Order In Chaos

The answer seemed to mollify the man, but he cast a sideways glance at his superior standing by. “And what is in your cart?”

“Used iron, for the smelters within the walls. Old, rusty iron chains and broken swords to be melted down.”

“Show me.”

“Ewan, show the man.”

Ewan went to the back of the wagon, where he lowered the tail gate and threw back the old sailcloth sheet that covered their load. The corporal looked, shifted some of the cargo around with a series of heavy, metallic clanks, and then walked back to the front of the cart, wiping his rust-stained fingers on his surcoat. Ewan remained on the ground beside him as the guard pointed up at the woman.

“Who is she?”

“My wife, mother to my two sons here.”

“Your wife. How would I know that’s true?”

“Why would I lie? Does she look like a harlot? If you have eyes in your head you’ll see the eyes in hers, and the eyes in my son beside her.”

The guardsman looked as though he might take offense at the surliness of Sinclair’s tone, but then he eyed the massive shoulders of the man on the wagon and the set of his features and merely stepped closer so he could see the woman and the young man behind her. He looked carefully from one to the other, comparing their eyes.

“Hmm. And who is this other one?” He indicated Ewan, still standing close by him.

“My other son. Ask him. He speaks your language.”

“And if I ask your…wife?”

“Ask away. You’ll get nothing but a silly look. She can’t understand a word you say.”

The corporal looked directly at the woman. “Tell me your name.”

The woman turned, wide eyed, to look at Tam, who leaned back on the bench and said in Scots, “He wants to know your name, Wife.”

She bent forward to look down at the corporal and the watching knight, glancing back at Tam uncertainly.

“Tell him your name,” he repeated.

“Mary. Mary Sinclair.” Her voice was high and thin, with the sing-song intonation of the Scots peasantry.

“And where have you come from?” the corporal asked her.

Again the helpless look at Tam, who responded, “This is stupid. The fool wants to know where you’re from. I told him you can’t speak his language, but it hasn’t sunk through his thick skull yet. Just tell him where we’re from.”

Tam didn’t dare look at the watching knight, but he felt sure that the man was listening closely and understanding what they were saying. “Tell him, Mary. Where we’re from.”

She looked back at the corporal and blinked. “Inverness,” she intoned. “Inverness in Scotland.”

The guardsman stared at her for several more moments, then looked wordlessly at the white-and-blue-coated knight, who finally stepped forward and gazed up at the woman and the young man standing beside her. He pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing as he looked from one to the other of them, and then he stepped back and flicked a hand in dismissal.

“Move on,” the corporal said. “On your way.”

NOT MANY MINUTES LATER, having passed through the city gates and out of direct sight from them in the rapidly gathering dusk, Tam stopped the wagon and turned to the woman in the back.

“Where do you go from here, Lady?”

“Not far. If your young man there will help me down, I can walk from here with ease. I have family here who will shelter me. What is your real name? I will send a reward, as token of my thanks, to the Templar commandery here, down by the harbor. You may claim it by presenting yourself there and giving them your name.”

Sinclair shook his head. “Nay, Lady, I’ll take no money from you. The sound of your Scots voice has been reward enough, for I am long away from home. My name is as you heard it, Tam Sinclair, and I have no need of your coin. Go you now in peace, and quickly, for William de Nogaret has spies everywhere. And give thanks to God for having blessed you with those eyes of yours, my lady, for beside young Hamish’s here they saved our lives this day. Ewan, go with her. Carry her bag and make sure she comes to no harm, then make your way to where we are going. We’ll meet you there.”

The woman stepped forward and laid a hand on Tam’s forearm. “God bless you then, Tam Sinclair, and keep you well. You have my gratitude and that of my entire family.”

It was on the tip of Sinclair’s tongue to ask who that family might be, but something warned him not to, and he contented himself with nodding. “God bless you, too, my lady,” he murmured.

She was a fine-looking woman, judging only by what he had seen of her face, and now as she made her way down from the cart with Ewan’s help, Tam watched her body move against the restrictions of what she was wearing and tried to visualize what she might look like without the bundled blanket that enfolded her. He stopped that, however, as soon as he realized what he was doing. Beauty apart, he told himself, the woman had courage and a quick mind and he was glad he had done what he had.

He watched her go with Ewan until they were out of sight, and then he turned his team laboriously from the main thoroughfare into a darkening, deserted side street. He traveled halfway along the narrow thoroughfare before hauling on his reins again as the stooped Dominican monk from Alsace stepped out from a doorway in front of him. Young Hamish jumped down to the ground, where he was joined by three other men who had witnessed the killings in front of the city gates and had since walked at various distances behind the wagon. They gathered at the tail gate and began to rummage among the cargo there, displacing metal objects with much grunting and puffing. Sinclair thrust his whip into the receptacle by his right foot as the monk spoke to him, keeping his voice low so that the others would not hear him.

