“When did you last bathe?”
“Two weeks ago, Uncle.” The boy did not even blink at the question, having long since grown inured to his uncle’s strange regard for, and insistence upon, bodily cleanliness. Bathing was not a requirement of the Rule, so they did not bathe. Regarded as being effete and conducive to carnality, it was officially frowned upon.
“Then I have a task for you. It is high time you went for a swim.”
Young Henry smiled, a little uncertainly. He was one of only half a score of the two score squires in the community who could swim, and he loved nothing better than to do so on the very infrequent occasions when his duties granted him the freedom to enjoy it.
Will lobbed the towel and soap towards him and the boy caught it.
“You will take your friends with you—those who swim—and enjoy the afternoon in freedom. But there is a condition. You will take Preceptor de Montrichard’s squire, Gareth, as well. He needs a bath, and it is your task to assist him in taking one. That thing you are holding is a bar of soap. You know how to use it. You will use it on Gareth, and to good effect. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Uncle. Very clear. But—?”
“I’m not suggesting you throw Gareth from the cliff, you understand? He does not swim and might drown there. But you can drag him in from the beach and scrub him clean there. Now, let’s away.”
Will allowed himself a small chuckle now as he imagined the scene he had set in motion, Gareth forced to overcome what was clearly a lifelong aversion to soap and water. Anticipating the pleasure of the same experience, he paused briefly, studying the water below him, and then dived out and down.
The sea was fairly warm, he knew, at the end of June, but the initial shock of plunging into it was enough to drive every vestige of breath from his lungs, and as he fought his way to the surface he found himself thinking how fortunate he was to have no fear of swimming, or of water. Most people did, he knew. They found it an alien and terrifying reality, a threat of death over which they had no control. Will had learned to swim as a small boy, taught by one of his father’s men, who had been a fisherman all his life and had learned to swim and to love doing so. Will had been an eager pupil, and though he had had little opportunity to swim since the age of eighteen—he could count the separate occasions on his fingers—he had never forgotten the exhilarating freedom of swimming in deep, clear water.
He swam for what he believed to be a quarter of an hour, feeling at once guilty and liberated, diving down to the sea bottom and then returning to the surface time after time. He could see, down there, the kelp and tangle anchored to the rocks, and the limpets and other shellfish that abounded there, but the salt water stung his eyes and blurred his vision, and when the sensation became uncomfortable he remained on the surface, floating on his back and gazing at the promontory above him, occasionally kicking strongly to counteract the tidal drift that pulled him southward along the coast. He became acutely aware of his genitals, of their freedom in his unaccustomed nakedness. And that awareness made him aware of his reason for being there, so that he struck out strongly towards the shore and dog-paddled his way into the tiny estuary of the freshet that bounded down from the hillside above.
The fresh water, splashing heavily and urgently against his body, was far colder than the sea he had just left. He scampered upwards against its pounding, bent over and using hands and feet to scramble over the rocks in the streambed until he reached the cauldron beneath a six-foot waterfall and climbed onto the shelf beside it, where he had earlier thrown the soap and the sheepskin.
It was cold in the gully, the sun blocked out by the steep sides, and he moved quickly now, spreading the lambskin fleece over a good-sized stone and scrubbing at it with the cake of soap until it began to work up a lather. It was hard going, for the soap was primitive and had little capacity to generate bubbles, but he kept at it and soon was able to knead the fleece, feeling the slickness of the soapy wool under his hands and between his chilled fingers. He worked single-mindedly, kneading and pummeling at the cold fleece to dislodge the accumulated dirt and grime, adding fresh soap occasionally, then repeating the entire process until he was satisfied that he had washed out as much as he could. He gathered up the fleece and went back to the foot of the waterfall. He draped the garment over another, larger stone with a flat surface, where the thunderous deluge from above fell straight onto it, the sheer weight and pressure of the water scouring the soap from the wool until no trace of suds or discoloration could be seen draining into the pool below the rock.
