by Robyn Young
“Now, Campbell,” said Clement, his tone signaling the end of any further discussion. “I want to know what you have found out on Guillaume de Nogaret. Have you uncovered any evidence on his involvement in Benedict’s death?”
“I’m afraid not. Nogaret has cut himself off from me, and since the death of the queen the king has closed his inner circle to the point where even some of his closest advisors no longer have his ear.”
“You should try to find something soon,” responded Clement pensively. “Left to his own devices I fear that snake has enough venom in him to poison us all.”
THE ROYAL PALACE, PARIS, MAY 14, 1307 AD
Will was in his room when he heard a soft tapping sound. After a few moments it came again and he realized someone was knocking on his door, but so quietly it was as if they were hoping he wouldn’t hear. Crossing the chamber, he mentally rehearsed his lie about his recent trip to England, should the unexpected guest be Nogaret, and opened the door. “Rose,” he murmured, too surprised to say anything else. Never once, in all the years he had been a guest in the palace, had his daughter come to his chamber. He felt a rush of pleasure, but quickly quelled it, not daring to hope that this might signal some change in her feelings toward him.
Rose opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came. She tried again before a pained expression crossed her face and she turned and hastened away down the passage.
“Wait!” Will went after her and grasped her arm. “Please, Rose. Come inside.”
She faltered, then reluctantly let herself be led to his room.
Will closed the door behind her and went to his bed, where his traveling cloak and sword were lying. He picked them up and dumped them on a chest. “I’ve only just returned,” he explained, standing back and shoving a hand through his hair.
She perched on the edge of the bed at his gesture, planting her hands to either side of her, dwarfed by a voluminous blue cloak. “I didn’t know where you were.”
Will was struck by the desolation in her tone. “I’m sorry.” He folded his arms and let out a rough sigh. “But, to be honest, it didn’t occur to me to tell you I was going away. I didn’t think you would care to know.”
Rose looked at the floor and murmured something he didn’t catch. She glanced up when he didn’t respond. “I needed you.”
Will went and sat beside her, trying to hold back the emotion that threatened to engulf him at those words. Tentatively, he took her thin, scarred hand in his, which was callused and thickly veined. “I’m here now. Talk to me.”
“Philippe.”
She didn’t say anything else for a long moment and Will wondered if she was going to speak at all when finally she did, her words stumbling, uncertain.
“He and I, we have . . . We are . . . lovers,” she finished, looking at him with something of a challenge in her stare. When he said nothing, she continued. “But he has changed in recent months. He has become cold.” Rose’s eyes flicked away. “Violent.”
Will’s hand tightened around hers. He felt something clawing its way up inside him, something feral and ferocious, but he kept quiet.
“I am worried about what he might do next. I’ve heard things he is planning, things he speaks of with Guillaume de Nogaret when they think I am not listening. Father, I know he is intent on taking the wealth of the Temple for himself.”
“It won’t happen.”
“You know of this?”
“For quite some time, yes. But he will not succeed. I will not let him.”
Rose shook her head. “You do not know what he’s capable of.” She bit her lip. “He has so much anger in him. It scares me.”
“Then why do you still go to him?”
Rose snatched her hand from his and stood. “How do I say no to a king?” Will got to his feet, terrified she would run out of the door and out of his life yet again. “I am sorry, that was careless of me.” He gripped her shoulders. “Listen to me, Rose. You are right to be scared of Philippe. He is a vengeful, hard-hearted man, who will crush anything that stands in the way of his ambitions. But I understand your”—he gritted his teeth around the word—“affair. For I know he can also be very charming and persuasive. I saw him as a useful ally for many years, before my eyes were opened by his cruelty. But it has to stop. You have to let me help you. Will you do that?” When she nodded, Will smiled and brushed her cheek with his finger. “I can get you away from here. Out of his reach.”
“Where would I go?” she asked in a small voice.
“To my sisters, Ysenda and Ede in Scotland.”
