by Robyn Young
Sciarra’s knights had broken into the compound.
The next moments were a blur of confusion. Orders rang out as commanders sprang into action. Men mounted horses, grabbed shields and weapons from squires. Soldiers, waiting in the shade, scrambled to their feet, unsheathing swords. Over everything, the ram continued to boom against the gates, now beginning to sag under the furious attack. Arrows had ceased to lance down from the walls and some of the soldiers now tossed aside their shields and renewed their attack with greater fervor. Will hauled himself into his saddle and rode to the barricade with the rest of the French guards, leaving Nogaret to sprint to his horse. Suddenly, the gates grated open and the faces of Sciarra’s knights appeared beyond. Hurling away the tree trunk, the soldiers on the ram piled in, closely followed by Sciarra, who led his men on a ferocious charge across the street and into the palace.
On the other side of the wall, a few archers were sprawled on the ramparts; others, shot down by Sciarra’s knights, lay twisted on the ground. Some still gripped bows in death-locked fists. There was movement on the balconies of the palace as a few defenders raced to barricade themselves inside. In the inner courtyard, beyond which the cathedral loomed, fighting was still going on. The cathedral doors were thrown open and sounds of swords clashing echoed within. The first wave of soldiers went straight to the buildings that housed the pope’s family. Those who wielded axes began to hack at the painted shutters on the lower floors. Others made quick work of doors, kicking or shouldering their way through. Screams rang inside.
Will was carried in through the gates on the crest of the cavalry charge. He had left Nogaret and the French guards behind. All his vision was channeled forward through the slits in his helmet. He saw the backs of the men riding in front, the flash of swords, blinding in the sun, shields lifted. He saw Sciarra heading for a grand palazzo across the courtyard. Steering his horse expertly through the press, Will pursued him, all his thoughts fixed on protecting the pope. When Sciarra dismounted, ordering soldiers to set smoldering torches against the base of the doors, Will followed suit, slapping his horse on the rump to send it clear of the confusion. The doors began to blacken and then to burn. Will gripped his sword, feeling men all around him breathing hard in anticipation. Shielding their faces, several knights went forward to aim kicks at the doors. Finally, one man broke through, half the door collapsing inward in a burst of embers. Will fought his way to the front as the company surged into a wide corridor, choked with smoke. Men sprinted in different directions, wanting to be the first to find the pope and his treasury.
Sciarra made straight for a set of stairs at the end of the passage, seeming to know where he was going. Hoping none of Colonna’s men would dare make a move without him, Will followed. Elbowing knights out of his path, he barreled up the stairs behind Sciarra, who was much younger than he was and had already disappeared. The stairwell filled with the clanking and jangling of armor. Up and around Will climbed, his sword occasionally scraping against the wall, his lungs burning, thighs throbbing with the effort. Just as he was starting to slow, he reached the top. Gathering the last of his strength, he raced down a marble passageway. Sciarra was now far ahead, surrounded by knights, his sword bobbing at the front of the company heading toward a set of doors.
“Christ, help me,” panted Will, battling down behind, as the doors were flung open and the host swarmed into a chamber beyond.
There they stopped.
On a throne, wearing a jewel-encrusted tiara and the ornate robes of his office, sat Pope Boniface. In one hand he held a solid gold cross, in the other a sword with a crystal pommel. His broad, lined face was gray with fatigue and fear, but set with obstinate determination, as well it might be, for the pope was not alone. Standing before him, arrayed in white, blades held out before them, were twenty-seven Templars.
24
Anagni, Italy
SEPTEMBER 7, 1303 AD
As he sprinted into the throne room, Will felt a fierce pulse of joy at the sight of the knights in their protective ring around the pope. They had come.
For a second, he wanted to pitch himself into their line and turn to face Sciarra and his men. But he forced aside the desire and halted on the opposite side of the chamber, pointing his blade toward the knights, along with all the others around him, while inside he was shouting, exalted. Sounds of the continuing attack on the papal compound came in through the windows, the chime of swords followed by cries, wood splintering, glass breaking.