He felt cold to his bones now, and he had difficulty hauling himself up the remainder of the steep gully, carrying the waterlogged fleece over one shoulder to the nearest point at which he could climb safely up onto the sunlit surface of the rocky outthrust. The sun felt wonderful against his bare skin, but he knew it would take some time to burn off the chill that afflicted him. He quickly spread the streaming fleece over the tops of the tripod poles and left it to drip while he launched himself into a familiar series of physical exertions designed to loosen his limbs and increase his heartbeat. And when he felt warm again, he collapsed limply on the grass, luxuriating in the sun’s warmth before he fell asleep.
He awoke some time later to find a large, heavy beetle crawling across his torso, its scrabbling claws tickling him awake. He flicked it away and it took to the air, droning heavily as it vanished into the gully by his side. A glance at the tripod told him the fleece had stopped dripping, although it still looked waterlogged. He grunted and rose smoothly to his feet, taking the sheepskin in both hands and shaking it hard, trying to snap the ends of it to expel as much water as possible. That, too, was hard work, but he kept at it, changing his grip from end to end, until he was convinced no more water could be shaken free. He was wet again by then, his skin covered in water droplets, but he was warm this time, too.
He used the white leather binding thongs of the garment itself to tie it securely to the tripod, stretching it and draping one end across the crossbar on two of the three legs. When he was satisfied, he angled its surface directly towards the sun, estimating as he did so that it must be close to midday, and feeling quite sure that by the time the remainder of the day had elapsed—at least eight hours at this time of the year—the sheepskin, if not completely dried, would be at least dry enough to be packed and rolled without damage.
He walked to the edge of the spit of land and turned in a full circle, scanning the cliffs above him and the empty sea ahead of him and seeing no single sign of life anywhere. He might have been the only person alive in the world, and that thought spurred him to urinate, aiming deliberately towards the mainland visible in the distance and watching the arc of his urine rise high into the air before falling into the waves below. But then, suddenly aware of his nakedness, he turned back and scooped up the fresh white garment he had brought with him. It was known as an apron. Every member of the Temple wore one, receiving it as a mark of belonging on the occasion of his being admitted to the fraternity, and none of them wore it easily, for it was intended as a barrier against sexuality—a safeguard against concupiscence—to be worn constantly, day and night. And Will, his face wrinkling involuntarily, conceded to himself that it was effective if only because the majority of the Temple brethren chose to interpret the Rule literally and never thought to remove their apron once it was in place. The stink of the rancid thing was in itself a guarantee of chastity. Thinking this, Will grunted to himself and, the lacing completed, stepped into the restrictive garment, shrugged and pulled it into place, then laced it up tightly, bidding farewell to naked freedom.
He then collected his weapons and unsheathed both sword and dagger. After examining the blades critically, he dug again in his saddlebags for the small package containing his whetstone and the tiny vial of oil he used to protect the blades against rust, and for a while he worked on the weapons with total concentration, using the stone to burnish the metal wherever he thought he saw a blemish or the threat of one,
then honing the edges with great care before applying a thin film of the protective oil to each blade. Throughout it all, he was aware of the tightness and familiar restriction of the fresh, tightly laced apron around his hips,
The real tradition underlying the use of the garment, Will knew, had nothing to do with the Order of the Temple or with the Catholic Church’s strictures on sexuality. The apron sprang from far more ancient roots and was a symbol of membership in the Order of Sion, representing the white apron of lambswool worn by the Egyptian priests of Isis and Osiris in the days of the Israelite captivity. Later, when Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt, their priests took that association with them and wore the white lambskin aprons to denote their spiritual purity as servants of the living God, Jehovah, and the original priestly caste of the Temple in Jerusalem wore the aprons long before the advent of Herod’s Pharisees, who saw no need to wear them. The white apron had then been taken up by the Essenes, who called themselves the Followers of the Way, the movement espoused by the man Jesus and his brother James, who was known as the Just.
