by Robyn Young
“How can we be certain this new pope will do as we wish?” Philippe halted, turning to the minister. “This has been a trial for me, Nogaret. I want things to go back to the way they were. I want a good relationship with Rome again.” He started walking. “But we can heal these wounds, yes?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but plowed on, lacing his hands as if about to pray. “It was an ugly business, but necessary for the future of the kingdom.”
“Benedict XI, as he named himself, is weak and ailing. Our allies in the Sacred College felt, of all the possible candidates, he would be the most easily manipulated. As it is, he has already bowed to the pressure of lifting the order of excommunication placed on you by Boniface. France is safe.”
“But he refused to lift the orders placed on you and Sciarra Colonna.”
Nogaret’s mouth curled. “Unfortunately, Boccassino was one of the cardinals who remained in Anagni during the riot. He holds Colonna and me responsible for the damage done that day. But,” he added stiffly, “I am certain he can be mollified in time.”
“And Campbell?” ventured Philippe, ducking through the archway in the garden wall and entering the enclosure. “How did he fare?”
Nogaret’s brow tightened as he walked with the king down the line of mews houses. Most of the birds were inside, the perches empty. There were torches burning at the far end, outside the lodgings of Sir Henri and his staff. “He did as he was told, if that is what you mean, but I do not trust him.”
“The Templars?”
“I cannot help thinking it very coincidental. We arrive to arrest the pope and he is surrounded by knights.”
“If Boniface suspected an attack the Templars or the Hospitallers would have been the most likely choice for military protection. Was there any proof Campbell was involved in their arrival? Anything else that made you suspect him?”
“No,” Nogaret admitted.
“So he did as he was bid? Fought alongside you against the knights?”
“My lord, whatever use you feel he would be to our plan for the Temple is surely outweighed by the question of whether we can trust him or not. It is an unnecessary risk. I would advise you to send him back to Scotland, him and that daughter of his. I spoke to the queen before I left for Italy. The girl is clearly enamored of you and by all accounts has been for some time. The queen seemed troubled and—”
“Answer my question.”
“Yes,” said the minister finally. “He fought with us, but even so, I . . .” He stopped as Sir Henri came out to meet them.
“I want you to bring Campbell to me,” said Philippe.
“Now?”
“Yes, now, Nogaret. Sir Henri!” Philippe called, his tone becoming lighter. “Is Maiden still awake?”
“Yes, my lord. Shall I fetch her food?”
“No need,” replied Philippe, holding up a cloth parcel. “I had the palace cooks put some meat aside for her tirings.”
Nogaret hesitated, wanting to put Philippe off his decision, but the king was already following the falconer to Maiden’s mews and his orders were clear.
Will stood outside the dormitory door, his hand curled in a fist, poised to knock. He lifted it, then stopped as two servants came hurrying down the passage. He waited until they passed, then raised his hand again. Still, he paused. Finally, angered by his hesitation, he went to strike the wood, but was stopped by a sharp voice. Looking around, he saw Guillaume de Nogaret in the shadows at the end of the passage.
“The king wants to see you.”
With a last glance at Rose’s door, Will headed to the minister, all at once alert. They had arrived in Paris that afternoon and he had expected the king to question them on the assignment, but something in Nogaret’s tone and expression told him this was more than a simple report.
He followed the minister through the palace, out into the royal gardens, where the wind was whipping the flames of the groundsmen’s fires high into the darkness. Philippe was in the mews enclosure, Maiden perched on his gloved hand, tearing feathers and flesh from a chicken leg. The king glanced up as Will and Nogaret entered the ruddy pool of torchlight.
“My lord.” Will bowed.
Philippe didn’t acknowledge him for a moment, but watched Maiden rip apart the meat. Will could feel the tension coming off Nogaret, standing stock-still at his side.
“I imagine you must have questions about the events in Italy, Campbell,” said the king finally. “Questions, perhaps, over the morality of what was done and the reasons for it?”