Sciarra wrenched off his helmet and let it clang to the floor, as if wanting the pope to see the face of his enemy.
Boniface rose. “What are you waiting for, Colonna? Here is my neck! Here is my head!”
Sciarra took a step at the challenge, his hand flexing around his sword hilt. But his eyes darted to the knights, who tensed at his movement, all their gazes fixed on him.
“What is happening? Where is the pope?” Nogaret’s breathless voice sounded from the back of the crowd blocking the doors. “Let me through!” The soldiers parted reluctantly and the minister appeared. He too tugged off his helmet, the better to see by. His face registered shock, then fury as he saw the Templars and the pope beyond. “What is this?”
“Keep out of it, Nogaret,” growled Sciarra. “This isn’t your fight anymore.”
The cries outside were growing louder. There was a tang of smoke on the air.
“Guillaume de Nogaret?” The pope’s voice was glacial. “So, you are the serpent who has hissed venom in the ear of your king? Whose poison now threatens the very Church?” Boniface’s eyes glittered. “You should have been thrown onto that fire with your mother and father, you blasphemous wretch!”
Nogaret started forward, his face contorting with hatred. Two of Sciarra’s men, poised to fight, caught his movement. Thinking it was a general attack, they rushed toward the line of knights. Sciarra shouted, but his warning came too late. Two Templars stepped out to meet the men. One knight ducked under his attacker’s strike, then punched in with his sword, ramming it through the man’s side. The other knight swung his opponent’s blade away with a downward curve of his sword, then ran him through. Leaving the bodies bleeding on the marble floor, the knights moved back into the line. Boniface sat heavily on his throne, shaken by the confrontation. His expression grew even more bewildered as Godfrey Bussa stumbled into the chamber.
The commander’s face was white and he was clutching his arm. Blood was pumping between his fingers. He went straight to Sciarra. “The citizens are rioting,” he said through clenched teeth. “They followed us in. More are coming up from the town. They’ve overrun the compound.”
“Godfrey?” whispered the pope. He stood, the sword limp in his grasp. “The Templars told me local men were involved, but I did not imagine it would be you.” Boniface’s expression hardened. “And to think I was concerned for you when they made me bar the gates and refuse entry to anyone. How many more are against me?” he cried, throwing his head back.
Yells and the clamor of many footsteps erupted in the corridor. The soldiers by the doors turned, adding their own shouts to the commotion as a tide of people swept toward them. The people of Anagni had come for their reward.
Buoyed up by their victories against the palazzos of the cardinals, drunk on stolen wine and heady with the promise of even greater spoils, they raced toward the men crammed in the doorway of the throne room. Some carried blades, wrested from soldiers overpowered outside, others had sticks or rocks. Sciarra’s men leveled their swords, but the stampede had picked up too much momentum to stop and the front rows were carried into the bristling line by the impetus of those behind. Men kicked and stabbed, elbowed and punched. The rasp of blades vanished almost at once, to be replaced by heavy grunts and gurgling screams that boiled up in the tight scrum.
Sciarra, who had turned to yell orders at his soldiers, now gave a cry of rage as the Templars jostled the pope down from his throne and out through a door in the far wall of the chamber. As Sciarra charged
recklessly, Nogaret raced after him. A handful of Templars broke away from the main group and came at them. Will made to follow the minister, who was tackled by one of the knights, but the people of Anagni forced their way through the press of soldiers and burst into the throne room. Smoke was threading through the tall windows, sharpening the air. A building opposite was on fire. Will caught sight of a face, suspended in the black, boiling clouds, before a man came at him, brandishing a club.
The pope and his escort of knights had gone. Sciarra had killed one Templar and was battling a second, his face apoplectic. Nogaret howled as the knight he was fighting got inside his defenses and lanced him through the shoulder. The Templar tugged the blade free and brought the sword round in a massive two-handed swing that would have struck off Nogaret’s head had two townsmen not barreled into him, sending him flying. The Templar grunted in frustration as more people rushed past, all trying to get to the throne, where Boniface’s crystal-pommel sword and solid gold cross had been abandoned.
