by Robyn Young
Will’s fingers reached out, ready to wrap around the handle of the knife. But he stopped short of touching the blade. He exhaled sharply, aware that he had been holding his breath. Growling a curse, he stuffed the shirt around the blade and bundled it back into the sack. He would return it to the kitchen later, before anyone missed it.
The door opened and Robert entered. “What are you doing in here?”
Will kicked the sack under his pallet. “Nothing.”
“Didn’t you hear the bell?”
Will realized the monotonous clanging was continuing outside.
“He’s here,” said Robert grimly. “You should come.”
Will crossed to the door. He glanced back at the pallet, then headed out.
The main courtyard of the London Temple, which led on to Akeman Street, was crowded with men. A group of finely caparisoned horses was being led toward the stables. Will halted. Walking toward him, beside the master of England, was Edward.
If age had altered Will’s comrades, that was nothing compared with what the years had wrought upon the English king. They had taken the haughty young man he had last seen twenty-three years ago and changed him beyond recognition. True, he retained his athletic figure and his impressive height that lifted him above most other men, but there the similarity ended. Will had been imagining a face still framed by dark hair, but now, at fifty-six, Edward’s hair was as white as a swan’s feathers. His beard was silvery, clipped close to the line of his jaw, underlining the hardness of his face, and the slight droop in his eye had become more prominent. He looked a little stiff as he walked, although with his broadsword slung from his hip and his stride purposeful, he seemed as vigorous as all the younger men around him.
As Edward approached, followed by a multitude of royal guards and advisors, his eyes fell on Will. For a few seconds there was no sign of recognition, then his face filled with alertness. “Campbell.”
The master of England, a youthful, energetic man with black curly hair called Brian le Jay, looked from the king to Will, who, unlike the other knights, didn’t bow as Edward paused. “You know one of our brothers, my lord?”
“Of old,” said Edward, not taking his eyes off Will. His French was poised and perfect.
“Commander.”
Will glanced to Edward’s right and saw Hugues staring at him intently.
“Bow,” mouthed the Visitor.
They were all looking at him. A frown was creasing Brian le Jay’s face. Hugues’s command was unassailable. Setting his jaw, Will inclined his head in Edward’s direction. A flicker of satisfaction appeared in the king’s eyes, then le Jay moved in and the frozen moment passed.
“My lord,” said the English master, motioning Edward to the Chapter House. “Grand Master de Molay is waiting. We should join him.”
Will followed, Robert close at his side. His eyes didn’t leave Edward as they filed into the chamber. The grand master was seated on a dais beside a small man with a tonsured head, who Will guessed was Bertrand de Got. Jacques rose to greet Edward as the king ascended the dais and took his place on one of the empty seats, along with Brian le Jay and Hugues, while the knights and royal advisors crammed into benches on the floor. Jacques remained standing as the Chapter House doors were shut.
“Almost two hundred years ago, Hugues de Payns journeyed east with eight fellow knights. The first Crusaders had captured Jerusalem for Christendom, and the Holy City had become a place of pilgrimage. Here, Hugues, a young nobleman under the vassalage of the Count of Champagne, saw the perils confronting so many Christians who wished to travel to the holy places. Determined that these men and women should be allowed to tread the sands where Christ himself had walked, freely, without fear of assault or death at the hands of the Saracens, he established an order of knights, whose purpose it would be to safeguard these pilgrims.” Jacques’s voice was resonant. The men were silent, listening to the familiar story. “Hugues de Payns was the first grand master and although our order expanded from those beginnings into the realms of politics and trade, growing more influential every year, his mission remained at our core. We are the guardians of the Holy Land. It is what we were created for. It is our sole purpose.” He shook his head. “No, the purpose of our soul.”
Will was surprised. Jacques, a man of sparse words who, like many men in the Temple, could neither read nor write, wasn’t normally given to such articulacy. He noticed that the grand master’s scribe, seated in the front row, was nodding in time with the speech, and guessed he’d had a lot to do with it.
