by Robyn Young
But no voice resounded in his head, no angel descended, no tears slipped from the wooden Christ. There was nothing but cold, hard silence, an abyss of it echoing into empty eternity. It was all he ever heard.
23
Ferentino, Italy
SEPTEMBER 4, 1303 AD
Will stood in the window and watched another line of men riding up the dusty track toward the castle gate. They had been arriving in companies of varying sizes for the past two days and the courtyard was crammed with horses and men. Soldiers slumped in the shade, drinking water from skins and conversing restlessly, their knight masters having retired to chambers. The fresh scent of olive and eucalyptus trees drifted from the rocky hills that tumbled around the town of Ferentino and, closer, the tang of wild herbs was a relief from the stink of horse dung that pervaded the sweltering air. Will glanced down at a rapid movement beneath him to see a black lizard dart across the window ledge. The sun was starting to sink toward the hills and the busy drone of cicadas rose in the blush of evening.
As a bell clanged hollowly in the town below, Will’s gaze moved to the nearby church tower, then drifted to a line of cypress trees that marched up the slope below the castle gate. He raked the branches with his stare, thinking maybe he had missed it. But despite all his wanting, he didn’t see what he hoped to. His impatience, bubbling beneath the surface of his thoughts, rose quickly to the fore. It was four days and still he’d had no word. Time was running out with every company that filed up the hillside to swell the castle garrison.
Behind him, the door clattered open. Will turned to see Gautier, one of the royal guards he had traveled from Paris with.
“Minister de Nogaret wants us in the Great Hall. Colonna has arrived.”
Leaving the dormitory where he had been billeted, Will followed Gautier down through the upper levels of the castle, his impatience replaced with apprehension. The last pieces of Nogaret’s plan were coming together. Heading along a narrow passageway, he could hear the sound of many voices through the open doors of the Great Hall. Inside, sixty or so men stood about in groups talking animatedly. The last of the sunlight slanted in through the arched windows, staining the walls red, and servants bustled around lighting torches. Spotting Nogaret’s white silk cap and black robe, Will crossed to him through the crowd.
The minister’s face had darkened the farther south they had ridden, since leaving Paris in July. Oddly, as the color returned to his cheeks, the subtle trace of his old accent became more distinct, filtering through the northern tongue. Nogaret looked younger, fitter and more at ease than Will had seen him before and he showed not one shred of doubt over what he was about to do. If he hadn’t known his hatred of the Church, Will would have said Nogaret was on a holy mission with all the zeal he was displaying in his undertaking of this treacherous plan.
Standing with Nogaret were the five other French guards they had traveled with, the captain of Ferentino and several local knights and lords. There was also a tall, well-built man in a wine-dark cloak whom Will didn’t recognize, but who was generating enough attention for him to suspect this must be the eagerly anticipated Sciarra Colonna. The man had a hard, tanned face and coal-black eyes that swept the crowd with a keen intensity, a faint smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. He looked like a man about to go into battle, who believes he has already won.
“There are a few more companies yet to arrive,” Rainald, the captain of Ferentino, was saying. “But we should be ready to move tomorrow, the next day at the latest.”
“It is good to have you with us, Sciarra,” said Nogaret, glancing around as Will and Gautier joined them. “His Graciousness, King Philippe, wanted me to pass on his gratitude for your assistance in this delicate matter. He is aware how much you risk by returning here. I knew, of course, that your aid would be invaluable to the task ahead.” Nogaret gave a gratified smile as he surveyed the busy hall. “Although I must say I did not expect even you to be able to mobilize such a force in so short a time.”
“I have been waiting for this moment for a long time, Minister de Nogaret.” Sciarra’s voice was rich and dark, his French heavily laced with his native accent. “And I have been planning for it. Had you never contacted me, I would have made this move myself. My family has more cause than most for wanting our persecutor toppled from his throne.”
“All of us here have suffered equally under Boniface’s rule, Sciarra,” said Rainald, a note of resentment in his voice.
“Indeed,” spoke up a portly nobleman beside him.
Sciarra’s black eyes swung to them. “Equally? Your sister was divorced by one of the Caetanis, Rainald. And you, Niccolo,” he said to the portly lord, “your family was dispossessed of their town. These are legitimate grievances. But they are negligible in comparison to what has been done to my family.” Sciarra’s face was filled with hatred; it glittered in his eyes and seethed in his voice. “My uncle, Giacomo, and my brother, Pietro, were preeminent cardinals in the Sacred College. Under Pope Celestine, they were granted innumerable privileges and greatly favored for their commitment to the papacy. When the pope began to question his ability to fulfill adequately the office to which he had been elected, my family were the ones who supported him. It was Boniface who whispered poison in his ear and persuaded him that he was not fit to sit upon the papal throne and who convinced Celestine to abdicate and then secured his own election. It was Boniface who imprisoned Celestine for the very thing he had convinced him to do and had him murdered in his cell.”
Around the Great Hall a hush was growing as Sciarra’s voice rose and other men stopped talking to listen.
