by Robyn Young
Philippe tugged his velvet tunic over his head and unpicked the thongs that fastened the hair shirt in place. When it came away from his body, her gaze traced the red-raw skin, following the lines the whip had made, patterns of punishment and shame. Tentatively, she uncrossed her arms, laying her own scars bare. She wanted to reach out and touch his web of wounds. The queen’s voice murmured in her mind.
All his veins on the outside.
His movements were quick now, impatient, as he pushed her thighs apart, his hand going between them. His fingers were still icy. Rose wanted him to slow, to be gentle. She wanted to whisper her thoughts, her fears and wishes, to tell him how long she had waited for his attention. She wanted him to kiss her again. But she didn’t know how to command a king and so she lay in frozen silence as he moved on top of her, his face flushed and feverish. His eyes were shut. He didn’t see her turn her head to mask the wrenching, stinging sensation, didn’t notice her hands splay and grip the blanket. Rose squeezed her eyes together as she felt herself pulled apart, but through the pain she heard him speaking softly. She twisted her head closer to his to listen. After a moment, the whisper came again.
“Jeanne,” he was murmuring, as he plowed blindly into her. “Jeanne.”
Will felt Nogaret’s eyes lingering on him as he walked away down the passage. He didn’t look back as he turned a corner and headed for his quarters, the folded parchment now soft and slightly damp in his fist.
When he reached the small room, which had been home for so long, he shut the door gratefully. There was a crack in the window that looked out over a large courtyard and the chamber was freezing. The only items of furniture, other than a locked chest in the corner upon which lay his sword, hauberk and traveling cloak, were a stool and a table with a jug of water and a few misshapen stubs of candles on it. He had returned that morning to find a thin sheet of dust over everything, but now as he ran a finger across the table and it came back clean, he realized the servants must have been here. He wondered who else had noted his arrival, and he felt all at once uneasy, as if the palace were full of watching eyes, waiting for him to slip, to reveal himself. Forcing these thoughts away, Will sank onto his pallet. He was an honored guest of the king; it was to be expected that people would notice his comings and goings. He was just feeling guarded because of Nogaret’s chilly reception, but the minister’s distrustful manner was nothing new. No one suspected him.
He focused instead on the parchment in his hands. News from his family was such a rare treat, he didn’t want anything to spoil it. Smiling in anticipation, he broke the wax that sealed it and pulled the pages apart. As his eyes moved over the crumpled skin, his smile faded.
My dear brother,
I hope this letter finds you well. Alas, I cannot say that all is well with us, or ever will be again. I am sorry I have not written for so long, but times have been hard and there has been scant occasion for much other than the business of keeping alive. The harvests have not been good and this in itself would be a hardship, but coupled with King Edward’s wars we find ourselves poorer and our larders emptier than any of us could have imagined. John Balliol remains in exile in France and we have given up hope of ever having a king upon our throne again, unless it be the Hammer himself. We are at least fortunate where we are in the north to have been spared from much of the violence of his campaigns, although since the fall of Stirling Castle to the English last year there has been little fighting. You may have heard that the Scottish nobles were forced to yield to the king and make a truce at that time, but what many outside our borders are unaware of is that they were only granted their freedom on the condition they hunted down the one man who still defied the English king, your friend and general, Sir William Wallace. Even Sir David Graham was enlisted in this cause, although of course he did no such thing.
The same cannot be said for others. Where the many men Edward sent out to capture Sir William failed, Sir John Menteith succeeded. He discovered Sir William was hiding out in a house in the woods near Glasgow with Gray. It is known that he and his men came upon them in the night. I am sorry to tell you that Gray was put to the sword. Christian can hardly speak for the grief of it. Sir William apparently fought and killed many of his captors, but they were too many even for him and in the end he was overpowered. He was borne in haste to Carlisle, bound to his own horse, and delivered to English nobles who took him south to London. It all happened so quickly that it was some time before we heard any of this in Elgin. David, however, was near the border on business with his lord and they made the decision to follow. I am still not sure what they intended to accomplish by this. I think my brave son hoped they would somehow be able to rescue Sir William. But as soon as they arrived in London they realized the futility of this. David says the city was packed to the walls with people from all over, come to watch. Sir William was under heavy guard and the streets around his prison were so crowded they couldn’t even get near.
On the twenty-third day of August, Sir William Wallace was taken to Westminster, they say to stand trial, but I think you know as well as any of us the mockery of that. Sir William, who had never sworn fealty to the King of England, stood accused of treason to the crown. He was charged and the sentence passed that very day. David has told me some of what followed, but by no means all. I think he wanted to spare me the horror, which I know haunts him, even with all he has seen. When I start to think of it—the crowds, the heat, the terror of it—I feel sick to my soul. We have all seen blood spilled, too much blood, yet none of it compares with what was done to that beautiful, proud man on that day in London. I meant to write of it, but now I find the words fail me. I cannot write them . . .
The letter slipped from Will’s grasp and floated to the floor, the lines of text dissolving, his mind filling in the sights and sounds his sister was unable to articulate.
