by Robyn Young
“Leave.” Philippe rose, his hands planted on the table.
“My lord?”
“Leave!” Philippe thrust a hand toward the door. “All of you. Get out!”
“Please,” began Samuel hesitantly, “I—”
“Get out! ”
As the messenger and the official left, Nogaret steered the two Jews and the treasurer toward the door and hustled them out. He grasped the handle to close it, but halted at a sharp summons from the king.
“Not you, Nogaret.”
Leaving the door ajar, the minister moved back into the chamber. He inhaled and folded his arms across his thin chest. “My lord, this is dire news, I cannot pretend otherwise, but we can repair this damage. We just need time to gather more forces.”
“Time?” murmured Philippe. “Time I have. Funds I do not. How can this be repaired? And now Flote is gone?” He swept a hand carelessly across the table, sending parchments scattering. “You heard what the treasurer had to say. The royal coffers are all but empty. How do I fight a war on two fronts, put down these rebellions, avenge our noble dead, when I cannot afford to put an army in the field?” Philippe rose and began to pace. “And yet I must. Somehow I must. If I do not take action, my people will think me feeble. The power I gained in the assembly of the estates is slipping. When word of this gets out and I sit here and do nothing, I will lose it altogether. Who knows, Nogaret, how many other enemies are out there, waiting to attack me while I am weak. Dukes? Counts? Bishops?” He turned to the minister. “My grandfather never would have let this happen. He would have found the funds any way he could; sent a host to subdue Flanders and avenge Courtrai, strung these Gascon rebels from the gibbet. I am defeated.” Philippe shivered and clutched at the collar of his black cloak. “There is no salvation.”
“My lord, there is one . . .”
“I must think, Nogaret.” Philippe thrust his hands into his hair. “I cannot tax the clergy. It will take too long and I mustn’t give Pope Boniface any more chances to build support for his case against me.”
Nogaret took a step forward, trying to distract Philippe’s feverish concentration.
“The Jews!” Philippe snatched a parchment from the floor and brandished it at Nogaret. “My grandfather did this when he needed funds.”
“What, my lord?”
“He exiled the Jews. Confiscated their money and their property, drove them from the kingdom.” Philippe’s eyes grew distant. “I can remember my father speaking of it; wagons of treasure being drawn into the palace yard, gold coins spilling from the sides. This is what we do, Nogaret. We will send royal guards to evict them, then sell their homes and possessions at auction. The gold and any treasure I will keep. We will contact their debtors about any outstanding loans.” Philippe held up the parchment. “And we will make certain they repay them.”
Nogaret had been nodding thoughtfully. “The plan has merit and it will generate a large income quickly, enough I would wager to mount a campaign in Flanders. But it is,” he went on carefully, “only a short-term measure. The funds would dry up quickly and we would have to forsake the yearly tribute the Jews pay us. In the end, we may end up losing more than we gain. Execute this plan by all means, my lord, but concern yourself with longer-term strategies. The Jews are rich, certainly, but they are a relatively small group. How do you obtain enough wealth to sustain the royal domains you have already secured, as well as expand your territories in the coming years?” Nogaret smiled when Philippe shook his head. “The Templars.” Philippe frowned, but Nogaret continued swiftly. “The Church aside, the Temple is the largest, most affluent organization in Christendom. The order owns property throughout Europe, hundreds of manors and estates, many of which generate their own income through farming. They even govern several small towns.” Nogaret was pacing now, animated. “They own mills and bakehouses, shops and vineyards. They are moneylenders, given special dispensation from the pope to collect interest, as the Jews do, on those debts. Your fleet was never completed, my lord? Well, then, take theirs!”
“Nogaret,” murmured Philippe.
The minister spoke on, not hearing. “They have great influence in the wool trade, charge for passage on their ships and act as protectors for merchants. No doubt they possess vaults full of treasures and holy relics which could create revenue from pilgrims. My lord, they keep the treasuries of kings!”
