Читать книгу Order In Chaos - Jack Whyte - Страница 14

Charles St. Valéry himself came through the doors to welcome her.

“Jessica, my dear sister, please, come in, come in. I trust you slept well?” He took her fingertips between his own thumb and forefingers and bowed her into the room, and she swept through the doorway, smiling widely as she crossed the threshold, then stopped abruptly as she saw there were a number of men already there. She counted three white robes, besides the admiral’s, and one brown-clad sergeant. She knew none of them.

Oh, dear God, a gathering of knights. Rigid pomposity, unwashed bodies, and reeking sanctimony. And what is that awful smell? Not sanctimony, certes. My God, they must have painted the entire room with lye soap! I have no need of this, at midnight.

She pivoted to face the admiral. “Forgive me, Charles, I did not know you were in conference. I understood that you had called for me, but I fear I should have waited before disturbing you.”

She had no way of knowing it, but the sound of her voice suggested broad, deep, gently vibrating silver Saracen cymbals to one of the room’s occupants, who shivered and was startled at the thought, and could think of no reason why it should have occurred to him.

Admiral St. Valéry laughed. “Not at all, dear sister.” He continued to hold her hand gently in his as he stepped gracefully by her on the right, turning her with him, and waved with his other hand to indicate the other men in the room. “Permit me to introduce my fellows. Two of them are the reason for my need to disturb your rest.”

Jessie scanned the assembled men. She glanced at Sir William cursorily before her eyes moved on to the brown-coated sergeant beside him. Her eyes narrowed briefly, and then flared with recognition.

“Tam Sinclair!” Her face lit up with the radiance of her smile. “This is the man I told you about, Charles—” But then she broke off and turned back to Tam, her brow wrinkling as she took in his surcoat with its Templar blazon. “But you were a carter…I had no idea you were of the Temple.”

“Nor had anyone else, my dear,” her brother-in-law said. “Tam came to us in secrecy, escorting Sir William here, with tidings from our Grand Master in Paris. Brothers, this is my brother’s widow, Lady Jessica Randolph, the Baroness St. Valéry.”

The woman nodded pleasantly to the assembly and then looked more closely at Sir William.

Great Heavens, he is big. Such shoulders. And he has no beard. I thought every Templar must wear a beard. They consider it a sin to go unshaven, though God Himself might wonder why. A good face, strong and clean, square jawline and a cleft chin. And wondrous eyes, so bright and yet so pale. And angry. Is he angry at me?

“I have never seen a Templar’s chin before,” she said, and watched his eyes flare. Someone laughed and quickly turned the sound into a cough. “Forgive me for being blunt,” she continued, “but it is the truth. Every Templar I have ever seen has been bearded.” She glanced again at Tam. “Tam there is Sinclair,” she said, pronouncing it the Scots way, and then looked back at the knight. “And therefore you must be his kinsman, the formidable Sir William Sinclair, Knight of the Temple of Solomon.”

Sir William continued to glare at her, but he was completely lost in the certain and unwelcome knowledge that the eyes in his mind would never change color again, and that the formless features he had grappled with were now etched into his soul.

What have I done to deserve his anger? Or is it merely that he is one of those woman haters?

“You know Sir William, my dear?” St. Valéry sounded astonished.

“No, brother dear, but I know of him. Sir William’s exploits are legendary.” She was smiling, and there was a hint of mockery in her disturbing blue-gray eyes as she turned her gaze back to Sir William and saw the hot blood of confusion and humiliation flushing his cheeks and spreading to the very tips of his ears.

In God’s holy name, he is not angry at me at all. The man is afraid of me. But for what? Because I am a woman? Can it be that simple and that sad? He can’t even find words. No, it must be something deeper than mere fear.

For his part, Sir William was cursing himself for blushing like a tongue-tied farm boy, and fighting to find suitable words with which to reply to her mockery, but all he could achieve was a single short sentence that almost choked him as it stumbled, stiff and surly, from his lips.

“You mock me, Lady.”

