by Robyn Young
Up ahead, the mob was thicker. The road narrowed, caught between the riverbank and the bulging wall of a convent. Hundreds of people were crammed there, held back by royal guards. A great many had climbed up the wall and were perched on the top, feet kicking above the heads of those below. The jubilant cheers ringing out his name were fading behind him. The pitch of the crowd’s roar was different here: louder, deeper. Bertrand opened his eyes. It was a sound filled with yells and shouts of protest, a sound of violence. At first, he thought it was directed at the guards who were barring the way, shoving people back to keep the road clear for the procession. Then, as he approached, he saw that the men and women shouting in anger were all looking at him. There were hundreds of them, fists raised.
“False pope!” they were screaming. “False pope!”
They yelled the words in French, but even through the cacophony, Bertrand could tell this wasn’t their native tongue. Here and there, he caught snatches of another language being hurled at him like the flowers. After a moment, he recognized it as Italian. He knew there had been unrest in Italy at his accession, many believing the cardinals were forced to elect him. People there knew of France’s part in the violent arrest of Boniface and the king’s subsequent demands that he be tried posthumously as a heretic, his remains exhumed and burned. Coupled with this, the rumors surrounding the untimely death of Benedict were growing. People were saying King Philippe was holding the Holy See to ransom. Bertrand couldn’t blame them; he knew the rumors to be true. But all the same the sight and sound of that rage, directed at him, struck at his very core, leaving him quaking inside.
As the litter squeezed through the narrow gap the royal guards had created in the press, there were one or two thumps against the cloth canopy, much heavier than before. The litter lurched to one side as one of the men carrying it went down, struck in the head by a rock. The other bearers began to move faster and the mob surged forward. Bertrand glimpsed a royal guard slamming the pommel of his sword into a man’s face. There was a burst of blood, startlingly red, and the man fell beneath the raised fists of those around him. Another went down, clutching his face, and another, as the guards started smashing their shields into the front rows, forcing them back, snapping fingers, breaking jaws.
The violence sent a shock wave through the crowd. People tried to move back, away from the guards, trampling on one another to fight their way free. Some stumbled to the ground, pushed under beneath a tide of feet and grasping hands. Men and women pressed up against the wall cried out in fear and pain as they were crushed. Those on the top reached down, trying to pull friends and family members to safety, but the wall wasn’t strong enough to take so much weight. Here and there along its bulging line, stones began to crumble and dislodge. One man slipped and fell with a shout and shower of masonry into the melee below. There were more thuds and more shouts, louder and louder, until the thuds became a low rumbling, then a roar, as the wall collapsed in a cloud of dust and rock. Screams continued to tear through the air, even after the rubble subsided. Bertrand squeezed his eyes shut and tried to block out the terrible sounds behind him as the bearers carried him on, out of the chaos. His guts churned and the face of his son hung dislocated in his mind.
NEAR BORDEAUX, THE KINGDOM OF FRANCE, NOVEMBER 14, 1305 AD
Ponsard headed across the yard, cursing as his boots slipped in the muck. He stuffed a hunk of bread into his mouth and thumbed the crumbs from his chin as he approached the barn, looking around him. It was late afternoon and the light was dimming, the shutters closed over the windows of the house behind. Ponsard paused outside the entrance to the barn, squinting into the shadows that smelled of wet straw and dung. His gaze fell on a slender figure perched on a stool, milking a goat.
As he ducked through the door, the figure turned with a start. “No, Marie,” said Ponsard, as she went to stand. He gestured for her to sit and crossed the barn, his heavy footfalls muffled in the straw. A few goats penned in a stall beneath the hayloft bleated nervously. “Don’t mind me,” he insisted, leaning up against a post, where a bridle hung from a hook.
Marie sat rigidly and bent forward, reaching under the animal.
Ponsard watched, his smile tighter now, as she squeezed and tugged the teats. Milk sprayed into the pail. Her gown was thinning, the linen almost transparent under her arms. He could count the ridges of her spine. Yolande had begged to be allowed into Bordeaux to get more supplies, but Gilles was no fool. He was the only one of them who had gone into the city in the past nine months and then rarely, a few times to collect supplies and once to meet reinforcements sent by the king.