“Nogaret!” repeated Philippe roughly. “This is fruitless. I cannot touch the Temple. The Jews, yes, for no one in the kingdom will mourn their expulsion. But the warriors of Christ?” He shook his head. “There would be uproar.”
“Would there?” questioned Nogaret doggedly. “You know how many people blamed the knights for the loss of the Holy Land when we first learned of Acre’s fall.”
“Be that as it may, the grand master is the only one in Christendom endeavoring to recapture that territory.”
“And we know, once again, that the knights are failing in that task. My lord, the people do not care for Crusading anymore, nor do they care for knights and their holy quests. They care for business and money, power and land. They care that their kingdom is strong and safe from attack.”
“You are right.” As Philippe said this, Nogaret halted, a keen look on his face, but his triumph soon faded as the king continued. “The Temple is a powerful, affluent organization. Why? Because in the two centuries since their creation the knights have had no interference. They stand outside the influence of kings. Indeed, it is the knights who have controlled monarchs over the years. The pope is the only power on this earth who has any authority over them.”
Nogaret nodded and moved away from the king. “I am aware of that.” He glanced at Philippe. “But with a man of our own mind on the papal throne, that might not be an issue.”
Philippe grew still, staring at the minister.
“We could deal with two problems at once,” said Nogaret. “Our dwindling fortunes. And Boniface.”
“I cannot think about this.” Philippe turned from him. “It isn’t even possible.”
“Anything is possible, my lord. He is just a man and a corrupt one at that. You’ve seen how he abuses his office. We could make sure that a better man took his place. You would be saving Christendom by such an action, not harming it.” Nogaret went to the king. “I have thought about this long and hard. Taking the wealth of the order will provide you with enough funds to continue your expansion and maintain the security of your kingdom. The pope will be our axe. One swing in the right place at the right time and the Temple shall fall.”
Elias made his way quickly across the courtyard of the royal fortress to where Samuel stood waiting. The elderly Jew hailed him with a question, but the rabbi was so deep in thought he didn’t hear what it was. “I am sorry, Samuel,” he murmured distractedly, as he approached. “What did you say?”
Samuel’s face was troubled as he scanned Elias’s empty hands. “I said, would he not give them to you? My accounts,” he pressed, when Elias didn’t answer. “Did he refuse to return them?” He started to move past the rabbi. “Then I will ask him myself. I need those rolls!”
Roused from his preoccupation, Elias caught the old man’s arm. “I did not have the chance to ask him, Samuel. Come,” he said hastily, as the man protested, “we will talk to the treasurer. I am sure he will be able to retrieve them. The king was in a meeting with one of his ministers. I did not want to interrupt.”
21
The Royal Palace, Paris
AUGUST 21, 1302 AD
Will slowed his horse as a figure stepped out in front of him. “Simon?” he called in surprise, his voice barely audible over the rain that poured down, pummeling the ground and turning the street into a river. A mist rose from rooftops, baking in midday sun only an hour earlier. The groom wasn’t wearing a cloak and his thinning hair was plastered to his head. Swinging his leg over the saddle, Will dismounted, stiff from the morning’s ride. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been waiting fo
r you. A servant at the palace said you were due to return today.” Simon glanced at the bags strapped to Will’s saddle. “Where have you been?”>
“Delivering a message for the king.” Will frowned at Simon’s grim expression. “What is it? What has happened?” His eyes moved to the palace, the towers of which dominated the way ahead. “Rose?”
“It’s your friend the rabbi.”
“Elias?”
“He’s been trying to find you. He was—well, troubled isn’t the word. When I told him you were most likely off on business for the king if you weren’t at the palace, he demanded to speak to Sir Robert, but he’s been out with the visitor this past week. The rabbi made me swear I’d come and see you as soon as you returned, give you a message.”
“What message?”
Simon glanced around as two men hurried past, feet splashing in the wet. “He said, You are in the lair of a wolf.”
“That’s it?”
