by Robyn Young
“What were they?” pressed Will.
“That I would lift the excommunication order on Guillaume de Nogaret. That I would nominate cardinals into the Sacred College who support Philippe and France, provide papal funds to finance any ongoing struggles against Edward of England and the guilds of Flanders, and that I would formally denounce Pope Boniface as a heretic.”
“That is four, Your Grace,” said Robert, when the archbishop drifted into silence.
Bertrand looked up. “And that I would dissolve the Order of the Temple, delivering its assets to Philippe and his heirs.”
“Jesus,” murmured Robert.
Will realized, by the shock in his tone, that the knight hadn’t quite believed this was real until now. “What was your answer?” he asked Bertrand.
“I said no,” Bertrand told them, angry all of a sudden. “I said I would not corrupt the holy office in such a way. I said the Knights of the Temple were the only men left fighting for Jerusalem and I would not dissolve them!” He shook his head. “But they told me if I refused they would kill him.” His face crumpled. “Dear God, they have my son! The bastards have my son!”
Will exchanged a stunned look with Robert, then crossed to the archbishop, who had put his head in his hands. “Where do they have him, Your Grace?”
“Not seven miles from here, in the house I bought for him.” Bertrand stared at Will, despair plain in his face. “I cannot lose him,” he said, clutching at Will’s hands. “My beautiful boy. Please. I cannot!”
“What did they say would happen now?”
Bertrand heaved out a breath. “They made me sign an agreement and told me that when I was crowned with the papal tiara and had fulfilled my obligations, my son would be returned to me.”
“We will help you,” Will said, thinking quickly. “But in turn, you must help us. When the time comes, you must not give in to the king’s demands. You will not dissolve the Temple. You will protect the order. As pope, you would be the only man who could.”
“No!” Bertrand was incoherent with terror, babbling his son’s name. Somewhere outside, a bell began to clang, too early for Matins.
“Listen to me, Your Grace.” Will crouched in front of him, forcing the archbishop to look at him. “Raoul will not be harmed. You will go along with Philippe’s orders. Then, when you are crowned, we will liberate your son, removing the tool the king plans to use to manipulate you.”
“Liberate him?” Hope flashed across Bertrand’s face. “Then you can do this? Do this now?”
“No. Philippe must think he has your support. The point at which we rescue Raoul will be when it is too late and you are already crowned.” Will rose, the archbishop following him with dark, desperate eyes. “This is the only chance you will have to save your son.”
“But Nogaret?” breathed Bertrand, jerking to his feet as footsteps sounded beyond the chamber, followed by voices, calling for the archbishop. Robert hastened to snap the bolt across the door. A moment later, fists began to pound upon it. Bertrand looked back at Will. “I have heard Pope Boniface died of shock after the outrage at Anagni and the minister’s treatment of him. And I have heard darker rumors, rumors that perhaps Pope Benedict didn’t die naturally after all. Nogaret might do the same to me.”
“You have to trust me, Your Grace. Trust me and I will save your son.”
“I will,” insisted Bertrand, as the door burst open. “I will!”
29
Château Vincennes, the Kingdom of France
APRIL 9, 1305 AD
Philippe spurred his horse on, faster now, as they passed into the forest. The royal guards and advisors struggled to keep his reckless pace. Sunlight flashed through the trees, turning the well-trodden track into a path of gold. Philippe knew these woods well. He had grown up here, climbing oaks and chestnuts with his brothers, learning to ride and to hunt. He had flown his first falcon here, years before Maiden. There was freedom in such memories, so far from the burdens of adulthood and kingship, the endless politics and game-playing. Every time he rode this track to the château, leaving behind the chaos and filth of the city, he felt the fetters falling away, felt youth returning.