“When my family spoke out against this outrage, Boniface had my uncle and brother deposed, their benefices and their vestments stripped from them. He then had all property and possessions belonging to the Colonna family confiscated and all of us proclaimed excommunicate. All our wealth, earned over generations, was lost. Not content with this, Boniface proclaimed a Crusade against my family and all our supporters, offering the same indulgences to any who waged war upon us as those offered to men who take up the Cross against the Saracens. Finally, five years ago, when my family was virtually destroyed, those who weren’t killed or imprisoned were forced to flee to France, and papal forces stormed Palestrina, our last stronghold, not thirty miles from here.” Sciarra turned to Nogaret. “When we come to Anagni, you will see it, Minister. What was once a proud and noble town is a ruin on a hilltop. Boniface had every building razed, except for a single church, left as reminder of who had done this to us. The earth was salted so nothing would grow there again. Every morning, Boniface can open the shutters of his palace and look out upon our defeat and every morning, for the past five years, I have looked out upon a foreign land. It is long past Judgment Day.”
Will glanced around to see nods of agreement and the same shining hatred in the faces of Sciarra’s men and allies. There was a pucker of a frown on Nogaret’s brow as he surveyed the crowd, a look of caution in his eyes, perhaps even some concern. Will understood why. The minister had asked for military support. He had got a mob.
“We must act swiftly,” Nogaret said, looking back at Sciarra. “On our arrival news came to us that the pope is moving to excommunicate King Philippe. With the knights you have brought, our number totals more than one thousand, although most of those are infantry. We have a hard task ahead of us. Not only does the pope have the support of family in Anagni, but many of the cardinals have residences there also. I am told the town is well defended, positioned on a hill and surrounded by strong Roman walls. Without siege equipment it may take us some time to gain entry, longer if the town garrison is well organized.”
Will shifted restlessly and worried again whether his hope was in vain.
Sciarra, however, didn’t look in the least concerned. “You need not trouble yourself with that, Minister de Nogaret. We require no siege-craft. We have a man inside Anagni who will make certain the gates are opened for us.”
“Who is this
man?” questioned Nogaret, surprised. “Does he have the ability to organize this?”
“His name is Godfrey Bussa,” replied Sciarra. “And yes, he has the ability. He is the commander of the papal guard.”
Will barely managed to keep his shock from showing.
Nogaret’s surprise hovered on his face for a moment, before he smiled. “Then we will perhaps make shorter work of this than I thought possible.”
“Boniface and his family have made many enemies over the past few years,” interjected Rainald. “The local communes are primed for an uprising against the Caetanis. Even in Anagni, even among those closest to him, there are many who wish to see him gone.”
“And their support will be gratefully received,” responded Nogaret. “But we must make certain that the pope himself is protected from harm. It must be made clear to all that we are here to arrest him for heresy in the name of France.”
Sciarra inclined his head, but said nothing.
His reticence gave Will a deeper feeling of unease. Looking at the faces of Colonna and the other men, he didn’t see the need for justice. He saw the need for revenge. He knew that look well; had worn it often enough on his own face to recognize it.
The men remained in the Great Hall, discussing the details of the assault on Anagni for some time. Will stood in silence at Nogaret’s side, filled with foreboding, until the meeting drew to a close. When the servants were called in to prepare the hall for the evening’s feast, he was able to slip away.
Climbing the stairs to his dormitory, he was so preoccupied he almost missed it. Passing one of the arched windows, which looked down over the torchlit enceinte and the castle walls, Will glanced automatically at the line of cypress trees beyond the walls. The flash of red burst into his brain several moments after he had seen it, and he had to descend three stairs and return to the window to check. He thought for a second his eyes had been playing tricks on him. But no. There, caught in the glow of the torches on the ramparts, tied to the lower branches of the tree farthest from the gate, was a fluttering scrap of red cloth, bright as a berry against the green.
Swiftly, Will retraced his steps, down through the tower, into the castle courtyard. The night was sultry and filled with the conversation of men. He wove through the crowd and, ducking through an archway, entered the outer enceinte, where soldiers stood sentry at the gates. A dark shape skimmed his head as a bat darted into the sky. Moths tilted at the torches, which threw an amber glow over the sun-baked stones. Whenever one got too close, there was a flicker of fire as its wings caught and it was consumed.
“Campbell.”
Will turned at the sharp voice to see Nogaret behind him, framed in the archway.
“Where are you going?”
Will gave him a relaxed smile. “I need to piss. The latrines are full.”
“Don’t go far. I want you and the others with me at the table tonight.” Nogaret glanced behind him and lowered his voice. “We need to make certain this goes the way we want.”
“I won’t be long.” Will waited until the minister had disappeared, before striding to the gate.
