by Robyn Young
“Rose.”
She looked up, her eyes locking on Philippe, framed in the doorway, then flicking to the figure beside him. As her gaze came to rest on the man’s face, all the color drained from hers. He was clean-shaven and looked younger without a beard. But his face was still the same. A host of disconnected feelings—loss, sadness, joy and hate—leapt in her at once.
Nogaret’s voice sounded from the king’s chamber. “My lord?”
Philippe turned to Will. “I will see you at dinner,” he said, heading back into the room, the servant closing the door.
Rose pressed herself against the wall as her father came toward her. “What are you doing here?” she whispered. He began to speak, but she held up her hands as if his words were wasps, swarming in to sting her. “No. I don’t want to hear it. No!” She scrabbled over the bed as he reached toward her.
“Rose, please!”
She stopped at the door and whirled around, spitting words of hate at him in French. It could be a hissing, seething language as well. A language of curses and judgments. She used every one she knew on him, before wrenching open the door.
PART TWO
18
Notre Dame, Paris
APRIL 10, 1302 AD
Philippe’s fingers tightened on the arms of the throne, conveyed from the palace that morning and placed on the dais, as Nogaret’s voice resounded. The rain lashing the arched windows sounded like stones being pelted against the stained glass and every now and then a growl of thunder drowned the minister’s words. It was mid-afternoon, but the sky, boiling with clouds, was black as night. A blaze of torches lit the long aisle of Notre Dame, although their shifting luminescence reached only as far as the first gallery and the angels above, hovering on their stone pillars, were shadows stretching into impenetrable space.
Philippe remembered the first time he set foot in the cathedral. His father had brought him from the royal estate at Vincennes. He couldn’t have been more than six years old. As he walked through the doors, his breath had been knocked from him at the vastness of it. Bending his neck back to stare at the ceiling, he wondered that he couldn’t see clouds drifting there, so close to heaven those heights seemed. He remembered too the discomfort he felt, standing in God’s house, how small and insignificant; an insect on the floor of a cavern. He felt it now, magnified by the gravity of the occasion, as Nogaret addressed the throng that packed the aisles.
“. . . and so, we have called upon you, men of the realm, to give your aid. For the very future and freedom of our kingdom is at stake.” Nogaret paused, letting murmurs whisper through the crowd. He motioned to the bench positioned to the right of Philippe’s throne. “My colleague, Pierre Flote, lord chancellor and keeper of the seals, shall now clarify for you the papal bull, Ausculta fili, that you may fully understand the severity of the Holy See’s actions against you and your king.”
There was an awkward moment before Pierre Flote rose, a roll of parchment gripped in his liver-spotted hands. His gaze lingered on Nogaret, who seated himself at the king’s side. Then, his voice lifting tremulously over the howling storm, the chancellor began to speak. “Pope Boniface has written to our gracious lord, King Philippe le Bel, grandson of St. Louis, pronouncing that he stands above our monarch in the temporal as well as spiritual realm, giving lie to the fact that a king is sovereign in his kingdom. He has demanded the release of the heretic, Bernard Saisset, bishop of Pamiers, a man who stands justly accused of treason against the crown. By this demand, the pope ignores the fact that our king remains, by law and right, master of all internal policies within his kingdom.” Flote stopped to clear his throat and seemed to struggle to make himself heard against the authority of the storm. “Furthermore, he has called for a synod at Rome, to be attended by all the bishops of France, at which he intends to charge our king with such heinous and unfounded abuses as debasing the kingdom’s coinage, suppressing subjects through violent measures and taxing the clergy without need or reason.” Flote looked down at the parchment. His voice became even quieter, causing Nogaret to shift on the bench and frown. “But what of Boniface’s abuses? What of the heavy tithes placed upon the churches of our land, which bleed their lifeblood into the coffers of Rome without sign of benefit? What of the pope’s suppression of his subjects, seen clearly in his groundless defamations of our noble king and his interference in secular affairs?”