“Who was that woman, Tam, and what were you thinking of? I saw Ewan helping her into your cart as I left the yard and could hardly believe my eyes. You know better than that.” There was no trace of shrillness in the monk’s voice now. It was deep and resonant.

There came a grunt, a startled curse, and the scuffle of feet as a length of heavy chain slithered and clattered to the cobbles from the back of the wagon. Sinclair glanced that way and then turned back, his eyes sparkling and a small grin on his face.

“What woman are you talking about? Oh, that woman. She was just someone in need of a wee bit o’ assistance. A Scots lass who spoke like me, and a lady, or I miss my guess.”

“A lady, traveling alone?” The question was scornful.

“No, I think not. I doubt she was alone at the first of it. I think those three poor whoresons killed out there were supposed to be her guards. She told me she was fleeing from de Nogaret’s men, and I believed her.”

“From de Nogaret? That’s even worse. You put us all at risk, man.”

“No, sir, I did not.” Tam lowered his shoulders and set his chin. “What would you have had me do, betray her to the popinjay knight and watch her hauled off to jail and who knows what else?”

The other man sighed and straightened up from his hunched stoop, squaring broad shoulders that the stoop had effectively concealed. “No. No, Tam, I suppose not.” He fell silent for a short time, then asked, “What was her crime? I wonder. Not that de Nogaret would need one.” He looked about him. “Where is she now, then?”

“On her way to join her family, somewhere in the city. I sent Ewan with her. She’ll be well enough now.”

“Good. Let us hope she will be safe. But that was dangerous, aiding her like that, no matter what the cause. Our business here gives us no time for chivalry, Tam, and debate it as you will, you took a foolish risk.”

Sinclair shrugged. “Mayhap, but it seemed to me to be the right thing to do at the time. You were already through the gates and safe by the time I took her up, and you are the one charged with our task. The rest of us are but your guard.” Sinclair lowered his voice until it was barely louder than a throaty whisper. “Look, Will, the woman needed help. I saw that you were going to be fine, then I weighed everything else and made a decision. The kind you make all the time. What’s the word you use? A discretionary decision. A battlefield decision. It had to be made, yea or nay, and there was no one else around to tell me what to do.”

The monk grunted. “Well, it’s done now and we’re none the worse for it, by God’s grace. So be it. Let’s get on. Aha! My sword. Thank you, Hamish.”

Hamish and his helpers, working so industriously at the rear of the wagon, had unearthed a cache of carefully wrapped weapons from the bottom of the pile of rusted scrap that filled the bed, and had quickly stripped away the protective wrappings before Hamish himself brought the monk a sword that was clearly his own. The monk instantly grasped the hilt with sure familiarity and he drew the blade smoothly from its belted sheath, holding its shining blade vertically to reflect the last light of the fading day. As he did so, they heard the sound of racing feet, and the last of their number came rushing towards them.

“They’re coming, Sir William,” he gasped, laboring for breath. “The knight remembered you. It took him a while, but sure enough, he straightened up suddenly, right in front of me, and his face was something to behold. ‘Templar!’ he shouts, and roused the guard again. Ranted and raved at them, then sent them after you. Ten men at least he turned out, I saw that much before I left, but there may be more. But he thinks you were alone. He sent them to find you, nobody else, so they’ll not be expecting opposition. They went off in the wrong direction first, along the main road.”

“Aye, towards the monastery, because they are looking for a monk, not for me.” The man addressed as Sir William was shrugging quickly out of his threadbare black habit. He pulled it forward over his head, then gathered it into a ball and flung it into the bed of the wagon. “Quickly now, Watt,” he said, gesturing to the newcomer. “Arm yourself, quick as you like, and let’s be away from here. Tam, we’ll leave the wagon here. No more need for it, now that we’re inside.”

He turned away from all of them then, pulling and tugging in frustration at the tunic he had been wearing beneath the monk’s habit. He had tucked it up around his waist earlier, to safeguard against its being seen through his rent and ragged habit, and now it was gathered thickly in unyielding layers around his waist and loins. He grimaced and cursed under his breath, squirming and wriggling until he eventually teased the bunched-up garment out of its constricting folds and wrinkles and arranged it to hang comfortably about him.

“My hauberk, Tam,” he said then, “but keep the leggings with you. There’s no time now to put the damned things on. I’ll do that later.”