“And that is why our task there is not ended. I am proud to be the twenty-third grand master of this order and, as all those before me, I will not rest until the Holy Land is liberated for God and for Christendom.”
Applause followed his words. The expressions of the men on the dais, however, were mixed. Brian le Jay was listening with respectful interest, Hugues was staring pensively at the floor, Bertrand de Got was nodding vigorously, while Edward’s face, cool and impassive, revealed nothing of his thoughts at all.
Jacques turned to the bishop. “I believe I and Pope Boniface want the same things.”
Bertrand rose, smoothing down his robe. “That is true, Master de Molay, and you speak most eloquently in echoing the papacy’s desires. But I have talked at length with His Holiness and we feel your men alone cannot accomplish the enormous task of reclaiming the Holy Land from the Saracens and that is why he proposes the Temple joins forces with the Hospital; that both these noble, ancient orders might, in strength, achieve this aim.”
Murmurs of discontent rippled through the Chapter House, although nothing like the outrage Will had expected, leading him to believe that most of the men already knew the purpose of the assembly.
Jacques was silent for a moment. “That can never happen.”
Bertrand looked taken aback at the change in Jacques, from graceful orator into gruff commander. “But, Master de Molay, this is why we have met, to discuss this. Surely you will hear my thoughts?”
“I do not need to. I have made up my mind. I would welcome the Knights of St. John joining us in a new Crusade, but as a separate order, as we have always been.”
“There is a fear that your rivalry with the Hospitallers may have contributed to the loss of the Holy Land.” Bertrand raised his hands as some of the knights protested. “I merely state what others perceive to be true.”
“Our rivalry was a help, not a hindrance. It pushed our orders to compete to do the best for Christendom. On the field of battle, one of us would command the van, the other would take the rear.”
“This would all remain the same,” argued the bishop. “The only difference being that you would be carrying the same banners.” A stony silence greeted his words. “Surely?”
“And what about my men?” questioned Jacques, motioning to Hugues and Brian le Jay. “We could not have two visitors, two masters of England. What about myself? I can say with certainty that the grand master of the Hospital would be as loath as I to give up his position. Many would be demoted and knights used to one commander would find themselves reporting to someone new whom they may have previously considered a rival. What you propose would not result in a unified force, but a discontented, disorganized rabble that would get as far as Marseille before it started attacking itself.”
Bertrand pursed his lips. Looking around, seeking assistance, his gaze fell on Edward. “My lord, you were an advocate for this debate. What are your thoughts?” Bertrand returned to his place, looking relieved, as the king took the stage.
“I would welcome a Crusade.”
Watching Edward, Will felt blood begin to pound in his temples. He sat forward.
“But presently, I am preoccupied with other matters.” The king turned to Jacques as Bertrand frowned. “As you may be aware, the Scots under John Balliol have signed a treaty with King Philippe of France. I had hoped we would be able to settle this reasonably, as civilized men. Now I see that when it comes to these people such a th
ing is impossible. The treaty constitutes a declaration of war, one I must answer swiftly and resolutely. Yesterday I ordered that all Scots in England be arrested.”
Will gripped the bench.
“My lord,” Jacques interjected, “we have Scotsmen among our number.”
“Templars will be exempt from this.” Edward kept his flint eyes on Jacques. “You must understand the necessity of this. The Scots have agreed with Philippe to take aggressive action against me. I cannot allow them any safe haven within the bounds of my kingdom from where they might strike.”
After a pause, the grand master nodded. “No. Indeed.”
Bertrand was staring bewildered at Edward, as if he had expected the king to say something else entirely. “My lord, with respect, you are talking here of going to war with another Christian nation, when what we have gathered to discuss is the recapture of the Holy Land from the hands of nonbelievers. This must be our priority!”