Will knew, too, the tale of how the Templars had come to adopt the tradition of the lambswool apron, and now he smiled as he remembered it. Hugh de Payens and one of his closest friends, Payn Montdidier, had been surprised by some of their fellow knights one day when they were bathing. Asked about the strange garments they were wearing, Montdidier had retorted that it was a penalty they had imposed upon themselves during their years of excavating for the Treasure. It was a form of enforced chastity, he said, because it was sewn in place and could never be removed, and such was the reverence in which he was held that his explanation was accepted immediately, and the apron was worn thereafter by every Templar knight upon joining the Order.
Will smiled again at the thought and began giving his sword blade a final, careful wipe. The Templars wore a lambswool apron, but it was vastly different from the shaved and supple aprons worn by the Brothers of Sion. The Temple apron was a much bulkier apparatus, bearing the entire fleece, almost a thumb’s length thick. It was unbearable in hot weather, whereas Will and his fellows in the Brotherhood of Sion suffered no such discomfort.
Satisfied with the edges of his blades, Will replaced them in their sheaths and ate a simple meal of dry, salted fish and fresh bannock, then made his way down to the stream to slake the thirst the food inspired. When he returned to his place he checked the dryness of the washed fleece, then lay down with his back on a wad of his castoff clothing to think in comfort, and perhaps to sleep again, relishing the luxury of being able to do so in broad daylight, and conscious, too, that he might not have much opportunity to sleep anywhere in comfort in the days that lay ahead.
The King of Scots had summoned a Parliament of the Realm to be convened at Ayr, in the heart of Bruce country and just across the Clyde from Arran, in the coming weeks of July, and Will had been invited. He had no idea why, but the word had come to him in the form of a letter telling him that King Robert would be well pleased to have him attend the Parliament. The letter itself came from the Bishop of Moray and had been delivered in person by a Benedictine friar who had made his way from Edinburgh on foot to the west coast and crossed the Firth of Clyde to the island aboard one of the MacDonald galleys. The Parliament, Will knew, would be a glittering assembly, all the finest and strongest in the land in attendance, but he had no slightest pang of regret over being unable to wear his full Templar panoply. Sir William Sinclair would attend the King’s gathering as a simple well-armed and clean-smelling knight, and he would leave Arran to do so in three days’ time.
A large seabird swooped low over the coast, and Will watched it idly as it reared up in a sudden tilt of wings, then dived into the sea right in front of him to emerge moments later with a fish in its beak, the weight of it forcing the bird to fight hard to climb into the air again. He half smiled in admiration of the beauty of the bird’s maneuver, how it had plunged vertically into the water with hardly a splash, and then as he went to lie back again, something caught his eye, a half-recognized anomaly at the edge of his vision, to the south, almost obscured by the reflection of the sun off the water.
He sat up straighter, shading his eyes with one hand and squinting against the glare, and eventually identified the outline of a ship out there, evidently becalmed, miles from where he sat, its shape indistinct against the hills of the mainland at its back. It appeared dilapidated and tawdry, hard worn and ill used, and it seemed to pose no threat. But whom did it belong to, and where was it going? The thought was not alarming, but it was enough to banish his hard-won peace of mind just the same, and Will dressed again, wondering how many more hours he might steal for himself before he was summoned to return and assume his responsibilities once more.
TWO
David de Moray had been recognizable to Will even from the deck of his ship as it approached the small stone jetty at Ardrossan, the only fishing village on that stretch of mainland coast, near Ayr, that possessed such a feature. As Will Sinclair leapt down onto the small wharf, he was still struggling with his surprise to find the Bishop waiting there, evidently having anticipated his arrival. De Moray shouted his name and waved, then stepped forward from the small group of men with whom he had been talking and came striding towards Will, smiling broadly, looking no more like a bishop of Holy Church than he had the last time they had met.
“Sir William!” he cried. “Welcome to the King’s realm. His Grace sends his best wishes and hopes you will be able to join him, even briefly, before our great affairs of state begin to unfold.” He threw wide his arms to embrace Will, who, unsure of what behavior might be proper, had been considering kneeling to kiss the episcopal ring Moray wore as the only visible symbol of his ecclesiastical office. Instead, he succumbed to the bear-like hug the armored clergyman bestowed upon him, then stepped away, searching for words.