He saw the baying crowds lining the streets from Westminster to the place of execution. Saw their raised fists and their red, open mouths. He heard the screams and shouts of abuse, the jeers and the laughter as the ogre of the north was paraded before them, naked and bound. He felt their spit hitting his face, their kicks striking his flesh. He smelled the stink of them, sweat sour with heat and excitement, all pushing one another, trying to catch a glimpse of the hated enemy. He sensed the deep gut-fear as the gallows loomed ahead, one empty noose, a sagging circle in the sky; not the end, but the beginning of agony impossible to comprehend. He imagined the stark loneliness of climbing that platform to look down upon a vast, seething sea. So many faces, so little humanity. He felt his hands secured behind his back, the bonds twisting and cutting with every movement, felt the roughness of the rope as it brushed his cheek, the immediate claustrophobic tautness as it was tightened around his neck. He heard the cheer of the crowd as he was hauled into the air by the black-clad executioners, breath snatched away, mouth opening, tongue swelling.
Will tried to block out the images as they came on, one after the other, mingling with Edward’s voice calling down the years to taunt him from that cell in Stirling.
In this time, the bladder will void, then the bowels.
He tried to think of William Wallace as he had seen him last, four years ago, when they had said good-bye on the Paris docks. He tried to recall the feel of his strong hand gripping his own, the sight of that rare grin lighting up his blue eyes. But all he could see was his body, broken and abused, being cut down from that swinging rope, not dead, but gasping for the last vain threads of life to which he would cling as grimly and unrelentingly as he clung to his hope for liberty.
You will be laid out on a table, for all to see. A spectacle.
He felt the hardness of the bench beneath him, the silver, severing pain as his genitals were sliced away, with this act his manhood and his strength dismembered. He felt the rough tugging and pulling of the executioner’s instruments at his chest and stomach. Dear God, let him have died at that point.
. . . every part of you removed and burned before your
eyes.
Will rose suddenly. Going to the window, he planted his palms on the stone. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the chill wind streaming through the crack. In his mind, he felt the final rip as the executioner plunged his hand inside to pull out his beating heart, his ears assaulted by the roar of the crowd as it was held aloft. He clenched his teeth and banished the images, focusing instead on the sight of Wallace climbing into the boat, the sweep and pull of the oars that took him out into the blue Seine. He had raised his hand, one last time, then turned his face into the wind, heading home.
Will dug his fingers into the stone. Now Wallace was gone, what hope was there left? For his home? His family?
Edward had won.
Will felt the old hatred, kept at bay with his struggle to save the Temple, slam back into him with savage force. Rage boiled up, black and bitter. He shouted and wrenched over the table, sending it flying, the jug smashing, candles scattering. Edward’s arrogant, smiling face swept into his mind and he punched his fist into the wall. Turning, he pressed his back to it and slid to the ground, his breathing ragged, knuckles bloody. But even in the midst of his anger and despair, he felt another emotion stir, something raw, but strong. The face of Pope Clement filtered into his mind. If he delivered Nogaret, then perhaps he could strike a deal: the minister in return for a papal order forcing Edward to end the war? The raw feeling, he realized, was hope.
There was still hope.
MERLAN PRISON, THE KINGDOM OF FRANCE, DECEMBER 25, 1305 AD
The man crouched in the darkness, listening to the faint sounds echoing all around him: the distant jangle and chink of keys, a door slamming, a bolt sliding, a harsh cry that made him flinch. As he listened, he rocked to and fro, feeling his spine bump against the rough rock. He used to count them, these movements; each cold touch of the wall another number. One. Two. One hundred. Two thousand. It was a measure of time in a place without days or seasons. The sun didn’t rise underground. There were only different shades of darkness, depending on how close the guards came with their torches. Now, he tended to lose count after the first few hundred. His mind would wander and he would forget how many times his back had met stone, drifting aimlessly within a memory.
Places and people were plain in these daydreams, but oddly leached of hues. Trees were black, sky ashen. Blue seemed impossible. In here everything was gray, his hair, his skin, the rags of his clothing, the walls and the floor, even the food, all of it gray and dirty, all except one color. It was a bad color; the color of blood and sin and fire. The color of the crosses on the guards’ white mantles. It hurt his eyes as they towered over him, whips cracking, hurt his mind as it trickled hotly down his arms, raised to shield him from the blows. He had learned to fear it, learned the words he should not say by it. Painful words like guilt and innocence, punishment and blame. Heresy. Murder.
A new sound sifted through the constant background hum of whispers and sighs, moans and whimpers. It was the sound of soft footsteps, coming closer. The man sat forward, the irons around his legs shifting. He cocked his head in the shadows, poised to listen. The footsteps stopped outside his door. He could see fire dancing beyond the cracks in the pitted wood and squinted in anticipation of its ferocious light. There was a rattle of bolts and the door opened. The light and heat of the torch bathed him, savage and beautiful. He held up his hands, only able to look at it from between the cover of his fingers. Behind the fire was the face of a young man. In his free hand, he held a bowl. The youth placed it carefully on the floor, only needing to crouch in the doorway the cell was so small.