“Unlike the Church, Bishop, I do not have the luxury of choosing my enemies. Philippe and the Scots have raised arms against me. I would be failing my people and my position if I did not respond.” Edward looked back at Jacques. “I am preparing to head north to counter Balliol, but with my brother leading English forces in Gascony and others of my commanders overseeing the suppression of the Welsh revolt, I am diminished. I have need of disciplined warriors and heavy cavalry. To this end, I seek the support of the Temple.”
Will was relieved to see that the grand master looked unimpressed.
“The very reason I have journeyed here, my lord, is to ask the aid of kings in raising men and arms. I did not expect to have to answer such a request myself. My men are needed in the East.”
Edward’s brow creased. He went to speak, but Hugues stood.
“My lords, might I suggest we bring this meeting to a close? With these unexpected matters now requiring our attention it would be prudent if we each are given time to think before making hasty decisions.” He looked at Jacques. “We could reconvene tomorrow.”
The grand master nodded. “Very well, Visitor de Pairaud. My lord?”
Edward paused, then inclined his head.
“I too am in favor of this,” said Bertrand stiffly, shooting an aggrieved look at the king.
As the company began to rise, the knights talking among themselves, Will sat back, his eyes on Edward, who swept down the aisle and out of the Chapter House, followed by his train of officials and guards.
Someone in Paris had signed a piece of parchment. Now England and Scotland were at war.
THE TOWER, LONDON, JANUARY 7, 1296 AD
Hugues paused at the top of the stairs that curled down into darkness. A putrid smell of decay drifted up to him. He glanced at the man beside him.
“Down there, sir,” insisted the guard, jerking his head toward the stairs.
Taking them carefully, Hugues descended. For a moment, he found himself in pitch blackness and had to feel his way down the steep, uneven steps, his fingers pressing into the damp stone to either side. Gradually, the ruddy glow of torchlight stained the way ahead and he could see again. Stepping confidently down the last few steps, he entered an arched passageway. The smell here was overwhelming, a thick, animal reek. Hugues breathed thinly through his mouth. At the end of the passage, the torchlight was brighter and he could see figures moving. Five rough-looking guards turned to him as he headed into a wider corridor, the right-hand side of which was lined with stout doors. “I was told to come here,” said Hugues, in awkward English. He heard a muffled scream from somewhere.
“I’ll take you to him, sir,” said one of the guards. “He’s expecting you.” As Hugues followed, the guard motioned to the left. “Keep to this side and watch where you’re walking.”
Glancing down, the visitor saw that the passage floor was sloped, with a channel cut out of the stone running through the center. It was filled with viscous, oily liquid.
“You don’t want to step in their filth, sir.”
Knowing the source of the stench made it worse. Hugues resisted the urge to clamp his hand over his nostrils as the guard stopped at one of the doors, unhooked a set of keys from his belt and dug one in the lock. There was another scream, this time much closer. The guard pushed open the door.
Beyond, in a cramped cell, were four men. Three of them looked around as Hugues entered, but the fourth, who was hanging by his wrists from a chain looped through a hook on the ceiling, didn’t raise his head. There was a burned, meaty smell in the confined chamber that reminded Hugues uncomfortably of roasted pork.
“Visitor de Pairaud.”
Hugues bowed, looking from King Edward to the figure dangling limply from the chain in front of him. The man wore only a stained loincloth and his bare skin was livid, soaked with sweat in the scorching heat coming from a brazier of burning coals. The sand on the floor around him was congealed with blood. It ran thickly down his torso from cuts that marked his chest alongside several charred wounds. Hugues guessed the burned patches had been made by the branding iron one of the other two men, both guards, was wielding and the meaty smell made him feel suddenly nauseous. “Should I return later, my lord?”
“No,” replied Edward curtly. “I will speak to you now.”
Hugues’s nose wrinkled as the prisoner coughed bloody drool into the sand. “Who is he?”
