by Robyn Young
Hugues had stopped reading. The second cleric was holding out another parchment, but the visitor hadn’t taken it. “Martin?”
“Martin de Floyran. As I said, he is my nephew and—”
“I am sorry, I cannot agree to your request. De Floyran is a valuable addition to this preceptory. As a knight, he will serve wherever he is posted, as was explained to him during his initiation.” Hugues’s face soured. “Despite how homesick he may be.”
“But, Visitor de Pairaud,” protested Esquin, when Hugues snatched the skin from the cleric and headed for the door. “I simply do not have enough knights to defend Montfaucon adequately. Surely my nephew would be serving the order admirably were he to—”
Hugues turned abruptly as he reached the door. “This is not a matter for discussion. My decision is final. He stays.”
Esquin stared after him as he swept out with the clerics. Outside, a bell began to chime, summoning the men back to the Chapter. Frowning pensively, Esquin made his way down the stairs and out into the courtyard. The officials were beginning to file toward the Chapter House, but it would take the press of men a little while to get settled once inside. Turning from the slow-moving crowd, Esquin hurried toward the knights’ quarters.
He was sweating inside his mantle by the time he reached the dormitory. His nephew was standing by the window in the empty room. He turned with a start.
Martin’s expression filled with such hope that Esquin felt a wrench in his gut. Martin studied his face for a long moment, then turned back to the window.
“He denied you, didn’t he?”
Esquin crossed to him. “I am sorry, Martin, but it is clear Visitor de Pairaud needs you here and for that you should be proud. It is an honor to serve him.” When Martin said nothing, Esquin exhaled. “I know it is difficult, being away from your family and familiar surroundings, but I promise in time you will—”
“Please, Uncle. Please take me with you when you leave tomorrow. I have to come home. I cannot stay here.”
Esquin looked on hopelessly as the young man put his head in his hands. “I cannot appeal against Hugues de Pairaud’s decision, other than by going to the grand master himself.” He gripped his nephew’s shoulders. “All this fuss? All those letters you sent? Yet still you will not tell me what is wrong. If you perhaps explained what it is that—”
“No,” said Martin swiftly. He pulled away, his jaw set. “No. I cannot.” He glanced around as if fearing someone might overhear. “Not here.”
Esquin tutted as the bell ceased its chimes. “I must return to the Chapter now and there are matters I must attend to back home.” He paused, then nodded determinedly. “But I am going to come back as soon as I can. If I do, will you meet me? Martin?” He pressed, when the youth didn’t answer.
After a long silence, Martin nodded.
Esquin smiled encouragingly and patted his shoulder. “Then we shall see what all this is about.”
ANAGNI, ITALY, SEPTEMBER 7, 1303 AD
The sky was midnight-blue. Soldiers scrabbled silently over the rocks that littered the sides of the track, carrying swords and daggers. There was no moon and it was by starlight that they moved, shrouded in velvet gloom. The hooves of the three hundred horses were muffled on the dusty ground, but the clink of bridles and armor echoed unavoidably in the hush and the company’s commanders were poised for the alarm to rise, any moment, from the sleeping town perched on the hill above. They needn’t have worried, for the high Roman walls surrounding Anagni shielded its citizens from any disturbing night noises as well as potential attackers, and their advance went undetected as they climbed steadily up the hillside toward the Porta Tufoli.
Sciarra Colonna, riding at the vanguard, sent two of his men ahead as the company approached the gate. Nogaret craned his neck to watch as the knights trotted their horses toward the arched entrance. Two torches flickered in brackets, throwing long shadows up the walls. Turning, one of the knights signaled. A smile crossed Sciarra’s face before he pulled on his helmet and urged his horse forward. Men threw relieved, jubilant glances at one another as they saw the gate was not only open, but completely undefended. Sciarra snatched one of the torches from its bracket. Swinging his foot out of his stirrup, he kicked at the wooden barricade as he passed through, holding the brand aloft. The gate shuddered wider with a groan. Behind him, the rest of the cavalry poured in.
