Most of the room’s length was taken up by a long, narrow table, bare except for three candles in sconces, and the occupants were sitting around it in a variety of poses, all of them looking at the newcomers as they filed in. Douglas sat at the far end, facing the door, and on each side of him Will recognized the Campbell chief—Sir Neil Campbell of Lochawe, he remembered now—and the other Sir Robert Boyd, of Annandale. The young MacGregor chieftain from Glenorchy sat beside Boyd, and across from him sat a stern-looking man Will remembered as being called de Hay. An empty chair sat beside de Hay, and next to it, at about the middle of the table, lounged another, even grimmer-looking fellow whom Will gauged to be in his late twenties, younger than all of them except Douglas and MacGregor. He was thin faced, black bearded and glowering. Will had no recollection of meeting him before. The sixth man at the table was Menteith of Arran, who appeared even smaller than before among so many large companions.

As David Moray stopped by the foot of the table, Will and de Berenger moved to stand beside him, while Boyd of Noddsdale took his own seat. Douglas greeted the two white-mantled knights with a wide smile that showed his strong white teeth.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” he began, and then spoke to de Berenger in French. “You will pardon, I hope, what may seem to be an ill-mannered summons, Admiral, but in talking with Sir William I decided that others here, as noblemen of Scotland, should hear what he has to say, particularly on this matter of the gold you bring for our King’s coffers. Good tidings indeed, on the face of it, but creating a need for a certain . . . circumspection. Sit, if it please you, and, Sir William, I trust you will not mind repeating your tale. All present here enjoy the King’s trust.”

Will started towards the nearest seat, but Bishop Moray restrained him with a light hand on his arm.

“Before we begin, Sir James, I think you should know there is more to Sir William’s visit than you have heard.” Will sensed an immediate heightening of interest among those at the table.

“How so?” Douglas leaned forward slightly as he spoke, and Moray looked at Will.

“Would you like to speak, or shall I try to explain it?”

Will felt a deep calmness unfold inside him, and smiled easily. “As you wish, my lord Bishop. But if you tell it, I will know, at least, how closely you listened.”

Moray nodded, the hint of a smile flickering at one corner of his mouth, then looked at de Berenger, serious again. “You will forgive me, Admiral, if I speak now in Scots, for there are several here who have no knowledge of your tongue. You are already familiar with everything I will talk about, but Sir William will translate anything new you need to hear.”

Moray turned back to face the others. “Sir William tells me there are grave matters unfolding beyond our realm—matters of import that could ill affect us here. Let me be clear, for we have little time to waste here in idle talk. What I have to say next will set you all agog, clackin’ with curiosity, but I must ask you simply to accept what I have to say. It is all true, but here and now is not the place to debate it.” He looked at each of the men seated around the table, and then concisely described the King’s move against the Temple a mere two weeks before. “It is the opinion of both these knights who stand before you—Sir William of the Governing Council and Sir Edward, the admiral of the Temple fleet—that they are the sole members of the French Temple not held in custody by the French King and his people.”

Despite the Bishop’s warning, a buzz of comment broke out around the table, and he fell silent to allow it to subside. When he spoke again, his words brought instant silence. “None of us here could have imagined such a thing, the Temple bein’ what it is, but no man present should suppose, even for an instant, that this does not concern us, that’s it’s none o’ our affair. It is, and it concerns us deeply, and on mair than a few levels, the first o’ those being that these men come here in search o’ sanctuary—temporary, right enough, but nae less real for that. What they don’t know, and couldna know, is that . . .” He hesitated. “King Robert is engaged at this time with the King of France, seeking an alliance against England. This request o’ theirs could set all that at naught.”

Again Moray stopped, to let that sink in, aware that Will was whispering behind him, translating to de Berenger.

“And forbye,” he continued, “King Philip wouldna have dared do what he has done without the approval o’ the Pope, for the Temple, nae matter what ye may think of it in your own mind, is a religious Order. I’m sure I needna remind anybody here that there’s only one Pope—the same one Archbishop Lamberton is trying to persuade to lift the excommunication against King Robert. So there are two stringy mouthfuls o’ gristle for us to chew, and that’s just the start o’ it.”

The black-bearded man at the middle of the table grunted. “Send them home, then,” he drawled. “Back whence they came. We have enough to occupy us now, with what we have in hand, without seeking further troubles.”

“Oh aye? And take the treasure off them first, is that what you mean? Just relieve them o’ the gold they bring in our time o’ need and then wave them farewell?” The Bishop’s voice was cold, filled with dislike of the man to whom he spoke, and the two glared at each other until Sir Robert Boyd of Annandale sat forward, raising a hand.

“A word, if I may.” He scratched slowly at his close-trimmed beard. “Our black-bearded friend is but newly arrived, from Rathlin island, so he knows but little of who you are. He bears an unfortunate English name, too—Edward—and the burden makes him unmannerly at times. But he is chief captain of his clan and brother to the chief himself. Sir William, were you aware of any of these things—the things the Bishop mentioned—before you came here?”

Will shook his head. “This is the first I have heard of any treaty with King Philip. It surprises me in a way, knowing the kind of man Philip is, but I can see how the need for it might arise. As for the writ of excommunication, I was aware of it.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But I admit I had not seen the connection between King Robert’s case and our own.” He hesitated. “Not quite true—I had seen it, but thought the connection to be a common ground, one which might lead your King to grant our wish. It had not occurred to me that there would be plans in place to acquire a dispensation, or that we might cause embarrassment to King Robert because of it.”

Boyd pursed his lips and sniffed. “Sir James was saying you have been long away from Scotland. Tell us, then, what, if anything, do you know about our King, Robert Bruce?”

Again Will was prompted to smile, even knowing as acutely as he did that he was on trial here. He bent his head slightly sideways, the smile widening. “I think it might be easier and less troublesome were you to ask me to reveal the inner secrets of the Temple, Sir Robert.” No one smiled in return, and he continued. “In truth I know little of your King, and most of what I have learned before today came from two single sources, both of them women. My life and my duties, these past decades, have been dedicated to the Temple, bound thereto by oath, by duty, and by loyalty. I was born in Roslin and spent my boyhood there, and when I left Scotland as a lad, there was no strife between this realm and England. I have lived in ignorance of all that has transpired here since then, but I feel no guilt over that, for I renounced the world when I entered the Order, and the Temple owes allegiance to no temporal lord or monarch other than the Pope.

“My sister Margaret wed Sir Edward Randolph, long after I left home, and she was the prime source of my knowledge of the troubles here in Scotland, and of the travails of King Robert when he was yet the young Earl of Carrick. In her letters, she spoke very highly of the man, and of the esteem and love her husband held for him and his cause. And since she was always a level-headed lass, I accepted her judgment. The second woman of whom I spoke is Lady Jessica Randolph, the Baroness St. Valéry. I do not know that lady well at all, but her determination to deliver her dead husband’s wealth into the hands of Robert Bruce, together with her belief in the man’s righteousness and his destiny as King of Scots, was a persuasive argument that fitted well with my sister’s opinion. And so I am here.”

“Hmm. What else do you know of him—the man, if not the king?”

“Little enough. I have never set eyes on him. But from what Sir James has told me in a very brief time, I have formed . . . opinions of my own. He must be a man of extraordinary fortitude and honor to generate such reverence among his friends.”

“Aye, that may be. But what of his enemies? Have you not heard it said that the King’s numbered friends are few, less than it would take to fill up both sides of a table?”

Sir James Douglas broke in, smiling. “Or that his enemies abound like fleas on a moudiewort, leaping over and across each other to infest him?”

Will stood staring from one man to the other, perplexed, aware that all eyes around the table were fixed on him and that he was suddenly unsure of what was happening here. Not knowing what to say next, he gave in to his instincts and shrugged. “I have no doubt that must be what folk say, if, as you say, you have heard it said . . . But I think you need no reminding that folk are great tellers of lies. Being recently arrived, I have heard nothing of the kind myself—nothing, that is, from ‘they’ who hold so many opinions. For myself, I would choose to believe things differently. If your King has, as they say, so few friends, then you would do him honor to add the word remaining, for he strikes me as a man who holds friends close. But even more, above that, he seems to me to be a man—and perhaps even a king—who brings out the best in those who love him. Therefore either his friends die willingly, in support of his cause, or they are easy to identify and find . . . and kill thereafter. He may indeed have but few friends remaining, but I am sure he never forgets those friends whom he has lost. That must grieve the man day and night, from what I have heard of him, and in enduring it, tholing it all and moving on, he must be like a blade tempered in fire and blood, and withal a king worthy of the name.” Again he was aware of the silence as he concluded. “That is my opinion of your King, gentlemen, no matter if he or you send me on my way or not. It is a judgment newly formed, but it is in my heart, and should I ever come face to face with him, I will believe myself honored to do so.”

Looking back on it, Will would see that it had been an astonishing statement, one that he had not known he was going to make until the words were spilling from his mouth, evoked by a deep and formless, unsuspected anger that had left him trembling with tension by the time he finished. He could sense, without looking, that even de Berenger, who could barely have understood a word of what he said, was staring at him in surprise. It must have been something in his tone, he thought.

He sucked in a deep breath and held it, looking straight ahead and waiting for a reaction from the motionless group around the table, three of whom had not spoken a word since he and his companions entered the room, but when one came he could scarcely believe what he was seeing. It was a tiny glimmer of light, trembling almost unseen at the edge of his vision, and when he sought the source of it, it sprang sharply into focus: a single teardrop, reflecting the glow of one of the candles on the table, had welled up in the eye of the stern-faced knight called de Hay. The man sat rigid but unapologetic, making no attempt to wipe the drop away before it spilled over and ran down his cheek into his beard. Only then did he blink and glance at Will, both eyes awash, before looking over at Sir Robert Boyd of Noddsdale, then turning his head further, to look at the other Boyd, of Annandale, who was already watching him.

