MacNeil, Will thought—seemed to be talking earnestly and with great solemnity about a possible new Bishopric of the Isles. Balmyle, an old man, had retired long since, and the two other bishops, Moray and Dunkeld, had gone about some business of the King’s.

Will straightened his back, and as he did so the King spoke to him.

“I have been meaning all evening to ask you how you were able to time your arrival so perfectly that afternoon.”

“To time it?” Will found it easy to smile and be himself with Robert Bruce, since first meeting him on Arran, masquerading as an ordinary knight. The man addressing him now might well be the fearsome and renowned King of Scots, his stature already approaching legendary size, but in person he remained the same soft-spoken, pleasant, but incisive man of that first meeting. “To time it … Aye …” His smile widened to a grin. “Well, Sire, it ill behooves me to—”

“Sire?” Bruce tilted his head to look at Will directly, one eyebrow raised. “You have not called me Sire save the once, when first you came to our land. Whence comes it now?”

Will hesitated, taken aback. “Well—it was …” He snatched a deep breath. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I could not do so, in the past. Not as long as … as long as I held true to my vows as a Templar. But the Temple is no more, and now I am free to lay my allegiance where I choose.”

“Ask me not to forgive you, Will Sinclair. There’s nothing to forgive. So now you offer your allegiance to me freely?”

“Aye, my lord, and willingly.”

“Accepted, then, though I have never doubted it. It comes to me you would be a fine Baron of Roslin. What say you to that, Archbishop? Should not our faithful friend here be awarded the estates and title of a barony for his services?”

The Archbishop, interrupted, leaned forward and looked at Will, his lips curling up at one corner in a tiny smile. “Apparently not, I should say, judging by his reaction.”

The King, who had not been looking at Will as the Archbishop spoke, now swung back to him. “What, man? You are ghost white. Have I offended you?”

Will managed to shake his head, raising his hand in a silent plea for patience and waiting for Bruce to grow angry, but the King showed only good humor, smiling in disbelief. “What is it, then?”

“Forgive—Pardon me, Sire, your offer took me unawares, but I have no wish to be a baron. That rank, should you bequeath it, should be held by my nephew, young Henry Sinclair.”

The King laughed, slapping a knee in his delight. “You would turn down a barony and give it to someone else? Who is this paragon and why do I not know him?”

Will felt his face flushing. “You do, Your Grace. He is my squire.”

“Your squire? The boy who was wounded? He’s but a lad. I cannot dispose a barony upon a squire, Will.”

“I know, Sire, but the barony of Roslin should be his, by right of birth. And he is due to undergo knighthood, and well deserving of it.”

“Then I will knight him with my own hand, upon your word. Bring him to me tomorrow and we will make the arrangements. But he is yet far too young to be a baron.”

“I know that, Sire. But he will grow quickly. The lad who leaves with me for our new land will return to you a man, and worthy of the honor.”

“So … you yet intend to seek this new and fabled land?”

“Not fabled, Sire. We know now it is there. But yes, I do, with Your Grace’s permission.”

“You have that, though I could use you better here in Scotland. But how will you get there? Have you the ships?”

“We do, Sire. Four new ships, built in Genoa.”

“And what of your new wife? Will you leave her behind?”

Will grinned. “Only in death, Your Grace. Jessie will come with me, as will two score and more of others, wives and mothers to my men.”

“Hmm … And so, it seems, would my niece, young Marjorie. She came to me today and all but threw herself at my feet, begging my permission to accompany your wife on this venture of yours. What think you of that?”

The levity in Will’s attitude was banished immediately, replaced by a frown. “Your pardon, Sire. I had no knowledge of that. I had already warned Lady Jessica on several occasions not to foster the girl’s hopes. The two are close, more like mother and daughter than anything else, but I thought I had made it clear to Jess that the young woman is a Princess of the realm, with duties as such. I shall take it up with her again when I retire.”

“You will do no such thing. I will not be the cause of strife between you two on your wedding night, so it is my strongly expressed wish that you will make no mention of it to your wife. Am I clear on that?”

“Aye, Sire.”

“Good.” The King looked about him and bent a little closer, then spoke in a lowered voice. “In the normal way of things, your thinking would be perfectly correct. But the times are not normal nowadays. Few things are as they were ten years ago. The child is not really a Princess of Scotland. She is the illegitimate daughter of my favorite brother, Nigel, dear to me, as was her father, but somewhat troubling, under present circumstances, in her presence here.”