Once inside the walls, their stealth ended. Sciarra wanted the townsfolk to know who had come and why. His voice struck the quiet, rising over the rumble of hooves on the steep, narrow streets. “Good people of Anagni! Arise! Awake! By order of the king of France, Pope Boniface is to be arrested as a heretic and taken hence to trial!”
As his voice resounded off the walls of the grand palazzos around the Porta Tufoli, many of them home to the cardinals of the Sacred College, shutters and doors began to open all over the lower town. Citizens started from sleep, pulling cloaks around them. The hoofbeats clattered in the night and mothers dashed to check on children, huddled wide-eyed as the shadows of riders and swords drifted past on bedroom walls. Soldiers, loping along beside the mounted knights, raised sputtering torches, bringing early dawn to the streets that wound up toward the cathedral and the papal palace. Birds flew chattering into the sky.
“Arise! Awake! We are here to arrest the heretic pope!”
The fear in the faces of men and women that appeared in the doorways turned to curiosity as they realized this army hadn’t come for them. While some barricaded their doors and began to hide gold and jewels under floor-boards, others wandered into the streets, gazing bemused at the knightly procession, as if it were a saint’s day and these men were parading some holy relic through their town. Soon a stream of people, half of whom were still in their nightshirts, were following Sciarra’s company. A few absently clutched the weapons they wielded when they had opened their doors thinking to defend themselves. As the company passed a church, Sciarra barked an order. A group of soldiers broke away and, pushing aside the priest who had been gawping in the doorway, entered the building. The priest hastened in behind them, protesting. Several moments later, the bell in the tower began to toll.
Will looked up as he passed beneath the church, watching the bell swing to and fro, waking the rest of the town. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the stream of people had become a flood. To the east, behind the black humps of the hills, the sky was lightening. Beside him, Nogaret looked tense in the torchlight as the crowd gathered in around them, all wanting to be part of the action. Rainald was right: Boniface had made many enemies, and now his own people turned on him for anything they felt he was responsible for; whether the tithes he had levied, or the fact that he once ignored their plea for alms, or the time one of his nephews teased their son in church. Will, riding in their midst, listening to their complaints, could only bob along in the tide, a cork on an ocean. Nogaret had spoken briefly to him and the French guards during the night ride from Ferentino and, in a hushed voice, had given them their orders.
Keep the pope alive. Keep him away from Sciarra.
Will’s hope, dashed by the ease with which they had entered Anagni, now lay in the possibility that if the pope survived long enough for Nogaret to arrest him, he might somehow be able to facilitate Boniface’s escape on the journey back to Paris.
As they neared the cathedral, Will stared at the distant walls of the papal palace, praying to see an army there, arrayed in white, but the windows of the buildings were dark and shuttered. Sciarra turned off, leading the mob toward the town’s marketplace. When they arrived, they found many more people clustered there. There must have been five, maybe six thousand. No one in Anagni wanted to be left out, it seemed; to wake up tomorrow and find history had been made without them.
In the center of the market square beside a large well a tall, muscular man with a trident-shaped beard and a coat of glittering mail, over which he wore a purple cloak, was waiting with a dozen other men, all of whom wore similar uniforms.
Rainald was the first to dismount. “Sir Godfrey,” he said in greeting, striding to the tall man.
Guessing this must be Godfrey Bussa, the commander of the papal guard, Will jumped down from his saddle. Nogaret had already dismounted and was jostling his way between Niccolo and the other local lords, following Sciarra and Rainald. Will pushed through to stand behind the lawyer.
The crowd were all around them, babbling excitedly and Sciarra had to raise his voice. “We saw no lights in the windows of the palace. I take it the pope is still inside?”
Godfrey’s face was grave. “I believe so, but we cannot be sure. The evening before last my men and I returned to the palace to find the gates barred. I had been out, organizing the details of the assault. I called to those of the guard I had left behind, but received no answer.”
