Order in Chaos tt-3 Read online

  TWO

  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 thirtyodd 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.