Will’s face must have revealed his puzzlement, for the monarch leaned even closer and explained. “Scotland already has a Princess Marjory, Will—my own daughter—and she is beset wi’ troubles enough to set the mind of a grown man reeling, let alone a slip of a girl. They held her in a convent for six years, shut away from all kindness and society, from the time when she was barely old enough to know what I had done. They punished her—an innocent—for being my daughter, and it breaks my heart to see how close they came to destroying her mind. She barely speaks—not a single word to me since she came home. But Elizabeth believes she will recover her wits, with time and patience and the forbearance of us all. Lamberton, on the other hand, while he agrees with the Queen, is strongly of the mind that the presence of another Marjory Bruce, of the same age but of a completely different temperament, light-hearted, laughing, and popular, might possibly—and I say only possibly—affect my daughter’s recovery. Do you take my meaning?”

“Yes, Your Grace, I do …”

“Then tell me this. Do you know why I can speak thus to you?”

“Thus?” Will shook his head, his eyes widening as his failure to comprehend increased. “No, Sire.”

“It is because you are the only man I know who wants nothing from me … not advancement, or reward or advantage, or patronage or favor. And atop all that, you never speak to me of politics or state affairs or my damned kingly duties. You want nothing from me, Sir William Sinclair, and that makes you unique in my eyes, and singularly trustworthy.”

He sat back in his chair. “A new land, you seek. An unknown life in an unknown place. And you will take your wife with you. That is admirable, Will … and brave, to boot.” He paused for the space of a few heartbeats. “You spoke earlier of your squire returning as a man. Will he return?”

Will nodded, wondering where this was leading. “Most certainly, Your Grace. We will send back envoys, and recruiters to swell our numbers from time to time if all goes as we wish.”

“And you truly have no fears for your wife over there?”

The smile returned to Will’s face. “No more than I would have for her here, Sire. Unknown shores may be dangerous places, but so may well-known ones. My Jess has lived in some truly perilous times and circumstances and has known her share of dangers. The life we will find where we are going might not be an easy one, but it will be a different and exciting one, and she and I will look out for each other there as well as anywhere, come what may. So be it we are together, that is all we could wish for.”

“Tell me then, were you to take my niece with you, could you undertake to send her back someday?”

Will looked away into the fire, intensely aware of the monarch’s eyes on him. They sat alone, surrounded by others, in what felt like an island of silence among the buzz of conversation around them. The question so simply posed had layers of complexity that swarmed and grew as he thought about it. Finally he grunted.

“That question has no simple answer, Your Grace.”

“Forget my grace, then, and answer as my friend. Yes or no?”

“I know we would be happy to take her with us, Jess even more so than I, but no, I could not promise you to bring her back. In the first place, she is no longer a child, and by the time we settle there, long before we could dream of coming back, she will be a woman, with a woman’s mind and will. I could say yes, and undertake to send her back someday, but by the time that day arrives, she might not wish to come. And we will be in a strange new world, with none of the rules and settled ways that govern people here.”

“But you would take her, and care for her as your own daughter.”

“Of course I would, and gladly. But that is all I can say with certainty. She might fall ill or—”

“Grow to be a woman. Aye. And when she does, what then? Will you have eligible men for her to wed, to suit her station?”

Will grinned again, in spite of the serious tenor of the conversation. “There may be no ‘station’ there, in the sense you mean, Sire. She will be as my own daughter, and thus will share whatever privilege we know, but more than that I cannot say. As for eligible men, there will be those. Jessie says young Henry would gladly lay down his life for the lass, as things stand now. It is but puppy love, all wide eyed and awe struck, but he will soon reach manhood, too, knighted by your own hand. And I could recommend the lad. He has everything required to make a fine and noble, honorable knight.”

The King sat for a moment, pinching his lower lip between finger and thumb as he mulled Will’s words, but then he nodded. “So be it, then. You have my trust, my confidence, and my friendship. I will tell young Marjorie she may go with you, and I will, if you are willing, give her guardianship to you and Lady Jessica.” His voice rose slightly in volume then. “You were about to tell me how you arranged the timing of your charge at the Bannock Burn. Tell me now, and tell me why you smiled when I asked you that.”

Slightly disconcerted at the abrupt change of topic, Will quickly sensed that someone was now standing close behind him. He glanced up to see that his uncle, Bishop Sinclair of Dunkeld, had joined them and was now inclining his head graciously as King Robert waved him to sit.

Will shrugged, deciding to be blunt. “I smiled at your choice of words, Sire. The timing of our arrival was perfect, as you say, but it was purely accidental—no strategic brilliance of mine at all, I fear.”

The King’s eyebrow rose again, and he glanced quizzically at Dunkeld. “Is that a fact? Tell me about the accidental part of it then, if you will.”

Will shrugged again, aware that all the others were now listening. “We should have been there sooner … were delayed … and thus came later than we had thought to.”

“What delayed you?”

“The English. We met a corps of them along the way, a body of infantry, perhaps six hundred, commanded by mounted knights. We breasted a hill and there they were, below us on the hillside.”

“Had you no scouts out ahead of you?”