Today, without the constant burrowing itch of his hair shirt, the joy was complete. He hadn’t worn the garment in almost a fortnight and his skin was starting to heal, the scars of mortification fading into pale webs across his back. Since his journey to Bordeaux had proved so encouraging, he had allowed himself a brief respite from his daily penance, which, prior to the meeting with Bertrand de Got, had become more frequent and severe. Now, freed from discomfort and worry, he could allow himself to delight in this homecoming. He could relish the warmth of the sun on his face and the fresh smell of the trees to either side of him, stretching into verdant shadows, thick with adventure. These were the woods his brothers and he had quested through, searching for boar and deer. These were the trees that had shaded him and Jeanne as they lay together, awkward in their first, tentative explorations, the trees he had watched his own children climb, their voices shrill with fear and exhilaration on the higher branches.
Catching a glimpse of the gray turrets of the château, Philippe slowed the horse to a canter, wanting to prolong his enjoyment. The day was breezy and bright, ideal for a hunt. He decided he would organize one tomorrow, just for himself, Sir Henri and a few handpicked courtiers. He craved that sense of conclusion he felt at the end of a successful chase; the climax of the thrill when he loosed the arrow or the bird that would end it, sealing his victory. Politics so very rarely gave him that same satisfaction. Everything was so drawn out and convoluted. He felt, as king, that things should move when he wanted them to; people should bow and obey, fall to his will and bend to his whim. The protracted, shambolic business with Rome, the belligerence of Boniface and truculence of Benedict, had exhausted him beyond belief. Now, at last, it seemed as though he had got his way. Nogaret was abroad, making sure enough pressure was put on the cardinals in Perugia to get de Got elected; so long as there were no unexpected delays, he was finally on course to securing his realm and, more importantly, his own salvation.
Philippe smiled as he rode up to the château, not noticing the troubled looks the guards on the gates shared as he passed through, or the subdued manner of the squires who hastened from the stables to take his weary mount. It wasn’t until the royal steward came out to greet him, along with his closest advisors, that Philippe halted, his smile falling away. He stared at their solemn, sorrowful faces and something clutched, icy tight, around his heart.
The king thought first of Isabella and Louis: his favorite and his heir. He must have spoken the children’s names out loud, for the steward was now shaking his head and coming toward him.
“My lord,” he was saying. “My lord, I am so very sorry. The queen—”
But the steward didn’t get to finish, for Philippe was running past him, sprinting down the passageway, not hearing the calls at his back as he raced madly toward his wife’s chambers.
THE ROYAL PALACE, PARIS, APRIL 12, 1305 AD
Water poured in streams from the rooftops, turning the grime that caked the streets to a gray sludge. The sky was leaden, clouds drifting heavy and low, swollen with rain. The towers of Notre Dame were lost in the murk, and beneath, the city lay trapped, people’s heads bowed under the endless curtain, faces pinched with cold. Shop doors and shutters were closed against the chill, and just a handful of traders in the marketplace were hunched under the canopies of their stalls, calling listlessly to those who hurried past. The blue skies and burgeoning warmth of the past few weeks felt like a season ago. Winter, it seemed, had returned.
Will dismounted in the palace courtyard and looked around for a squire to take his horse, but other than a couple of distant guards the yard was empty and so he led the beast to the stables. He was sodden and splattered with mud from the hard day’s ride, but discomfort wasn’t foremost in his mind. He had spent the past few days perfecting the excuse he planned to give the king fo
r his absence, but each time he played it through in his mind it sounded more and more like the lie it was. Before leaving for Bordeaux with Robert, he explained to Pierre Dubois that he’d received a message from William Wallace, ordering him to Lyons to meet a potential financier for the war. Dubois had noted this with preoccupied disinterest, but Will knew Philippe would be more inquisitive about his departure. For that reason he had been hoping to return to the city before the king. He might have, if not for events in Bordeaux.
When the canons of the cathedral broke into Bertrand de Got’s chambers, he and Robert were seized and taken to a cell, where they were detained for several days. The chapter had persuaded the bewildered archbishop that they must be punished for their trespass, and it wasn’t until de Got came to his senses and managed to regain his authority that they were released without charge. With this delay and the rain that had swept in to hamper their journey, Will was certain the king would have reached Paris before them and would no doubt question him rigorously on his absence and the reasons for it.