The expression on Annandale’s face was hard to define, but there was no hint of pity or derision in it as he gazed at the mail-clad veteran, tears now running openly down both cheeks. He held de Hay’s eyes a moment longer, then looked down the table to where the Temple knights stood waiting.

“Well, Sir William, your sentiments have won the approval of Sir Gilbert.” The noise his chair made as he pushed it back and stood up was loud in the quiet room, and from somewhere down below a loud crash echoed it as someone dropped what sounded like a heavy table. “So be it—no more subterfuge. I am Robert Bruce, King of Scots, and I regret the mummery. Suffice to say, alas, it was not uncalled for. My presence here is not for common knowledge and few, even downstairs, know who I am.”

Will Sinclair stood stunned, his senses swimming at the unexpected revelation, but the King seemed unaware of it and was still speaking.

“Jamie told me I could trust you. He has a keen nose for such things. But I had to judge for myself. It may be the single greatest curse of this life I live nowadays, but I always have to judge for myself.” He stood even straighter, drawing himself erect and seeming to collect his thoughts. “But that is neither here nor there. The die is cast and we have work to do—atop the work we gathered here to do.” He turned to de Berenger, then waved a hand in invitation and spoke in serviceable Norman French. “My lord Admiral, you are welcome here. Take off your mantle, if you will, and sit with us. We have much to discuss, though I fear the brunt of it will be done in Scots. Sir William will serve as translator to both of us when the need arises.”

As the two knights began to divest themselves of their heavy capes, he spoke to Will. “Your ships, Sir William—where are they now and in what strength?”

Will stopped, his mantle halfway off. “They are Sir Edward’s ships, Majesty—the galleys at least—not mine.”

The Bruce looked him straight in the eye, one eyebrow slightly raised. “Yours or his, it matters not. They are the Temple’s ships, and they are in my waters. And save the Majesty for England’s King, should ever you be misfortunate enough to meet him. Here in Scotland we speak of the King’s grace, not majesty.”

“Of course. Forgive me, my lord King, I had forgotten.”

Bruce nodded. “Off with that coat, then, and sit ye down.” He groped for the back of his own chair, waving Douglas back into his seat at the table’s head as the young man made to stand up, and as the two knights and Bishop Moray settled themselves at the table, he pointed with his thumb towards the black-bearded scowler at the center of the table. “This is my brother, Edward Bruce, Earl of Carrick. The others I believe you know, but just in case, here is Sir Neil Campbell of Lochawe, chief of Clan Campbell, and here Colin, son of Malcolm MacGregor of Glenorchy. The man you made weep is Sir Gilbert de Hay, my standard-bearer, and Sir Robert Boyd of Noddsdale has been with me since Dumfries, lending me his support, as well as his name in time of need. And now, about your ships . . .”

Will cleared his throat and rephrased the comment in French for the admiral’s benefit before continuing in Scots. “We have a mixed fleet, Your Grace, made up of the ships that were in La Rochelle on the day of the . . . the strike, plus three that joined us from Marseille. In all, we have a score of vessels, ten of them galleys, the others cargo ships.”

Across from the King, Sir Neil Campbell whistled softly, and Bruce leaned back in his chair. “Those would be Temple galleys, I’m thinking—naval ships. How big?”

“They are all different, Your Grace. The three largest, the admiral’s included, are of twenty oars a side—two-man sweeps, arranged in the ancient fashion of double banks.”

“Biremes.”

“Aye, my lord, biremes—all save one, built in Araby and captured by the man who captains it today. It has eighteen sweeps to a side, in two single ranks. All told, we have four ships of thirty-two oars, three of forty, and three of thirty-six.”

“Impressive. How many men in all?”

“In total, perhaps five hundred men. We have not made a formal tally.”

Bruce looked impressed. “A strong force,” he said quietly.

“Aye, Sire, but a naval force.”

“What mean you by that?”

“Nothing, save that they are mariners, not men-at-arms. But we have more. We brought the entire garrison from La Rochelle, snatched from beneath the nose of de Nogaret.”

“You mean the French King’s henchman?”

“Aye, a good word.”

“You dislike the man, I jalouse.”

“Sire, the measure of my dislike of him could scarce be comprehended.”

“How man men there, then?”

“One hundred and fifty-four, of whom thirty and six are serving lay brothers. Of knights and sergeants, therefore, one hundred and eighteen.”

The monarch’s eyes, silver-gray and piercing, narrowed perceptibly. “And you were hoping to gain my permission to lodge these many men within my realm?”

“More than that, Your Grace. I also have a complement of Temple knights and sergeants, under the command of my own brother, Sir Kenneth Sinclair. Twenty full knights and four score regular sergeants.”

Sir Edward Bruce stirred in his chair, but everyone else sat motionless while the King pursed his lips and nodded slowly. “And the cargo vessels?”

“Ten of them, all trading vessels. Seven of them carry my brother’s men and horses, with all of their gear and supplies. Two more carry the garrison from La Rochelle and their equipment. The last of them contains general supplies.”

“Horses, you say? You bring horses in your train?”

“We do. We scarce could leave them all behind to benefit King Philip and de Nogaret.”

“And so you brought them here with you. In ships. Where do you hope to keep them?”

Will shrugged his shoulders, dipping his head at the same time. “I confess, my lord, I had not thought of that. I simply knew I had no wish to leave them stranded in France, and I presumed you might advise me on where to keep them. Some of them, the knights’ mounts, are destriers, bred to the fight. The rest are common stock, sturdy and versatile.”

The King leaned an elbow on his wrist, plucking at his lower lip. “We are going to have to talk, you and I, Sir William, about loyalties and quid pro quo. In the meantime, though, there is a problem that must be resolved without delay. Jamie tells me you left your ships off Sanda, close to Kintyre’s Mull. That is MacDonald country, and should they espy your ships, they would come running, which would serve no useful purpose to me. I will need you to fetch your fleet, as quick as you may, and bring them to Arran. They may shelter in the wide bay to the south of us, the bay of Lamlash. Will you do that?”

“Aye, at once. But might they not be more easily seen coming here than they would remaining there?”

“They might, but if they sail at night they should be fine. Off Kintyre, they might be open to attack by MacDonald, but here in Arran they will be safe. Who will you send?”

“Sir Edward, of course.” Will turned to the admiral and repeated the entire conversation between himself and the King, and de Berenger immediately stood and reached for his mantle.

“I’ll go at once,” he said, “under oars. It is a four-hour journey—”

“Wait!” said Bruce, holding up his hand. “No need for such haste. Not now. Your crew has been invited ashore, Sir Edward. Let them eat first, rest for an hour, then put them to work. What difference between leaving at nightfall and leaving at midnight? The journey will still be in darkness, and it will pass more quickly on a full stomach than on a cramped and empty one. Bide ye, then, until midnight. In the meantime, we’ll go down and eat. But bear in mind my name is simple Rob this night, plain Robert Boyd of Annandale. When we ha’e supped, then we, too, will return to work.”

“It must seem strange to you, I’ll grant you, coming from France where all is civilized. But the truth is simple. Every man in Scotland knows the Bruce by name and by repute. But when they think of him they see the former Earl of Carrick in their minds, and the Earl was much the . . . what’s the word? the prodigal, in his youth. Aye, that’s it. He was known for it, his prodigality—the newest, brightest fashions in clothes and armor, the finest horses, the loveliest ladies, and of course, the smiling, sparkling wit. He spent money lavishly. Although his father, the Lord of Annandale, never gave him much to spend, he was Edward Plantagenet’s favorite when the Earl was yet a youngster. Most thought him a wastrel and a waste of time, seeing nothing in him beyond his youth, his wantonness and seeming irresponsibility. Mind you, that was before my time, for I was but a child when the Earl of Carrick was at his brilliant best, or worst . . . But that was the portrait he presented, before King Edward taught him to hate the leash.”

“Hate the leash?”

“Aye, the ties that bound him to the Plantagenet’s will. When Edward’s plans to annex Scotland to his realm failed to work out to his satisfaction, he sought to make the Earl of Carrick his whipping boy.”

“How so?”

“By requiring him to perform acts and deeds that seemed to mark him as Edward’s lackey—and therefore England’s. He made life barely tolerable for the Earl.”

“What manner of acts and deeds? Though you were a boy at the time, you must have heard examples of such things.”

“Heard of such things? I witnessed one of them: the Earl of Carrick’s first rebellion. My father, as I told you, was a rebel, one of the more contentious souls with whom Edward had to contend. He was involved in an uprising and outlawed by Edward, ten years ago. I was twelve at the time. Edward sent English troops to burn our castle and take my mother and me captive, but my mother barred the gates against them and refused to surrender. The Earl of Carrick was there, as part of the English force, but purely for the sake of appearances. He held the highest rank there but had no authority and was accorded no respect—a mere figurehead, a Scottish lordling dispatched to give the English raiding force a semblance of legitimacy. The English commander, whose name has long escaped me, brought up some children, one of them a friend of mine, and threatened to hang them then and there, in front of my mother’s eyes, believing her to be too weak to withstand such horror.”

Will had to prompt him. “And was she?”

Douglas chuckled. “We never did find out. The Earl of Carrick defied the English commander and drove him and his men away. Then he released the three children and begged my mother’s pardon. And thereafter he led us to my father in the north and joined in the rebellion, declaring himself a Scot and vowing to stand or fall with his own people. That was the first solid step along the course that led the Bruce to Scone and the Scots Crown.” He smiled. “It also marked the first step of my pursuit of knighthood, for the man that I saw that day became my ideal of honor and of chivalry. I wanted to be like Robert Bruce, the Earl of Carrick.”