As the charges against the pope were listed in Flote’s quavering tone, Philippe gripped the arms of his throne even tighter. His body felt as though it were being pressed in on itself by the immensity of the space around him, in which a thousand images of God and Christ, angels and saints could be seen, in statues and stained glass, murals and hangings, all glowering down at him. His throat felt constricted and he was sweating. He should feel proud, powerful, for the scene playing out around him was unprecedented in the history of France. It was the first time the three estates—Church, nobility and commoners—had been assembled in this way, and Notre Dame was packed with prelates, bishops, counts and dukes, lords and guild heads. But Philippe just felt queasy.
Events had moved swiftly since his arrest of the outspoken bishop, Bernard Saisset, too swiftly for him to retain control over them, with Nogaret and Flote pulling him in different directions. He wished briefly that he had held this council in the palace. The statement being made by the location in which he now moved openly against the Holy See wasn’t worth this terrible, crushing sensation. But despite his discomfort, he knew it had been the right decision. The clergy, the first estate, were the men most likely to resist his action against the pope and they needed to be shown that he, Philippe, raised on the dais in this soaring cathedral, was invested with the power not only of the state, but of God. He had already been given assurances in secret that the nobility and the burghers of the principal towns would support him, but even though it had been made plain to the clergy that they would become enemies of the crown should they oppose him, he still wasn’t convinced he would have their cooperation.
“In conclusion,” finished Flote, “we implore you to aid us in the defense of our liberties. Noblemen and burghers of the towns, we ask that you provide us with letters, signed by your representatives, that we may pass on to the pope and his cardinals, stating France will not become the puppet of Rome. Bishops and priests, give us your word that you will not attend the synod to which Boniface has summoned you, in protest at his unjust charges against your gentle king. Lord Philippe will hear your decisions within the hour.”
Philippe stood. All eyes were upon him as he walked across the dais, his robes sweeping behind him. As he disappeared in the shadows beyond the choir aisle, Nogaret followed, leaving Flote and the rest of the royal ministers to attend the throng, now stirring into agitated life.
Philippe touched his damp brow as one of the canons escorted him into the private chambers of the cathedral.
Nogaret’s face was livid, but he waited until the canon had retreated before turning to Philippe. “My lord, I feel obliged to lodge a protest against Chancellor Flote. He deliberately attempted to undermine our argument with that”—Nogaret’s teeth clenched—“limp oration.”
“Did I do the right thing?”
Nogaret halted. “My lord? Is everything all right? You look pale.”
Philippe met his gaze. “Answer me, Nogaret. Did I do the right thing? Should I have arrested Saisset?”
“Without doubt. He was fomenting unrest against you, confronting decisions you have made, ridiculing your rule. The man defamed your character, calling you a stupid owl, a witless—”
“All right,” snapped Philippe. He drew in a breath. “But there was no evidence of heresy. My confessor, Guillaume de Paris, believes the bishop to be innocent of such an unspeakable crime.”
Nogaret sucked his lip contemplatively. “We discussed this, my lord,” he began slowly. “The people are still led by the Church, by the old ways. They needed a strong reason, a reason they would understand for your arrest of a
prominent man of the cloth. And they understand heresy very well.”
“As do you,” retorted Philippe.
Nogaret went still, his pallid face frozen in the candlelight. Outside, rain hammered on the windows. When the minister spoke, his voice was low. “I do what is best for you, my lord, and what is best for the realm. My advice has always been to this end. If you wish to reign supreme in your kingdom, you must show yourself to be greater than priests and bishops, greater even than the pope, or your power will always be limited to what the Church is willing to dole out. Do you not want your people to proclaim you as a saint? To revere you in name and deed, as they did your grandfather?”
Philippe’s eyes fixed on a tapestry beyond Nogaret, which showed the Virgin and Child. From within the safety of Mary’s enfolding arms, the infant Christ stretched out a finger. His eyes were two black pools. “Yes,” Philippe whispered. “Yes, I do.”
