by Robyn Young
“I couldn’t let him leave this place alive,” Sciarra replied in a low voice, watching him. “You have no idea of the extent of his crimes against my family.” He beat his breast. “No idea how fervently we hate him. I didn’t want him to languish in luxury in a palace tower, while lawyers fought over his future. I wanted him to have no future! I wanted him dead!”
“As did we!” Nogaret shouted, turning back. He halted as Sciarra’s sword flicked out again, but he held his ground. “The pope wouldn’t have made it to Paris. I was to poison him on the way.”
Sciarra looked astonished. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”
“I swore to my lord that no other would know of it. Not even my own men were informed. We would have said the pope died of the burden of his crimes. There would have been no evidence of murder.” Nogaret leaned against a scarred pillar. “Now all is finished, because of your rashness. The moment the pope enters Rome, he will excommunicate all of us and King Philippe, if, indeed, he has not done so already.”
“We still have a chance,” said Sciarra, after a silence. “We know he is coming this way.”
Nogaret shook his head. “If we kill him on the road it will be known that it was murder and, for that matter, who his killers are.”
“Not if there are no witnesses. Even with our losses, my men greatly outnumber his Templar escort. We will distract them so you can get to the pope.”
“There will be no evidence, no body. No one will know anything, except that the pope never made it to Rome.”
“The violence in Anagni will confuse accounts. You can still say you came to arrest the pope for heresy, which is known, and that he evaded you. You can also say he died from the weight of his crimes, or however you wish to phrase it, during his flight to the city.” Sciarra was frowning, thinking it through. “A few of Bussa’s men made it here. What if they took the pope’s body to Rome with the story of what happened? No one there would know his own guards had turned against him. They would believe them.”
“What of the Templars? Even if we managed to kill them all, the order would know where they had gone and why. They would no doubt send more knights when they didn’t return.”
“Let them,” said Sciarra flatly. “They would find nothing of them in these hills. Bussa’s men could say the party was intercepted, but that they got away. The Templars stayed behind to sacrifice themselves for the heretic pope.” He lifted his shoulders carelessly. “Who but the order would mourn them?”
THE ROAD TO ROME, ITALY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1303 AD
Boniface huddled in the wagon on cushions and furs, his gloved hand grasping the side as the wheels bumped and jolted over the rough road. It was late afternoon and the sun glowed through the red cloth covering the wagon, rendering it almost translucent, like skin. Boniface had the disquieting impression he was in the belly of some beast that was lurching its way toward Rome. The hooves of the Templars’ horses striking the hard-packed ground echoed all around. The sound drummed in his mind, building the ache in his head to a crescendo of pain. He patted his brow with a silk cloth. The righteous anger that erupted in him when he first learned of the attack and the subsequent rage that overwhelmed him at the sight of his own people with that viper, Colonna, had dissipated. Now he just felt like a scared old man. Wounded and betrayed.
His home had almost been destroyed. It would have been, had the riots not died away soon after Sciarra’s escape, the citizens sobering up, coming to their senses. He made an impassioned plea from the palace balcony and many, seeing him there surrounded by the Templars, had laid down their weapons. Some even returned the treasures they had stolen. The miracle was that none of his family had been killed, although many servants and guards perished in the assault. The knights had told him how fortunate he was; if they hadn’t been there he would most likely be dead, or in the custody of that heretic, Nogaret.
Boniface realized his hand, holding the cloth, was trembling. As he let it fall into his lap, he heard a harsh shout come from outside. It was quickly followed by others and the alarmed neighing of horses. Boniface caught the rasp of swords, then the wagon jerked forward violently. Thrown off balance, he toppled. The furs gave him a soft landing, but the wagon was jolting so precariously it was all he could do to push himself up on his hands. He hung there, helpless, bouncing about like a sack of apples, hearing the approaching thunder of many hooves. There were more shouts, crashing and thudding sounds and the screaming of horses and men.