“Bishop Moray,” he managed to say. “I am greatly surprised to see you, sir … and greatly honored. How did you know when I would be arriving?”
The Bishop grinned and waved a hand towards the heavens. “Dinna forget my office, Sir William. Holy Church has spies and informants everywhere, and was it no’ one of my own who brought you my invitation? He came back and sent word to me o’ your plans. I was nearby myself, on my way to Ayr, and so I stopped to meet you. Come away, now. I ha’e a horse for you and a roof to shelter you tonight and we ha’e much to talk about.”
Will glanced over to where Tam Sinclair and young Henry were already haranguing the ship’s crew from the wharf, preparing to supervise the unloading of his party, including the ten horses they had brought with them from Arran.
“Permit me, then, to instruct my steward on what we are about. Where will we be staying tonight?”
“Two leagues from here, on the road south. There’s a stone keep there, belonging to my cousin Thomas Moray, and we have the use o’ it. Tell them to follow us there. They canna miss it, it’s in plain sight o’ the road.”
Will nodded and went to speak with Tam. There were ten men in his party: himself, Tam and young Henry, three knights, and four sergeants, although by this time no eye, no matter how well trained, could have detected any distinction in the latter seven’s appearance. The men were traveling light, each carrying his own bedding and provisions since they anticipated no hardship on this excursion, but all were armed and armored in plain harness.
A few minutes later, Will had been introduced to the men in the Bishop’s group and swung himself up into the saddle of the fine bay gelding de Moray had brought for him. He waved a salute to Tam and his squire, then spurred his mount forward with the others, heading inland in a clatter of hooves.
Tam turned to young Henry. “Take note o’ that. Our patron is the only Templar left in Christendom who gets welcomed by a prince of Holy Church. Does that no’ make ye want to laugh?”
The boy looked after the departing group in surprise. “A prince of … That was a bishop?”
Tam barked a laugh. “Aye, that was a bishop. Bu
t ye’d never find his like in France. That was David de Moray, though his real name’s David de Moravia, and he’s Bishop o’ Moray. He’s a wild man, though, and a warrior, wi’ balls as big as a stallion horse. One o’ the Bruce’s staunchest supporters. Now come on, we have to get this ship unloaded.”
He moved towards the gangway, already shouting orders to the men above, but young Henry stood a moment longer, gazing towards where his master and the party of Scots knights had disappeared into the distance. A fighting bishop who wore armor—worn and battered armor—instead of vestments and miter! Henry had never seen the like.
Will Sinclair was thinking approximately the same thing at the same moment as he rode just behind and to the right of David de Moray. De Moray was one of the triumvirate of prelates who had made it possible for Robert Bruce to become King of Scots, supporting him in spite of the writ of excommunication that hung over him after the murder of Sir John Comyn on the altar steps of Dumfries Cathedral in 1306. De Moray’s support since then had always been actively militant, his sword constantly bared in support of King and realm, his loyalty to both unwavering and unimpeachable. But apart from the episcopal ring he wore on his finger and the heavy pectoral cross of plain silver at his breast, de Moray looked nothing like a bishop most of the time. There were occasions, Will knew, most of them ceremonial and ritual, when the bishop would don his chasuble and miter, and he expected that the forthcoming Parliament might be one such, but de Moray’s normal attire was that of a fighting warrior: plain brown woolen shirt and trousers beneath a leather jerkin, and a muchscarred steel breastplate with armored epaulettes complemented, from time to time, with heavy chain-mail leggings over stout boots with armored toes and ankles. Although not particularly tall, the Bishop was strongly built, with the carriage and demeanor of a fighting knight, broad shouldered and narrow in the hip, and he carried a long sword at all times, sheathed at his back, while a heavy battered and dented shield on which his personal colors had been painted and had faded long ago hung from his saddlebow. As though he had become aware of Will’s gaze, de Moray swung around in his saddle, looking back over his shoulder, and beckoned.