“Then stand fast, my lord, and I swear I will help you achieve this.”
The council reconvened before the hour was up. The nobles and burghers gave elaborate speeches, announcing their full support, and read aloud letters of protest that would be sent to Rome. Philippe tensed when the bishop of Paris rose to speak for the clergy. The bishop spoke haltingly, as if choosing his words carefully, but it soon became clear the clergy would stand with their king, and Philippe eased back in his throne.
Surveying the clergymen, he saw anger and discontent on the faces of many, but also resignation. They had to obey him, or risk their benefices. His eyes fell on Bertrand de Got, standing near the front. The small man, dwarfed by his ecclesiastical robes, looked wan and weary, but showed no signs of rage. This pleased Philippe. De Got had been elected archbishop of Bordeaux two years ago and now had real power in the heart of Guienne, still in contention despite the truce with Edward. As much as he disliked the archbishop, Philippe needed to keep him on his side.
The bishop of Paris finished speaking and, after an imperious address from Nogaret thanking the men of France for their support, the first assembly of the estates-general was brought to a close.
“What did you think you were doing, Chancellor?” murmured Nogaret, catching Pierre Flote’s arm as the mass of men filed out of Notre Dame into the storm.
Flote glared at the minister and shrugged off his hand. “I did what I had to.”
“It was what our king commanded of you. You should have afforded it every importance and presented it with all skill. Instead you sounded like a timid choirboy at his first recital!”
“How dare you—”
“The only thing we can be grateful for is that you didn’t damage the verdict.”
Flote scoffed. “Verdict? We knew what it would be before the assembly began!”
“There was still danger from the Church. You could have jeopardized everything we have been working toward.”
Flote’s eyes went wide. “You talk to me about jeopardy? You are going to destroy France!” He led Nogaret into one of the side aisles. “Why are you conducting this travesty of a trial against Saisset? Is it some foolish display of power because I persuaded the king to concentrate on Flanders when you wanted to remain in Guienne?”
“I admit, I believe we should have continued our drive to regain control of the duchy, but that isn’t what—”
“I cannot believe you still don’t see the sense in this action! Flanders is just as wealthy, but far more controllable. It is ruled by a French vassal, not a foreign king, and whereas we have reached a stalemate with the English in Gascony, in Flanders we already stand victorious in battle. Now that our troops are stationed in Bruges and Ghent we have a far greater chance to bring the territory under our dominion.” Flote continued quickly when Nogaret went to interrupt. “If we control Flanders, we can influence King Edward. England relies on Flanders for the wool trade. We can gain power over them with this, perhaps come to an arrangement over Guienne. Can you not see the wisdom in this, Guillaume?”
Nogaret’s rigid expression didn’t change. “This isn’t about Flanders, or Gascony. This is about punishing men who commit treason. Saisset was damaging our lord’s reputation. He had to be arrested.”
“Have you forgotten your training? By that action you violated the laws of the Church! Bishops can only be judged in the Roman curia. Pope Boniface had every right to demand Saisset’s release.” Flote’s voice dropped to a murmur. “And every man in this cathedral knew that, whatever they said to appease our lord. All that is happening now will only serve to widen the schism growing between the royal and papal courts.”
“The wider the better. You heard the reports of Boniface’s Jubilee ceremony. A quarter of a million pilgrims journeyed to St. Peter’s at his promise of a remission of their sins, to be confronted by the spectacle of the pope planted on his throne, holding sword and scepter, yelling, I am Caesar!” Nogaret’s tone was scathing. “And now he has exiled or imprisoned as many of the Colonna family as he can find, Boniface has no one left to oppose his swelling arrogance. If he lived to usher in another new century, no doubt his cry would be I am God!”
