The Mer- Lion (41 page)

"No!" De Wynter's gut spoke.

"Think on it. Take as long as you like. But remember your friends. My Lord Keeper tells me one, he that is named Gilliver, might not make it through another day and night"

De Wynter groaned. What matter thinking on it? He had no choice. But still he might bargain. "And if I do, what of my friends?"

"The dyester's pole, unless—"

De Wyntet-clutched at straws. "Unless—?"

"Unless you were to act immediately and join an order based far from this shore. One in need of fighting men. Then I see no reason why your men might not depart with you."

"You have an order in mind." De Wynter accused him point-blank. "The Templars."

"That heretic group? Never. Besides, the next thing we'd know they'd have you in France at their temple there. No, we had another in mind."

"Well?"

Cranmer let him stew a little, but de Wynter, gambling for eleven lives, could well wait him out. Finally, Cranmer gracefully gave in. "We thought perhaps since you were so familiar with St. John—"

"No, not them. Not the Order of the Knights of St. John."

"I told His Majesty you'd know them."

De Wynter's voice was bitter. "Who does not know of the Knights Hospitaler late of Rhodes, now of Malta? You might as well sentence me and my men to death if you send us to defend that bare pile of rock out in the ocean."

"That well might be, but is it not better to die, sword in hand, the name of the Lord on your tongue, than at the end of a rope?"

De Wynter had no ready answer. The whole plan was so well thought out. An order of nobles, respected fighting men, one of whose canons was celibacy. What better proof and proclamation to the courts of Europe that this was a true act of contrition? Desperately, be sought for a loophole through which he might wiggle, but he knew there was none. Nor, if Gilliver's life were not to be wasted, could he take time making up his mind. "If I were to agree?"

"The order would welcome you." And your fortune, Cranmer thought to himself. "We have the word of Sir John Carlby, the order's Turcopolier, on it. However, he offers you the haven of the order only if you join immediately."

"Immediately?"

"Tonight So, James Mackenzie, what will you have? The life of a novice or no life at all? Make your choice."

Swallowing his pride, de Wynter opened his mouth to beg mercy; then, knowing it was no use, he swallowed his words and merely nodded.

"You agree then?" Cranmer was secretly delighted; already he could see Henry's reaction: Carlby appeased, Hampton Court saved, the too-desirable Scots herald gone, sailing to Malta on the same tide taking the King of England, and Marquess Pembroke to France aboard the
Henry Grace a Dieu,
the selfsame ship that had a dozen years before, on the last day of May, taken Henry and Catherine to France.

"Know you then, the Right Honorable the Earl of Seaforth, James Mackenzie, that by token of this genuine act of contrition, the ecclesiastical court invoked this tenth day of October, in the year of our Lord 1532 is hereby adjourned,
res adjudicata. Dieu vous garde.

"You will be taken directly to the priory of the hospices of St. John of Jerusalem, at the temple outside London near Westminster. Sir John awaits you there. And, my lord, do not attempt escape. Not till word comes you have arrived safely will your men be released."

"Will you at least raise the door, to give them fresh air?"

Cranmer considered. The thought appealed to his basic humanitarianism. "I see no problem with that. Perhaps you would even care to send a message, one personally reassuring?"

What to say to convince them not to fight, nor yet to give up hope. "Tell them I turned the ring on my hand and a roar was heard. Follow me!"

It was Cranmer's turn to be puzzled. "You turned the ring on your hand and a roar was heard?''

De Wynter nodded. "Don't forget 'follow me!'"

"You have my word on it. My Lord Gaoler," he said, not raising his voice, "present yourself."

He might have said "Open Sesame," so promptly did the door open. "This man accompanies you. But he should not go half dressed. His collar, if you please. Send the bill for his keep to the Knights Hospitaler. For such a fighter as this, with ten men at arms, they should be willing to reimburse the king his generosity."

CHAPTER
18

On big way back up the Thames in a small but strong-poled, well-oared wherry, there was no Thomas Nottle to spend de Wynter's time and fill his ears with such tidbits of information as that his destination was originally the seat in England of the Order of Templars, The Poor Knights of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon. When they moved elsewhere, the buildings passed into the hands of the Hospitalers, who leased all but the consecrated buildings to certain professors of common law, half of whom formed a society known as the Middle Temple, the rest the Inner.

From the river, Node would have been quick to note that of greatest interest were the large, elaborate gardens where partisans of the Houses of York and Lancaster plucked the living badges that gave odor to that famous hundred-year-long series of "cousin wars" known as the War of the Roses.

As the wherry landed, thousands of starlings, roosting in the tree-lined approach to the Temple Church, took umbrage at being disturbed and took wind in a storm of flutters and angry calls.

'They be back," said the Yeoman Warder, who looked like Thomas Nottle. "They be like the ravens, at the Tower. Too lazy and well fed ever to take their leave for long. They say that if either starling or raven permanently disappear, it will mean the fall of the Temples of Law or Tower of London."

The Temple, although not a fortress, was indeed much like the Tower, both actually being a composite of buildings with a central
core. The Norman castle-keep for the Tower, the Norman round-church of St. Mary for the Temple. De Wynter's destination now was the hospice. It resembled an inn, but its windows were palisaded with wood tempered hard as metal, the ends of which were buried within the casing of the window. The doors, made of plank atop plank, bolted and banded, could have withstood fire or siege. The floors and walls were of stone, the ceiling twice a man's height. De Wynter feared he had exchanged one prison for another that had no fireplace to ward off the cold of the coming night.

For the next hour or so, he came to grips with reality. He would join the Order and persuade his men to do the same, that way saving all their lives. The Scot knew the order by reputation. There was no more fearsome fighting band in all of Europe. They and they alone had fought Suleiman the Magnificent to a stand-still, wrestling an honorable retreat from the victorious Moslems at Rhodes. Then they had traded with the Holy Roman Emperor, the defense of Tripoli for the archipelago of Malta with its satellite island of Gozo.