Ponsard pushed himself from the pillar to see better. He noted how tense she was, how white and pale her fingers were as they pulled at the teats. Feeling something thicken inside him, he moved up behind her.
“Please, sir,” she whispered.
“Don’t fuss, girl,” he murmured, when she recoiled from his touch. “You know I don’t like it.” Ponsard crawled his plate-sized hands from her shoulders down to her small breasts. He clutched at them greedily, kneading them. “Turn around,” he ordered throatily, feeling himself quickly ready to spill. She was weeping, but did as she was told, shifting on the stool. He yanked up his tunic with fumbling fingers and unlaced his breeches. With his free hand he took hold of her jaw, positioning her. He halted, hearing something behind him. Jerking round, he expected to see Gilles or one of the others framed in the doorway. But there was no one there.
Ponsard stuffed himself awkwardly into his breeches. Putting a warning finger to his lips to keep Marie quiet, he crossed to the entrance, berating his recklessness. He’d been careless, going after the girl in daylight. If Gilles knew he’d abandoned his post, he’d crucify him. Ponsard peered cautiously out across the yard to the house. The glow of candlelight glimmered between the slats of the shutters, but the yard was empty. For a moment, he faltered, knowing he should get back to his duties. He could come for the girl later when everyone was asleep. But after a second’s hesitation, hunger drove him back into the shadows of the barn.
Ponsard approached Marie slowly, letting his desire build, his hand opening his breeches. The shrill bleating of the goats drowned out the footsteps that came up, quick and quiet behind him. As the girl’s eyes widened, he thought it was in fear of him and had no notion at all of the dagger that flashed in the air until it sliced across his throat.
Will went swiftly to the girl frozen on the stool. As her lips peeled back to let out a scream, he clapped his hand over her mouth and crouched in front of her. “It’s all right. We’re not here to harm you.” Her eyes drifted past him to the dead guard spurting blood in a fountain across the barn floor. Robert had sheathed the dagger and grabbed the man’s arms. The other four knights moved in to help haul him beneath the hayloft, one of them scuffing straw over the blood. “What is your name?” Will took his hand from her mouth cautiously.
“Marie.”
Will smiled encouragingly. “Archbishop de Got mentioned you. Listen to me, Marie. We’ve come to free the boy, Raoul. I could use your help.”
She was shaking her head. A trembling hand came up and pressed against her lips. Her gaze was back on the guard. Robert and the others were removing his weapons and scarlet and blue tunic, the gold fleur-de-lis on the chest now obscured by blood. As the girl rose unsteadily, Will allowed her to move past him to the dead man.
Marie stood looking down at his split throat, her arms wrapped around her. Then she leaned over and spat on him. Wiping her mouth, she turned back to Will, her face pale, but set. “What do you need me to do?”
“How many other guards are here?”
“Seven. Gilles is their captain.”
“Are they all in the house?”
Marie nodded. “Ponsard was supposed to be on watch, but he . . .” Her eyes dropped to him and she sucked in a breath. “Gilles and the others will be downstairs, waiting for Yolande to bring them supper. Raoul stays mostly in his room. They don’t like him goi
ng out of the house.”
“This is good,” said Will, glancing at Robert and the knights to check they had heard this. “You’ve done well, Marie. I just need you to do one last thing.” Pointing outside to the darkening yard, he told her quickly what he wanted her to do.
Marie listened, looking frightened, but when he finished she nodded.
Will’s smile faded as the girl slipped tentatively out of the barn. He crossed to Robert and the others. “Jean,” he said, gesturing to one of the Templars, “go into the yard and conceal yourself. When the guards come out I want you inside the house. Find Raoul. Whatever happens, I want you to get the child out of here alive. Understood?”
When Jean looked at Robert, the knight nodded. “Those are your orders.”
“You three, hide yourselves,” said Will to the others, as Jean headed out. “Robert, you’re with me.” He met Robert’s eye as the two of them moved to the door. “That was a piece of luck, that guard caught off his post. Let’s hope our fortune holds.”