Clawing his way forward on his hands and knees, Boniface made it to the opening at the back of the wagon. He gripped the cloth, just as the wagon rocked into a pothole, almost tipping over. Boniface swung sideways with a cry and the material ripped in his fists. He thumped onto the bare wood, bruising his knuckles. Raising his head, he stared out of the tear. Through clouds of dust, he saw that the road behind him was filled with men. Hundreds of them were riding down the scrubby hillside, yelling as they charged the Templars. Among those shouts, Boniface heard the name of Colonna raised. There were at least four Templars still with him, riding furiously, but even as he watched, wild-eyed with terror, the men on the hillside outflanked them. A black missile came shooting toward him. Boniface threw himself backward, but the arrow wasn’t aimed at him. It caught the rear of one of the horses, sending the beast reeling into the side of the wagon. Another caught the driver, who tumbled from his seat. The wagon rocked and jumped as the wheels rolled over his body, then veered off course, the horses pulling off the track and down a steep embankment into a field of white flowers. Boniface cracked his head on one of the chests piled against the side and lay there dazed as the wagon rolled to a stop, the horses stamping and grunting, exhausted.
The sounds of battle continued to reverberate. Boniface hauled himself to the opening before the horses could bolt again. Just as he reached it, a face appeared, shining with sweat and triumph. He cried out and struggled back as Nogaret climbed in. The minister had a dagger in his hand.
“Get away from me! Get away, in the name of God!”
Nogaret advanced, his dark eyes alight.
“How dare you attack me!” Boniface shouted. “I am God’s vicar! St. Peter’s successor!”
“You’re an old fool, standing on the top of a crumbling edifice, trying to hold it up by will alone. The Church’s power is waning. The people will soon put their faith in the temporal, and the spiritual will be nothing more than fantasy.”
“Why?” breathed Boniface. “Why would you want this?”
“You are riddled with corruption,” spat Nogaret. “All of you. Nothing but hypocrites! You kill in the name of your God, but it is your hand that smites down your enemies, not His! You use your faith as an excuse to destroy any who oppose you and your beliefs. What I do, here today, will cleanse the world of your pollution.”
“It was not I who ordered your family to the fire, Nogaret,” said Boniface, stopping short as he came up against the back of the wagon. He struggled onto his knees. “If you allow me to I can absolve them, clear their names and yours.”
Nogaret was shaking his head.
“I can lift the order of excommunication I have put on you and on France.” Boniface held out his hands as the minister paused. “I will do all this tonight. If you let me live.”
Nogaret stood hunched in the wagon, poised over the pope, his black robes blocking out the sun. The sounds of battle were growing faint and sporadic. “The next pope will do this for us,” he said bluntly, thrusting the dagger toward the pope’s neck.
As Boniface screamed, Nogaret rammed the phial he clutched in his free hand into the pope’s mouth. The old man’s eyes went wide as the bitter liquid splashed into his throat. His hands came up and grasped Nogaret’s wrist. He choked, tried to turn his head, but it was too late; he had already swallowed half of it. Just then, riders came cantering down from the track, startling the beasts tethered to the wagon. As they jolted forward, Boniface kicked Nogaret in the stomach. The minister staggered backward and fell out of the
wagon as the horses took off across the field. He landed on his back in the grass.
Will shouted in frustration as he saw Nogaret climb inside the wagon, alone in a sea of gold-tinged grass. He slashed savagely at the Templar in front of him, trying to disarm him and get past. But the knight, who couldn’t have been more than twenty, was a canny fighter, and although he grimaced as he countered Will’s mighty strokes, he kept tight hold of his blade and shield. Most of the knights were dead on the roadside; just a few, like this brave youth, battled on determinedly. Will heard a desperate cry come from the wagon. It distracted him and he lost his balance. It was only for a second, but it was enough for the knight to lunge in, kick the sword out of his grip and drive his own weapon home. The blade stopped short. Will, who had crashed to his knees, saw an arrow embedded in the young man’s throat. His eyes still fixed on Will, he let his sword fall. It clanked in the dust. The knight collapsed as one of the French guards came riding up, a bow now empty in his hand.