He could handle the fighting well. The religious life would probably not be unduly onerous. But the celibacy. That would take getting used to. De Wynter, being honest with himself and remembering well the way his body had its own way when denied release within woman, felt sure his body would take care of itself. But music, dancing, feminine company—these would be far more difficult to forego. Besides, the strict arbitrary discipline of life in the order was something he detested. He had been his own man too long to curtail his actions at the whim of someone else.

The creaking of the door gave him notice that his solitude was to be interrupted. He barely dared hope that Cranmer would keep his word so promptly, but he was mistaken. The archbishop wanted quickly to rid the Tower of all trace of these potentially diplomatically dangerous Scottish guests.

As the men entered the room, Drummond and Fionn supporting Gilliver between them, de Wynter cursed himself. For love of a woman he had tarried too long at Hampton and his men had paid the price. They were pale and gaunt, their faces mangy with straggly beginnings of beards. Most had lost weight, and their garments hung from them. Their bodies reeked, dank hair to bare feet, of human waste. Yet never had de Wynter been happier to see them or quicker
to take each in his arms and hug them close. To Gilliver they gave the bed; the rest, once the greetings were past, squatted uncomfortably on the floor. As usual the others deferred to Drummond, who, next to Gilliver, personified the group's version of human perfection.

"We thank you for getting us out, Jamie."

De Wynter did not spare himself. "What else could I do? I was me one who put you in. Believe me, my friends, not for all the wealth in the world, not for my son Jamie nor my country, would I have knowingly subjected you to such an ordeal."

"We knew mat. We can guess how you had us put in." Drummond grinned knowingly and de Wynter loved him again. "But how did you get us out?"

"That was the easiest part. All I had do was make a small promise."

Menzies was the first to voice his suspicions. "What small promise?"

"The king and his archbishop on behalf of country and Church have seen fit to attempt to disgrace me. They charged me with adultery—"

Cameron interrupted approvingly, "Good for you, you made the Boleyn." "No, as matter of fact, I did not." "Then who—?"

"Margaret Tudor." He could almost enjoy their cries of outraged amazement. "Her?"

"What's new about that?"

Drummond, not easily diverted from the scent, returned to the point. "You mentioned a small promise?"

"To join the Order of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem and Malta."

The others were stunned by such news, all but Drummond. "That seems not a very small promise to me."

It was as if he and de Wynter were the only two in the room.

"In the weighing, it seemed small."

"As compared to what? Our lives, perhaps?"

"Perhaps." To deny the truth would have been fruitless; besides, a touch of guilt might make his task easier. "Think on it. On the one
hand, scandal and disgrace whatever the results of the trial. On the other, a life of adventure, of travel to exotic lands, rich ransoms, all the fighting I could ask for, and all in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ and His Apostle, St. John."

"You never struck me as a particularly religious man," Drummond observed, not fooled at all by the fake enthusiasm de Wynter had mustered.

"Comes a time in every man's life when he grows closer to his Maker."

"Amen," came the weak response from the pallet. Gilliver had roused at the speaking of his Savior's name. Raising himself onto one elbow with great difficulty, he looked the face of death, yet his eyes glowed with the fervor of a zealot. "Jamie, I beg you, let me go with you. I too would fight for Christ."

De Wynter hurried to his side. "Lie back, little friend, save your strength." Gilliver was too exhausted to protest, but one hand clutched his friend's sleeve with surprising strength, not letting go until he had extracted a promise that he too could join the order.

De Wynter, staring down at his weakened friend, cursed himself for what his lusting had done to one who had trusted him totally. Never again, he vowed silently, will your love for me cause you anguish. I swear it.

"And what of us, Jamie?" Drummond asked.

De Wynter paused a moment or two to compose his thoughts, for here came the ticklish part. "Are we not companions?" he temporized.

But Drummond cut through to the quick. "Was that small promise more inclusive than you mentioned earlier?"

De Wynter couldn't trust himself to speak; instead, he shrugged in that typically Gallic way he had. The rest read the answer aright. Not for a long moment did anyone speak; then it was usually taciturn Angus:

"I ha' always wanted to see more of the world than our wee highlands."

"Aye," confirmed Ogilvy.

Drummond, too, could put a brave face on it. "Fighting for God would be a welcome change. I think I'd like that."

"Talk of travel and fighting all you want," Menzies groused, "but you all forget to mention that the order's celibate."

"Celibate?" Cameron protested, horrified. "You mean as in no women? Jamie, I beg you, tell me it isn't-so!"

The others smiled in spite of themselves at the look of desolation on their lusty companion's face. But before de Wynter could answer, the huge door to the room creaked open, and in walked a knight wearing a floor-length surcoat, a red cross boldly emblazoned upon chest and back. He was not a young man, nor particularly old. But his face belied the more youthful-looking body. It was a face stamped with character, sharply chiseled, weather-beaten. The eyes told of worldly dungs they had seen and dangers they had survived. There's a battler, de Wynter thought. He's a tough one hiding behind the cloth. He would never best you with his size, but with his head. And that's the kind to have on your side when the going is rough.

The knight surveyed the room. The group looked a sorry sight, but no one knew better than John Carlby how desperately the order needed fighting men. Having been nearly decimated by the forces of Suleiman, the order was beleaguered. Driven from their fortress on Rhodes, the remnants of the order were attempting to fortify Malta, make it their new headquarters. The need for fighting men had convinced Carlby to abandon his claim to Hampton Court. It was a claim—no one knew better than he—which was somewhat spurious and would have been nearly impossible to press, especially through Henry's own courts.