Jessie felt her eyes widening, but her smile remained in place. “No, sir, upon my word I do not.” I truly do not, I swear. But then she smoothed her face so that both her smile and the hint of raillery were gone and she looked him straight in the eye and spoke in the tongue of their native Scotland.

“I knew your sister Peggy, Sir William, when I was a wee girl, living at home. We spent much time together and were very close, she and I, and she regaled me all the time with stories about you: the things you did, the deeds that you performed.” She switched effortlessly back to French. “Peggy sang your praises constantly. You were her paragon, her shimmering, mail-clad brother, Soldier of the Temple and Defender of the True Cross. And yet she barely knew you, having met you only twice, and very briefly both times. Nonetheless, she could not have thought more highly of you.”

The big man frowned and his lips parted but nothing emerged, and so he tried again, in Scots. “She was but a lassie then, and silly.”

That earned him a swift, tart rejoinder, in French: “Is silliness always the way of lassies, Sir William? Peggy is a woman now, and I would wager her opinion of you has not changed. Would you still deem her silly?”

“I would not know.” He cursed himself for the transparent lie, for he had already admitted his admiration of his sister to the admiral, but he charged ahead, compounding his folly, incapable of doing otherwise and sounding more hostile than ever. “I know nothing of women, Lady.”

“That is plain to see, Sir William.” Jessie’s voice was noticeably cooler.

“Aye, well. I am a simple soldier—”

“Aye, and a humble monk. Quite so. I have heard that before, Master Sinclair. But it seems to me there is little of the simpleton about you, and far less of the humility you claim.” There, now chew upon that, Sir Churlish.

She turned away from the white-mantled knight, dismissing him coolly as she directed her attention back to the admiral, who was staring in consternation at what he had heard. She laid her fingertips on his arm, smiling at him as she indicated the other two men in the room. “I thought Commander de Thierry might be here. Am I to see him?”

St. Valéry cleared his throat, and when he spoke, he was careful not to look at anyone else. “Sir Arnold, I fear, is no longer among us, Sister. He died but a short time ago.” He paused, allowing her to express her grief and concern, but made no attempt to explain how short the time had, in fact, been. Little benefit, he thought, in upsetting the woman needlessly. He forced a smile onto his lips, and continued smoothly. “I am sure he would wish me, however, to apologize for his failure to be here to welcome you.” He paused again, clearly struggling with something, then continued. “May I present you to his successor, Sir Richard de Montrichard, and to my own vice-admiral, Sir Edward de Berenger?”

Both men bowed, and Jessie gave them her most winning smile, unaware that William Sinclair stood stupefied with anger, glaring wildly at her, his skin crawling with embarrassment at the way she had dismissed him, while his mind grappled with an acute and frightening awareness, as he took in every line and movement of her lithe and supple body, that he was looking at Temptation herself, the Devil’s work personified. The woman was simply more beautiful and far more disturbing than any other single person he had met in his thirty-odd years of existence.

Even as he looked and fumed, however, he saw how the woman was demonstrating her mastery over mere men. De Berenger, hard-bitten knight that he was, appeared to be besotted with her smiling radiance and her conversation, hanging on her every word and grinning like a fool who ought not to be loose without a keeper to watch over him. And even the dour deputy preceptor, Richard de Montrichard, was smiling and nodding at her every word, his eyes moving from her to de Berenger as he followed their conversation avidly. Will felt Tam’s eyes on him and turned towards the other man, scowling, but Tam refused to meet his gaze, looking away quickly before Will could read the expression in his eyes.

And still Will wanted to say something, to step forward, albeit too late, and put the woman firmly in her place with a few appropriately chosen words, letting her know that her wiles and guiles, no matter how indirect or how cloaked in sweetness, would be wasted in the present company. But nothing came to him—no barbed comment, no inspired witticisms, nothing at all that he could articulate—and he was reduced to standing impotently, shamed and humiliated yet knowing neither how nor why, staring at the back of her neck and shoulders and at the way her clothing clung to her caressingly and adjusted to her body’s slightest movement.