He paused, and then held up his hands. “Which brings me around, full-circle. That is the man—the armored knight, the fighting King—whose portrait people still envision when they think of Robert Bruce. The man you see sitting over there among them now, unrecognized, is the man he has become—a Highland cateran, hardened to living like an Erse clansman on the open heath in all kinds of weather, sleeping in caves wrapped in a wet and dirty plaid and often afraid to make a fire lest the smoke betray him, snaring hares or guddling fish to eat, begging bread from cottagers and paying for it when he can. and sleeping with a dirk in his hand each night. No armor, no spurs, no sword, no knightly robes. And there’s another thing that comes between him and being recognized . . . the beard. King Robert Bruce goes everywhere clean shaven. Everyone knows that. But for the past year, he has not had the time or opportunity to shave. Thus, when he decided to come back down here to Arran, he trimmed his beard but kept it. The King of Scots now lives among his Scots as no other ever has, and when he speaks with them, they do not know him.”

“Hmm.” Will Sinclair shook his head. “Strange how events occur . . . Edward of England had no plans to annex Scotland when I was a lad. What happened?”

“Who knows? Things changed. Some people think it was the success of his campaign in Wales that did it. He defeated Llewellyn, subjugated the Welsh, and even made his son Prince of Wales to mark his conquest. Ten years it took him to defeat the Welsh, but he increased his kingdom hugely. Thereafter, some men think, he turned his mind to Scotland, seeking to unite the entire island of Britain under his Crown . . . but he underestimated the temper of the Scots.”

De Berenger spoke for the first time since the discussion had begun. “But all the Scots nobles are Norman French, are they not? They all owed him fealty and, from what Sir William has told me, they tendered it. Was that not enough? What need had he of conquering them?”

“No, not so, Admiral. Not all Scots nobles are Norman French. The great earldoms of Scotland descend from the Celtic kingdoms, the Erse-speaking clans who lived here ere the Normans came. And besides, how long must a family live in a land before they can belong to it? The Bruce family has been here since the days of William the Conqueror. Sir William’s own family were once St. Clair, but they have been Sinclairs for many a year now. I would suggest that when your greatgrandsires and dames were born and bred in Scotland, then you yourself might think yourself a Scot.”

There was disturbance in the body of the hall, and Will looked over to see tables being drawn aside. Then two men stepped out from the ruck, eyeing each other inimically and stripping off their clothing, preparing to fight. Bets were being laid and sides taken, and amid all the pushing and shoving, Robert Bruce was grinning, his teeth gleaming through the short beard that masked his face.

“Look at the King,” de Berenger murmured. “He is loving every moment of this.”

“Aye, of course he is. His tastes have changed this past year.”

“You told me the King was campaigning in the northeast.”

“And I did not lie. His presence here will be brief, but necessary.”

“Why is he here?” Will asked.

“To discuss strategy.” Douglas grinned. “On what, you will have to wait to find out. But I have the feeling that you are going to become involved in it . . . to some extent. I heard King Robert mention quid pro quo, but it is not for me to guess at what he meant by it. You will just have to wait until he raises the matter.”

De Berenger stood up. “Talking of raising matters, I ought to go and check that my men are behaving themselves. I gave word that there was to be no drink served to them beyond one cup of wine with their meal. Now I should see to it that all is well and make sure they are ready to go back aboard, if we are to sail with the night tide. Pardon me.”

Will held up a hand. “Before you go, Edward—something else has just occurred to me. When you bring back the fleet, you will take them into Lamlash Bay.” De Berenger nodded. “I will still be here, there is no road between here and Lamlash. So when you reach Lamlash, I want you to leave the fleet at anchor there, with strict instructions that no one is to go ashore without my personal order. You will then come directly here to pick me up. I will be waiting for you. Is that clear?”

“Completely, Sir William. It shall be as you say. Pardon me again, gentlemen.” He bowed from the waist to Douglas, including Will in the salute with a wave of one hand.

“He is a good man, but how can he expect to do that?” Douglas asked as the admiral marched away towards his men. “I wouldna dare leave my men within smellin’ distance o’ a drink if I had work for them to do. What kind of power does he hold over them?”

“The power of God, my friend. Don’t forget that they are monks of the Temple, every one. They fight like demons, but they live like anchorites and pray like priests.”

He followed de Berenger with his eyes as he spoke, watching him head directly to the table where the four knights who were his ship’s officers sat with the six senior sergeants who actually ran the galley’s crew. The differences between knights and sergeants were clear, even could one disregard the white surcoats of the knights and the black of the others. The knights, to a man, wore the forked beards that marked them as Temple knights, an affectation that sometimes amused Will but more frequently annoyed him as typifying, it seemed to him, the elitist arrogance within their ranks that so offended outsiders. The sergeants were more sober in their demeanor, although their uniform close-clipped beards were equally a mark of belonging to the Temple.

The wrestling match was still going on in the middle of the room. One man had already been thrown off his feet, and a shifting circle of onlookers milled about them, variously shouting oaths and encouragement. The Bruce had vanished, no sign of him to be seen, although he might simply have been hidden by the press of bodies.

Looking at the array of clothing in the room, Will supposed that he might have seen a more riotous confusion of colors in France at some time, but he doubted it. Most of the men present were Highland Gaels, wrapped in plaids, their hair and beards unshorn, many of them even plaited into strips, and they were tricked out with barbaric jewelry and decorations ranging from eagle feathers to brightly woven sashes of startling hues.

Will did not know what it was that captured his attention, but once aware of the man, he observed the fellow keenly. The man was too busy watching others to think of being noted himself. He was unremarkable, apart from being one of the few among the common throng who was not dressed as a Gael. Will could not see what he had on below the waist, but the man wore a plain thick tunic beneath a worn leather vest, and his head was bare, showing a balding scalp and stringy, nape-length brown hair. He had a beard and mustache, but both appeared sparse, as though his facial growth was light enough to deny or defy masculinity. But he was very interested in de Berenger and what the admiral was saying to his men . . . so interested that he was bending sideways from his chair to hear, while ludicrously attempting not to seem so.

Will nudged Douglas to distract his attention from the brawl. “Don’t be obvious about it, but take a look over there, where de Berenger is talking to his men. See you the fellow craning to overhear them? Bare headed, balding, in the leather jerkin. Do you know him?”

Douglas’s eyes slitted in concentration. “No, I don’t, but he is one of ours. From the mainland, I mean—a Lowlander, by his clothes. He must have come with Rob Boyd or one of the others. What about him?”

“I don’t know, except something about him set my teeth on edge . . . the way he’s bent on hearing everything that’s being said over there. De Berenger is probably telling his men what he expects of them when they pull out later tonight, and it’s plain he has seen no reason to be secretive . . . but that made me think of what our friend from Annandale was saying, about how spies, traitors, and informers are everywhere in this land. If someone were to slip away from here with information on what is happening on Arran, he might earn a fine supply of English silver.”

“Aye. Like Judas. I will ask about this fellow. And in the meantime, I will watch him like a hawk. They’re speaking French, are they not?”

“What else? They’re all Frenchmen.”

“Aye . . . so how then does a ragged Borders moss-trooper gain the skills to understand what they are saying? Dougald!”

A huge man stood up from the table in front of the dais and lowered his head to what Douglas had to say. After a whispered monologue, he turned casually, glanced at the man Douglas had described, and nodded before sauntering away.

Douglas turned back to Will. “You have a good eye, Sir William. By this time tomorrow morning we will know everything there is to know about our long-eared friend. Dougald’s lads will count the number of his breaths between now and then.” His eyes focused beyond Will’s shoulder. “I think we are about to be summoned.”

King Robert was waiting for him in the chamber they had met in earlier, sitting alone by the table, close to the replenished fire in the iron grate and staring into the flames as he scratched the head of a big, gray-haired wolfhound. He pushed the dog’s head away with a muttered command as Will entered, and it lay down at his feet. When the King stood and turned to face him, Will was immediately struck by the air of exhaustion that emanated from the man, but then the monarch drew himself erect, casting weariness aside like a discarded cloak, so that even the etched lines in his face seemed to recede and fill out.

The King addressed the other man. “See to it that we are undisturbed. No one to come up here except David Moray, and him not for at least the next half hour.” He waited until the doors had closed before he next addressed Will. “De Moray’s a doughty fighter, but his head is even longer and sharper than his sword, so we’ll be glad of his advice.”

The King hauled his heavy chair to one side of the fire. “Throw your coat on the table and sit with me, Sir William. Pull a chair up to the fire. It gets cold these nights, with the wind off the water, and I find myself being grateful to the English for their need to build sound flues to hold big fires. Were it left to my Scots, we would be squatting now in the open air, wishing for firewood. There is some wine on the sideboard. Help yourself and sit down, sit down. Is the admiral away?”

“Preparing to leave, Sire. I left him chivvying his men. He will be at sea within the hour, or close to it.” Will eschewed the offer of wine and did as bidden, tossing his folded mantle onto the tabletop and dragging a heavy chair close to the fire.

“Good, that pleases me,” the King said. “I like that man. Now, before anything else, tell me about this treasure that you bring to me. Jamie was agog with it, but wouldn’t tell me of amounts, probably for fear of listening ears. He’s aey canny that way. You say it has been sent by Lady Jessica Randolph?”

“Aye, Sire, the Baroness St. Valéry. But it was not sent. It was brought.”

“What? She is in Scotland?”

“She is, aboard one of our galleys. We did not expect to find you on Arran, you understand. I merely came in search of a safe anchorage and, I hoped, a tolerant reception. Once we knew what we were doing, I would have headed to the mainland in search of you, and the Baroness would have come with me, making her way homeward from wherever we landed.”

“Then it was fortunate that I was here, for you would have found scant welcome in Scotland. Every castle left standing, save Inverness, and every single harbor is in English hands, though by the will of God, this money you have brought may make it possible to change such things. How much is there?”