Will dodged a clumsy blow aimed by the man with the club and fended off another easily, but more and more men were scrabbling into the throne room to get at the treasures.
“Retreat!” someone was yelling. “Retreat!”
Sciarra’s knights, outnumbered by the mob, began to force their way out, away from the Templars, who were hacking indiscriminately through the press. One man was dragging Sciarra back. Nogaret, wounded, had lost his sword and was groping his way to the doors, trying to escape the knight who was coming after him. Will pushed his way out, using his fist and the hilt of his sword to clout people away.
A general call for retreat went up as thousands of townspeople poured in. The Templars, unable to take the pope safely through the chaos, barricaded him in a tower of the palace as Sciarra’s army fled into the amber evening, leaving the people of Anagni to rip down priceless tapestries, brawl over silver plates, haul relics from the treasury and guzzle Communion wine late into the night.
PALESTRINA, ITALY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1303 AD
Men threw themselves down on the scrubby ground, gasping for breath. Faces shone with sweat in the early morning light and blood bloomed on torn strips of clothing tied hastily around wounds. Some gulped voraciously from waterskins, then upended them over their heads, closing their eyes as the liquid poured out. Horses gnashed at their bits, mouths frothing with thirst. A few had been injured in the night flight from Anagni and there were piteous screams as soldiers dispatched the lame beasts.
Will leaned back against a crumbling wall and watched the stragglers, most of them on foot, trudging up the steep, overgrown track. He still felt exhausted, but at least he’d had a chance to rest, having reached the ruined town of Palestrina a few hours earlier, with those of the cavalry who had made it out of the papal palace. From what he could see, they were still missing at least half of their company. No one knew where Rainald and the men from Ferentino were. No one had seen them since they had entered the palace in the first wave of the attack. Sciarra, Godfrey Bussa and Nogaret were all present, although the minister had lost two of the guards who had traveled with him from France and Bussa was lying in the shade, his face gray with blood loss.
There was a shrill cry as an eagle drifted overhead, its gold wings glinting. Several others followed, circling warily, disturbed by the intruders. After Boniface had had the Colonnas’ stronghold razed, it was left abandoned, nature moving in eagerly to take their place. There was scant evidence of the buildings that had once crowned the hilltop; any stone or timber not scavenged by locals was covered over by creeping vines and trailing grasses. Now all that remained were broken stumps and jagged lines of walls, poking here and there through the rambling undergrowth. The chapel was the only building left standing, a forlorn marker of vanished humanity in the wilderness. Tree roots had forced their way in through cracks in the walls, the floor was crusty with bat droppings, and spiders’ webs floated like fragile curtains in the choir aisle, sprinkled with flies.
Will found it strange that Sciarra had led them here, the site of his family’s last defeat at the hands of the pope. But Colonna had wanted a place to regroup, unseen by allies of Boniface, and Palestrina had perhaps seemed the safest option. Maybe Sciarra even hoped for some sense of comfort here; familiar surroundings in which to lick his wounds and nurse his losses. Either way, it wasn’t over. That much was clear.
As a shadow fell across him, Will shielded his eyes and looked up to see Nogaret.
The minister’s robes were sticky with blood from the gash in his shoulder, which had been crudely bandaged by one of the guards. “You weren’t injured.”
In his flat tone it didn’t sound like a question, but Will answered. “Not much.” He raised his hands. The knuckles were torn and bruised where he had punched his way through the crowd.
“It was a disaster.”
Will pushed himself up with a wince. He was almost a foot taller than Nogaret, but the man continued to look him belligerently in the eye. “The townspeople shouldn’t have been involved.” Will glanced at Sciarra, who was hunched in the shade of a tree near the chapel. “I’ve seen mobs form before. It doesn’t take much to turn them into a mindless horde, intent on plunder and random slaughter. They are a dangerous tool. Unpredictable.”
“I’ll tell you what else was unpredictable, Campbell.”
Will looked back, hearing a note of menace in the minister’s tone.