Flote winced. “This isn’t a game, Nogaret. Your actions have seriously threatened France.” He held up the bull he’d had in his hands during his speech. “Did you even read this? The pope promises that unless Saisset is released, he will suspend all privileges granted to our kingdom by the Holy See.” He unrolled the parchment. “Come back, my dear son,” he read, “to the path of God, from which you have strayed, by your own faults, or else by evil counsel. Do not believe that you are without superior or free from my dominion as vicar of the earth. This indeed would be madness, for whosoever held such a belief would be an infidel, cut off from the flock.” Flote looked up. “Cut off from the flock. Don’t you see? He threatens excommunication.”
“He wouldn’t dare. Boniface needs the monies the Church in France provides him. That much was clear when we removed those funds and forced him to withdraw Clericis laicos. He backed down then. If we hold our nerve he will back down again. Now,” finished Nogaret, “I believe we both have our orders.” He moved to walk away.
Rage sparked in Flote, making him forget where he was. “You’re a Godless beast, Nogaret. A son of heretics! And I will do everything in my power to bring an end to your malign influence over our king.”
Nogaret turned back, his dark eyes fixing on Flote’s scarlet face. “I would be very careful, Chancellor, about exciting yourself in this way. You are not a young man anymore.”
ST. GERVAIS-ST. PROTAIS CHURCH, PARIS, MAY 25, 1302 AD
Taking a candle, Will held the wick in the flame of another until it sputtered into life. He placed it among the others before the altar and spoke a prayer, while the ivory statues of saints Gervais and Protais, the twin brothers martyred during the reign of Nero, looked sadly down. He felt someone move in beside him. A hand reached out from under a white mantle and chose a candle from the pile.
“Shall we sit?”
Will met Robert’s gaze, then motioned to the benches.
As they sat, a sacristan headed to the altar with a knife and tray. He smiled uncertainly at the two men, one a Templar, the other indistinct in a plain woolen cloak, then knelt beneath the candles and began to scrape wax from the floor. It was late afternoon, between Nones and Vespers. Apart from a couple of people seated near the front, heads bowed, the church was empty. The only sound was the rasp of the sacristan’s knife against the stone.
“I wasn’t sure you were still in the city,” said Robert quietly. “I thought perhaps you’d returned to Scotland.”
“Simon would have told you.”
“Simon only tells me when you wish to meet. Most of the time, he avoids me. I think he is worried I’ll ask questions and the wrong people will overhear.” Robert pushed a hand through his hair, which was silvery-white and receding. “Either that or he doesn’t trust me to keep your secret.”
“I’m certain that’s not the case,” said Will, with a frown. “But it is good he is cau
tious.”
“I wouldn’t worry. Hugues thinks you’re long gone, and as most of the knights who knew you returned to Cyprus with the grand master, there are not many left who would recognize you. As long as you keep your distance from the preceptory, it is doubtful you’ll be noticed.”
“Still, I need to be careful.”
“Wouldn’t want anything to endanger your important work,” murmured Robert.
Will exhaled. “I presumed you understood.”
“No,” responded Robert sharply, “you hoped I did to ease your guilt.” The sacristan glanced over, but returned to his industrious scraping when Robert’s gaze flicked to him.
“What is this about, Robert? I thought we were—”
“What?” Robert cut in. “Friends?”
“Are we not?”
“I don’t know what we are. You appeared after three years with no word and expected things to go back to the way they were. But how can they? You left the Temple and you left others with this great burden that wasn’t theirs to bear. You were Everard’s successor. You pledged yourself to the Brethren.”
“As did you.”
“After you dragged me into it.” Robert paused at Will’s pained expression, then looked away. “What do you expect? You send for me every six months or so as if I’m your servant, wanting to know if the Temple has any information on this or that. You don’t even ask about the Anima Templi. I almost didn’t come today. I found myself asking who it is you call these meetings for and realized I didn’t know the answer. Is it William Wallace? Or King Philippe? Or do you work for anyone these days—a mercenary?”
“You know I’m not that.”
“No? Simon didn’t tell me everything when he returned from Scotland, but I know you both fought at Falkirk. Templars died there. The master of England died there.” Robert followed Will with his eyes as he turned away. “Perhaps you chose the wrong side.”