“I have a few, my lord,” responded Will slowly.
“Do you believe that the end justifies the means?” inquired Philippe, frowning pensively, as if wondering about the answer himself. “That sometimes we may be forced to do unthinkable things that many may benefit?”
“I would say that would depend on the circumstances, but having fought in the Crusades I am well aware that sacrifices must sometimes be made for the greater good.”
Philippe nodded. The silence was filled with cracking sounds as Maiden dug her beak into the bone to get at the marrow. “Boniface was a dangerous man, disturbed even. He was intent on ruining my reputation and, with it, destroying France. That was in part why you were sent to arrest him, although as you must now be aware, his arrest was a cover for his death.” He let out a breath and stared into the sky. “I did not want it to come to this, but he gave me no choice. Boniface’s sacrifice was for the good of France, which in turn will be good for the rest of Christendom. Your homeland included,” he added, looking back at Will. “You may not have heard, but King Edward is advancing north on another campaign. The victories won by Sir William Wallace and his men are being eroded by his continuing war. Edward calls himself Hammer of the Scots.”
Will clenched his jaw, feeling more removed than ever from his homeland and its fight to survive, further still from his old enemy and his ability to find justice.
“I can help your kingdom, but only if I have the power to do so. Power these days is governed not by the Church, as it once was, but by money and territory. Any king in Christendom will tell you the same. By helping your country, by warring against Edward and his allies in Flanders, I have severely limited my ability to preserve either funds or land. Despite recent victories over my enemies and the confiscation of the Jews’ property, my coffers remain diminished. They must be filled or my capacity to give aid to Scotland and, indeed, my own people will suffer. Now that there is, we hope, a more reasonable man upon the papal throne,” continued Philippe, “I plan to set in motion something myself and Nogaret decided upon some months ago.” He paused, as Maiden tossed back her head to swallow down the bones and feathers. “I plan to bring down the Temple and to take its wealth. In doing this I will secure the future of France and make this kingdom great again. As great as it was in the days of Saint Louis.”
Will felt Nogaret’s gaze on him. He knew the minister didn’t trust him, but in Philippe’s scrutinizing stare he also saw uncertainty, suspicion even. Perhaps the king didn’t trust him either. Perhaps this was a test. He felt certain that, if he failed, he would be killed. He could almost sense Nogaret’s hand curling around the hilt of his sword, ready to strike the life from him. All at once, something settled inside him. It was the same sensation he got whenever he was about to go into battle; the same resolve, grounding him. For years, he had been drifting from one place to another, different masters, different causes. Now the path ahead was clear.
Simon had been right, all that time ago in Selkirk: the war for Scotland wasn’t his war; it was Wallace’s and Gray’s, his nephew’s. The fight for the Temple, the Anima Templi, the struggle to protect both from enemies within and without, as the oaths he swore had instructed, this was his conflict. The ghosts inside him quieted, falling into an expectant hush, as he put his foot out and stepped onto the path from which he had strayed for so long. “You will need the pope to support you for this,” he told Philippe. “The only way you could secure the order’s wealth would be through him
.”
“Does this not make you uncomfortable?” asked Nogaret quickly. “No matter that you left them, you were a Templar for many years, brought up by them. You must have friends within their ranks still?”
Will turned to look at him. “Whatever loyalty I owed to the order vanished when they allied themselves with Edward. Why do you imagine I deserted?”
“You may be able to help us,” said Philippe. “As a former member, who knows the workings of their organization: details of their defenses, resources, assets. Would you be willing to aid us?”
Will took his gaze from Nogaret and focused on the king. “On the condition that you end this truce with King Edward. In return for helping you bring down the Temple, I want you to protect Scotland.”
As the last of the suspicion died in Philippe’s eyes, Will knew he had won the king’s trust.
“As I have told you, Campbell, my peace with Edward was only ever temporary. You have my word. When the Temple falls, Scotland shall be free.”