“Eleven heavy chests of specie, Sire, six of gold and five of silver, each in bars and coin.”

“Glory be!”

“It should meet your needs, for a while at least.”

“And it could not have come at a better time. I have broadswords to buy, forbye fighting men to wield them. But we will talk more of this later. In the meantime, we have other matters to discuss.” He broke off and stared into the fire for some moments before continuing. “Davie Moray was right when he said that your presence here brings me problems, but I have been neck deep in problems since the day I took the Crown, and they are seldom insoluble—albeit time is the one thing I never have enough of.

“If I remember rightly, you have somewhere in the range of a thousand men with you—galley crews, mariners, the garrison from La Rochelle, and your brother’s men. A round thousand, give or take, am I correct?” Will nodded, and the Bruce did, too. “Aye. Tell me, then, if I were to suspend all my concerns and give you leave to stay and shelter here in Arran, what would you do next?” Perhaps to give Will time to think, he bent forward to throw a fresh log on the fire, then pressed it into place with one foot before sitting back in his chair. “I ask that for a reason, for the first thing I learned commanding men in war was that as easy it as it may be to raise an army, the task of feeding them for any length of time will break your heart and wear you out. Have you thought of that? For let me tell you, you could hide your men from all the world on Arran, but there is precious little here to eat. There are trees and stones to build huts and shelters, and sedge for thatching them, and peat to burn in their hearths, but there is little land suitable for farming, and less in the way of creature comforts. How would you feed your people, were you free to bide here?”

Will had been thinking of little else since leaving La Rochelle, and he nodded in acknowledgment of the other man’s point. “I’ve thought much on that, Your Grace, and I believe I have the means to deal with it, using my ships.” He saw Bruce’s eyebrows twitch, and he half smiled. “Not the galleys. I am not intending to go raiding. I mean the trading ships. We have ten of them, and I would send them off to ply their trade, purchasing foodstuff and basic living supplies—tools, not weapons. We have enough weapons for our needs. But once we have unloaded our horses and few kine, we will be able to buy more and ship them here . . . cows, sheep, swine, goats, and the like.”

“Where would you buy them, and with what?”

“Wherever they are to be found. In Ireland at first, I think, but then in England and even in France. My trading ships are able to come and go wherever cargo may be available. They bear no insignia, nothing to mark them as belonging to the Temple, but they are crewed by Templar mariners for all that. And to pay for them, we would use gold. It is a potent aid to commerce, I have found.”

“Aye, and it’s scarce. Whence would it come, this gold?”

Will grinned, sensing the monarch’s fear for his own funds. “From the Temple, the funds I have in trust in my own holds. When we left La Rochelle we took all that it held belonging to our Order, and, as you doubtless know, every Commandery has its own vaults, wherein is kept the specie required by our trading system, which, if I may digress, reminds me of my duties here. Can you tell me who is now the Master of the Temple in Scotland?”

The King of Scots hitched himself around in his seat to look directly at Will, scanning the Templar’s face with steady eyes. “The Master of the Temple here died soon after I was crowned. He was old, and he was not replaced. You’ll find a Commandery in Edinburgh, if you go looking for it, but it lies empty.” He gazed down at his hands, aware that what he was saying would not be welcome news to his listener. “There is no Temple now in Scotland. It could not maintain neutrality in a civil war.” He looked at Will directly, almost defiantly. “There are Temple knights here, certainly, but they are Scots first nowadays, of the old houses, and they stand with me as Scots. The others are all in England, recalled by the Temple there.”

He saw Will’s frown and grimaced in return. “Politics, Sir William . . . The need to politick is ever stronger than the need to pray, it seems, and men of God can always find a way to shape God’s needs to reflect theirs. The Temple knights in Scotland were mainly French and Normans, their primary duties owed to the London Temple and to the Order in France. They saw less trouble in placating Edward Plantagenet than in defying or offending him . . . Longshanks was ever easy to offend. And thus the Temple quit Scotland. Does that cause difficulties for you?”

Will released pent-up breath in a loud hiss. “No, Your Grace,” he said. “It is a disappointment, but no more than that, and your explanation makes sense. You have the right of it on the matter of prayers and politics. It’s just that . . .”

“Just that what?”

“Loyalties, Sire, and the way they shift . . . It leaves me wondering if there is any sense, any logic or reason, to life itself once we step out of our own small concerns. Here am I at this moment, for example, calling you Sire and coming within a breath thereby of breaking my own oath as a Temple knight, for I swore to pay obedience and fealty to no one but our Order’s Master.”

“And the Pope . . . not so? Do not forget the Pope.”

Will’s mind returned unbidden to the conversation he had had mere weeks earlier with the former admiral St. Valéry, about the duality of their role as members of both Orders, the Temple and the Brotherhood of Sion, and how, at bottom, they lived a lie in even appearing to be loyal to the papacy. “Aye,” he agreed reluctantly, “and to the Pope . . . although but to a lesser degree. Our own Master comes first in our loyalties.”

“And your Master is now in prison, betrayed by that same Pope—by the man in Saint Peter’s chair, if not by the office itself.” The King fell silent for a moment, then resumed. “Well, we can ease your mind on part of that, at least the Sire thing. Call me Robert when we are alone. I’ll call you Will, for I heard your kinsman Sinclair call you by that name. When others are around, add you the ‘Sir,’ for I am plain Sir Robert Boyd of Annandale here on Arran. Tell me now, though, and speak plain as your conscience will allow: what do you plan to do with your galleys while you are here as guest of the King of Scots?”

Will grinned. “Quid pro quo?”

Bruce spread his hands. “What would you? It will come up soon or late, but soon would be my guess.”

“No doubt, and you are right. Here is what has been in my mind since we set out from France. From what I have gleaned from Douglas, listening as much to what was left unsaid, you have been seeking aid from the clans of the West, the Highlands, and the Isles, so far with some success, but not as much as you would wish. I gather, too, that many of the chiefs with whom you have been dealing think of themselves as kings of their own little realms. Am I correct?”

“Aye, you are.” Bruce sniffed and crossed his legs, turning away from the fire that was now blazing fiercely. “Angus Og MacDonald is the most active local chief here in the southwest. His territory is mainly Kintyre but stretches north, and he has a base in Islay nowadays. He likes to call himself Lord of the Isles, and he is working hard—and to this point successfully—to become the acknowledged head of a federation of neighboring clans, the MacNeills, MacCruaries, and McNaughtons prominent among them.” He grinned. “He has been known to call himself King of the Isles, too, and although the rank far outstrips his true status, that is, in effect, how he sees himself at this time. He calls me King Bruce, an equal with no claim upon his loyalty other than that which he chooses to grant, or that which I buy in the form of mercenaries . . . galloglasses, they call them in these parts.”

“You count this man among your enemies?”

“No, I do not. But neither do I number him among my friends, although he has helped me much in the past. It was thanks to him last year, and to Campbell of Lochawe, that I was able to withdraw into the Isles when I was hunted like an animal. And he covered my seaward flank when I marched northwest recently, into Argyll, to argue cases with Lame John MacDougall of Lorn—an expedition that worked out little to the MacDonald’s liking, since it ended in a truce instead of the bloodbath he was seeking. He is . . . different, Angus Og, from all the others. Ambitious, but he stands by his word, as befits a self-styled king, and he has been—and continues to be—of great use to me, knowing that I may be of equal or even greater use to him.”

“He holds the power in the Isles, then?”

“No, but he wants to. The power is held at this time by Alexander MacDougall of Argyll, with whom we have the truce of which I spoke. The MacDougall is old now, and he holds no love for me or mine. His son, though, Lame John MacDougall of Lorn, wields the power nowadays in truth, albeit not in name. They are kinsmen by marriage to the Comyns. John Comyn the Red, the man I killed in Dumfries, was good-brother to Lame John. Angus Og hates the pair of them beyond reason, and since he knows I am still determined to destroy them, he is prepared to help me.”

“Why do you wish to destroy them, may I ask?”

Bruce rubbed his palms together hard, grinding them one against the other. “For the same reason I destroyed the MacDowals of Galloway. Because they have left me no choice. Their enmity I could overcome without rancor—that is a king’s task. But Lame John’s treachery has cost the lives of hundreds of good men, including several loyal friends whom I held close as brothers. He is an evil man, a creature beyond redemption. The Galloway MacDowals were similar, if less evil. Their treachery cost me two brothers, Thomas and Alexander, taken in war and sent to England to a felon’s death, merely for being my brothers. MacDougall worked on the betrayal with the MacDowals, knew what their end would be before they were sent off. It was done with intent. That I cannot, will not, forgive. A blood debt, you may call it. I care not what men may think or say of me afterwards, but the MacDougalls’ days of power in Scotland are at an end. We have a truce with them today, with no term set upon it—convenient to us both. But when it ends, Lame John of Lorn will have to pay his debts, and those he owes to me and to this realm will see the end of him.”

“Why did you even offer truce? Douglas says you had a strong force with you, and MacDonald threatening MacDougall from the sea. Why not press home then, with your advantage?”

“I did. I pressed it home to the point of gaining a truce I needed badly. Lorn had more than a thousand broadswords at his back, with another thousand waiting to be called. I had six hundred men. So instead of fighting, I took my army up the Great Glen to Inverness, gathering men to me all the way. I took the castle there, then headed northwest again, into Comyn territory, harried the place and wrung another welcome truce, this one for nine months, from Ross, the Earl, who ranks among my greatest enemies. He, too, has much to answer for, and come June, he will rue the day he chose to abduct and sell the Queen of Scots . . .” He fell silent then, his gaze unfocused, but quickly shook the thoughts off the way a dog might rid itself of water.