“What makes you think Boniface is still there?” interjected Rainald.
“We have seen movement behind the shutters. There are definitely people inside.” Godfrey shook his head. “The pope must have somehow learned of the attack and barricaded himself in. Perhaps one of my men informed on me?” He lifted his shoulders. “I cannot be sure.”
“Who is defending him?” asked Nogaret, before Sciarra could speak.
“Most likely those in the papal guard who remain loyal to him, his staff and his family, two cardinals. The majority of the Sacred College is in Rome and we warned three cardinals who support us to leave Anagni before the assault.”
Sciarra went quiet as the men around him continued to question Godfrey. Suddenly, he pushed through them to the well and climbed onto its edge, holding one of the posts for support. “People of Anagni!” he yelled at the crowd, who at once fell into a hush. “My name is Sciarra Colonna, brother of Pietro, nephew of Giacomo, wrongfully deposed by the usurper who calls himself Pope Boniface. This man, who has lived among you growing fat on your generosity, is a heretic and a blasphemer!”
Murmurs of fear and assent swelled from the throng. Children were hoisted onto shoulders to watch.
“In the name of the king of France, we are here to arrest him for his crimes. But rather than face us, rather even than deny our accusations, the pope cowers in his palace like the guilty man he is. Good people, I promise you, if you help us liberate your town, I will distribute the wealth of his palace among you. The gold and the relics of the papal treasury! In return for your aid in bringing this evildoer to justice, you will be made rich beyond your dreams!”
There was silence, his words hanging in the air. Then, a roar rose. Will cursed as the mob surged toward the papal palace, ready to tear the gates apart with their bare hands. Sciarra jumped down from the well and swung up into his saddle with a shout to his men.
The afternoon was dragging on, the sun glaring white on the walls of the buildings. Ahead, across the street, the gates of the papal palace were shut and barred. The wood was splintered and dented in places, but the damage had occurred in the initial attack and since then there had been no further attempt to break through. Around the gates, the ground was littered with bodies. The nightgown of a young woman, lying crumpled near the walls, fluttered in the hot wind like a flag, stained with her blood, the arrow that killed her a black exclamation from her chest.
The assault on the palace had been chaos. The mob flowed through the town, riding or running up the steep alleys to converge on the compound, which contained the pope’s residence, the homes of his family and the cathedral, all enclosed behind stout walls, the hillside tumbling sheer beyond. Knights, soldiers and townsfolk vied to be the first in, lest the glory or bounty be taken by others. Despite the fierce commands of Sciarra Colonna and Godfrey Bussa, and the discipline of their immediate troops, this unruly mass had pushed forward, unheeding. Horses reared and people were shoved to the ground. As the first attackers reached the gates and began battering them with fists and weapons, there were flashes of motion in the dawn sky. Screams sounded. But it was some moments before the crowd realized arrows were shooting down into them from the palace walls.
The crush at the gates became a rout as people started to flee. The mounted knights had been the first away, followed by soldiers lifting shields over their heads. It was the people of Anagni, untrained and unarmed, who bore the brunt of the palace’s defense. Those who didn’t fall fled back into the alleys they had poured out of or else broke their way into houses to take cover. Remaining grimly efficient throughout the confusion, Sciarra brought his men to order and regrouped in the streets beyond the walls.
It was shortly after this, when the sky was turning pearlescent blue, that a loud voice had sounded from the walls, demanding to know the meaning of the assault. When Sciarra made to answer, Nogaret beat him to it, so desperate to regain control of the situation he walked right out into the corpse-strewn street without shield or weapon.
“By order of Lord Philippe le Bel, King of France,” the minister had called out, “Boniface is to be arrested for the crime of heresy. He will submit and be taken to Paris to stand trial.”
“We wish to negotiate a truce,” the anonymous voice responded.