THE TEMPLE, PARIS, NOVEMBER 20, 1303 AD
Robert knocked again and waited. Still there was no answer from within the solar. He glanced at the faint glow of candles glimmering beneath the door. Perhaps Hugues had forgotten to extinguish them? It was a risk to leave them burning. Snapping down the latch, he entered.
The fire had turned to embers in the hearth and the only light in the drafty chamber came from Hugues’s desk, where the flames of three candles switched and fluttered in the wind threading its way around the cloth covering the windows. The visitor’s desk was a chaos of scrolls and parchments, some of which had slipped off to scatter the floor around it. Robert took a step forward, then stopped. Half-hidden behind the papers was a figure, head on the desk, one arm flung out in front of him. By the thinning gray hair, he could tell it was Hugues. For a shocked second, he thought the visitor was dead, then he heard a grunt and saw Hugues’s back rise and fall.
Smiling to himself, Robert crossed the chamber. He saw maps among the strewn papers on the table. One, partially unrolled, was of Prussia. Lying next to it was a parchment decorated with a white cross on black: the mark of the Teutonics. There was another with the insignia of the Hospitallers and a whole stack adorned with the great seal of the Temple, showing two knights on a single horse. Robert caught a mention of the island of Rhodes and something about future intentions, before his foot crackled on a stray parchment and Hugues jerked awake.
“Christ,” growled Hugues, scrabbling to set the desk in order.
“Sorry,” said Robert, moving to help. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Hugues paused, his gaze flicking over the maps. “What were you doing?”
“I needed to speak to you.” Robert was surprised by his comrade’s tone and the intensity of his stare.
“It is late.”
“I realize that, but I saw the light in your window and thought you were awake.” Robert watched as Hugues began stacking the papers facedown on his desk. “I hoped I might take the opportunity to speak to you while you weren’t in a meeting or away on business.”
As he picked up the pile of parchments decorated with the Templar seal, Hugues glanced at Robert. “Some days I feel I am running this order single-handedly.”
“You’ve had word from the grand master?” questioned Robert, his eyes on the skins.
“I prayed, when Ruad fell, that would be the end of his fruitless Crusade.” Hugues’s tone was bitter. “Yet still he lingers on Cyprus and every month, it seems, demands I send more knights, more horses, more funds for his campaign.” The visitor’s voice was rising. “I have told him, time and time again, that I need men here. Does he not see this? England and Scotland are still at war and France has become increasingly unstable, with uprisings and border skirmishes, and trouble with Rome. All this, I have told him, yet he bleeds our order dry of the very things that will safeguard it in these uncertain times. I need men. I need resources. Why does he not understand this?” Hugues seemed to realize he had said too much, for he stopped short, then tossed the rest of the papers on the desk. “It is late, brother,” he repeated wearily. “What do you want?”
Robert hesitated, reluctant to add to Hugues’s burden. But he had been waiting for answers for months. “I was wondering if you looked any further into that matter I brought to your attention earlier in the year? The rumors surrounding the initiations?”
Hugues sighed roughly. “I told you then, it was most likely just idle gossip among the sergeants.”
“All the same, I believe it warranted our attention. The rumors were disturbing and even if there was no substance to them it would be best they ceased. There has always been a certain mistrustful speculation, both in and out of the Temple, about what goes on at the inceptions of knights, especially given the secrecy that surrounds the ceremonies. It could be damaging to the order’s reputation if outsiders were somehow given the impression we are up to no good.”
“Well, I am grateful for your vigilance, but I looked into it and found nothing.”
“Nothing at all? No clue even as to the source of the rumors?”
“Brother, I really have more than enough to concern myself with, without picking through the furtive imaginations of our younger members for absolutely no good reason I can think of.” Hugues lifted his hand as Robert went to speak. “That is the end of it. I have work to finish.”
“But perhaps if I—”
“I said that is the end of it!” snapped Hugues, banging his fist on the desk. “Now, leave me!”