Approaching the stables, Will found some grooms sheltering from the rain. They were huddled on bundles of hay, talking quietly. A couple of them jumped to their feet as Will ducked through the streams of water pouring from the eaves.
“Sorry, sir,” said one, taking the reins of his horse. “Didn’t see you there.”
Will looked around, struck by the silence and emptiness of the place, the grooms seemingly without master or duties. He stared through the sheets of rain out across the deserted courtyard. Come rain or snow, the palace yard was always crowded with people, bustling through on business. “Where is everyone?”
The groom looked uncertainly at his comrades.
One, who was older than the rest came over. “At the funeral, sir.”
“Funeral?”
The youth looked surprised. “Of the queen, sir.”
Will sucked a breath through his teeth. On the heels of the shock came a slightly discomforting spark of hope. Surely this tragedy would delay Philippe’s designs for Bertrand and the Temple, giving him more time to put his own plans in place? He knew how close the king and queen had been. Then a finger of doubt laid its cool touch upon his anticipation. History had shown such deep sorrow could focus a man as well as distract him. He thought of Edward, who had grown only more ruthless in his bereavement over his beloved queen. He was, Will realized, simply thinking of his own grief after the death of Elwen, a grief that had plunged him into years of directionless torment. No. He could not anticipate what this would do to Philippe, or his plans.
“They’re coming!”
Will turned as a young boy came scurrying into the stall. All at once, the grooms launched into a flurry of activity. Outside, Will heard the clapping of hooves in the wet. He moved into the rain to watch as the funeral cortége made its way into the palace.
First came the guards, blinking rain from their eyes as they rode into the courtyard, their uniforms sopping. Behind came the king, alone and on foot, his face poised somewhere between anguish and disbelief, rendering his expression almost blank. His black robes trailed behind him, coated with mud. Following him were his principal advisors, Pierre Dubois and Guillaume de Plaisans, the royal steward and his confessor, Guillaume de Paris. Of Nogaret, Will noted, there was no sign. After them came the children, Isabella small and lost, clutching the hand of her nursemaid and a single red rose. The handmaidens followed, Marguerite sobbing into her palm, Blanche at her side, supporting her. There was a host of other mourners: royal staff, bishops and clergy, dukes and dignitaries, all filing solemnly through the gates.
Within the line, Will glimpsed a thin, white figure in a black gown. He felt something wrench in him at the sight of his daughter, who looked so terribly alone in the midst of the vast crowd, stumbling along by herself. In a small sense, his single-minded determination to prevent the king from subjugating the Temple had been almost a relief, enabling him to ignore the rift that had widened into a chasm between him and Rose. He had told himself that once he made sure the Temple was protected, he would turn his attention to his daughter. But he knew this was just another form of escape, and he had done altogether too much of that in recent years. She was his daughter, in love if not in blood, and that had never changed or diminished. It was his courage that had faltered.
It was that realization that took him forward, his feet splashing through the puddles as he crossed to her. Rose flinched when he took her arm, but she let him lead her out of the line, away across the courtyard. She seemed to be in shock, numb and compliant at his side, as he steered her through the royal gardens to a stone bench in a secluded corner, sheltered by a broad yew.
“You’re wet through,” he murmured, as they sat. Realizing he had nothing to dry her with, for he too was soaked to the skin, he settled for brushing back the strands of her hair, dark with rain, that clung to her forehead. Will’s hand fell as he studied her face, her eyes staring and vacant, her skin pallid except for two hectic spots high on her cheeks. He realized he hadn’t seen her this close in months, maybe longer. As a child, he had been struck by how similar to Elwen she was, but those similarities had since faded from her and she had now grown into her own face. It was a face filled with sadness and loss so profound it took his breath away. He gripped her frozen hand. “Rose, I know you do not believe me and I have given you no reason to, but I never stopped loving you. If you believe nothing else, please believe that. I was scared.” He shook his head. “No, I was selfish. I put my grief before my love. I let what happened to Elwen—to your mother—overshadow what I felt for you and what I should have done as a father. I do not expect you to forgive me. But I hope—”
“It was me.”
