Order In Chaos

4

The judicial proceedings did not take long. Tam Sinclair and his sergeants were waiting at the entrance to the cells when Sir William and the admiral arrived, and Tam led the way into the gallery lined with individual cells, those on the left equipped with solid, iron-studded wooden doors with tiny inset grilles, and those on the right open cages, with thick iron bars on three sides and a solid stone wall at the rear. Godwinson was in one of the latter, sitting in deep shadow on the edge of a narrow wooden bunk and shackled hand and foot. His two guards sprang to attention and backed away as Sir William, St. Valéry, and their companions entered and then grouped together, looking into the prisoner’s barred cage. The Englishman grinned at them and spat sullenly.

“Come to gloat, have you? Gloat away, then, and be damned to you. But don’t take too long about it, for I won’t be here much longer.” He spoke in French but he was unmistakably English, his broad-voweled accent butchering the French words.

Sir William ignored the man after his first glance and looked about the space between the cells. It was a narrow, dark, windowless coffin of a place, with a high, peaked roof of red clay tiles over bare rafters, and it was filled with chill drafts that would, Sir William knew, keep it cold and dank even in the heat of summer. The walls were bare, uneven stone, chinked with plaster or dried mud, and the only furnishings were a long, narrow table of plain wood, three chairs, and a smoldering charcoal brazier set on a stone slab against the wall by one end of the table.

He crossed to the brazier and examined it, ignoring the awestruck silence of the two garrison guards. The charcoal had burned past its prime, and a hard, brittle crust of cinders covered the glowing ashes beneath. Behind him, Godwinson was still ranting, his raucous voice sounding more and more guttural as his diatribe grew more intense. Sir William picked up one of the iron pokers from its place by the fire basket and thrust it through the crust of clinker, breaking the carapace and sending up a shower of sparks. He stirred the embers hard, churning them into a sullen mass of flames, then left that poker in the fire and grasped the second one, forcing it into the burning embers beside its twin. That done, he hoisted up the guards’ bucket of fresh charcoal, using both hands to tip it forward and fill the brazier with fresh fuel, and as he did so, Admiral St. Valéry stepped beside him.

“What are you doing, Sir William?”

“I am remaking the fire, Sir Charles. It is cold tonight, and this place is drafty. Can you not feel it?” He moved away, to the front of Godwinson’s cell, where he crossed his arms over his chest, tucked in his chin, and then stood silently, staring at the raging man on the other side of the cage’s bars.

It seemed to take a long time before Godwinson realized that his rage and scorn were making no impression on the tall, white-robed knight who was obviously the one in charge of this party, but eventually his ravings died away and he sneered contemptuously at Sir William, who gazed back at him stonily, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts. Then, just as the silence in the high, dark chamber approached the absolute, he stalked away again, towards the table.

“Bring him out here.”

Godwinson fought strongly as they laid hands on him, but he was shackled and his struggles were useless against the six men who picked him up bodily and carried him out to where Sir William now sat at one end of the long table, his hands flat on the boards in front of him.

“Sit him there,” the knight said, pointing to the chair at the table’s other end. “Wrap his chains around the chair legs, lest he try to rise.”

Once again, Godwinson was powerless to resist, and quickly accepted it as two sergeants knelt by his sides and looped his leg chains around the legs of his chair. As soon as they had finished, however, he spoke to Sir William, his heavy voice filled with disdain.

“Who are you, whoreson? I promise you—”

“Stifle him.”

Tam had been standing by with a piece of filth-stained, wrinkled cloth in his hands, awaiting this command, and now he ripped the cloth in two, wadding one piece and forcing it into the Englishman’s mouth before tying it in place with the other half.

William Sinclair sat forward, resting his weight on his elbows, his chin on his raised fists. “Now, Englishman, listen to me. That man there,” he said, pointing to St. Valéry, “is the other man you came to kill tonight. Sir Charles de St. Valéry, Admiral of the Temple Fleet. You failed, failed even to wound him, and your master will not be pleased by that. But you succeeded in killing his oldest friend, the preceptor of this commandery, a man who was a hundred times more worthy of life than you have ever been. You murdered him, and every man here will bear witness to that. And you shot down two garrison guards, also brothers of the Temple. For any one of those, you deserve death, and were I your sole judge you would die here and now.

“For reasons of his own, however, Admiral St. Valéry does not wish me to kill you out of hand.”

He was watching Godwinson closely and saw the man’s eyes widen involuntarily as hope surged into him with the realization that he was not to die this night, for if he could survive the night, he knew he would walk free come the dawn. Sir William took grim satisfaction in stepping on that newborn hope before it could burgeon. He sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his breast again.