Numbly, Will pushed himself to his feet to see Nogaret come tumbling out of the back of the wagon, which rumbled away across the field. It didn’t get far before some of Sciarra’s men cornered it. Seeing Nogaret stand and walk toward it unhurriedly, Will knew it was over. As he stared at the young Templar, whose eyes were empty reflections of the darkening sky, the ghosts inside him shifted, whispering and afraid.
ST. JULIEN LE PAUVRE, PARIS, NOVEMBER 20, 1303 AD
Esquin de Floyran turned as the church doors creaked open. His heart lifted in relief as his nephew entered. His relief became a frown when he saw the young man was wearing a servant’s brown robe and had a bundle on his back. A row of candles in front of an altar lit his face as he hastened down the aisle to where Esquin was waiting. In the pallid light, Martin looked sick with fear.
Esquin pulled his plain cloak tighter around him as his white mantle slipped into view. The priest had been a little too interested in him, a stranger in his church, and there was no sense making the man more intrigued by revealing what he was. “Martin?” he queried, as the young man came toward him. “What is this?” He gestured at the bundle.
“I’m leaving the order. I’m coming home to Montfaucon with you. Tonight.”
Esquin’s concern was overcome by a rush of anger. “That is out of the question! Your father and I didn’t spend all those years training you to have you run away at the first sign of difficulty. I came to meet you tonight to try to help you, not escape your troubles, but face them.”
Martin sank onto the floor, the bundle slipping off his shoulder to sag in his lap.
Esquin drew a breath and knelt beside him. “Martin, please. You must tell me what is wrong. Is . . . ?” He steeled himself, part of him not wanting his worst fears confirmed. He had heard this went on in some preceptories: masters abusing their positions in the most despicable ways, and dreaded this was the cause of his nephew’s despair. “Is a master treating you badly? Or doing anything . . . improper?”
Martin’s eyes that flicked to him, full of fear, seemed to verify this. Esquin felt queasy. He wasn’t sure what to say next, but before he could find the words, his nephew began to speak.
“I never wanted to do it. I swear. But I thought . . . I thought it was what happened at initiations. I thought everyone must do it and that you and Father had done it too. But I wanted to know for sure and so I began asking some of the knights who were friends of mine.” Martin’s face was slack and gray. “They said they never did that.”
“What?” pressed Esquin, when the young knight paused. “Never did what?”
“They told me I would be part of something great, something that would change the order. They said it was . . good.” Martin’s voice grew fierce. “But how can it be good? They made me drink blood and choose a path, and I thought they just wanted to make me frightened, to test my strength and my nerve, but then . . .” He hung his head, in his mind’s eye seeing it happening again. “Then they made me spit on the cross.”
Esquin stared at his nephew, unable to believe what he was hearing. These men he was talking about were Templars, warriors of Christ. Christians. But he saw no lie in the youth’s eyes, just desperate fear. “Who made you do this? Who initiated you? Which master was it?”
“He wore a skull,” said Martin in a hoarse voice, his hands wrapping around the bundle. “A mask of a skull. It had other faces too.” He looked at his uncle suddenly. “They all wore masks. When we initiated more knights I wore one too. I cannot stop seeing the ceremonies.” He pressed his knuckles to his eyes. “I dream of it. I hear God’s voice telling me I am damned. Telling me my soul is lost to Satan, that I have allied myself with worshippers of evil, pledged myself to them, drunk their blood!” He took his hands away and clutched his uncle’s arm. “Please, Uncle. Tell me what to do.”
Esquin grasped his shoulders. “Who did this, Martin? Answer me. Who are these men?”
“Can I help?”
Esquin looked around to see the priest heading over. “Thank you. We just need a moment of peace.”
A rush of wind made the candles by the altar shiver. The priest frowned at the door. Esquin, still looking up at him, saw his face change.
The priest’s jaw slackened and his hand rose to the wooden cross around his neck. “Dear Lord.”