“And you had to go to him. Only,” added Simon, catching Will’s arm as he dug his foot into the stirrup, “that might be difficult. Will, the whole city has been alive with the news all morning. On my way here I heard some dozen people talking about it.”
“What?”
“Royal guards have stormed the Jewish Quarter. The king has declared they be exiled.”
“From Paris?” said Will incredulously.
“From France.”
“I knew nothing of this,” Will murmured. He looked at Simon. “When did it start?”
“Dawn, from what people were saying.” The groom took a step forward as Will hauled himself into the saddle, the horse’s hooves squelching in the mud as it shifted its weight. “Do you want me to come?”
“I’ll be faster on my own.” Digging his knees into the beast’s sides, Will urged the horse into a canter.
The streets were almost deserted in the downpour. As he rode, Will thought of Elias’s ominous message and spurred the horse on faster, across the Grand Pont and into the confusion of streets that led to the Jewish Quarter.
Even before he reached it, he encountered signs of the eviction. Streams of people were hurrying past, all marked with the red wheel. He saw one man carrying a boy in his arms. Another child was clinging to his shoulders, red-faced and screaming. A woman struggled behind, dragging a sack through the sludge. Two girls, clutching each other, were crying as they stumbled along, long hair dripping down their backs. The street here was churned up, many people having passed through recently. Will glimpsed a couple of shoes, sucked from feet by the mud, the owner in too much haste to go back for them. A few people leaned out of windows, watching the exodus. Will caught one man cheering halfheartedly, but the sound was soon drowned in the tumult of the rain as he rode on into the quarter.
The place was crawling with royal guards. Will pulled up, his horse snorting and veering agitatedly. A woman screamed as a soldier pushed the man she was with to the ground and kicked at him. The man tried to rise and fend off the blows, but two more soldiers ran in to aid their comrade and the man curled up, disappearing under their mailed boots. Another was grasping a sack to his chest, yelling at a soldier who was trying to wrest it from him. Sounds of shouting and things breaking echoed from the interior of houses, many of whose doors had been broken open. People’s possessions were strewn across the mud: a red cloak, a golden candelabra, a silver bowl, rain bouncing off it. Farther down the street, Will caught sight of what looked like a pile of clothing, but he realized it was a body. Male, female, dead or unconscious, he couldn’t tell. There were carts piled high with treasures, the harnessed oxen lowing in the rain. He looked around as a royal guard, coming out of a building, challenged him. Ignoring the soldier’s shouts for him to halt, Will steered his horse off down a narrow side street heading for Elias’s house, past a synagogue where threads of smoke were creeping through the smashed shutters.
Approaching, he saw that the door of the orange house was hanging open. Fear swelled in his mind. This street was quieter, but signs of devastation were all around him and there were more bodies here. Will tethered the horse to a post outside one of the booksellers’, then entered the dark hallway. Hearing noises beyond the kitchen door, he drew his broadsword. The balance was still awkward in his hand. The blade had been given to him by Wallace, after his falchion had been broken at Falkirk. Since then he’d rarely had cause to use it and he wasn’t yet comfortable with it. With his attention fixed on the closed door, he didn’t see the overturned stool in front of him. It skidded on the tiles as his leg connected with it and the noises in the kitchen stopped. Cursing, he shoved open the door and barged in.
The first thing he saw was a wide-eyed old woman, pressed against the wall behind a man, who looked no less terrified, but was standing protectively in front of her, wielding a kitchen knife. Crouched near the fireplace were three more men. They were surrounding a fourth figure, stretched out on the floor. Will had time to see blood splatters on the tiles and on the prone figure’s robes, before he recognized him.
“Dear God.” He sheathed his sword. “Elias?”
“Get back!” commanded one of the Jews, rising to face him.
“William?” came a withered voice from the floor.
“Try not to move,” said one man, pressing a hand on the rabbi’s chest.