“I have fought men among the Turkish Sultan’s Mamelukes who know more of honor than you do, Englishman. Heathens they may be, and beyond redemption, but at least they fight in defense and belief of their God and his false prophet. Your only inspiration is greed.” He saw the assassin’s eyes narrow down to slits.

“Do you really think de Nogaret expected you to survive this day’s events? That would make you a fool, as well as a murderer. And do you think he will welcome you back, knowing you failed in what he set you to do? William de Nogaret is a hard man, Englishman. He will not raise a hand to help you now.

“Oh, I know…” Sinclair held up one hand, palm outward. “I know he will be here tomorrow. At dawn. I know that.” He saw consternation blossom in the Englishman’s eyes, but he kept talking, spacing his words evenly and allowing each thing he said to register before he said more. “But how think you he will react when he discovers that the admiral yet lives, and that the fleet is at anchor offshore, out of his clutches? Will he be happy with you?

“Of course, you may tell him that I arrived here in time to thwart you, and that I was aware of the festering plot he has dreamed up with the Capetian King and had come to remove the fleet from their greasy grasp. But will he take the time to listen, Godwinson? Will he let you speak?

“If he does, then I would wish you to tell him that I, William Sinclair, Knight of the Temple and member of the Order’s Inner Circle, have removed the fleet from France, and with it the fabled Templar’s Treasure for which he and his malevolent master lust so avidly. I would wish you to tell him that from me, and I would also wish you joy of his reward for your faithful service.”

Sir William stood up then, aware that Godwinson’s eyes were very different now above the gag that stifled him, and tipped his chair forward so that its back rested against the table’s end.

“Of course, that is only what I would wish, if I believed you would be able to tell him anything. Hear me now, assassin, for I am passing judgment on you, in my capacity as senior member of our noble Order and duly witnessed by these assembled here. You are thrice condemned for foul and cowardly murder, carried out under the concealment of the robes of this Order, which adds blasphemy to your crimes. At the request of Sir Charles de St. Valéry you may live on, but you will never thank us for that. You will never kill a man again, Godwinson, unless you choose to kill yourself. And you will never speak to anyone, ever, of what you did this day.”

He turned to Tam. “Hold him steady. Now, two of you seize the manacle chains and pull his arms straight, towards me. Good. Now tie the slack around the back of this chair. Make the chains secure.”

In moments, Godwinson was stretched face down along the table, incapable of struggling, his hands secured against the chair at one end, his feet restrained by the chair he was in. Sinclair’s face remained expressionless as he turned to one of his veteran sergeants, pointing to the heavy battle-axe that hung as always from the man’s belt and then extending his hand to receive it.

The sergeant fumbled at his belt and unclipped the weapon. Sinclair took it with a nod, testing its edge with the ball of his thumb. From the table, Godwinson began to moan, stifled by his gag and knowing what was coming. Sinclair pressed his lips together, and then intoned, “For the triple crime of murder you will lose the hands that killed. For the heinous sin of plotting those same murders, you will lose the tongue that accepted the task and thereby sealed your fate. So mote it be.”

The two heavy, chopping blows from the razor-sharp axe silenced Godwinson’s muffled screams.

“There are irons in the fire. Cauterize the stumps. Quickly. Now remove the gag.” He laid the axe down and drew the dagger from his belt, then bent down to open the unconscious man’s mouth and insert the point of his knife.

A moment later, he straightened up again, his face white, his mouth a lipless line. “Take him to the surgeons, as quickly as you may. And carry him face downward, lest he choke on his own blood.” He dropped his dagger into the heart of the fire in the brazier, then wiped his bloody fingers on the cloth of the maimed man’s gag.

“So mote it be,” he said again, mouthing the Templars’ ancient invocation, and then he turned and walked from the cell block.

5

"Sir William!”

Sir William stopped on the threshold of the Day Room.

“I have summoned de Berenger and de Montrichard,” said the admiral, hurrying towards him, “but I want to talk with you before they come. So if you will wait for me in the Day Room, I shall be but a moment.”

St. Valéry vanished into another doorway, and before Sinclair even had time to settle into a chair by the fire in the Day Room, the admiral had returned, clutching a plain, shiny black bottle and a pair of small glass tumblers. He set down the glasses and poured two measures of liquid into them, measuring them with a squinting eye.

“Here, I want you to taste this…It is a wonderful elixir, but I have to keep it safely hidden, lest it tempt my brethren. God knows, I have been tempted by it myself on a few occasions, and Arnold, may God rest his noble soul, had a marked taste for it. Sit you down. Sit anywhere, but choose a soft chair. We have very few of those, but that one over there, I’m told, is very comfortable. Pull it up to the fire.”