It was the admiral who rescued him from his agonizing immobility by calling all of them to come and sit by the fire. He held Lady Jessica’s chair for her and then sat on her right, waving to Sir William to take the chair on her other side as the other men took their seats. Sinclair moved forward reluctantly to sit where the admiral had indicated, in the only chair left vacant, and close enough to the woman to be able to smell her presence as the faintest suggestion of something warm and sweet and delightfully aromatic. Having spent his boyhood in Scotland and the remainder of his life in monastic garrisons throughout Christendom and the Holy Lands, Sinclair had never encountered perfume before, and so he had no suspicion that he was smelling anything other than Jessie Randolph’s natural scent. Despite his disapproval of the woman, he found himself perversely enjoying the tumult the subtle aroma caused in his breast.

Jessie Randolph betrayed absolutely no sign that she was aware of his presence, keeping her shoulder turned against him as she spoke softly to her brother-in-law. St. Valéry finally nodded and patted her hand reassuringly before clearing his throat and calling all of them to attention. But they were immediately interrupted by a loud knocking at the door, which opened to reveal an apprehensive guard.

Two women, the fellow explained falteringly, almost cringing in the face of the admiral’s angry frown, had come to the gates some time soon after dark, seeking the Baroness St. Valéry.

Jessie leapt to her feet. Marie and Janette! Thank you, dear Jesus, for this deliverance.

The guard said they had been lodged in the guardhouse, in one of the cells, because Sergeant Tescar had been ordered to permit no one to enter or leave the Commandery. But the two women had grown increasingly insistent that they must be permitted to see the Baroness, and so the Sergeant of the Guard had sent to ask for guidance.

Jessie swung to face St. Valéry, grasping his arm. “These are my women, Charles. My servants, Marie and Janette. We had to part on the road when we were warned that de Nogaret’s soldiers were looking for three women. I sent them on ahead, to await my arrival here and then come to me when we were all safe. I must go to them. Will you pardon me?”

Sir William had noted her obvious elation on hearing this news, and he had been warmed, in spite of himself, by the gladness in her eyes and the flush on her high cheekbones that signaled genuine concern for the women, so he was surprised when St. Valéry shook his head.

“No, my dear, I cannot release you.” He looked about at the other men, and waved his hand in frustration. “I have urgent information that you must hear now…information that even my deputies here know nothing of. Much has happened this day, and much more is about to take place, and we are running out of time, so I cannot afford to tell this sorry tale twice.” He glanced at de Berenger and Montrichard, seeing the incomprehension in their faces. “Your women are safe, Lady Jessica. They are in good hands and will not suffer by remaining where they are for a little longer. We will make them warmer and more comfortable now that we know who they are, but I cannot permit them to enter the Commandery without your presence. This is a monastery. We have no place to put them, and the mere presence of two unattended women might cause some consternation among our brethren. I beg you, send word to them to await your coming.”

Jessie was glaring at him through narrowed eyes, but she pursed her lips and nodded her head. “These tidings must be grave indeed, Brother, to cause you all to seal your gates and miss Vespers. I can scarce wait to hear them.” She turned to the guard. “Have my women eaten anything tonight?”

The fellow shrugged. “I don’t know, my lady. They were there when I came on watch. They may have eaten earlier.”

“Feed them now, then, if you will, and tell them I am pleased to hear of their arrival. Explain that I am held in conference here but will join them as soon as I am able. And give my thanks to the Sergeant of the Guard for heeding them.”

As soon as the guard had left, the Baroness returned to her seat. “Very well, Admiral,” she said with great dignity. “Tell us these mighty tidings of yours.”

The admiral stood up and turned to face them all, his back to the fire. “Mighty tidings they are, my friends. Grave, momentous, and well nigh incredible. Our Master, Jacques de Molay, sent warning and instructions to us today with Sir William here. He has been advised, he tells me, that this day that has now passed might well have been our last day of freedom in France.”