He still had no idea why the king had sent him on this “critical assignment,” as Philippe had called it when he ordered Will to accompany Nogaret. That had been early in July, shortly after the second assembly of the estates-general, where the men of the realm supported Philippe’s decision to denounce Boniface and proclaim him a heretic. Will learned this in the days following the assembly, but hadn’t connected the disturbing announcement to the assignment until they had left Paris and were on the road south. Out of the city, safe from spies, Nogaret informed Will and the six palace guards what their task was and where they were going. It was clear, from the minister’s attitude, that it hadn’t been his idea for Will to be a part of the group. But the reasons for his involvement were almost immediately obscured by the realization that the pope’s arrest could well be the king and Nogaret’s first step toward the Temple. Perhaps Boniface’s arrest and trial in France were designed to make him comply with their wishes? Maybe they would offer to release him and end the trial if he gave them power over the Temple? Whatever the reason, Will knew he must do everything in his power to stop Boniface from being sent to Paris, which was why, when they arrived in Ferentino, under the pretense of scouting the area, he had gone to the nearest church to seek aid.
Nodding to the guards on the gate, he headed out and down the dusty track to where the cypress trees bordered the steep hillside, which disappeared into a tangle of bushes, alive with the buzz of insects. With a glance behind him to the ramparts, he pushed his way through the trees and scrabbled down into the undergrowth, scanning the shadows. After several moments of searching, thorns scratching his clothes and face, he was beginning to wonder if there was anyone here at all when he heard a whisper off to his left and a young man’s face appeared in the gloom, pinched with fear.
“You’re late,” murmured Will, as the acolyte struggled toward him, his robes catching on bushes.
“I’m sorry,” the man replied in Latin. “I could not leave for some days.”
“Did you send the message?”
The acolyte nodded nervously. “My brother took it to Rome.”
“When?”
“The evening you came to me.”
Will thought. Rome was a two-day ride. It was cutting it fine, and even if they managed to get to Anagni before Nogaret and Sciarra, now that he knew the men had help inside it seemed increasingly doubtful they would be able to stop this from happening. His only hope was that they would decide to move the pope to Rome before the attack took place. He nodded to the acolyte. “You did well.”
“Will they get there in time?” whispered the acolyte, as Will turned to climb back up toward the castle gate. “Will the Temple be able to save His Holiness?”
“For their sake, I hope so.”
THE TEMPLE, PARIS, SEPTEMBER 4, 1303 AD
Esquin de Floyran hurried along the cloisters toward the officials’ building. He waved a hand distractedly as someone called to him, but he didn’t stop to talk. The Paris preceptory was packed with hundreds of masters and knights who had journeyed from across the kingdom, summoned to attend the annual Chapter General to discuss Templar business in France. They had been in session since Prime, only pausing to recite the Paternosters for the offices of Terce and Sext, and it was now past Nones.
In the short break, men gathered in the sun, debating various matters that had arisen. Most of the snatches of conversation Esquin caught as he bustled through were centered on the failure of the grand master’s Crusade. The officials of the order were concerned, but with Jacques de Molay encamped on Cyprus and the Crusade halted, there was little they could do except concentrate on matters at home: legal proceedings against knight brothers, requests for funds to renovate various preceptories, disputes over territory, the acquisition of new holdings. In between the discussions, men stifled yawns and speculated over what delicacies would be on offer at the evening’s grand feast. One old master was reminiscing on the year King Louis IX had sent a gift of seven swans to the preceptory for the Chapter General.
Esquin hastened through the doorway of the officials’ building and breathlessly climbed the stairs, his short legs aching with the effort, the hem of his mantle trailing up behind him.
As he rapped on the large door at the end of the passage, he heard an irate voice beyond.
“Enter.”
Steeling himself, Esquin pushed open the doors.
Hugues de Pairaud was standing at a desk between two clerics, who were sorting through piles of parchments. He glanced up with an impatient frown, which didn’t get any less irritated as his gaze fixed on Esquin. “Yes?”
“Visitor de Pairaud,” Esquin began quickly, “I am aware this is a rather inopportune moment in which to request an audience, but as I shall be traveling back to Montfaucon tomorrow on an urgent matter to which I must attend, I thought this may prove to be the only opportunity I shall g
et to speak to you.”
The visitor was shaking his head. “And you are?”
“Esquin de Floyran, prior of the Montfaucon preceptory,” replied Esquin, a little bemusedly.
“Of course,” said Hugues absently, as one of the clerics passed him a skin.
Esquin plowed on, despite the fact that the visitor now seemed to be engrossed in the parchment he had been handed. “It is a family matter for which I seek your aid, Visitor de Pairaud. My nephew was admitted into the Temple as a knight here in Paris last year. As far as I and his father were aware, he was to return to my preceptory to serve under me, but he was told after his inception that he would remain in Paris. I am proud he should be posted in our principal preceptory, but in recent years I have seen a decline in the number of noble men wishing to join the order, a decline that has left me with only a small staff, many of whom are laymen. Coupled with this, I have received many messages from my nephew in recent months beseeching me to apply for his transfer home. And so I am here to ask for your agreement that Martin return with me to Montfaucon.” Esquin shook his head, troubled. “I do not think he is well. There is something that troubles him, but he refuses to speak of it.”