“Forbye, the Argyll fight would have been a set battle and I’ll have none o’ those. Scotland will not be won by set battles, not after a decade of being culled and stripped of its best men by England and by internal wars. Wallace proved that beyond dispute. Even at Stirling Brig, where he destroyed the English host, he fought by his own rules, like a brigand, according to the nobles talking down their noses. But he won. The only other time he committed to a battle was at Falkirk, and there he was betrayed by Scotland’s own knights, who led their cavalry off the field before the fight began, but too late for Wallace to react to their turncoat behavior. Falkirk cost Wallace dearly, and he never played by knightly rules again. But he united Scotland in a way that had never been known before. And I have taken up his ways. I would rather fight by guile and terror and win than be hanged, drawn, and quartered because I fought by England’s rules . . .” He frowned slightly. “But why are you asking me these things? They have little to do with you.”

“I know. I set out to ask something else, but your answers fascinated me and I lost track of my question . . . which was, do any of these island chiefs own galleys?”

“Of course they do. They all do. They are Islesmen—they go everywhere by boat. MacDonald has more than any other. His is the largest fleet.”

“How large?”

Bruce shook his head. “I know not . . . but I have seen him summon more than a hundred at one time, all fully manned, to Islay. What are you thinking?”

“I was thinking that my galleys will serve no one well floating in Lamlash Bay. They will gather barnacles and my men will lose their fighting edge. Therefore, I thought to keep them in condition by lending them to you . . . a loan, you understand, for appearances only. No fighting involved. No naval battles. Merely the sight of not-too-distant force. We can remove the crosses from their sails, or replace the sails completely, but they will remain Temple galleys. Could you use them?”

The King’s eyes narrowed almost to slits as he weighed the offer. “I could use one of them, for my own transportation from time to time, whene’er I have to travel to or through the Isles. But if they cannot fight—”

“Oh, those ones would fight—your crew, I mean—were you aboard in person. They would be King’s Escort and Guard in that case, and would do battle on your personal behalf if ever that were required. The others would be in different case.”

“I would not need the others. One craft would suffice, for I seldom travel by sea.”

Will cocked his head. “Perhaps because you have never had the means to hand before . . . a galley of your own?”

Bruce smiled. “Perhaps, but nonetheless, I would seldom use it. My greatest concerns are always on the mainland, where the English swarm, the true realm of Scotland. And I would not need the others.”

“Then that leaves my fine galleys unemployed . . .” Will hesitated. “Think you this Angus Og could find a use for them, in gift from you?” He held up a hand before Bruce could respond. “Think, for a moment, from your kingly needs. Might you not have much to gain from offering Angus Og the use of five fine galleys? You could make the stipulation plain at the outset: he would have them for display and demonstration and, of course, they ship at least four hundred men, closer to five hundred. It strikes me that an ambitious man like him, taunting a stronger force like the MacDougalls, might be glad to take advantage of even the appearance of greater strength than he can field.”

The King grunted deep in his chest, pinching the hair on his upper lip, thinking over what Will had said, but as he made to speak, there came a knock at the door, and Bishop David de Moray stepped into the room.

“You sent for me, Sire.”

Bruce rose to greet the Bishop, glancing at Will in wonder as he did so. “Aye, Davie, I did. I gave word to send you up in half an hour, but it feels as though scarce the half of that has gone. Come in. Pour yourself a cup of wine and sit you down. Master Sinclair and I have not yet finished our discussion, but you needna leave. Sit and listen. I’ll tell you later what we have discussed till now.”

He sat down again and turned back to Will. “Offer them as a gift, you say . . . from me to Angus Og. That is a wondrous fine idea. The man will jump at it like a trout after a fly, But why only the five galleys? You have ten, you said.”

“Aye, and one of them’s mine and another yours, and I’ll feel safer keeping three more reserved for our own use, should the need arise. That leaves five.”

“Of course it does. I had forgot those first two.” The King smiled, and his entire face was transformed, appearing years younger. But then the smile faded. “So now you will have but half as many men to feed and house, since Angus Og will have the keeping of your oarsmen. What about the rest of your men?”

“Kenneth’s party, plus the garrison from La Rochelle—two hundred and thirty, all told, not counting the galley crews. The same needs apply to them. Stuck here on Arran for months on end, they will grow soft. Now clearly you need good men. I can lend you mine—not all at once, mind you, but in rotating groups, knights and sergeants both. Three groups of five-and-seventy, say, all of them mounted and equipped, the complement changing every four months.”

“You would do that?”

Will shrugged. “Without hesitation. But there would be conditions.”

The King held up his hand. “Before you say another word, I cannot undertake to keep them from the fighting—”

“Nor would I ask you to. War is war. I make exceptions for the galleys because they are all that remains, at this time, of the Temple fleet and they are my responsibility. Regular fighting men are another matter altogether. I will ask for volunteers, then select the first group of seventy-five from among those. Every man I have will volunteer, no doubt of that, but they will fight as Temple sergeants, under their own officers. That is the single stipulation I will make there. What say you?”

“I say aye. What else could I say? But what do you expect to gain from this?”

“The King’s blessing upon our use of Arran, and a free rein while we are here. Also the King’s open and freely bestowed goodwill in speaking for us with our neighbors, on Kintyre and the Isles if not the mainland, so that our ships will be free to come and go for as long as we remain. I hope our stay will not be long, that we will return to France one day soon, but in the meantime we would have a place to live and to think of as our own.”

Bruce nodded and slapped his hands on his thighs, then turned to Moray, who had been listening intently. “There, we’re done. And now it is your turn, David, as representative of Mother Church. D’ye want to stay back there or will we make room here by the fire?”

Moray had been working with the fastening of his mail coat and now he stood up and shrugged out of it, tossing it to the tabletop, where it landed with a heavy crunching of links. “I’ll come by the fire, Your Grace.” He set his wine on the table’s end as the three of them rearranged themselves around the heavy iron grate. Will took it upon himself to add fuel to the fire while the King summarized all that they had talked of for the Bishop’s information.

“So,” the Bishop said eventually, looking into the fire rather than at the King, “you have considered all I had to say o’ this and decided to ignore it.”

“I ignored nothing, merely sought ways around it. Besides, you were but stating the obvious that first time.”

“No, Sire. The obvious is that you have decided to proceed despite my warnings. It is the needful wi’ which we now have to deal.” David de Moray, Prince of the Church, had no compunction about risking the displeasure of his monarch. Bruce, however, showed no sign of disapproval. He merely sat with his chin on his breast, peering sidewise at the Bishop from beneath raised brows, and when he spoke his words came from the corner of his mouth, directed to Will, seated on his right.

“He can be testy when he’s crossed, our Davie, but he’s a solid lad. Very well, my lord Bishop, explain this needful . . .”

Moray huffed in exasperation, and Will was sure that this was not the first time he had done so in his dealings with the King. “I would to God Archbishop Lamberton were here at times like this.”

“As do I, Davie.” There was no hint of levity now in Bruce’s voice. “Our superior in Christ, William, is sorely missed, and by far more folk than you and me. But that canna be helped. God has decreed, for reasons of His own, that the Archbishop spend these days in England, and until England releases him to return to his flock there is nothing we can do about it—for the present, at least. But in the meantime, you know as do I that he believes my temporal and spiritual welfare to be well served at your hands, so an end to this moaning. It’s your counsel I need, not your complaints.”

“I have had a thought or two on that.” Moray raised both hands in front of his face and turned them back and forth, scrutinizing them, then bent forward to look across the King to where Will sat. “Sir William, you have no beard.”

Will raised a hand to scratch at his stubbly chin. “I will have, soon enough. I had to shave it off a few weeks ago.”

“And why would you do that? I thought a Templar’s beard was sacrosanct.”

Will almost grinned, his lips twisting in wry agreement. “Most people think so, my lord, but it is merely an affectation. The tonsure is sacrosanct, but the forked beard is no more than a tradition born out of the desert wars in Outremer, and it is one to which I refuse to subscribe. I wear a plain beard, uncut, but un-forked, too. I shaved it off with scarce a thought when necessity demanded it.”

“Necessity?”

“I had a need to pass unnoticed among de Nogaret’s men.”

“Ah!” Moray sat back in his chair, apparently satisfied, but Bruce was not.

“What was all that about?” He glared from one of them to the other.

Moray merely glanced at him. “Did you not hear? I was asking Sir William about his beard.”

“I know that, man, but why?”

The Bishop raised his eyebrows. “Because I need to think, and pray over the thoughts. I shall tell all about it you tomorrow.” He leaned forward to address Will again. “I meant what I said earlier, you know, about the Pope and the King of France. Neither of them will be happy when they learn that you are here and that King Robert has granted you sanctuary. King Philip will be greatly vexed, if what you say is true. Perhaps even more than the Pope.”

“Why do you say that, my lord?”

“Because if he and his creature de Nogaret were as successful in his coup against the Temple as you suspect, then your escape with the fleet would, in all probability, be the single greatest error of that day. Philip Capet is not a man to enjoy failure—especially so public a failure, with the plain proof of it abroad in other lands. He will not look kindly upon the King of Scots—a suitor for his assistance—granting any kind of clemency to his quarry.”

“Not clemency, my lord Bishop. Sanctuary.”

“Think you King Capet will see the difference?” Moray’s eyebrows had risen even higher with his astonishment.

Will looked crestfallen. “No, sir, he will not.” He hesitated, looking at Moray. “King Capet, you called him. Have you met the man?”

“Aye, three times. I still believe him more statue than flesh and blood. But that is neither here nor there. This sanctuary you have won may cost King Robert dearly.”

“Let King Robert fret over that,” the monarch answered. “Tell us about the Pope. You said he would be more vexed than Philip. How could that be?”