He looked from face to face—his sister-in-law the Baroness, Edward de Berenger, and Richard de Montrichard.

“Master de Molay believes the King wishes to be rid of us, us and our Order. There is no simpler way of putting it. Word came to him at the Commandery in Paris, from a source he trusts implicitly, that King Philip has issued a mandate for every Templar in the realm of France to be arrested at dawn tomorrow, taken into custody, and held prisoner. The plans were laid in place by William de Nogaret, chief lawyer of France, acting upon the King’s personal instructions.”

“But that is ludicrous!” Montrichard was on his feet in a single bound. “Why would the King do such a thing? How could he do it? It would be impossible. This makes no sense.”

“It might, Sir Richard, were you Philip Capet.”

All five men turned to stare at Jessica Randolph, astonished that she would speak out so boldly to contradict a man among a gathering of men, but Jessie remained unruffled, raising her hand, bidding them wait.

“Philip Capet rules by divine right, does he not? Of course he does. All men know that, since he has made no secret of his conviction on that matter. He is King by God’s will. And he has ruled now in France these what, twenty-two years?” She allowed the silence to stretch now, knowing that she had their attention. “Aye, he was crowned that long ago. Two and twenty years. And he is now thirty-nine, so he has spent more than half his lifetime as King of France. But what do we really know of him, after so long a time?”

She left them waiting, then asked again, “What does any man know of Philip Capet? They know his title: Philip the Fourth.” She looked around the group. “They know his unofficial name: Philip the Fair. But what more than that?

“And what does any woman know of him, for that matter? His wife, Queen Jeanne, died these two years ago, after being married to the man for one and twenty years, and all she had to say about him on her deathbed was that she once wished he might have warmed to her.”

Again she allowed the silence to linger, then added, “Once, my lords. She had once wished it. But she no longer cared.”

Sir William stirred, as though preparing to speak, but Jessie waved him to silence almost unconsciously.

“I know you are thinking that I am a mere woman and have no right to speak up here like this, addressing you on men’s affairs. Well, sirs, I know whereof I speak. This King knows no curb to his wishes—never has and never will. He will not be withstood, in anything to which he sets his mind. He rules, in his own eyes, by divine right, and considers himself answerable to God alone. Philip Capet, this monarch without a soul, a King without a conscience, slew my husband merely because he was displeased with him. Philip the Fair…” She looked around at her listeners once again, her eyes moving slowly, knowing no one of them would interrupt her now. “I have set eyes on him but once, but he is fair. Fairer by far to look at than my late husband was. Fair as a statue of the finest marble.”

Now she stood up and moved to the front of the fire, and as she did so St. Valéry stepped away and sat down again. She acknowledged the courtesy with a brief nod, but she was far from finished speaking.

“A statue, my lords. That is the extent of this King’s humanity. A statue rules in France—beautiful to look at, perhaps, but stone cold and lacking any vestige of the compassion we expect in mankind. Aloof in all respects, completely unapproachable and unknowable, devoid of human traits or weaknesses. This man surrounds himself with coldness and with silence. He never smiles, never invites or shares a confidence, never permits a casual approach to his presence. No one knows what he thinks, or what he believes, other than that he sees himself as a divinely ordained King of the Capet dynasty, as God’s own regent on earth, superior to the Pope and the Church and any other human power.

“And of the few human attributes we do know he possesses, none are admirable, none commendable. He is capricious, grasping, cunning, and ambitious. The lives of other people mean nothing to him. And he surrounds himself with creatures who will do his bidding, no matter what that bidding be.

“William de Nogaret reigns over all of those, the King’s favored minion. De Nogaret, who will stop at nothing to carry out the King’s wishes. Four years ago, you may remember, he rode with a band of men from Paris to Rome, eight hundred miles, to abduct a reigning pope, Boniface IV, on the eve of a pronouncement of excommunication for the whole of France. It was the most blatant crime against the papacy ever carried out, and he did it with impunity.