“A Scottish spy.” Edward moved to the side of the cell and nodded to the guard, who thrust the iron into the heart of the glowing coals. Sparks crackled and fizzed. A deep shudder ran through the prisoner at the sound. “He crawled his way like a maggot into my household months ago. He has been spying on me, waiting to report back to his masters. It is a good thing my men unearthed him when they did, or the Scots might have known my battle strategy before the vanguard left London.”
“That isn’t true,” rasped the prisoner. “I’m innocent!”
Edward snapped his fingers at the guard, who withdrew the brand, its tip now smoldering orange. “Again.”
The man howled as the guard pressed the fiery brand to his chest. Hairs burned and flesh bubbled. He swung forward, his legs giving out. “Dear God. No . . . m-more!” He was panting harshly.
Edward leaned in. “Then tell me what I want to hear. Did you get word to Balliol? Does he know of my plans?”
“No,” breathed the man. There was silence for a long moment. Slowly, the man raised his head. “But it does not matter. He will still be ready for you.”
“There, you see,” Edward murmured.
“My people will slaughter you, you false-hearted bastard.” The man clenched his eyes shut and threw back his head. “Long live King John!”
“Kill him.”
One of the guards stepped forward, his sword rasping in his scabbard as he unsheathed it. He plunged it into the man’s belly, ripping through muscle and bowel with one cruel twist.
“These people came to me for help,” said Edward, as the man buckled over the sword and began to grunt. “They came to me after the death of their king and his only heir, and begged for my help. At great expense to myself, I set up a trial to determine the rightful claimant to their throne.” He turned to Hugues. “Once John Balliol was chosen and enthroned, order was restored to their kingdom. I believed they would be grateful. I was mistaken.” The prisoner sagged forward as the sword was withdrawn, in a rush of blood and fluid. Edward moved to the door, which was opened for him by the other guard. “I need the Temple’s assistance. You must persuade Jacques to give me the men to put down Balliol’s rebellion.”
Tearing his gaze from the dying man, Hugues followed Edward into the passageway. “That may be difficult, my lord. Jacques is set on his Crusade. I doubt he will want any resources diverted from that cause.” Hugues squinted against the growing light as they headed up to a windswept courtyard, dominated by a huge shed that housed the royal menagerie.
Edward turned abruptly, stopping Hugues at the top step. “He might, if all talk of merging the Temple with the Knights of St. John wa
s silenced.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I know Bertrand de Got. He may appear a feeble pedant, but he does have the ear of the pope. He could persuade Boniface from this proposition, given the right encouragement from me. We have always had good relations in the past, you and I. You have given me aid when I have asked for it before. Do not fail me now.”
“What of your pledge to me, my lord? With Acre lost, the Temple needs a secure base. The Hospitallers are established on Cyprus and the Teutonic Knights now have a firm hold on Prussia. We must follow their example and seek an empire of our own, safe from the interference of secular authorities and the whim of the Church. We have always relied on our reputation to generate support: funds and potential recruits from the nobility, special privileges from kings. Now our standing is diminished, we must look to things of greater permanence to ensure the continuation of our order. Foremost of our needs is land.”
“And I will be in a much better position to help you secure this when the Scottish rebels are put down. Perhaps Scotland could even provide a useful base for your order? You already have preceptories there. I’m sure we could come to some arrangement.”
Hugues was quiet. “I will do what I can,” he said finally. “I will try to persuade Jacques to aid you. But in return, all talk of us being merged with the Hospital must stop. The whereabouts of our new base can be decided in due course.”
Edward moved out into the yard, allowing Hugues to step into the daylight. The braying of an animal in pain sounded from the shed. “What of Campbell? He is your head and more of Everard’s stock. I doubt he will agree to this. He is Scottish, after all.”
“Campbell may be head of the Brethren, but I am visitor. He will yield to my authority.”
5
New Temple, London
JANUARY 8, 1296 AD
As Will entered the Chapter House with the other knights, he scanned the chamber. Hugues was at the front with Jacques. Seating himself on one of the benches near the dais, Will tried to catch the visitor’s eye.