Her voice was so quiet, it took him a moment to realize what she had said. His heart pounded. She hadn’t said no.
“I killed the queen.”
Will felt shock slam the hope out of him. “What?”
She stared at the gardens, misty with rain.
Will gripped her shoulders, turning her to him. “Rose, talk to me. What do you mean?”
Her gaze focused on him. “I wished she would die so often. But I didn’t want that.” Rose shook her head. “I watched her die. Dear God.” Her face crumpled in disgust. “The smell of that room. The smell of death as the fever took hold and her blood was poisoned. She was in so much pain and it was so very slow. We could do nothing. Nothing but watch.”
“Then it was a sickness?” pressed Will, not daring to feel relief yet. “A fever?”>
“In here.” Rose placed her hand low on her belly.
Now Will let the relief come. He sat back. “Why in Christ’s name would you say you killed her?”
“Didn’t you hear me?” Rose stood, her face hardening. “I said I wished it.”
“Why? Was she cruel to you?”
Rose went to walk away, but Will pursued her and took hold of her arm. “Why did you wish the queen would die?”
“Because I love him.”
“Philippe?” he asked, after a long pause.
When she nodded, Will wondered grimly whether he had somehow been the cause of this; his abandonment driving her to seek affection at such impossible, reckless heights. The idea of his daughter wishing another woman dead in her fantasies about a man so dangerous and volatile, a man he was actively working against, was disturbing to say the least. Trying to push aside these deeper concerns, he focused instead on something he understood. “Listen to me, Rose,” he said, coaxing her back to the bench. “You didn’t kill the queen by wishing it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. I once thought I had done the same to my sister.”
She looked at him.
“I never told you this, any of it. But it was the reason my father took me out of Scotland when I was a boy, the reason he joined the Temple as a knight and the reason I spent so many years trying to follow in his footsteps.”
He had her full attention now.
“My si
ster Mary and I were rivals, closer in age than with my older sisters. She was my father’s favorite, which didn’t help. I spent a long time wishing she would disappear, run away, get lost. I cannot recall if I ever wished she would die, but my feelings were clear: I didn’t want to share my house or my father with her. I told you long ago that my sister drowned. What I didn’t tell you was that I caused it.” Will looked away, unable still, after all these years, to look someone in the eye as he admitted this. “It was an accident. We were arguing by the loch near our estate and I pushed her away from me, harder than I meant to. She fell and hit her head. I tried to save her, but I failed. It tore my family apart. My father left for the Holy Land the year after and I never saw him again. Him or my mother.” Will thought he saw a look of understanding in Rose’s eyes, empathy even, but it was gone before he could be sure. “I carried my guilt for years, perhaps I always will. But for a long time it affected almost every choice I made, leading me to execute the most deplorable, thoughtless acts, all in some misguided attempt at atonement. I didn’t cause her death by wanting it, I caused it by accident. I know that now. But, Rose, I wasted so much on that false belief. I cannot bear to think of you doing the same.” Will grasped her hands. “Do not bear this burden. Let it go. Your guilt, your fear, this”—he shook his head—“hopeless love.”
Her face changed. It was like a wall going up. “Hopeless? You think he couldn’t love me?”
“Rose, I just—”
“Is it because I am too ugly to love?” She wrenched back the diamond-shaped sleeve of her gown to display her scars.
“Ugly?” Will stood. “God, no. You’re beautiful.”
“Because you caused this, Father.” She thrust her arm at him, her eyes now dry, cold as marble. “Just like you caused your sister to die!”
As she ran, he reached for her, but his fingers caught only the back of her veil, which pulled free in his grasp, leaving him standing there holding it, watching his daughter disappear in the rain, feeling a fresh wound opening inside him.