“The Pope, as we all know, died within the month, too old at eighty to survive abduction and outrage. And when his successor, Pope Benedict, dared to condemn de Nogaret publicly, and through de Nogaret the crowned King of France, he too died, of excruciating belly pains, and also within a month. He was poisoned, my lords. We all know that, but no one speaks of it because no one dare speak out and no one can prove anything. In the aftermath, though, thanks to his minion’s work, Philip had eighteen months to arrange the election of a French pope of his own, this Clement.

“And thus de Nogaret proved his daring, his brilliance, and his loyalty to Philip. And his reward was to be appointed the King’s chief lawyer. A man of brilliant mind and abilities—none will deny him that. But a thief, a murderer, a blasphemer, and an abductor of popes…The chief lawyer of France.”

“The Jews.”

The voice, dull and strangely lacking in resonance, was de Berenger’s, and all eyes swung to him.

“The Jews,” he said again, more strongly this time. “Last year, last July. It’s true, what Master de Molay says about tomorrow.”

St. Valéry sucked in his breath. “What about the Jews, man? What are you talking about?”

De Berenger shrugged. “Unannounced plots, my lord. Last year, on the morning of the twenty-first of July and without warning of any kind, every single Jew in France was arrested and imprisoned, then expelled from the country within the month, their holdings and possessions confiscated by the Crown for the good of the realm. I had forgotten it until now, and few people paid any attention at the time, for those arrested were Jews, after all, and our empty Christian coffers needed their Jewish money. But think you, my lord Admiral, that there might have been as many Jews in France that day as there are Templars now?” He looked at Jessica Randolph before his eyes moved on from man to man, engaging each of them in turn as he continued speaking.

“The planning and the execution of that coup against the Jews, with all the secrecy and coordination that was involved, was the sole responsibility of William de Nogaret. The same William de Nogaret, I must now remind you, whose parents are reputed to have burned at the stake in Toulouse as Cathar heretics, under the scrutinizing eyes of the Knights Templar, when we presided there as invigilators for a time, at the behest of the Dominican Inquisitors.”

“Mary, Mother of God!” No one so much as glanced at St. Valéry when he breathed the words.

De Berenger made a face. “It makes perfect sense now, even though it didn’t seem to make much at the time…I believe now that the Jewish arrests last year were a rehearsal for what is to take place tomorrow. There is not the slightest doubt of it in my mind.” He nodded his head slowly and deliberately. “The Grand Master’s warning is genuine, and he does not exaggerate the peril in which we stand. This thing has been long in the planning, but it has been done before. I think tomorrow will be a day of much terror and upheaval for our Order.”

He sat up straighter. “I am not suggesting that we will see slaughter in the streets, nor am I accepting that this will be or even could be the end of us. We are a military and religious order, when all is said and done, not a scattering of disconnected and defenseless Jews, so we will survive this travesty with more success than they were able to achieve. Besides, we have numbers on our side—not overwhelmingly so, but perhaps adequately—and we have our history of service, which is exemplary. Interference and interruption of our affairs may come out of tomorrow’s doings, but I seriously doubt there can be any chance of the total dissolution of our Order. Not even Pope Clement, weak vessel though he be, would countenance such a bare-faced travesty.”

The Baroness spoke again, her voice cold. “Pope Clement will countenance whatever he is told to countenance. He is every bit as much Philip’s creature as is de Nogaret, but he is worse, weaker and even more dangerous, because he fears for his own position. Therefore you must look for no help from him. Before Philip himself elevated him to the papacy, Clement was plain Bernard de Bot, an obscure nonentity who had somehow managed to have himself appointed Archbishop of Bordeaux. Philip found him there and promoted him because de Bot was known even then to be a greedy weakling, much given to vanity and flattery, and easily manipulated. He was greatly over-fond of worldly honors and recognition, and was notorious for his procrastination, so timorous and spineless that he would rather crawl a hundred miles on his belly than make a firm decision. He will offer you neither assistance nor hope, believe me, for he lives in terror of being un-poped by Philip.”

