by Robyn Young
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
PART ONE
Chapter 1 - Bordeaux, the Kingdom of France
Chapter 2 - The Banks of the Seine, Paris
Chapter 3 - The Jewish Quarter, Paris
Chapter 4 - New Temple, London
Chapter 5 - New Temple, London
Chapter 6 - The Royal Palace, Paris
Chapter 7 - Midlothian, Scotland
Chapter 8 - Berwick-upon-Tweed, Scotland
Chapter 9 - The Temple, Paris
Chapter 10 - The Royal Castle, Edinburgh
Chapter 11 - Midlothian, Scotland
Chapter 12 - Selkirk Forest, Scotland
Chapter 13 - Selkirk Forest, Scotland
Chapter 14 - The English Camp, Stirling, Scotland
Chapter 15 - Selkirk Forest, Scotland
Chapter 16 - Falkirk Battleground, Scotland
Chapter 17 - The Docks, Paris
PART TWO
Chapter 18 - Notre Dame, Paris
Chapter 19 - The Sainte-Chapelle, Paris
Chapter 20 - Near Bordeaux, the Kingdom of France
Chapter 21 - The Royal Palace, Paris
Chapter 22 - Near Château Vincennes, the Kingdom of France
Chapter 23 - Ferentino, Italy
Chapter 24 - Anagni, Italy
Chapter 25 - The Royal Palace, Paris
Chapter 26 - Outside Bordeaux, the Kingdom of France
Chapter 27 - Château Vincennes, the Kingdom of France
Chapter 28 - Bordeaux Cathedral, the Kingdom of France
Chapter 29 - Château Vincennes, the Kingdom of France
Chapter 30 - Near Bordeaux, the Kingdom of France
Chapter 31 - The Royal Palace, Paris
PART THREE
Chapter 32 - The Temple, Paris
Chapter 33 - The Sainte-Chapelle, Paris
Chapter 34 - Franciscan Monastery, Poitiers
Chapter 35 - The Rue du Temple, Paris
Chapter 36 - The Road to Carlisle, the Kingdom of England
Chapter 37 - Franciscan Monastery, Poitiers
Chapter 38 - The Temple, Paris
Chapter 39 - The Temple, Paris
Chapter 40 - The Louvre, Paris
Chapter 41 - Franciscan Priory, Poitiers
Chapter 42 - The Louvre, Paris
Chapter 43 - Argyll, the Kingdom of Scotland
Chapter 44 - The Royal Palace, Paris
Chapter 45 - The Royal Palace, Paris
Chapter 46 - Argyll, the Kingdom of Scotland
Author’s Note
Character List
Glossary
Select Bibliography
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY ROBYN YOUNG
Brethren
Crusade
DUTTON
Published by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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First published in the United Kingdom by Hodder & Stoughton under the title Requiem
Published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First printing, February 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Robyn Young
All rights reserved
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eISBN : 978-1-440-68573-6
Map © Sandra Oakins
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Acknowledgments
By the time this book is published, the Brethren trilogy will have been almost a decade in the making. It has taken not only time to create, but also a great deal of support from family and friends, and from experts who have willingly shared their knowledge along the way. This is a small token of my gratitude to those people.
Thank you to Deborah Druba and all at Univers Poche for the warm welcome to Paris and for introducing me to Joffrey Seguin, who showed me the city’s hidden medieval past. Thanks also to Alison Weir for generously sharing her research notes on Philippe IV and to Christine Tomkins for the translation of the French texts.
Many thanks to all those who took the time to talk to me so informatively and passionately about the history of the sites I visited in Scotland, particularly Allan Kennedy at the Bannockburn Heritage Centre, David Frame at Stirling Castle and Sarah at the Berwick-upon-Tweed tourist information centre for help finding a useful history of the town.
My gratitude to Steven Charlton for the unforgettable experiences with his birds of prey. Thanks to Wayne de Strete, Jeff Baker, Karl Alexander, Mark Griffin and Seán George at Stunt Action Specialists for the invasion of Canterbury and for teaching me the best methods of doing away with one’s enemies. Thanks also to Mark for the reading suggestions and for checking over the battles.
Much appreciation is due to the Third Monday Club for their editorial support and many thanks go to Dr. Mark Philpott at the Centre for Medieval & Renaissance Studies and Keble College, Oxford, for checking over the manuscripts.
A huge thank you goes to my agent, Rupert Heath, for believing in the trilogy from the start and for many laughs along the way. Thanks also to Dan Conaway at Writers House.