“We did, Sire, but they had seen nothing. The English were in a deep defile—a steep-sided gully—when our scouts rode that way, and were thus invisible to anyone not right above them.”

“And so you fought, and evidently won. You had words with your scouts afterwards, I hope?”

“No, Sire, they were both killed in the fight that followed. We lost five men, and two of them were the scouts in question. But we destroyed the enemy infantry and harried the survivors, scattering them until they could not have regrouped.”

“Hmm. What of the knights commanding them?”

“Five of them, Your Grace, all but one killed. The fifth one fled back the way they had come. The fight was straightforward, but it cost us nigh on half a day when all was said and done.”

“And kept six hundred fresh Englishmen from striking at our flanks from the westward. How many were with you?”

“Sixty knights, Sire, and half as many again of lighter cavalry.”

At the rear of the room a door creaked open, and everyone turned to see Bishop Moray entering, clutching a document. He nodded to the King and, with a muttered word of apology, held up the document to Archbishop Lamberton, beckoning with a finger. The Archbishop grunted an apology and rose to his feet, then followed Moray to a far corner of the room, where they stood close, murmuring quietly.

King Robert looked back at Will. “So, a hundred and fifty men against six hundred.” Will shook his head, his mouth quirking. “A hundred mounted Templars, Your Grace. Small odds.”

“Hmm. True. But I was thinking more of the advance you led later. Whence came that army? I know who they were, but how did you conscript them?”

Will grinned again, broadly this time. “From your own camp, Sire. They were hostlers and wagoners, grooms, cooks and pot boys, even women—but brave, all of them. They thought us English when we first approached, and would have stood against us to protect your back, despite the certainty that they would all be killed against a force like ours. Then, when we had identified ourselves as Templars, there to fight alongside Your Grace, they told us the battle was already joined, beyond the hill that sheltered them, along the high road to Stirling and the vale of the Bannock Burn. And hearing that, one of my men, a kinsman of mine called Tam Sinclair, was inspired to say we should use them as they had first attempted to appear to us, as fighters. We quickly formed them up into ranks and blocks, pillaged some of your own banners from the wagon train, furbished them further with some of our own, and then had them march behind us as we advanced over the hill.”

“Aye. We all noticed your arrival—have no doubt of that. Accidental the timing might have been, but it was fortuitous and Heaven sent. The sight of your advance up there, a mass of black and white chivalry, an army of Templars when no Templars could be there, was like … what was it the Archbishop said? Like an oncoming host of avenging angels. And that’s what it was—an intervention from Heaven. It gave new heart to our own men and kicked the guts out of the English. They were in dire straits already by that time, God knows, ploutering about in that killing bog, but the sight of a new army coming down on them panicked them completely, and they broke. When you bring your squire to me tomorrow, see you that you bring this kinsman, too, this Tam Sinclair. Scotland, it seems, owes much to his quick thinking. Would knighthood suit him, think you?”

“Suit him! Tam? My lord, he has been with me since I was a boy, and is an honorable and worthy knight in everything but name. But Tam is not of noble birth.”

“That recks nothing nowadays. William Wallace was knighted on his merits, not on his birth. Why not this champion of yours? If it was his idea to conscript the camp followers, then he has all the initiative and insight required for knighthood. Will he, too, go with you to this new land of yours?”

Will’s mind was agog as he thought of the effect this unexpected honor would have on his unassuming kinsman. “That he will, Your Grace,” he said, knowing now that he was speaking to everyone there. “He and nigh on two hundred others. But if I may speak more on this, Sire, there is no uncertainty in any of our minds in this venture. We know the land is there. Admiral St. Valéry found it, God rest his soul, and sent word of it home to us. And this time, when we arrive there, we will have friends awaiting us, to welcome us. And we will make the most of what we find and send word of it back here to you. That will be when young Sir Henry Sinclair returns, triumphant, as my messenger to you, to take up his barony from your hands, and to make preparations for another, larger expedition.”

The King placed his hands over his face and drew his fingers downwards until his fingertips came to rest against the end of his nose. He sat blinking into the space above the fire for a few moments, then nodded. “So be it. There is nothing I can do to persuade you to stay here. Your men are French, and free. When will you leave?”

“As soon as the winter storms die down, Your Grace. April, or early May.”

“Can you be ready by then?”

“We are ready now, my lord.”

“Hmm … You should go there as a baron. There are people living there you say, aside from your own? If so, they will have kings.”

“They have no kings, Your Grace. Or none that our people found.”

Robert Bruce looked at Will wearily now, and twisted up his face. “You were a Templar, Will—you ought to know better than to say such things. Where men gather, there will always be kings, and others who want to be kings. It is human nature. Men breed kings, no matter what they name them. So be you careful in your new land … What is it called again?”

“Merica, Your Grace.”