De Berenger shook his head. “Even were we to believe that implicitly, my lady, it would matter little in the long term. And the long term is what we must look to here. It may take months or even years for this matter to go through whatever kind of arbitration may be arranged, and in the meantime it may hit our coffers hard, but our holy Order will survive. It would be insanity to think otherwise. There will be—must be—some kind of resolution eventually, some form of reparation, and when—”

“Reparation? Spare me your arrogant and silly male certainty, sir!” Jessie’s face flushed with sudden, flaring anger, and de Berenger sat back, as open-mouthed as the others, none of whom had ever witnessed such behavior from a woman.

“Have you not listened to a word I’ve said? In God’s holy name, when will you people learn that you are not dealing with men hidebound by the concept of honor like yourselves? You call yourselves men of goodwill, and believe all others must be just like you. Men of honor and goodwill! Pah! This King believes himself ordained by God. He believes himself God’s Anointed, incapable of being wrong or doing wrong. He has no honor, as you think of it, and no goodwill or any need of it. God save us all from the blindness of men of honor!

“The man is desperate, see you! He is consumed and driven by the need for money. It is all he ever thinks of and all he ever strives for. He is mired in debt and his treasury is a bottomless pit. He will tax, take, steal, snatch, and tear funds from the hands of anyone and everyone he suspects of having money or of hiding it. His greed and his needs are insatiable, and he believes that God understands his needs completely and has given him carte blanche to satisfy those needs according to whatever remedies occur to him.”

“You sound as though you know the King passing well, Baroness, for one who has met him but once.” The voice was Montrichard’s, and it emerged as a condescending drawl.

She rounded on him like a lioness, her eyes seeming to spit fire. “I said I saw him once, sir knight. I never met him, so spare me your disdain. My husband was for years the King’s agent at the Court of England, laboring endlessly and thanklessly to generate funds in any way he could to throw into the Capet’s treasury. The result was not sufficient to please Capet, and so he had my husband killed. Rely upon it, sir, I speak not out of ignorance.”

De Montrichard appeared undaunted, but he was flushing, and his voice was less certain as he responded, “Your husband discussed the King’s affairs with you, madam?”

“My husband trusted me, monsieur. Far more so than his exalted monarch trusted him. The King received reports that the Baron had funds of his own and set de Nogaret to hunt them down. He failed, but Philip the Fair killed my husband in the searching.” She turned away as if to walk from the room, but then spun back again, her skirts swirling, her eyes flashing, and her hand chopping at the air in exasperation before coming back up to point straight at de Berenger.

“And he will kill all of you, if he sees need, to lay his greedy hands on your Order’s wealth. Do you truly think there will be reparations made in the future? Reparations for what? The royal confiscation of your wealth by divine right? Do you really think Philip Capet will give back what he takes, or settle for taking less than everything, once the die is cast? If you do, sir, you are a fool, vice-admiral or not. I am merely amazed that he has not taken action against you before now.”

Since the woman first began to speak, Sinclair had been sitting entranced, slack mouthed and unaware that he was staring at her openly. She was a superb woman, wide hipped and broad shouldered, with a narrow waist, long, clean-lined legs, and high, proud breasts that were emphasized by what she wore. He had never seen anything like her and was hypnotized and fascinated by the way she looked and moved, her bosom heaving, eyes scintillating, and her cheeks flushed a hectic red, but far less red than her wide and mobile mouth.

It was only when she called the vice-admiral a fool that he regained his composure, snapping his mouth shut and sitting up straighter in his chair, flushing again at the awareness of what he had been watching and thinking about. But her last words were still ringing in his ears, and he suddenly found himself speaking.

“I am not,” he said.

It was the first time he had spoken since belittling his sister, and he felt all their eyes come upon him at once, but now he was in command of himself. The Baroness had thrust herself into a discussion among men, and had demonstrated her superiority to all of them, but here, among his peers, Sinclair’s voice was supreme. As a woman, Lady Jessica Randolph unsettled him. As a Baroness, however, she had intruded upon his domain and could be summarily dealt with like any other subordinate.

