Читать книгу Order In Chaos - Jack Whyte - Страница 11

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.