“You have until an hour after Nones,” Sciarra had replied, riding out beside Nogaret. “At that time you will answer the following demands. In his last action as pope, Boniface will reinstate Giacomo and Pietro Colonna in the Sacred College. After this he will deliver the papal treasury to the remaining cardinals and give himself up to the authority of France.”
The truce agreed, Sciarra’s knights settled in to wait. Men were sent to scout the area around the palace walls, while Colonna and Bussa set up base in a chapel to plan for a potential assault. The townsfolk, disregarded by the knights, drifted away, embittered. They had lost over a dozen of their own in the attack and these trespassers were ignoring their sacrifice. The pledge of the division of the treasury became an empty promise in the clear light of dawn, and although many returned dazedly to their homes, a rebellious gang, several thousand strong, went on the rampage, anxious to receive the riches they had been sworn. Rioting through Anagni’s streets, they stormed the grand palazzos of the cardinals. Late into the day, Sciarra and his men heard screams and saw smoke rising in the lower town as the looting continued.
On the hour the truce was due to end, the pope’s response came to them. Boniface would not submit. Angry, but prepared, Sciarra made ready for a second assault.
Will watched the group of soldiers heft the tree trunk. As they set out into the street, holding shields over their heads with their free hands, he heard one of the French guards questioning Nogaret.
“Can we be certain the pope is even inside? For all we know this is a diversion. If the pope was aware of the attack, perhaps he escaped before it took place?”
Nogaret’s gaze didn’t leave the soldiers, now tramping toward the palace gates with their heavy burden. “No, we cannot be certain, but from what Bussa told us, Boniface would have had scant opportunity in which to leave unnoticed. We can only hope he is still there. Whatever happens, we must be the first in.”
As the guard nodded brusquely, Will turned back to watch the soldiers’ progress. Arrows began to stab down from the walls. A man shrieked as one pierced his boot and embedded itself in his foot. Letting go of the tree trunk and his shield, he collapsed in the street, hands grasping at the shaft. Another caught him in the shoulder, slamming him into the dust. He writhed feebly, before a third finished him. Whoever they were, the archers inside were no amateurs. From behind the safety of a makeshift barricade erected across the street, another man darted forward at Sciarra’s command to take the dead man’s place. More arrows rained down, but the missiles were coming sporadically and only from six or seven positions on the walls, revealing the limited ability of the defense, however accurate. The remaining soldiers made it to the gates and began swinging the trunk into the wood, each strike causing the barriers to shudder and shake.
“Minister!”
Nogaret turned as one of his men hastened over.
The guard wa
s out of breath. “I was using the latrine,” he panted, pointing to one of the buildings up the street. “The windows look out over the palace and I saw a company of men making their way around the hillside beneath the walls. They were wearing the colors of Sciarra’s knights.”
“How many?”
“Forty or so.”
Nogaret hastened to Sciarra, who was at the barricade barking orders. “Colonna! Did you send a company around the walls?”
Sciarra looked surprised, but gave a curt nod. “Yes. They will try to gain entry from the rear. Bussa believes the gate by the cathedral will be the least defended.”
“Why wasn’t I informed?”
Sciarra scowled. “You involved me in your plot because you wanted military support. I am doing what I was brought here to do. Let me do it.”
“I told you I was to be the first inside!”
“Be my guest,” responded Sciarra witheringly, gesturing to the street, where two more soldiers had fallen foul of the defenders’ arrows. The rest were grimly battering away at the gates. A large crack had appeared in the center.
Nogaret strode back to Will and the French guards. “Get your horses,” he said fiercely. “Be ready.” He eyed Sciarra vehemently. “He’ll not destroy Boniface before me.”
The guards were already hastening to where they had tethered their mounts. Will had turned, but he stopped short at Nogaret’s last words.
The minister looked around at his hesitation. “What are you waiting for, Campbell?” he snapped, not seeming to realize he had said anything unusual.
Any question Will might have formed over what Nogaret meant was forgotten as dimly, in the few seconds’ pause between the crashing of the ram, cries of alarm sounded beyond the palace walls.