Moray twisted sideways in his seat to look at his friend. “Do you really have to ask that? He has declared you excommunicate, Robert, and with you all the people of this realm. That means damned: condemned and excluded from the affairs of Christian men and from the sacraments of Holy Church. No Eucharist. No penance, absolution, or salvation. No marriages, nor burials in consecrated ground. And withal a complete lack of hope.” He looked over to Will. “The sole thing standing between His Grace here and the weight of that anathema is the intervention of the body of the Church itself in Scotland. We, the bishops of the realm, are his only shield, and we ourselves are divided by loyalties, for and against the Bruce claim to the Crown. Mind you, the dispute of that claim is impious, since His Grace is now God’s Anointed, duly crowned and ratified at Scone by the senior prelates in the realm, the Primate himself, Archbishop of St. Andrews, presiding.”

He turned back to Bruce, who was rubbing a knuckle against the tip of his nose. “Can you not see it, Sire? If Pope Clement has permitted this outrage against a vested Order of Holy Church, then he will feel his guilt, but being the weak man that he is, he will do nothing to stop the travesty. He dare not take a stance against the King—he never has and never will—unless and until Philip does something to push even him beyond endurance. And even then, Clement might submit. But we in Scotland here, the bishops of the realm, are too convenient a target for his guilty wrath. We have managed to placate him to this point, and to stay him with sound arguments, submitting that he could have been misled and that the events in question were deliberately misrepresented by your enemies for political gain. And we have been able to do that because all of us believe what we say—Lamberton, Wishart, myself, and the other bishops who stand with us. But if Clement hears of this sanctuary he will see it as sheer defiance of his authority and he will be greatly tempted to make example of us, claiming disobedience to his papal will and citing this sanctuary, plus our former arguments on your behalf, as evidence. Our voices and our powers would be then annulled . . . and you can rest assured the King of France will see to it that Clement vents his anger on us. And once that happens—the which may God forbid—your entire realm will lie under anathema, condemned to Hell in this life.” He allowed his words to hang in the air, then concluded, “And that is why I spoke of dealing with the needful rather than the obvious.”

He rose abruptly to his feet, moving to collect his sword from where it stood in the corner, then slinging it by its belt over one shoulder before crossing to gather up his coat of mail from the table, speaking over his shoulder as he did so. “I am going to pray for a while, and then to sleep. Do you both the same. Tomorrow, in the bright of God’s daylight, I shall tell you what is needful and, pray God, what might be possible. Until then, a peaceful night to both of you.”

“Wait you, Davie.” Moray had opened the door to leave, but turned on the threshold, looking back at the monarch. “I would be greatly obliged were you to postpone your prayers for a wee bit longer. There is still much to be said between us this night, and it would vex me to lose the gist of what I am thinking. Bide a while longer, if you will.” Moray closed the door again, shutting out the muted sounds of music and raised voices that drifted up from downstairs, and the Bruce, listening to it idly, raised an eyebrow in mild surprise.

“Well, they’re still going strong down there. It must be less late than I thought . . .” He turned again to Will. “Well, Sir William, what think you of our warrior bishop? Did I not say he has a long head on him?”

Will looked a little bemused. “You did, Your Grace.” He turned then to Moray. “Forgive me, my lord Bishop, but the last part of what you said was lost to me. What were you talking about, if I am permitted to ask?”

Bruce grinned and bent forward from the waist, his eyes on Moray but his words meant for Will. “Needful things, he said. Davie’s clever.” His grin widened at the frown on Moray’s face. “And, Davie, truth to tell, I ha’e little more idea than Will of what you meant.” He winked at Will. “But if we dinna deal with it tonight, he will tell us when he thinks fit, sometime tomorrow. Your fleet will be here the morning after that, but in the meantime, I’ll be away again. Another will be coming in tomorrow, from the north.”

“Another fleet?”

“Aye. Angus Og’s. Good sense, as we see it, might dictate that he come alone, or wi’ a small escort, but Angus Og willna play that game. He will bring his fleet, you mark my words. His Highland pride will not permit him to do otherwise. He willna stoop to be seen as scuttling about in his own domain, God save his wit. Anyway, he’s on his way to pick me up again and carry me around the south end of Kintyre, then up the coastal passage through the Firth of Lorn and Loch Linne to the start of the great Glen. We hold it now, and Moray’s men are waiting there for us, along with Neil Campbell’s and a contingent of MacGregors. Davie here has raised the whole o’ Moray country to my cause, more men than I could find in all my own ruined lands of Annandale and Ayr. So we’ll march up the Glen again to Inverness, where we’ll join with the men of Mar and Atholl, and with the grace of God, Clan Fraser. From there we will strike east, into the Comyn country of Buchan. The Earl of Buchan is a proud, unbending man, arrogant and filled wi’ self-righteous scorn, but he will pay me fealty, or he will die, for good and ample cause.”

“When will you leave?”

“Tomorrow, as soon as may be.” He smiled again, fleetingly, but generating the same lightening of lines and years as earlier. “But not before Davie tells us what is needful. I have little time these days, and none at all to waste. I came back here to reaffirm James Douglas as Guardian of the Southwest, and to give him further instructions on what I shall require of him these coming weeks. That is done. He has a full eight hundred men now under his command, two hundred here, the rest awaiting him near Turnberry, on the mainland. He’ll pick up more as he moves inland through my own country, now that the word of our recent successes has had time to spread. His foremost task will be to keep the King’s peace, mainly by keeping the MacDowals on their toes, though he’ll harass the English garrisons forbye.”

“And will he leave a holding force here on Arran?”

“Aye, he will.”

“No need for that if we are here. He could take all his men with him in that case.”

“He could if he had room for them.”

“He could use a couple of my ships in addition to his own.”

“Aye, there is that.” Bruce paused, considering. “You understand that there is still a chance that I might needs refuse your request? If Davie comes up with some difficulty that canna be set aside, I may have to heed him.”

Will nodded. “I understand that.”

The King ignored Moray’s gathering scowl. “But let us suppose he does no such thing. Then I will inform Sir James that you have my permission to remain on Arran, under sanctuary. But what will you do after that?”

“I have my work cut out for me, my lord. My men have been cooped up aboard ship for weeks on end. By the time they land, they will be unruly and ripe for mischief. My first task will be to rein them in. And I have more than twenty Temple knights in my care—no small responsibility and no laughing matter. Our sergeants can be quickly disciplined, but Temple knights, as you may or may not know, can be . . . difficult. They have a tendency to arrogance and pride. They are contentious and overbearing at the best of times, and they may think, some of them, at least, that the recent events in France and the removal of their superiors’ authority, no matter how temporarily, absolved them of responsibility to their sworn duties. My first task will be to curb them and remind them of their solemn vows, and then I will have to break them to renewed monastic discipline, re-establish life according to the Temple Rule. And then there are the lay brothers, a score and a half of them. I must set them busy, too, building a house for us and setting up a core about which the monastic discipline can revolve.”

“You can use this place for the time being. It has kitchens, and most of Jamie’s men already sleep in it, but it will lie empty when they leave. Do you have builders with you?”

“House builders and masons? No, but we have ships’ carpenters and willing workers and men who know how to erect a shelter. We will manage.”

“Make sure they build your stables first. Your horses will need shelter from the winter storms. Will you hold my treasure here for me?”

Will looked over in surprise. “Of course. You will be gone when it arrives.”

“I will, but even were I not, I would be loath to take it with me aboard MacDonald’s galleys. Too visible, too much temptation. Forbye, I’m sailing first, but then I’ll be afoot, marching through hostile country towards war . . . an ill time and place to be carrying heavy treasure.”

“I’ll see it kept safe for you, Sir King.”

“Good man. I’ll have Jamie collect it at some future date, when I can tend to it as it deserves.” He yawned and stretched, then looked at the dying fire. “I need to sleep, my friend, and so do you. There’s a room next door ready for you, though you’ll have to share wi’ Jamie Douglas.” He smiled again. “But it has two cots. And now I’ll bid ye a good night, for I do have vexing matters to discuss wi’ his Lordship Davie here. We will deal wi’ his needful things tomorrow, the three of us. Sleep well, Sir William Sinclair.”

The great hall, lit by flickering torches and a replenished fire, had already been cleared of any sign that it had ever been a dormitory. The main doors were propped open to let in the cold, pre-dawn air, and the tables and benches had been hauled aside and stacked in their storage spaces. A crew of cleaners was clearing out the old, dried rushes from the floor, sending up clouds of dust, and at their backs another group was spreading a fresh mat of green rushes underfoot. The far side room to the left of the main doors had tables in it and had already been much used as a breakfast room, and Will was grateful to see that there was still food available and helped himself to a bowl of thick, hot oatmeal porridge that he cooled liberally with fresh goat’s milk.

Afterwards, seeing no one that he recognized, and feeling unaccountably lost and lonely as the only Templar among so many strangers, he went outside at daybreak and walked down to the parapet overlooking the bay, where he saw one of the men he had met the previous night, one of the Gaelic chieftains of the Campbell party who had spoken to him in Scots rather than the unintelligible Gaelic. The fellow was peering intently out to sea and muttering to himself as Will approached, and when he looked to see what the man had noticed in the strengthening light, he was alarmed to see a pair of boats half a mile away, dancing dangerously in turbulent waves and far too close to the rocks at the base of the cliffside that dropped steeply into the sea.

“In God’s name,” he asked, “what are they doing over there?”

The fellow looked at him askance. “Ah,” he said in Scots. “It’s yourself. They’re fishing.”

“In that sea? They’ll be killed.”

“Nah, they’re finished now, coming back in. They found a shoal. We’ll eat well tonight.”

“What kind of shoal?”

“Fish!” The man looked at him as if he were soft in the head, then turned away to shout—uselessly, Will thought—at the men in the distant boats, who, it transpired, were his own.