From inside the house came sounds of shouting. They heard Marie’s voice lifted in fear.
“There’s someone in the barn! Please, come quickly! ”
Robert hefted his broadsword. “We don’t need fortune.”
The two men crouched opposite each other a little way from the entrance, their cloaks making them melt in the shadows. Their faces, lined with age and scars of battle, one bearded, one bare, were grim, but determined.
Marie’s calls were followed by heavy footsteps stamping across the yard.
“Who’s in there?” came a gruff voice. “Show yourself!” The voice faded slightly, as if the speaker had turned away. “You. Go and find Ponsard. See if he saw anyone.”
Will’s hand tightened around his sword as one set of footsteps echoed away outside.
A moment later, a figure appeared in the entrance, the red and blue of his cloak vivid in the gloom.
“The maid could have been mistaken, Gilles,” came a voice from behind the figure. “Maybe it was a wolf?”
“She said she saw a man,” murmured Gilles in response, not moving. “Damn this murk. I can see nothing.” He took a step forward, tensed and paused again, staring around him. The goats were bleating piteously. “If you come out now, you won’t be harmed.” Gilles moved farther in, his stance balanced, poised for attack. Two guards followed him. Then a third. They spread out.
One man crept off to the right. He kicked over a bundle of hay, then shouted in alarm as something came hurtling toward him. “Shit!” he cursed, laughing with relief as the goat charged out of the barn into the yard.
“Are you all right?” A fourth guard entered.
His comrade turned. “I—” His words vanished as a much larger shape launched itself out of the darkness, eyes glittering. He got up his sword, just in time, as a blade swung in.
Will gritted his teeth at the impact of the strike. The man cracked his sword aside and dropped into a fighting crouch, as shouts echoed up all around them. The fifth guard hastened in to aid his comrades.
“No!” shouted Gilles, chopping fiercely at the Templar who leapt at him. “Get the child!”
As the man disappeared, Will circled his opponent, his peripheral vision distracted by the jerking movements of men and weapons. The guard had a mail hauberk on beneath his long surcoat and mail gloves protecting his hands, as did he. No doubt he also wore some sort of mail or padded armor on his legs. Neither of them, however, had shields. Will had ordered the knights leave them with the horses. The Templars’ large kite-shaped shields were too cumbersome a burden when attempting to move quickly on foot, unseen and in silence. He himself had learned to do without one during his time in Scotland, relying instead on the smaller buckler, used by infantry.
Abruptly, the guard lunged at his right side. Will knew at once from the clumsiness of the posture that it was a feint. As he anticipated, the sword switched left at the last second. He followed deftly and, slamming the guard’s blade wide, punched out with his foot to throw an almighty kick at the man’s stomach. As the guard doubled over, Will hacked his sword into his neck. The blade went halfway and stuck in the thick muscle. As Will wrenched it free, the guard sank to his knees with a bloody gurgle, dropping his sword. His hands started to come up to the wide, gushing wound, but Will finished him with a brutal two-handed cut of his broadsword.
Will turned, just in time, as footfalls sounded behind him. It was Gilles. The captain lunged viciously at him. After a couple of rapid blocks, Will realized the man was an expert fighter. The blade was a seeking, flashing thing coming at him from all angles. First his neck, now his thigh, a lightning-fast jab toward his groin, a whistling slash at his throat, a furious slice to his side. He forgot about everything around him, the grunts and gasps of the others, focusing only on stopping that sword from breaking through his defense and killing him. Gilles’s blows were powerful. Almost every one knocked from both their blades tiny shards of metal that burst up in a shower of sparks between them. Within moments Will was dripping with sweat and feeling the strain in his forearm, the muscles locking tighter with every defensive block and countering strike.
Gilles’s expression was rigid with concentration, but as they ducked and lunged closer to the entrance Will’s face was lit by the gray twilight, and the captain’s eyes widened. “I’ve seen you,” he panted harshly. “In the palace.” He hacked in. “With the king!”