“The pope’s white-clad saviors.” Anger broke through to seethe in Nogaret’s voice. “My first question would be how did Boniface know of our assault? Clearly it wasn’t from any of Bussa’s men, for he was obviously shocked by his commander’s part in the revolt. Indeed, the pope said it was the Templars who warned him local men might be involved. So my second question would be, how did the knights know?”
“As Bussa said, it is possible the pope was warned by one of his loyal guards.” Will continued to meet Nogaret’s gaze, even though the minister’s dark eyes were boring into him, filled with suspicion, hungry for blame. “The pope may have got word to the Templars in Rome, asking for their protection.”
“That makes no sense. If he thought he would be attacked he would have left Anagni.”
“Perhaps he didn’t take the threat that seriously and the knights’ protection was just a precaution.” Will shrugged. “It is even possible the Temple got wind of it and went there of their own accord.” He shook his head. “I doubt we’ll ever find out.”
“Perhaps,” murmured Nogaret. He seemed about to say something further, but was distracted as a troop of horsemen came riding into the ruined town. It was Rainald and the men of Ferentino.
Sciarra got to his feet and crossed the grass to greet them. “I didn’t think you made it out of Anagni,” said Colonna, grasping the captain’s hand.
“We were forced to split up. We came when we could.”
Sciarra was nodding. “And Boniface? Do you know what happened to him? None of my scouts has returned.”
“One of them gave me a message for you. He learned the Templars are to escort the pope to Rome. They planned to leave at first light.” Rainald looked up at the sun. “I expect they are on their way.”
A slow smile spread across Sciarra’s face. “As I had hoped.”
To Will it was suddenly clear why the Italian had retreated to the ruined town. Palestrina lay on the road to Rome. There was a certain bleak poetry in it: Sciarra riding down out of his former home to wreak vengeance on the man who had destroyed it.
As Rainald accepted a skin someone handed to him and drank gratefully, Nogaret grasped Sciarra by the arm. “I need to speak to you.”
Sciarra pulled away from his grip, but seemed to see something uncompromising in Nogaret’s stare, for he nodded to Rainald and turned to follow the minister into the chapel.
A couple of men watched them curiously as they disappeared inside, but soon moved off to help the newcomers, leading horses to a cleared area of grass, handing over scraps of food, listening to acco
unts of escape.
Will lingered, his mind filled with questions and uncertainties. Nogaret’s words, forgotten in the turmoil of Anagni, returned to him, filled with foreboding. He’ll not destroy Boniface before me. Until now, he had been focusing on keeping the pope safe from Sciarra. But what if Colonna wasn’t the only danger? Picking up an empty skin, he made his way around the back of the chapel. “I’m going to fetch water,” he told one of the French guards, who nodded disinterestedly.
Making sure he wasn’t observed, Will crept alongside the wall. There were plenty of cracks and crannies, but most had trees or flowers growing out of them. He hastened on, then found what he was looking for: a line in the stone cladding, jagged as a lightning bolt, through which he could glimpse the interior.
Entering, Nogaret stalked down to the choir aisle, swiping cobwebs out of his way.
“What do you want?” asked Sciarra, following, his voice brisk with impatience.
Nogaret turned suddenly and backhanded him viciously across the face. “You fool!”
Sciarra stumbled away. His hand moved to his cheek, then stopped halfway and went instead for his sword, which he wrenched free.
Nogaret didn’t flinch as the sword came up, the tip wavering inches from his throat. “You think your family had it hard when Boniface declared war on them? That is nothing in comparison to what my lord, Philippe, could do. France is their home now, yes? Their safe haven? We would make it their grave!”
The sword point faltered, but Sciarra didn’t lower the blade. His cheek was scarlet. “I am not a man moved by threats.”
“It is not a threat.”
Sciarra hesitated. Slowly, he brought the blade down.
“You ruined the entire assignment,” hissed Nogaret, pacing the aisle, webs snapping and trailing in his wake. “Boniface was supposed to be on his way to Paris, a pope cowed and beaten by the might of France, taken in chains to face his accusers and their judgment!”