Esquin turned in the direction of his gaze and saw men, twenty or more, funneling into the church. All wore masks, painted red with a white stag’s head on each, and a plain white mantle. As the last entered, pulling his mask down and shutting the door, Esquin glimpsed part of a face: a square of jaw, a clipped black beard. Then his attention was drawn to those at the front, who had unsheathed their swords.
Martin had leapt to his feet and was backed up against the pillar. “Please, no,” he was whispering. “No.”
Esquin didn’t look around as footsteps slapped away behind him. The priest had fled. He reached for his own sword and drew it, planting himself in front of his nephew. “Stay back,” he warned the front row of men, advancing. “Stay back!”
“Our master feared you would betray us, Martin,” said one at the front. “But I thought better of you. I thought you would honor the oaths you swore.”
“Honor?” growled Esquin. “How dare you speak of honor! I know what you made him do. What perversions you had him commit, endangering his soul! What has our order come to that men like you infect it? You should be thrown into Merlan. All of you!”
“You do not understand,” answered the man, his words flat, muffled through the mask. “But you will.” He pointed his sword at Martin. “Seize him.”
“Run, Martin!” shouted Esquin, shoving his nephew away and meeting the ringleader. He gritted his teeth as he clashed with the masked man, who flicked his blade aside easily.
“Don’t be a fool, de Floyran. Put down your weapon.”
Esquin lunged. The man ducked to the left, grabbed his arm and, pulling his sword arm wide, brought his knee up into Esquin’s stomach. Esquin dropped the blade and sank to his knees, wheezing. Through smarting eyes, he saw men coming toward him. One held a black hood.
“Don’t hurt him,” the ringleader warned. “Our master will want to question him. The traitor you can kill.”
Martin entered the sacristy and banged the door shut behind him, jamming the bolt home. Gasping with fear, he dragged a chest in front of it, then stared around wildly. Behind a clothes perch, from which hung several robes, he saw a small black door, the wood scarred with age. It looked as if it hadn’t been opened in years. Faintly, he heard his uncle cry out, then heavy footsteps approaching fast. As the door began to rattle in its frame, Martin threw the clothes perch aside. The exit was locked and there was no key to be seen. He started as a crash sounded behind him, then slammed his shoulder into the wood. The door shuddered, but held. Gritting his teeth, he tried again, shouting in desperation. The crashing was loud and steady. It sounded as though the knights had picked up a bench and were ramming their way through. He took several steps back, then launch
ed himself at the black door. The wood, brittle and rotten, burst apart. Martin fell into the alleyway outside, just as the bolt on the sacristy door tore away from the frame. He threw himself forward, his hands sliding in mud and decaying rubbish, rats scurrying away before him. Pushing himself to his feet, he began to run.
Martin made it halfway down the alley before he saw torch flames appear ahead. The knights had come around the side of the church to cut off his escape. He turned to run back, then skidded to a halt as he saw men piling out of the sacristy behind him. He sank to his knees, his will leaving him, as they came toward him. Raising his head to heaven, he saw, in the blue slice of evening sky far above, a single star, burning bright. Martin clasped his hands together. “Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee,” he breathed, closing his eyes as the swords swung in.
25
The Royal Palace, Paris
NOVEMBER 20, 1303 AD
“You never should have involved Colonna.”
“I see that now,” answered Nogaret, watching Philippe’s face as they walked through the royal gardens. Servants were sweeping dead leaves into piles, and two bonfires had been lit, the spiraling flames pushing back the evening. The North Star glinted coldly and the air was bitter with smoke and frost. The minister gave a shrug. “But in the end, my lord, everything went as planned. Boniface was charged with heresy and died of shock, at least to all concerned. His body was taken to Rome, where his crimes were listed by the cardinals who support us, and the Sacred College elected Niccolo Boccassino.”
“I would have preferred to choose the candidate myself,” said Philippe, as they continued across the lawn toward the mews.
“That was impossible. The Sacred College understandably wanted to move quickly to replace Boniface. There was simply no way of halting that process long enough for me to return here to advise you.”