“Aye, Merica. A strange name, and it sounds ancient, not new at all.” He pulled himself upright and flexed his shoulders. “A long day … and your wedding day. You should be abed by now, holding your wife, as I should mine. But you can go and do that now, whereas I still have work in hand here. A good night to you then, Sir William Sinclair, and may you prosper in all you undertake.” He smiled and extended his hand. “This realm is in your debt, my friend, accident or no. So go now. We will speak tomorrow.”

“Sire, if I may?” Archbishop Lamberton approached the fire again and held up one hand as if to detain Will. “I need to say one more thing about your charge, Sir William.”

Will shook his head. “No, Master Lamberton, you do not, for I know what you would say. This charge of ours at the Bannock Burn was a final act of pride in what we once were, so I presume you are going to tell me that there will be a formal denial of any Templar involvement in the battle.”

The Archbishop smiled. “No, Sir William, no. There will be no denials made. How could we deny it? Men saw what they saw, and there were many there that day. Thus, no denial, though we might, in time to come, omit your presence from our final records, stating that the appearance on the Hill of Coxet was, as you have told us, an army of camp followers. An omission, therefore, made in polity, but no denial. I merely thought to put your mind at rest and offer you some solace in the knowledge that the men you leave behind when you depart this realm will know no hardship or impediment when you are gone, for Scotland owes them much.

They may continue as before, observing the rites and rituals they wish to preserve, in secrecy, within the boundaries of Scotland. That I can assure you, on my word as Primate of the realm.” He paused. “You will be taking representatives of Holy Church with you, will you not?”

Will met the Archbishop’s glance squarely, feeling a tension in his jaw as he nodded. “Aye my, lord. Our own bishops and clerical brethren sail with us, prepared to tend to our souls and bring the Word of God to the people we find living there.”

He did not enjoy lying to the churchman, even obliquely, but he could give no hint that the Word of God his people would bring to the new land would be different from that preached by the Catholic Church. The bishops and clerics to whom he referred were all brothers of the Order of Sion, and in their new land the Truth that would be spread was the truth of the ancient fraternity: the Way to communion with God, as pursued by the man Jesus and his friends of the Jerusalem Assembly.

Archbishop Lamberton nodded, then glanced at the King and held up the document he had received from Bishop Moray, who now sat listening in one corner. “Your Grace, this dispatch contains tidings that I thought Sir William might wish to hear before he leaves this room.”

Bruce nodded, solemnly, and the Archbishop returned the gesture, then looked down at the document in his hand and sighed deeply.

“Sir William,” he said, “this confirms that your Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, died a hideous and inhuman death …”

“I had heard of it,” Will said.

“This document says that Master de Molay admonished his persecutors—some say he cursed them, but I prefer admonished—calling upon King Philip and Pope Clement to join him for judgment before the throne of God within the year. Were you aware of that, Sir William?”

Will nodded, scowling.

“Well then, know this now, in satisfaction of a kind for the pain it must have caused you. It appears that your Grand Master possessed more power in his admonition than his persecutors, combined, held in their desire to see him and his name destroyed.” He took hold of the parchment with both hands and gazed down at it in silence while every man there hung on his next words. “I have tidings here informing me that Pope Clement is dead, at Avignon.” There was a concerted gasp from his listeners. Lamberton spoke again into the shocked silence. “But that news, solemn as it is, is eclipsed by the later information that King Philip of France, too, is dead more recently … three weeks ago, in fact. Both of them gone, in obedience to your noble Grand Master’s summons, within the year.”

The words seared through Will’s head as the Archbishop continued. “And so both your persecutors are gone, summoned to Judgment by the God in whose name they dared to sin egregiously.” He raised the document so all could see it. “No man can say who will succeed either one of them, but this world we know is changed, and only time itself will expose what may come next. One more thing, though, is certain. With King Philip gone, it seems de Nogaret will not long survive in France … not when so many hate him.” He held out his hand to offer the document to the King, but his eyes remained on Will’s. “I thought you might enjoy taking those tidings with you when you leave here this night.” He waited, and when Will did not respond, he nodded gently. “Go then in peace, Sir William, and with our blessing.”

Will was aware, on some level, of the reaction of the others to the Archbishop’s news, and he knew he behaved with propriety in bidding everyone there a proper goodnight. But as he walked along the halls towards his quarters, passing the motionless guards on every side, his mind was reeling with what he had been told, and what he would be able to tell his brethren afterwards: Capet and Clement burning in Hell; their own Grand Master vindicated thereby; and a new order dawning in the world.

He reached his room and found a solitary lamp burning low, its wick guttering smokily. He pinched it out and shed his clothes quickly, feeling the chill in the darkness as he fumbled to raise the covers and slip naked into the welcoming warmth provided by his wife’s body as she turned sleepily to draw him close and embrace him; his new wife; a new life; and the promise of a bright new land.

FINIS