Gritting his teeth, Robert bowed and left the chamber. If Hugues did not want to continue the investigation then there wasn’t much more he could do. By the time he stepped out into the chill night air, he had more or less convinced himself that the visitor was most probably right. The rumors were nothing more than sergeants’ stories.
26
Outside Bordeaux, the Kingdom of France
FEBRUARY 11, 1305 AD
The soldier knuckled the water from his eyes as the wind whipped through the undergrowth, stinging his face. On that wind, he could smell the Garonne, salty and sour.
“How much longer, Gilles?”
“Get down,” growled the soldier, thumping his comrade in the thigh, making him drop with a wince. “Do you want to be seen?”
“They can’t see us all the way up there, surely.”
“Not them, Ponsard, you idiot.” Gilles frowned irritably and pointed to a distant clump of trees where two horses were cropping the frost-bitten ground. There was a man with them. He was stamping in a circle, presumably to ward off the chill. “Him.”
Ponsard’s gaze moved from the man up the hill to the little white house on the brow. “The others are getting restless. We’ve been here for hours. Perhaps it’s some distant relative he’s here to see?” He hefted his broad shoulders. “He’s got enough of them round here.”
“Then why all the secrecy? The altered accounts? Why does no one we’ve asked know where he goes on these journeys?” Gilles’s face was set as he looked back at the house. “There’s something up there he doesn’t want anyone to find out about.”
A grin crept across Ponsard’s face as he studied Gilles’s intent expression. “You’ve got an idea what it is, haven’t you?”
“I have my suspicions.”
“Here,” said Ponsard, nudging Gilles. “Is that him?”
Gilles squinted into the distance. “I think so,” he murmured, watching a man step out of the front door, robes flapping. He spoke momentarily with someone on the threshold Gilles couldn’t make out, then descended the track toward the trees, bent against the wind. “Get the others,” said Gilles, watching as the man was helped into his saddle by his squire. “Let’s go and see for ourselves what the archbishop is so keen to hide.”
The five soldiers waited until Bertrand de Got disappeared from view, heading back the way he had come, toward Bordeaux. Then, keeping low to the rushing grasses, they crept up the hillside.
Gille
s drew his sword as he approached the house, ducking under the windows. “Stay outside,” he mouthed to two of the men, “guard the perimeter.”
They nodded and backed up against the whitewashed walls, where moss sprouted green from cracks in the stone. Gilles went to the front door, Ponsard and another soldier close behind him. He paused, checking they were all in position, then rapped on the door.
There were footsteps on the other side. A bolt slid back and the door opened, revealing a pretty young woman. Gilles grinned, his suspicions confirmed. Her eyes went from the scarlet and blue tunic, visible beneath his riding cloak, to the sword in his hand. Even as her face was registering surprise and the first jolt of fear, Gilles kicked in the door, knocking her backward. She sprawled on the floor and let out a scream as he pushed his way in. Reaching down with his free hand, Gilles grabbed the front of her dress and hauled her to her feet. Turning her in one rough movement, he wrapped his arm around her throat, pinning her to him. “I’ll bet he knows a new heaven with you,” he growled, then stopped as another woman appeared, this one bulky and ugly. Gilles thrust his sword toward her.
“Who are you?” The woman had planted herself in the passage, but she looked terrified. “What do you want?”
“Answers to questions,” responded Gilles. “Such as why Archbishop de Got makes his way so frequently to a house in the middle of nowhere? Which one of you is he swiving?”
The large woman’s face reddened. “How dare you! Archbishop de Got is an honorable man! He has been a close friend of my family’s for years. I have been ill for some time and find it hard to get to church. He comes to hear my confession.”
Gilles laughed. It was a cruel sound. “Been practicing that lie, crone?” His muscled arm squeezed the young woman’s throat. “Tell me who he sees out here. The truth! Or I’ll snap her neck.”
“Lady Heloise!” blurted his captive, her thin voice constricted. “It was Lady Heloise!”