He picked up the brimming tumblers and brought them to Sinclair. “Here, drink. You will find it interesting.”

Sir William, wordless, took the proffered glass and raised it to his lips, but at the first taste from it, he broke into a fit of coughing.

The admiral chuckled. “Aye. Careful now, don’t spill it! It is a fiery potion, is it not? Made by the Benedictines in their abbey not far east of here. But persevere with it. The burning does not last, and I find that the essence is calming in times of severe stress. And as God is my judge, Sir William, I have seldom seen anyone more in need of calming than you are at this moment. You’re wound tight as a windlass. Drink, drink more.”

As Sinclair sipped again, more cautiously this time, the admiral drank from his own cup, watching him over the rim. The younger knight was deathly white, his cheeks drawn with strain, the lines about his mouth starkly evident. Clearly his ministration of justice had cost him dearly, and St. Valéry’s heart went out to him. True leadership by example was never easy, the old man knew from a lifetime of experience, but at times such as this, the assumption of personal responsibility for demonstrating leadership could be cripplingly painful.

“And more, Sir William. Drink again. It does grow easier, I promise you.”

Sinclair sipped again, more deeply this time, and closed his eyes, holding the sweet and fiery liquid in his mouth for a moment before allowing it to trickle down his throat. St. Valéry watched him and nodded slowly.

“Now, tell me, how do you feel?”

The eyes opened. “How do I feel? How should I feel? I have just maimed a man. I chopped off his hands and cut out his tongue with my own hands. How would you feel, Admiral, after such a glowing feat of arms? I feel soiled and befouled, as inhuman as the wretch I have just destroyed.”

“You meted out justice, and in a most admirable fashion, my lord Sinclair. You have no reason to feel soiled in any way. Had you done nothing, the fellow would have walked away tomorrow, unscathed and laughing, as you so rightly said. Now he will have a lifetime to repent his sins.”

“Repent? Hmm. Not that one, Admiral. I doubt he will repent of anything, save that he did not kill me when we first crossed swords.”

“But he will never hold a sword again. Or a crossbow. Yet he will have his life.”

“Perhaps. Or he may die of those wounds.”

“Not as long as he is in the hands of our surgeon brothers. They are highly skilled.”

“Aye, but tomorrow they will be arrested, and their skills may prove useless in protecting them.”

That made the admiral thoughtful. “Sir William, in all that you have told me you have said not a word about the garrison here, about what you wish them to do.”

“I am aware of that. But you read the Master’s instructions, Sir Charles. They must do nothing but submit to whatever tomorrow brings. Resistance would bring chaos and would give de Nogaret free rein to wreak havoc. He would claim insurrection and rebellion, and heads would roll. Your garrison will surrender upon demand. They will be taken into custody, but little else will happen to them. Their main purpose will be to present a semblance of normality at first, thereby providing us with time to make our way to sea without hindrance. And their victory will lie in the salvation of the fleet and our Treasure, although they will not know about the latter.” He sipped again at his drink. “This brew is excellent. What is it called?”

The admiral shrugged. “It has no name that I know of. It is merely the drink developed by the Benedictines, distilled from wine and flavored with pungent and pleasant-tasting herbs and spices. May I ask you a question that is personal, Sir William?”

“Aye, ask away.” Sinclair’s face was regaining some of its color and the lines around his mouth were less evident than they had been a short time earlier.

St. Valéry cleared his throat, feeling the taste of the liquor on the back of his tongue. “It is on this matter of Scotland. How long has it been since you were last there?”

Sinclair emptied his cup, then placed it on the floor and stood up. He leaned his ever-present sword against the back of his chair, then cupped his hands over his face, dragging his fingertips down his cheeks as though wiping away fatigue. “Too long, I fear, Admiral. I have not set foot in Scotland these twelve years and more. Why do you ask?”

“I expected your answer must be something of that nature, and yet you are remarkably aware of what is happening there, and your tidings are recent. How does that come about?”

“I have a sister there, Admiral. A younger sister, Margaret, who insists, in spite of not knowing her elder brother well, upon keeping him informed of all that is happening to his family. She sees it as her God-given duty to instruct me in the fortunes of all my clan, and I have been grateful for it these past five years, for she is clever and witty, her letters easy to read and filled with welcome and humorous tales of life at home.”

“I see. And how do you receive these letters?”

“Through our Order. She has them sent regularly from the Temple in Edinburgh to the Temple here in Paris. I received the latest bundle, eleven letters, when Master de Molay summoned me to Paris to instruct me in this current matter. The newest of them was less than three months old.”