“What about you?”
Will hesitated. He could think of nothing he wanted more than to take his daughter down to the stables, steal two horses and ride like the wind to the coast. They would find a merchant ship at Honfleur and he would sell his sword for passage. They could be in Scotland by June. “I have to stay,” he said, the words some of the most difficult he had ever uttered. “I have to try to limit the damage the king and Nogaret could cause.”
“How?”
“I have the confidence of the pope.” Will went to the chest where he had dumped his cloak and broadsword. “He will ensure the order is spared from Philippe’s intentions.” Picking up his belt, he fastened it around his waist, adjusting the blade at his side.
She watched him worriedly. “Where are you going?”
“I have to see Robert at the Temple. He was due to speak to the visitor on an urgent matter and I must know the outcome. I will ask him to talk to Simon, explain that you need to get to Scotland.” He crossed to her. “In the meantime, I want you to go to your room and gather your belongings. Make sure no one sees you. I will return for you in a few hours. I am hoping Simon will be able to help you secure passage down at the docks. But either way, I will make sure you are taken to safety.”
Numbly, Rose let her father escort her to the door. In the passage outside, she watched him stride swiftly away, swinging his cloak around his broad shoulders. Part of her wanted to call out to him, but fear and indecision won and instead she kept silent and walked back through the gloomy corridors to the halls of the royal apartments, bronzed by the early evening sun.
As she entered the king’s chamber, Nogaret rose, his face flushed and impatient.
Philippe, however, remained seated, his expression coldly composed. “Well?”
Rose turned her head, unable to meet their combined stares. She felt the door at her back, the wood cool and solid, felt shame uncurling inside her, bringing unexpected pain. Her father’s face drifted before her, filled with concern and love. No one had looked at her that way in years. Not since Acre. Not since she was a child. Feeling sick, she glanced up, her gaze fixing on Philippe. She could see nothing of love in his face, only hard, unsympathetic arrogance. He was so inhuman. Even when he was inside her, his passion was icy and brittle. It was like making love to a statue.
“Speak, girl!” snapped Nogaret, making her start.
“He knows you wish to take the Temple’s wealth,” she murmured, the words catching in her throat.
Philippe stood and went to her. “This we know. What else did he say?” He gripped her chin, so she could look nowhere but into his eyes. “Tell me, Rose, what else did your father say? Is he working against me, trying to thwart my plans? Is he in league with the pope?”
“Please. You’re hurting me.”
His voice softened, but he didn’t relinquish his hold. “You have to think about what is best for you now, Rose. You have to think about who can take care of you. A father who abandoned you long ago? Or a king who can give you everything you need.” He pushed back the folds of her blue cloak and placed his hand firmly on her belly. “I will take care of you.”
Rose looked down at his hand, cupping her stomach, already starting to swell.
When she had finished speaking, Philippe took his hand off her and let her slip past him. Rose entered her room and shut the door. Her sobs came to him through the wood.
Nogaret’s face was
alive with rage. “That treacherous cur!” He paced the room. “We should strip the flesh from him!”
Philippe went to the window and looked out. “We have to find out exactly what damage he has done. Does anyone else in the Temple know of our plan, other than de Paris? How long has Campbell had Clement’s confidence? Was the summons for Jacques de Molay even sent?”
“It was,” injected Nogaret, still pacing furiously around the chamber. “I sent one of our men with the papal messenger to make sure.” He crossed to Philippe, lowering his voice. “At least you can now rid yourself of two problems, my lord.” He gestured at the interconnecting door, beyond which Rose’s sobs still sounded. “Your betrayer and his daughter.”
Philippe glanced at him. “No, she may still be of some use. We can use her as leverage if Campbell will not speak.”