Will watched with him for a long time as the boats fought their way back to the beach below, wallowing heavily in the choppy swell, and then he went down through the wall gate with the Gael and gazed in stupefaction at the sight of thousands of foot-long silver fish being unloaded from among the feet of the rowers, scooped and shoveled from the bottom of the two craft and thrown onto the graveled beach, their shed scales leaving the wooden interiors of both craft shimmering and crusted with a metallic coating. It was a miraculous catch. He could tell that from the excitement of the men working around him as they scrambled knee deep in breaking waves to keep the fish from escaping back into the water. They were throwing and scooping the squirming, leaping creatures high, tossing them up onto drier land away from the water’s edge, where others, whooping wildly, caught them and threw them into sturdy baskets hurriedly brought down from the kitchens. Will found himself responding to the excitement and had to restrain himself from leaping into their midst like a small boy and joining in the frenzy of collection.

When the last basket of fish was carried away he was left standing alone on the beach’s silvered edge, lost in a swirling torrent of thoughts that tumbled over one another and swept his mind along without rhyme or reason. The boyhood memories that the fisher folk had evoked gave way to memories of joining the Order of Sion at boyhood’s end, at the age of eighteen, of being sent to join the Temple, and of how he had begun to struggle with the lore and the advanced mysteries the Order of Sion, all the time advancing through the Temple hierarchy. For a while he found himself plunged back into the struggles they had had in trying, vainly, to stop the spread of Islam from northern Africa across the narrow seas into Iberia.

The waves swirled around his soles, shifting the pebbles on which he stood, and he turned away to climb the sloping foreshore towards the palisaded fort. He was through the gate and just starting up the flight of stone steps that led up to the forecourt of the hall when he heard yet another commotion erupt ahead of him, beyond the stairs. The sounds cut through the drifting eddies in his mind and snapped him back to the present. He lengthened his step and bounded up the stairs, fearing what he would find up there, and sure enough, a mile beyond where the fishing boats had been, the line between sea and sky was obscured by an irregular mass of angular shapes: masts and billowing sails upon which he could clearly see the emblem Bruce had described the night before, the galley symbol of Angus Og MacDonald, stark in its blackness against the whitened sails that bore it.

More and more men were crowding around him, obscuring his vision as they bobbed and weaved for a sight of the distant fleet, and he saw Tam Sinclair among them. He waited to catch his kinsman’s eye, then waved him over.

“Good day to you,” he growled when Tam reached his side. “You look . . . fresh. What were you up to last night?”

Tam grinned down at the thronging clansmen. “Among this crew? What would you think? I supped well, played a few games of dice and lost, then had the best night’s sleep I’ve had since leaving La Rochelle. On a tabletop on a floor that didna budge or sway once in the whole night. Whose ships are those?”

“Islanders. They are expected. Where’s Mungo?”

Tam shrugged. “He’s here somewhere. I saw him just a while ago. What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you everything later. For now, I need to see what’s happening out there.”

The crowd had ringed them in while they stood talking, and now Will began to weave among them, trying to find a vantage point of his own, but a hand pulled at his sleeve and he heard his name being spoken. It was David de Moray at his side, with the taller figure of Bruce looming just behind him.

“A word, if it please you,” the Bishop said, and beckoned him to come with them.

They crossed the crowded yard and mounted the wooden stairs to the hall, picking their way through the press of craning bodies that jammed the steps. Inside, the building was deserted, and Bruce led the way quickly across the rush-strewn floor and up the stairs to the room they had been in the night before. As he climbed the steps, Will was surprised to realize that for a period of hours he had managed to escape the tension and uncertainty that had kept him awake for most of the night. It had all returned now, filling his breast, and he had not yet spoken a word since being summoned. The Bishop pulled the door shut behind them.

The room was dim, lit only by thin November daylight from the small windows high in the gable wall, and the King was already seating himself next to the long dead fire in the iron grate. He waved Will to a seat across from him, and as the Temple knight obeyed, Moray lowered himself carefully into the chair next to Bruce. The King looked at Will and scratched his chin.

“Davie here has been praying all morning,” he said.

“Thinking and praying,” the Bishop amended. “And I have some suggestions to propose . . . some provisos.”

There came a deep-throated roar from outside and Bruce glanced up at the windows. “Angus Og is giving them something to react to,” he said quietly. “A great believer in spectacle, is Angus. But”—he drew himself upright in his chair, his entire demeanor changing—“we will have an hour before he approaches the beach, so we can talk—” He broke off, his eyebrows rising slightly, then asked, “What is it?”

Will flapped a hand to indicate that what he had to say was unimportant. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but it occurred to me that when your guest arrives, he might address you as King Bruce openly, in front of all . . . and I know you are here secretly. That is all.”

The King nodded. “Well said, but Angus will not come ashore. He will merely send a boat for Davie, Boyd, de Hay, and me. He and I talked of this but days ago and he knows I am plain Boyd of Annandale here. Now, let’s listen to what my lord Bishop has to say. Davie?”

The Bishop sat back and leveled his bright, hazel eyes at Will. “Fine,” he said, speaking in clearly enunciated Scots. “Fine. I’ll not bore you with what you already know, Sir William, but get right to the heart of things. We have . . . difficulties . . . possible and serious discomfiture and embarrassment for King Robert and his entire realm should your presence here become public knowledge—and with the arrival of the fleet you expect tomorrow, that knowledge can scarcely be avoided. But on the other hand, there could be—there are—equally potent benefits available to both Crown and realm through your presence here, not the least of those being the treasure you carry in your hold for the King’s purse. But there is also the matter of your galleys to consider, the goodwill and advantages those offer us. And forbye, there is the real, appreciable worth of the trained, disciplined, mounted, and fully equipped manpower you have promised in King Robert’s support should you be permitted to remain here. Those things are known, and in many respects, they counterbalance each the other, pro and contra.

“The difficulty lies in finding the means—some practical and valid method—whereby we, the Church in Scotland, as much as the King’s military and civil advisers, could justifiably grant the sanctuary you seek, while keeping the dangers entailed from overwhelming everything. The losses we would court in doing so are not to be made light of. They involve the excommunication and eternal damnation of an entire people on the one hand, and the loss of a powerful ally on the other. And even the threatened loss of that ally’s neutrality is to be feared, since the absence of neutrality entails his espousal of England’s cause in the wars we face.”

He cleared his throat, glancing away towards a distant corner. “I prayed long and hard last night, searching for some guidance, some oracle, I suppose, to tell me what Archbishop Lamberton and Bishop Wishart would wish to say, were either of them able to be here. But of course they cannot be here, and I must act in their stead, for my sins. And so I tossed and turned much of the night, and thought . . . thought about the idea, no more than a flashing notion, that had come to me last night. We talked briefly of beards.”

“I remember.”

“You told us that the full, forked beards were an affectation. That was the word you used.”

“Aye. It is an affectation. It began in the Holy Lands, during the wars there. All men went bearded there, Muslim and Christian alike. And at some point, no one knows when now, the knights of the Temple began to wear their beards forked, to differentiate themselves from others.”

“How do you know that? You sound certain of it.”

Will frowned, wondering where this was leading. Bruce was saying nothing, plucking at the tuft of beard beneath his nether lip and studying the Bishop through narrowed eyes.

“I am certain of it. It was referred to in—” Will caught himself. “In some documents I read . . . while preparing for advancement within the Order. It was of no importance, but it stuck in my memory for some reason.” He shrugged. “My mind works like that sometimes, retaining things of which I have no need. Why do you ask? Is it important?”

“I think so. How does one man look at another and know he belongs to the Temple?”

Will’s frown deepened, reflecting his growing bewilderment. “Several different ways. By the clothes he wears, and the insignia he bears—the cross pattée, the various marks of rank.”

“And the beard?”

“Aye, certainly, if the wearer is a knight, but not so the sergeants. They simply go bearded . . . and tonsured, of course.”

“Of course,” the Bishop agreed, nodding. “They all wear the tonsure of the Church’s most privileged Order.” He paused for barely a heartbeat, then continued on a different tack. “You said your first task would be to remind your people of who they are and what they represent, no?”

Thoroughly perplexed now, Will glanced at the King, seeking some guidance. But the monarch’s steel-gray eyes stared back at him levelly, offering nothing in the way of enlightenment, and so he looked again at Moray, only to find the same level, noncommittal gaze. He flapped a hand impatiently and nodded. “I did say that, yes. And I meant it.”

“I know you did, because you named your reasons and your fears: that their morale might have been threatened by the events in France, because after weeks cooped up at sea they might be feeling mutinous, angry, and resentful and thus prone to unpredictable behavior. Am I correct or have I missed something?”

“No, Bishop, you were listening well.” Something like a small, hard-edged grin flickered at one corner of Will’s mouth. “You may have overstated the case slightly, but the gist of what I said is there.”

“You said you must remind them of their vows and make them aware of the obligations they undertook in joining the Order. Those would be poverty, chastity, and obedience.” Moray smiled now. “Poverty, it seems to me, has never been a difficulty for your brethren, would you not agree? And chastity becomes a way of life in a religious Order, free of the fleshly temptations that beset the ruck of men. But obedience is another matter altogether, and in this instance of what occurred in France, the deterrent to obedience, the fear of punishment, has been removed by the incarceration of the Order’s leaders and commanders. That, I believe, must be your first priority: to re-establish the concept of obedience, and your own authority, before all else. How will you do that, should the need arise?” He extended his hand, fingers spread, inviting a response.

Will gazed at the tabletop, seeing the grain in the long slabs of wood that had been used to make it. Across from him, his audience of two sat patiently. He could feel their eyes watching him, waiting.

“This is . . . this potential for rebellion, as you put it, could present a novel situation,” he said finally, speaking almost to himself, so that the others leaned closer. “The chances are strong that it will not arise, but if it should, I will have to deal with it.”