I am indebted to everyone at Hodder & Stoughton for the enthusiasm they have brought to the trilogy and for making every step such an enjoyable one. In particular I would like to thank my editor, Nick Sayers, but also Anne, Emma, Tara, Kelly, Laurence, Lucy, Richard, Aslan, Melissa, Laura, Helen and all the Hodder reps. Special thanks go to Toni, Charlotte and Emma for organizing the fantastic launch, and last, but not least, I want to thank Alasdair Oliver and Larry Rostant for the breathtaking artwork.
Many thanks go to the team at Dutton for their commitment to the trilogy, with much grat
itude to my American editor, Julie Doughty. Indeed, I would like to thank all my editors and publishing teams for their hard work.
Lastly, my heartfelt thanks go to my family and friends for allowing me to share with them the highs and lows of this often incredible, frequently challenging, sometimes terrifying, always rewarding process. Most of all, my love to Lee: collaborator, critic, research assistant, fellow celebrator and so very much more.
Requiem aeternam dona eis, domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.
(“Eternal rest give them, O Lord, and let everlasting light shine upon them.”)
—Introit to the Mass for the Dead
Prologue
As the young man knelt, the iron cold of the floor seeped through the thin material of his hose. He felt the stone, hard and unyielding, bruising him, but the discomfort was reassuring; the flagstones beneath him were the only thing in the chamber that felt solid. A fog of incense hung in shifting layers, stinging his eyes. It was a bitter smell that reminded him of burning leaves. He didn’t know what it was, but it wasn’t the serene frankincense that always welcomed him into church. Around him, shadows stole across the walls, nebulous and unfamiliar, as figures passed by candles that sputtered in holders on the ground, placed so far apart that the quivering points of fire cast little real light and served only to blind and disorient him further. A few yards away to his left the floor was spattered with a substance that gleamed wetly. Here, in this dimness, it looked almost black, but in daylight the young man knew it would be a bright, shocking red. He could still smell its sharp, metallic odor, even over the pungent incense, and he swallowed tightly, a plug of nausea clogging his throat.
This wasn’t what he had expected. Part of him was glad of that; he might not have gone through with it had he known what would be asked of him this night. The only things that kept him here, doing as he was bid, were the presence of the men in the shadows and the fear of what would happen if he refused. But he didn’t want to show weakness. He wanted to do this right, despite his trepidation, and so he stared straight ahead, his chest, bare and pale, thrust forward, hands, slick with sweat, clasped tightly behind his back.
Now the men had stopped moving and the chamber had fallen silent again, he could hear faint birdsong coming through the high windows, all covered with heavy black cloth. It must be almost dawn.
There was movement to his left. He saw a figure approaching and his stomach churned with apprehension. It was a man dressed in a shimmering cloak sewn from hundreds of overlapping circles of silk, all different shades of blue and pink: cobalt, sapphire, rose, violet. Here and there the material was shot through with silver thread that glistened whenever the candlelight caught it and created the impression that he was clad in the scales of a fish. The young man knew the figure was male, for he had spoken often during the ceremony, guiding him, commanding him, but so far his face had been concealed by a cowl, fashioned from the same material as the cloak, which hung down almost to his chest. It was surprising he could even see to walk. Under the cowl, his head appeared oddly misshapen and his voice, when he spoke, came out muffled and deep.
“You have chosen the path and it was wisely chosen. You have sworn the oaths and stood fast in the face of temptation and dread. Now is the final test and the most perilous. But obey me as you have pledged and all will be well.” The figure paused. “Will you obey me now and always?”
“I will,” breathed the young man.
“Then prove it,” snapped the figure, whipping back the cowl and dropping to a crouch before the young man, who recoiled from the grinning skull that was revealed, the candles on the floor up-lighting it, making the bone that much yellower and the huge, hollow eye sockets that much blacker.
Even though he knew it was just a mask, even though he caught a glimpse of dark human eyes through the sockets of the skull, his terror didn’t dissipate, and when a small gold cross was drawn from the folds of the fish-scale cloak and held in front of him, his heart seemed fit to explode in his chest.
“Spit on it.”
“What?”
“Denounce its power over you. Prove you are loyal to me alone, that you speak as one with your brothers.”
The young man’s eyes darted left and right as the men moved out of the shadows. They too wore masks: blood-red with the image of a white stag’s head painted on the front of each.
“Spit!” came the command again.
Feeling the men crowding in around him, blocking out the frail candlelight, the young man leaned forward over the proffered cross. He collected saliva in his dry mouth with difficulty. Closing his eyes, he spat.