“Oh, he will speak, my lord. He will speak until he runs out of words!” Nogaret’s eyes narrowed. “But his daughter remains an unnecessary distraction and that bastard she is carrying will bring you nothing but grief. What happens when it slithers out of her? An affair is one thing to explain away as sorrow for your wife, but a child will be—”
“Enough!” said Philippe, rounding on Nogaret. “Bring me Campbell. Those are your orders. If he just left for the Temple, he cannot have gone far. I want you to intercept him. Take the palace guard.”
“And what then, my lord? When we have him in our custody and we know all that he has done against us, do we continue with our plan?”
Philippe’s blue eyes glittered. “If Jacques de Molay answers the pope’s summons and returns to the West, then we will make our move. In the meantime, we will make Esquin de Floyran’s accusations public. Whatever Clement’s personal feelings, he will be forced to act on the allegations if enough people demand it. After Campbell has been dealt with, I want you to start drawing up charges for the arrest of the grand master and his officials. As discussed, this will be based upon de Floyran’s testimony, but it must be shocking enough to gain support from my subjects. Heresy is a wicked word, but we must not forget who we are dealing with. The Templars have two centuries of fame and might behind them. Their very mantle embodies the ideals of purity and innocence, they follow the Rule of a saint and are known as the warriors of Christ. The details of the charges against them will be all-important.”
“I know what to say, my lord.” Nogaret’s voice was low. “I remember what my father and mother were charged with.”
35
The Rue du Temple, Paris
MAY 14, 1307 AD
Will’s breaths burned in his throat as he ran along the rue du Temple. The sun had dipped below the fragmented rooftops and spires and the narrow streets were dusky in the twilight. Some distance behind him on the Ile de la Cité the bells of Notre Dame began the toll for Vespers. The sound shuddered across the river, spreading out through the city like a ripple as other bells joined it. Will tried to fix his thoughts on the rendezvous with Robert and what the knight would have discovered in his confrontation with Hugues, but it was almost impossible to think about anything since his mind was so full of his daughter. Anger, hope, fear, joy: all seethed inside him as he raced down the street amid the harsh clanging of the bells, heading for Temple Gate. Part of him dreaded Rose would change her mind and refuse to leave the palace in the time it would take him to return. The thought made him sprint even harder as he reached the gate, barreling past a group of traders arguing with the city guards.
He sped along the road that led to the preceptory until he reached a grove of oak trees just outside the walls. Here he slowed and halted, moving off the track. Sweat stung his eyes as he bent over, trying to catch his breath. Ahead, the trees dissolved into shadows, but there was no sign of Robert. Will straightened, wiping his face with the crook of his arm and looked round, hearing hoofbeats. Five riders were cantering along the road, dust kicking up behind them. Will watched as they passed, stones skittering back on to the track in their wake.
“Campbell.”
He turned at the voice. “Robert?” he called, squinting through the trees. Seeing movement, Will stepped into the shade beneath the branches, twigs crackling beneath his boots. He had gone only a short distance when a figure stepped out in front of him. As his eyes alighted on the blade in the figure’s hand, Will reached for his sword, but even as he drew it he sensed motion all around him. He turned as four—no, five shapes lunged out of the trees. Wrenching the sword free, he swung it at the first figure, who parried deftly. A mailed boot smashed viciously into the back of his knee and he went down with a grunt, bringing up the sword to deflect a blow the figure aimed at him. But the strike was merely designed to keep him occupied so he wouldn’t be able to avoid the second boot that rammed into his kidneys or the third that thudded into his back. Will shouted in rage and pain as someone stamped on his sword, pinning it to the ground, his fingers caught beneath it. He raised his free hand, trying to block the boots and fists all raining in on him. The last thing he felt was a crack against the back of his skull before the world went dark.