He looked from one to the other of them, then continued in a louder voice. “You must understand that the matter of the punishment of brethren who offend the Rule is one that is strictly held, and privily, among the Order. It is not, nor can it ever be, a matter for discussion or debate outside of chapter gatherings. But I can see why it is you ask.” He stopped again, wrestling with words. “When we . . . disembark . . . and reassemble from our ships, we will be a community again—a single entity and a self-contained chapter. My first duty, as a representative of the Governing Council within that community, will be to convene a gathering of the chapter and give blessings and prayers for our deliverance from the perils thrust upon us by King Philip and de Nogaret.” He smiled, briefly.

“Not that I will officiate myself in the praying. We have three of the Order’s own bishops with us, by the grace of God. But, that done, and the specific requirements, regulations, and obligations of the Order and its sacred Rule completed in this, our new communal home—for no matter how temporary our stay here might be, the obligations are unchangeable—it will remain for me to supervise the election of the community’s officers, and with them, to define the brethren’s tasks and duties in this place. And by that time, with the establishment of a community again and the reinforcement of our duties, the threat of disobedience should be slight. It ought to be unthinkable, in fact, but . . . it will be slight.”

He sighed, then twisted his head, loosening his neck, which had grown stiff from the force of his concentration. “And if it is not, then I will have to build some kind of jail, some means of holding the miscreants apart, for the good of the community and the salvaging of their own souls. The value of a month of enforced solitude, existing on bread and water, is an inestimable thing.”

Bruce spoke into the silence that followed. “There are storehouses on the ground floor with stone walls and stout iron bars. Jail cells, if you need them.”

Will looked at him and nodded. “Thank you for that. Those would serve in the short term . . . and that is all we should need, a short-term solution. But we would have to build a Chapter House of our own for the duration of our stay. A religious community cannot share common lodgings with laymen. I trust you can see that?”

The King nodded slowly, then turned to the Bishop. “Davie, you must have more?”

“I do, Your Grace.” Moray drew both palms down his face from forehead to chin, then leaned forward towards Will. “Here then, Sir William, is the gist of my thinking, and before I say it I must make a point, not to insult or demean anyone or anything, but simply to make myself clear. Were you to enter this room and look at me now, for the first time, what kind of man would you take me to be?” He saw the puzzled look on Will’s face and stood up from the table, dragging his chair aside and stepping back so that he could be clearly seen. “Come now, what would you take me for?”

Will shrugged, his eyes taking in the figure facing him: short hair, enormously strong shoulders, a solid, confident posture, large, capable hands, a well-worn shirt of rusted mail, and a sheathed dirk hanging from a belt about his waist. “A knight,” he said. “A well-born fighting knight in need of a new shirt of mail.”

“Aha! And were I to walk out and come back in wearing miter and chasuble? What then?”

“I would see a bishop.”

“Yes, you would, and though both warrior and bishop would be accurate descriptions, you would be hard put to see either one in the other, am I right?”

“You are.”

“And I am right in this matter of the beards, for at the heart of that lies the solution we require. If you can make the manner of your people’s dress and appearance a matter of obedience, then you and yours might remain here in perpetuity.” He raised a swift hand to cut short Will’s reaction, pressing on with what he had to say. “Strip off the outer marks of what you are and you will not be seen, will be perceived as being other than you are. Command your knights to cut off their forked beards, to leave their tonsures to grow out, and dress them commonly, like ordinary men. Remove the Templar crosses and visible emblems from their clothing and military devices—armor, shields, and surcoats—and above all, be careful with your horses. Keep them apart and well concealed from casual view, and permit no displays of chivalry for idle folk to gawk at and talk about later. Become ordinary men, to outward view at least, even farming the little land that’s there to till, and you may rest secure here, as we may rest secure knowing you are here, unseen.”

“Unseen? But we will be seen. God knows there are enough of us, and this is a small island. How can you think that we will not be seen?”

“I don’t. I am not talking about sorcery or magic. You will be seen, but you’ll be seen as ordinary men—soldiers and men at arms. We are at war here in Scotland. There are men in arms everywhere throughout the realm, and no one pays them any notice until it comes time to fight. But a strong force of disciplined men, religious, well-horsed fighting men in red Crusader crosses and the black cross of the Temple Mount, based upon the Isle of Arran? Think you not that would be remarked, a topic for discussion throughout the land?”

Will’s mind reeled as he grappled with what the Bishop was suggesting. Here, he thought, was blasphemy, issuing from the mouth of a bishop of Holy Church. His every instinct told him to rise up against it. And yet, even as he contemplated doing so, seeking the words that would reject the notion, the edge of his outrage softened and he began to think more logically, and to perceive that the outrage might be confined to his own mind alone.

“This could not be,” he said, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. “It is too much—”

“Too much of what?” Moray asked. “It was you who said the beards were but an affectation.”

“And they are. The matter of the beards is nothing. But the tonsure . . .”

“Do you know whence came the tonsure, Sir William?”

“Whence . . . ? No, I do not.”

The Bishop of Moray smiled, as though he were enjoying himself. “Well I do. Like you, I have a mind that retains such trivial, meaningless things. Eight hundred years ago, in the dying days of Rome’s empire, a shaved head was the symbol of slavery. Slaves were forbidden to wear hair, lest it make them indistinguishable from ordinary citizens. And so their heads were shaved bald, shaved unnaturally in a square, to mark them as slaves for all the world to see. And those were the days in which the first monastic Orders were being formed. The early monks took up the practice of shaving their heads, too, to demonstrate that they chose to be the lowest of the low, the very slaves of Christ.” The Bishop paused. “Few people know that today, and fewer still regard the tonsure as what it has become, now that its true meaning has been lost to history. It is an affectation. No more than that. Just like your full, forked beards.” He waited for a reaction from Will, and when he saw the knight’s jaw sag in amazement, he changed course, his voice deeper and more conciliatory.

“Look you,” he said. “You will establish a new community here on Arran. It will have a new chapter, new appointments, and new rules befitting the new reality you face here. Believe me, there will be nothing sinful or slothful in what results from banning tonsures and forked beards as part of those new rules.” He bent further forward. “It is your community that is important here, Sir William, your very survival that is at stake. Your community will not fall about your ears because its members grow hair on the crowns of their heads. Discuss it with your chapter if you like, but if you explain the situation as it stands, and then propose your solution and its goals, I am certain that few complaints will be uttered. And if any are, I am equally sure you will rise to the task of meeting them. Prior to that time, though, King Robert and I will be long gone from here, and we’ll require an answer ere we go. What say you?”

Will looked from Moray to the King and shook his head, still unsteady from the shock of what the Bishop had proposed. King Robert spoke.

“There is pasture aplenty on the high moor, inland, the one called Machrie. Your horses would thrive there, I think, and there is ample space to separate them and stable them apart, in glens and woods. And to the north of that, the forest stands. It is no Ettrick Forest, but it will furnish logs enow to help you with your building. The moor is bottomless peat, rich fuel.”

Will barely heard him, though he recognized the kindness in the voice. “But our weapons,” he began. “We will need—”

The Bishop cut him off again, his voice dry and matter-of-fact. “What about them? I said nothing about weapons. You’ll need those. I said that you should conceal the visible signs of who you are—the white mantles and the sergeants’ surcoats and all your visible badges and emblems of Temple rank. Conceal them, Sir William. Paint over the crosses on your shields and on your helms, but there is no need to destroy any of them. Store them away until you have a need for them again, on your return to France. Then your men may shave their heads and even fork their beards again before riding home with fresh new crosses painted on their gear.”

Will thought more about it, seeing the possibilities, the shape of it at last. A vision of the fleet grew in his mind, de Berenger’s mighty galley at its front, and then he nodded, all at once convinced. “Aye, I can see that. Hide ourselves in plain view. And the same must go for our sails.”

Bruce spoke up again, smiling now. “Angus Og will help you there. He’ll have no emblem but his own on any sail that goes with him. He will provide you with new sails, never fear. And at no cost.”

Will felt as though a great weight had been lifted from him. “So be it, Robert, King of Scots. I will make it so.” He turned to Moray. “My lord Bishop, I can scarce find words to thank you. I believe your solution may be perfect to all our needs and I am deeply, personally in your debt.”

“Then here’s my royal hand on it, if we’re agreed,” Bruce said, standing up and stretching out his hand. The others laid their own upon his and they shook once, twice, and thrice. “Done!” said the King.

“Aye, but there’s still a lot to do.” Moray was already turning towards the door.

“We have to arrange to ship your first contingent of men to join King Robert when he needs them—the where of it, if not the when—and we have yet to broach the matter of your galleys and your presence to MacDonald. We’d better see to that now. Come with us, Sir William, and we’ll row you out to meet Angus Og. He’ll send you back in a boat.”

“I’ll enjoy meeting him. But I must ask, where is Sir James today? He was gone long before I awoke this morning.”

“He’s hunting,” the Bruce answered, clasping a hand over Will’s shoulder.

“Hunting for information, it seems, somewhere at the north end of the island. He left word with de Hay before he went, sometime in the dead of night. Something about a French-speaking spy, he said. Not one of your men, though. This one, whoever he is, was among our own. Anyway, Jamie will tell us all when he returns. Now, let’s see what Angus Og has brought for us.”

He made to leave, then hesitated. “Wait, though. One more thing has just occurred to me. I will not have the opportunity to thank my lady Randolph, the Baroness St. Valéry. By the time she arrives tomorrow morning, I will be long at sea, and mayhap even ashore again. Will you, therefore, thank her sincerely on my behalf? You need ha’e no fear of being too effusive. My gratitude in this matter would be impossible to overstate. Assure the lady of my personal gratitude and tell her I will look forward to thanking her in person and at great length in days to come.” He paused, thinking deeply. “And ask her, if you would, to consider returning to her home in Moray. I will have Jamie prepare a strong escort for her, and they can drop off her treasure for me at St. Andrews as they pass by. Now, Davie, let’s away.”