“Not what, Sir William?” St. Valéry asked.

“I am not surprised, Admiral. The Baroness said she is amazed the King has not moved against us until now. It came to me then that I am not at all amazed. It has taken him until now to arrange a suitable reaction.”

There was a long pause before St. Valéry responded. “A suitable reaction to what? Forgive me, Sir William, but your meaning escapes me.”

“Aye, and so it should.” Sinclair sat back in his chair, gripping its arms and pushing his shoulders against the wood at his back, his face twisted into a grimace as he debated whether to explain, but then he realized how ludicrous it was, under the present circumstances, to worry about the confidential nature of what he had to say. “King Philip made application to join our Order, a year and a half ago, after the death of his wife, Queen Jeanne.”

St. Valéry’s eyebrows rose. “He did? I knew nothing of that.”

“Few did, Sir Charles. It was not common knowledge. Being the King he is, he could hardly take the common path, and so he approached the Governing Council directly.”

“And? What happened?”

“We considered his application, in accordance with our laws and customs, and the matter went to secret ballot.”

The admiral nodded. “Common practice, even at the Inner Circle level, I suppose.”

“Aye, but Philip was blackballed.”

St. Valéry and the other knights gasped.

“Blackballed!” the admiral repeated. “Someone voted him the black ball?”

Sinclair shook his head. “No, Admiral. Eleven of us voted that day. There were eight black balls.”

“What does this mean, this talk of black balls?” The Baroness was standing over them, frowning.

St. Valéry looked up at her. “We use two balls in voting on important questions within our Order. One is black, one white. Each man places one of the two, unseen, inside a bag that passes from hand to hand in secret ballot. The white ball means yea, the black, nay. In the overall vote, a single black ball holds the veto, the denial.”

Now it was the Baroness who appeared nonplussed. She blinked at Sinclair. “You are a member of the Inner Circle?”

He dipped his head. “The Governing Council. I am.”

“And you refused the King admission to your ranks? You denied Philip Capet?”

Sinclair nodded again. “Aye, we did. Eight of our Council members that day believed, as had been discussed in our preliminary hearing, that the King was seeking to join us for the wrong reasons: not to serve our brotherhood but to avail himself of the opportunity to assess and gain access to the Order’s wealth.”

Oh, you honest, self-deluding fool. You have no idea of what you did, do you? “You turned away the King of France and yet you did not foresee this day?” She shook her head, keeping her face expressionless. “Well, you were correct, both in your assessment and in your honorable behavior thereafter, but your insult was a fatal one. The Order of the Temple was destroyed that day by eight black balls. It ceased to exist the moment Philip Capet found out you had rejected him. It has merely taken all the time from then until now for the word to reach you.”

Sinclair nodded mutely, accepting the truth of what she had said, and she turned then to St. Valéry.

“So what will you do now, my lord?”

The admiral smiled at her, although his face was tired and drawn. “God bless you, my dear sister. How typical it is that you should have no thought of yourself, with de Nogaret approaching our doors.” He shrugged his shoulders and looked from her to the other men before continuing. “We will do much, have done much already. The fleet has been provisioning for sea these past five hours and more, allegedly preparing for an exercise tomorrow morning. Your funds are safe, tallied and loaded already on my galley. You will sail with me and we will see you and your gold delivered safe to Scotland. Go you now and find your women, if you will. Tam will go with you and see the three of you set safe aboard. You will not find your quarters wide or spacious, for our galleys are built for war, with little thought of comfort, but they will be sound and safe, and warmer than any of de Nogaret’s dungeons. Once aboard, you should try to sleep, although that may prove difficult, with all the comings and goings tonight. We will set sail on the morning tide, and later, if weather, time, and chance permit, we may transfer you to one of the larger cargo vessels, depending upon how fully they are laden. Tam, will you take Lady Jessica to her women?”