There was a heavy thudding sound, fast and low like a heartbeat. It echoed all around him. He felt as if he were gliding underwater. The world seemed distant, hovering somewhere above him. Suddenly, he resurfaced. He was being hauled along a corridor, facedown. There were flashes of torchlight and someone’s cloak switched past his face. He felt hands around his arms, but his legs were free, his feet dragging behind him along the flagstones. The thudding, he realized, was the footsteps of those carrying him. He felt disorientated and weak, unable even to lift his head. He heard a door bang open, then felt drafty space around him. His captors halted. There was a harsh scraping sound, then a rush of stale air that reeked of bitter incense and they were moving again, down a narrow flight of steps, his feet dragging then dropping, dragging, dropping. Finally they stopped, somewhere warm, lit dimly by candles. He felt himself heaved onto a stool. Someone pulled his hands behind his back and rope was looped around his wrists. As an icy shock slammed into him, he gasped and lifted his head. Water dripped down his face and chest, and as his vision cleared, he saw someone moving away, holding a pail.
Looking around, Will found himself in a gloomy chamber. Black curtains hung from one wall, in front of which stood a figure illuminated by the glow of candles and clad in a cloak sewn from hundreds of tiny circles of shimmering silk. As the figure pushed back the cowl, Will stared groggily at the face that was revealed.
Hugues de Pairaud’s dark eyes looked back at him. The visitor’s cheeks were puckered with age, his once black beard now patchy and grizzled. He said nothing as he stared at Will, his gaze thoughtful, interrogative.
There was movement in the shadows. A second figure appeared, wearing a plain white mantle and a red mask with a stag’s head painted on it; the same as those who had beaten him in the grove. The figure murmured something to Hugues, who nodded and looked back at Will.
“You’ve been in Paris all these years? How long has Robert known you were staying at the palace?”
Will swallowed with difficulty, tasting blood and soil. The smell of incense was pungent. “What have you done with him?” he asked thickly. “Where is Robert?”
“How did you poison him against me?” Hugues stepped forward. “How did you get him to betray me?”
“You talk of betrayal as something terrible and yet it comes so easily to you.”
Will sensed someone come up behind him. A mailed fist slammed into the side of his head and he rocked back on the stool. Oddly, the shock revived him. Hawking blood out of his mouth, he looked back at Hugues, his gaze sharper. “I trusted you, Hugues, that is why I elected you into the Brethren. I trusted you to understand what we were doing and to continue our aims, not pervert them.”
The masked man stepped in again, but Hugues raised his hand. “You are the one who left the Brethren, Campbell. If it meant so much to you, you should have stayed. Still, it gave me the chance to do what needed to be done, what you never could h
ave done. You and Robert were both so shortsighted. Everard, now there was a man who might have led us to greatness had he lived longer, a man who understood fully what the Anima Templi really is.”
“You know nothing of Everard, or his aims,” growled Will, anger pulsing through him at the suggestion he didn’t know his old mentor and friend.
“No?” Hugues crossed to what looked like an altar and picked up something.
As he returned to the pool of light, Will recognized the leather-bound book Everard had kept, the record of his life.
“I think I know him quite well,” responded Hugues, flicking through the bound skins. “I know he believed in sacrifice and that the price for freedom must sometimes be paid in blood. I know he believed in the authority of the Anima Templi and that it should, if necessary, steer the order away from the influence of a grand master who thwarts our aims. I know he believed in the power of myth.” Hugues shook his head. “He wrote the Book of the Grail. Did you learn nothing from that?”
“You cannot understand what you speak of.” Will watched as Hugues returned the tome to the altar. “The Book of the Grail was destroyed years before you were elected into our circle. I’ve read Everard’s writings. He was very careful that his words would only make sense to those who already knew of the Book and its content.”
“And they did. I learned the history of the Brethren when you inducted me in Acre and I learned of the Book and the story within from various sources: you and Robert, Brother Thomas in England, King Edward, although his thoughts on the subject were generally dripping with contempt. Over time, I pieced them together, well enough to understand the heart of the matter.”
“But you put the pieces back in the wrong order,” replied Will harshly. “You distorted Everard’s words. Men drinking blood? Knights spitting on the cross? Those were allegories!”