The Jew barring Will’s way moved aside reluctantly, as he pushed past. Will felt anguish slam through him as he saw the cause of the rabbi’s prostration. The old man had been blinded. Both eyes had been removed, leaving ragged holes that wept blood onto his cheeks. He knelt and grasped the old man’s hand. “Who did this, Elias? What is happening here?”
“Royal soldiers,” answered one of the men, before the rabbi could speak. Will thought he had seen him before. His hands were fists on his knees. “They came before dawn. We had no warning. They said we were being banished on the orders of King Philippe, that all our possessions and properties were forfeit to the crown. Anyone who protested was wounded, some were killed. Elias tried to reason with them.”
“I must speak.”
The men looked around at the whisper. Elias was trying to sit.
“Rabbi, please!”
“No, Isaac. I must speak to William. Alone.”
Hearing the order in that voice, however frail, the men and the woman began to move out reluctantly. Isaac touched Will’s shoulder on the way past. Bending down, he spoke into his ear. “We came back for him when the soldiers moved on.” He glanced at Elias. “But I do not think he has long and we must leave the city.”
“I will stay with him.” As they left, Will stared down at Elias, unable to believe the old bookseller, who had always seemed so filled with life, could be reduced to this. He had seen a lot of death in his years, but there was something so utterly senseless about this violence that it struck at the core of him, demanding explanation. Justice. “I am so sorry,” he murmured. “Simon gave me your message. If I had known anything of this attack on your people, I would have—”
“This wasn’t what that was about,” croaked Elias. His head turned in Will’s direction, causing more blood to dribble down his cheeks. “I did not expect this. My message was about the Temple. I needed to warn you.”
Will clutched Elias’s hand as his head fell back with a soft thud on the tiles.
After a moment, he heaved out a breath. “I was at the palace and I heard one of the ministers talking with the king. A lawyer called de Nogaret.”
Elias’s voice was so quiet Will had to put his head close to the rabbi’s mouth to hear him.
“I heard him say the pope will be their axe.”
“Their axe?” Will questioned, when Elias failed to continue. “What did he mean?”
“One swing,” murmured the rabbi. “One swing at the right time and the Temple shall fall.” His head jerked up, causing Will to sit back. “His coffers are empty. That is why he did this, here today.”
“Are you saying he intends to attack the order?” Will asked urgently.
> “I do not know,” breathed Elias. “That was all I heard of their conversation. It was the lawyer who said it.”
“It won’t happen,” said Will, after a pause. “It cannot. The pope is hardly an ally of the king’s.”
“Perhaps they mean to put pressure on him. Or worse?”
The question loomed in the hush. Will answered it quickly. “Yes, the king is in dispute with Boniface, but it is purely political. He would never move against Rome.”
“You can look upon me, upon what they did on his orders, and say that with such certainty?”
Will felt the accusation like a blow. He looked away from Elias’s ravaged face.
“Philippe is not the answer to your prayers, William.” Elias was grimacing, as if every word hurt him. “There is a devil behind that throne. But you cannot see it. You do not want to see it, because the king has promised to be your ally, your instrument of vengeance. Where will the money for your Scottish cause come from next?” Elias raised his hand weakly and brought it toward his face. “It will come from me. From the blood of my people.”
Will closed his eyes.
“Shame on you, William! Shame on you for refusing to see the truth. You let yourself be taken over by revenge, by its selfish, empty promise. You abandoned everything you swore to serve, everyone you pledged to protect. For more than a century men have given their lives in service to the ideals of the Brethren, those who worked directly for it and those who supported it. And for a personal vendetta, you throw all that away.” Elias was wheezing, but he gripped Will’s hand with startling strength. “You should have remained in the Temple as head of the Anima Templi. Instead, you left, doing nothing to prevent the grand master following his Crusade, nothing to stop the Brethren losing their purpose. But it wasn’t your cause to abandon. It was the cause of a hundred men before you. It was Everard’s and your father’s. Kalawun’s. Mine. How dare you squander our hopes, our blood, on hatred and weakness! How dare you, William!” Elias wrenched his hand from Will’s and turned away, teeth clenching.