The man peered tentatively over. Inside the bowl, he could see lumps of meat protruding from thick gravy. “What is this, Gérard?” His voice was a croak.
“I brought you some leftovers from the kitchen,” whispered the youth. “The guards have had their supper. They won’t miss it.”
“Meat?”
Gérard nodded. “We were sent a deer for the Christ Mass.”
“It is the Christ Mass?”
“Yes, sir. Today.”
The man sat back, resting against the wall, not daring to look at the bowl any longer. “You had better take it, Gérard. If they find out, you may be punished.”
The youth paused, his face in the flames hovering somewhere between excitement and concern. “It does not matter,” he said, after a moment. “Today is my last day in this place. Tomorrow I am going to Paris. My father managed to secure me a place at last, just in the stables. But perhaps one day, if I work hard enough, I might be initiated.”
The man felt a wrench in him at the youth’s earnest, eager face, so similar to a face he had once known and loved. “Do not go, Gérard,” he said, holding out his hands to the youth. In the torchlight the welts around the bands of iron on his wrists were livid. “Do not go to Paris. There are evil men there. Heretics.” His voice was rising. “Murderers!”
Gérard looked around nervously. “Don’t say that, sir. You don’t want the knights to hear any of that talk. You know what they’ll do.”
But the man wasn’t listening. He reached out and grasped the youth’s arm, felt the warmth of skin, of another human, beneath the rough wool tunic. “Then tell someone I am here. I beg you. Tell them I am innocent. That I am not supposed to be here.”
The youth snatched back his arm and stood, shaking his head. “Quiet, sir. Don’t let them hear you. Have your food now, before it gets cold.”
The door was hastily shut and the heat of the torch vanished. As the youth’s footsteps padded quickly away down the passage, Esquin de Floyran sank forward onto his hands and wept in the darkness.
PART THREE
32
The Temple, Paris
NOVEMBER 7, 1306 AD
The young man paced, fingers twisting and pulling at a loose thread on his tunic. The smell in the tack room was overpowering, made up of damp straw, fresh dung and tanned leather. He had never really got used to it. Reins dangled from hooks hammered into the stone walls and saddles were stacked neatly on rows of shelves. The vaulted ceiling was covered with funnel-shaped spiders’ webs. He had never noticed just how many there were before, even though he had spent most of the past year in this room. He shuddered and backed away from an especially large web suspended above him, black with dirt and flies. He remembered walking into one down in the darkness of the prison corridors, the shock as it brushed like fingers over his face. The skitter of something across his cheek.
He started as the door opened and two men entered. One was the stable master, whose forthright face and easy smile were reassuringly familiar. The other was less comforting. The young man had seen the tall knight in the preceptory, but had never had cause to speak to him, except once when he’d called him “sir” while taking the reins of his horse. The knight had ash-gray hair and a hard, angular face, framed by a clipped white beard. In his long mantle and surcoat, a broadsword slung from his hip, he looked imperiously stern.
“Gérard,” said the stable master. “This is Sir Robert de Paris.”
The young man bowed and tugged at the thread on his tunic as the knight studied him.
“Brother Simon says you have something to tell me?”
Gérard glanced uncertainly at Simon.
“It’s all right, Gérard. You have nothing to fear from speaking the truth. Tell Sir Robert what you told me yesterday.”
Gérard fought against the voice that spoke up inside him, disagreeing with the stable master’s words, whispering that he had everything to fear if what he told was indeed the truth. But the voice belonged to a man whose face still haunted him and Gérard knew he would not rest until he had done what that man had begged him to do. He had lived with the knowledge long enough, waiting, wondering who to share it with. Finally, several weeks earlier, he confided in a fellow groom, thinking this would be enough to ease his burden, but his friend had persuaded him to tell someone of higher rank. Clearing his throat, Gérard began to speak. “I was transferred to this preceptory a year a
go from the Temple’s prison Merlan, sir, where my father was a guard. There was a prisoner there named Esquin de Floyran.”
“De Floyran?” questioned Robert sharply. “The prior of Montfaucon?”
“Yes, sir, he told me he had once been a prior.”
Robert looked at Simon. “De Floyran disappeared three years ago, around the time his nephew was found murdered. It was thought he had something to do with the killing and fled fearing reprisals.”
Gérard shook his head. “No. That isn’t so. Esquin loved his nephew. He told me Martin was . . .” He trailed off, then drew a decisive breath. “He said Martin was killed by knights.”
“Templars?”
Gérard looked again at Simon, who nodded for him to continue. “Yes, sir. From this preceptory.”
“How did de Floyran know this?”
“He was there when it happened. His nephew met him in a church to confess he had been bewitched by heretics in the Temple who made him practice obscene ceremonies. But his nephew was followed and killed. Esquin thought because he was an official in the order the men were scared to put him to death so they sent him to Merlan instead. Perhaps they hoped he would die in the prison.” Gérard looked down at his hands, recalling the horrors he had seen there. “Enough men did. It is a cruel place, sir.”