The captain’s lapse in concentration was momentary, but it allowed Will to push his blade that little bit wider. He brought his sword round in a fluid loop that arced over his head to chop down at Gilles’s skull in a move that would have cleaved his head in two, had it struck. Clumsily, but rapidly, Gilles recovered, whipping his own blade up to block. The two swords made a cross in midair as they clashed, before Gilles, snarling savagely, grasped the shaft of his sword in his free hand, protected by its mail glove, and slid it fiercely to one side. The blades screeched as they grated together. Gilles locked the edge of Will’s blade against his quillon, then twisted down and to the side, pulling him off balance. As Will was thrown sideways, Gilles brought his sword up to ram the pommel into Will’s face.
As his nose broke and tears blinded him, Will felt a faint rush of wind. He clenched in anticipation of the blow that would end him. He heard steel splinter against mail, the chink of rings snapping apart, a high gasping sound, then a thud. For a moment, he thought the pain in his nose was so intense it must have eclipsed the agony of the blade punching into him. But as he swiped the water from his eyes and staggered away, he saw Gilles on his knees before him, Robert’s sword embedded in his back. Robert yanked the blade free and the captain sank into the straw.
Staring around him through his bleary vision, Will saw all the royal guards were down, although one of the Templars was leaning against the side of the barn, his face white, one hand clamped to his shoulder. “With me, the rest of you. There are still two guards left.” Will nodded to Robert as they moved out into the yard. “Thanks.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to let you leave me with all the hard work.”
“Good point,” grunted Will, pressing his finger to one nostril to snort blood through the other. “We’d all be doomed.”
They tensed as the door of the house burst open. But along with the candlelight that spilled into the yard came Jean, sword out before him. The Templar was followed by Marie, hugging a terrified-looking boy.
“Did you get the guards?” Will asked, crossing to the knight.
“Guards?” Jean shook his head. “There was only one. He came after the boy.”
They turned, hearing pounding footsteps. A large woman, wielding a carving knife, appeared around the side of the house. She was panting hard. “Thank the Lord! Thank the Lord you came!” Her eyes went to the barn. “Are they . . . ?” When Will nodded, the woman bent forward, trying to catch her breath. “I tried to stop the other one, but he took his horse and fled.”
Robert came over. “One got away?” He lo
oked worriedly at Will. “Would he have seen us?”
“I don’t think so. But still.” Will cursed beneath his breath and sheathed his sword with a stab. “I hoped to have more time to cover our tracks.”
LYONS CATHEDRAL, THE HOLY ROMAN EMPIRE, NOVEMBER 30, 1305 AD
Philippe strode into the chamber, tugging off his gloves. “You may leave,” he said tersely to the attendants hovering by the door. He stared at the figure sitting hunched on the window seat. His jaw twitched in anger, but he waited until the door clicked shut before speaking. “You keep me waiting for two weeks and this is how you greet me? Not a bow or a welcome? Why have you denied my requests for an audience?” When the figure didn’t turn, Philippe moved toward him. “The cardinals tell me you have been ill and unable to accept visitors. But I see no sign of fever on you.” Still, the figure didn’t look around. “Answer me, de Got! Why have you denied me?”
The figure rose slowly, back-lit by the fiery sunset. He raised his head to meet the king’s gaze. “I am no longer Bertrand de Got. I am pope and you will address me with respect.” The king’s eyes flashed with fury, but the pope spoke on. “The cardinals told the truth. I have been ill. I apologize if this has disrupted your plans.”
Philippe faltered, thrown off balance by the pope’s manner. It was as though he were speaking to a different person. This was not the feeble little man who had been led, terrified and cowed, to his tent outside Bordeaux, the man who had broken down at the news his bastard son was being held captive and would be killed should he refuse their demands. The man before him was apprehensive, certainly; that much was visible in the way he held himself, erect, but stiff, hands clutched at his sides. But despite his obvious tension, Bertrand de Got appeared stronger and more resolute than Philippe had ever seen him. It made him nervous. Did accession to the papal throne imbue these men with some sort of direct connection to God through the line of St. Peter? Some holy power channeled through them, suffusing them with divine strength?