PART ONE
1
Bordeaux, the Kingdom of France
NOVEMBER 23, 1295 AD
Mathieu’s palms were slick with sweat. He gripped his broadsword tighter and, seeking reassurance, glanced right to where his commander was hunched in a fighting stance. But the man’s gaze was fixed on the double doors at the end of the hall. As Mathieu watched, an oily line of perspiration trickled down the side of his face. The thunderous crash came again, making the doors shudder violently and causing the nine guards lined up in the hall to flinch. In the near hush that followed, their breaths surged, sharp and shallow. Moments later, another brutal impact rocked the wood. This time, there was no brief reprieve. The doors splintered and burst apart, shards of oak exploding into the hall, thumping against tapestries and skittering across the flagstones. There was a wrenching, tearing sound as the iron-headed ram was pulled back out of the wreckage and soldiers poured in through the breach.
Mathieu felt a vertiginous rush of fear. For a second, he was paralyzed by it. Incoherent prayers and protestations babbled through his mind. He was only nineteen. This wasn’t what he had imagined when his father secured him this post. Dear God, let me be spared. Then, hearing his commander yell the order for attack and seeing his comrades racing forth to meet the incoming soldiers, he forced himself forward. A soldier came up on him, all too fast. Mathieu had time to see a kite-shaped shield with an iron boss, rising in a flash of blue and scarlet, matching the surcoat the man wore, then he was cutting up with his broadsword to block the blow that was aimed at his head. All around him, the other guards clashed with their attackers, a chaos of blades and bodies. In the confined space, the clang of steel echoed harshly, along with the ear-splitting cracks of swords striking shields and the ring and stamp of mailed boots. Unlike the soldiers, who were clad in long mail shirts and iron pot helms, the guards wore only studded leather gambesons and padded cuisses to protect their torsos and thighs.
Mathieu gritted his teeth as the soldier swung in again, the ferocious concussion of the blow almost beating the sword from his hand. He wanted to turn and run, but the soldier was forcing him back, cutting and jabbing, and now he was almost at the wall and there was nowhere to go. He let out a cry of frustration as he tried to push the soldier away and the man refused to give ground. Sweat was stinging his eyes, blinding him. There was no room to move. He dodged a rapid lunge aimed at his side, swiped away another that came in at his chest, then struck out clumsily. The soldier ducked left, avoiding the strike. Scarlet and blue filled Mathieu’s vision as the soldier’s shield, with its iron boss, punched up into his face. He felt pain shoot through him. Blood burst from his nose and mouth, and he staggered into the wall, his sword going wide. A moment later there was an awful piercing sensation high up in his side, followed by a sickening agony. The soldier’s blade had plunged into the soft flesh below his armpit, where there was none of the leather armor to protect him. Mathieu screamed as the man slammed his gloved palm against the pommel, driving the blade home with a grunt of effort.
He felt his broadsword slip from his fingers. Across the hall, he saw more soldiers forcing their way through the mangled doors to aid the others. But there was little need; his comrades were outnumbered and outmatched. It had all happened so quickly. From the main house they had seen the guards at the gatehouse cut down and the soldiers had come, riding f
uriously through the grounds, barely giving them time to bolt the doors. The blade in his side was withdrawn with a rush of blood. As he was sinking to the floor, Mathieu saw one of his comrades go down, doubling over the sword that punctured his stomach. The others were scrabbling back in a ragged line toward the stairs that swept up to a gallery. Dimly, he heard shouting somewhere above him, but before he could fathom its source, he collapsed, leaving a red smear on the wall behind him.
The shouting grew louder, sounding over the din in the hall, as a man descended. One by one, the soldiers halted, allowing the fleeing guards to retreat. The man kept on yelling as he sprinted down the last few stairs, his French barely coherent. Brandishing a sword, he moved past his guards up to the soldiers, all of whom had now stopped, their breaths coming fast through their helmets. They held their ground and the man paused several feet from them, taking in their surcoats. The fact that he recognized the uniforms was no comfort. “What is the meaning of this?” His voice shook with fear as well as anger, but he held the sword steady. “How dare you assault my property. My men!” He threw a hand toward the bodies of his fallen guards, his eyes lingering briefly on the crumpled form of Mathieu, the youngest. “Who is your commander? I demand to speak to him.” There was silence. “Answer me!”
“You can speak to me, Lord Pierre de Bourg.” A man entered, looking around as he stepped over the debris of the front doors. He appeared to be in his early thirties and had a long face, brown eyes and a sallow, faded complexion, as if he had once been much darker, but hadn’t seen sun in a long time. His hair was covered by a white silk coif and he wore a full-length riding cloak that hung neatly from his thin shoulders, making him appear both broader and taller than he actually was. The cloak was plain, but exquisitely tailored, with a small metal boss sewn on either side of the chest through which was looped a silver chain that fastened the garment in place.