“And this is your source of knowledge about the King of Scots? Is your sister privy to such matters?”

“Aye, she is, to a degree. In some of the letters, Peggy—we call her Peggy—spoke of King Robert and his troubles, and how they were affecting her and Edward. That is how I know of the events and the rumors surrounding the King’s accession to the throne last year.”

“Is this Edward, then, your brother?”

“No, Admiral, he is my good-brother, wed to my sister. His name is Edward Randolph. Sir Edward Randolph.”

St. Valéry raised his chin, startled. “Sir Edward Randolph? Is he kin in any way to Sir Thomas Randolph?”

“Aye. His brother.”

“Good God! Then your…your sister…”

“My sister is Lady Margaret Randolph. What of her?”

“She must then be a sister by marriage to Lady Jessica Randolph.”

Sinclair shrugged. “I know of no Lady Jessica Randolph. Peggy has never mentioned the name. But then, I don’t know Sir Edward, either. His elder brother Tom and I were boyhood friends—childhood friends would be more accurate—and the second brother, James, was a mere tad then, no more than seven or eight. Edward was born after I left home, so I suppose there may also have been a sister or two I never met.”

“No, you would not have met Lady Jessica, nor might your sister, I suspect, although each of them would certainly know of the other.” St. Valéry had spoken quietly and was frowning strangely. “The Lady Jessica is, as you say, much younger, and she seldom visits Scotland. She is a widow who has lived much of her life here in France and then in England, where her husband was an agent of King Philip. His name was Etienne de St. Valéry—Baron Etienne de St. Valéry. He was my younger brother. The Lady Jessica is la baronne Jessica de St. Valéry. Thus it would seem we are related through some complexity of marriages, you and I.”

Sir William blinked in surprise, not knowing how to respond to this. “Then I rejoice in calling you cousin, Admiral. It sometimes seems God placed us in a tiny world, for all its size. So I will be unlikely to encounter this Lady Jessica in Scotland?”

“No. She is here.”

“What do you mean, sir, she is here?”

“What I said. Lady Jessica Randolph is here.”

“Here in France?”

“Here in La Rochelle, in this commandery, and she is in grave peril. She has claimed sanctuary from William de Nogaret. Tam Sinclair saved her life this day.”

Seeing the utter incomprehension on his companion’s face, St. Valéry nodded. “Aye, you heard me rightly. The woman Tam brought through the city gates this afternoon is my brother’s wife…My brother’s widow. She has been asleep upstairs since just before you arrived. She had been on the road, hunted, for days, and she was exhausted. I decided that she would be better off asleep than awake this night. But everything has changed since then, and I wanted to tell you that she was here, and why. What is the hour?”

Sinclair shrugged. “Nigh on midnight by now, I’d think.”

“Aye, it must be. And thus today has been the first time in the history of this preceptory that Vespers has gone unsung beneath its roof. As I said, this news you brought us has changed everything. And Lady Jessica has no idea of it.”

“Why should she have any idea of it, Admiral? She is a woman, and we are speaking of Temple matters. Since when has any of that had significance for any woman?”

The admiral glanced at him sharply, as though on the point of rebuking him. “That particular aspect of our situation has no relevance for her, obviously, but there are other aspects of our circumstances here that do concern her, and directly so. She has placed her trust, her mission, and her very self in our hands, in the hands of the Temple, which has been protecting her interests for a long time now.” He glanced towards the door to the passageway outside, and the gesture reminded Sinclair that the two deputies would soon be coming to join them.

The admiral tilted his cup to drain the last precious drops, then peered into it through narrowed eyes, licking his lips fastidiously before he continued. “Jessica’s is a long story, but not directly concerned with our current plight, although there is some overlap…” Again he glanced at the door, then turned back, dismissing for a second time whatever had sprung into his mind. “She must be rested now. She has been sleeping for hours. Would you like another small dram before de Berenger and Montrichard come?”

“Aye, I would.”

“Excellent. And so would I. But just a small one. The beverage, delicious though it is, is potent beyond belief.” He returned to the table and poured a small amount more of the amber liquid into each of their cups. Then he sealed the bottle carefully before returning and touching his cup to Sinclair’s. “Since I first discovered this potion, Sir William, I have come to appreciate that we no longer tip in libation from our cups. That would truly be a waste of Heaven’s nectar. Let us drink to tomorrow and damnation to de Nogaret.”

“Gladly. Damnation to de Nogaret. But tell me more about your good-sister, for her situation intrigues me. Why is she here at all, and why is de Nogaret hunting her? Did you not say she lives in England?”