distinctions are obvious, but I found myself traveling, on several occasions, in directions that I had never anticipated. Of course, as a writer of fiction, such tangential wanderings can be part and parcel of the voyage, and in this story of mine, I have borrowed from a few of them. By and large, however, I decided to rely upon respectability, and so restricted my later reading to works of generally accepted provenance. I thought, too, about including a bibliography here, then decided that it was much simpler to mention the half dozen wonderful books that I used most, mainly in keeping my story straight. They are:
Once again, and as always, I am acutely aware of the debt of gratitude I owe to the Penguin Group production team. They are consistently dependable and reliable—not always exactly the same thing—and even when they are cracking the whip across my dilatory shoulders, they manage to do it subtly enough and with sufficient finesse and panache that my pain is lessened somehow by my admiration of the pink tissue paper they use to cover the metal barbs … And among the Penguins, associated with them, are two paragons: Catherine Marjoribanks, my story editor, and Shaun Oakey, my astounding copy editor … amazing people, both of them. To all, my thanks.
Read on for Chapter One of Jack
Whyte’s exciting new novel,
ORDER IN CHAOS
ONE
THE WOMAN AT THE GATES
Aman with no eyes could have seen that something was wrong up ahead, and Tam Sinclair’s eyes were perfect. His patience, however, was less so. The afternoon light was settling into dusk, and Tam was reduced to immobility after three days of hard traveling and within a half-mile of his goal. The reins of his tired team now hung useless in his hands as a growing crowd of people backed up ahead of him, blocking his way and crowding too close to his horses, making them snort and stomp and toss their heads nervously. Tam felt himself growing angry at the press around him, a purely instinctual reaction that had nothing to do with logic. He did not like being among large numbers of people at the best of times, but when they were compressed in a solid crowd, as they were now, his sensibilities revolted against the stink of their unwashed bodies, combining as they did to deprive him of the simple pleasure of taking a deep breath.
“Ewan!”
“Aye!” One of the two young men who had been lounging and talking to each other among the covered shapes of the wagon’s cargo sat up and reached to pull himself upright, to where he could lean easily with braced arms on the high driver’s bench, facing forward, his eyes level with the older man’s burly shoulder. “Whoa! Where did all the people come from all of a sudden? What’s happening?”
“If I knew that I wouldn’t have had to interrupt your debate wi’ your young friend.” Tam glanced sideways at the other man, quirking his mouth, which was almost concealed by his grizzled beard, into what might have been a grin or a grimace of distaste. “I need you to go up there to the gates and find out what’s going on and how long we’re to be stuck here. Maybe somebody’s had a fit or dropped dead. If that’s the case—and I don’t care whether it is or not—I’ll thank you to find us another route into the city before they lock the gates. My arse is sore and full o’ splinters from this damned seat, and I’m pining to hear the noisy clatter as we tip this load o’ rusty rubbish into the smelter’s yard. So just find out how long we’ll be stuck here and, if it’s to be a while, see if there’s another gate close enough for us to reach afore curfew. And be quick. I don’t want to be sleepin’ outside these walls this night. Away wi’ ye now.”
“Right.” Young Ewan placed a hand on the high side of the wagon and vaulted over it, dropping effortlessly to the cobbled surface of the roadway and pushed his way quickly into the crowd. La Rochelle was France’s greatest and busiest port, and the high, narrow gates of its southern entrance, directly ahead of him, were fronted by a wide, funnel-shaped approach that narrowed rapidly as it neared the checkpoints manned by the city guards.
Tam watched him go and then swung down after the boy, albeit not quite so lithely. The wagon driver was a strong-looking man, still in the prime of life, but the ability to do everything his apprentices could do physically was something he had gladly abandoned years before. Glancing incuriously and intolerantly now at the people closest to him, he moved to where a small oaken barrel hung, securely fastened with multiple bindings of hempen rope to the side of the wagon. He took the hanging dipper in one hand and raised the barrel’s loose-fitting lid with the other, then brought the brimming ladle of cool water to his lips and held it there in front of his face as he looked about him, seeing nothing out of place or anything that might explain the blockage ahead. The only thing he noticed was that there seemed to be a heavy presence of guards with crossbows lining the walkways above and on either side of the high gates, but none of them appeared to be particularly interested in anything happening below.
In the meantime, Ewan had moved forward aggressively, anonymous among the crowd and aware that he was not the only one trying to find out what was happening and why they were all being detained, and as he drew closer to the gates, he found it increasingly difficult to penetrate the noisy, neck-craning throng. He was eventually forced to use his wide shoulders and young muscles to clear a passage for himself, elbowing and thrusting his way single-mindedly towards the front, ignoring the deafening babble of shouting voices around him. But then, when he was almost there and, by standing on tiptoe and craning his neck, could see the crested helmet of the Corporal of the Guard, he became aware of louder, shriller voices being raised directly ahead of him, shouting in fear and alarm. Then three men came charging towards him, plowing through the crowd, pulling and hauling at people as they went, trying to run, their faces frantic and wide-eyed with fear. Something had terrified them, clearly, but Ewan had no notion of what it might be. One of them shouldered Ewan aside as he surged by, but the young man regained his balance easily and swung around to watch the three of them scrambling into the throng behind him, dodging and weaving as they sought to lose themselves among the crush, in the safety of the packed bodies of those who had not yet realized anything was wrong.
But even as the apprentice watched, wide-eyed and still not comprehending, he saw something remarkable: like a living thing sensing the terror of the fleeing men, the crowd pulled itself away from them quickly, people pushing and pulling at their neighbors as they fought to run backwards, frantically trying to keep clear of the fugitives and thereby exposing them to the guards in front of and on top of the gate towers.
The single shout of the Corporal of the Guard ordering the fleeing men to halt went unheeded, and almost before the word had left his lips, the first crossbow bolt struck the cobblestones with a violent, clanging impact that stunned the crowd into instant, terrified silence. Shot from high overhead, above the gates, and too hastily aimed and loosed, the steel projectile caromed off the smooth, rounded surface of a worn cobblestone and was deflected upwards again, somehow emitting a shrieking, piercing squeal, its speed and strength diminished yet still powerful enough to hammer its point through the wooden water barrel from which Tam was drinking, shattering the staves and drenching him in a deluge of cold water that soaked his breeches and splashed loudly on the cobbles at his feet. Cursing in startled fright and consternation, Tam dropped onto the wet stones, landing on all fours, and immediately threw himself sideways in a roll that carried him to safety under the wagon’s bed as the air became
