by Robyn Young
But the next morning, no soldiers came to take him to a gallows. The hours after dawn crawled by and the army roused itself, men tending to their horses, breaking their fast. Gradually, the calm Will had felt in the night faded into tension. He wanted it over. The waiting was pointless, maddening. But wait he did, all through that day and into the next, the sky above him turning from pink to gold to blue. The following afternoon, Will sensed a change in the mood of the camp. None of the Scots was taken for questioning and the guards who tossed in their scraps of food were tight-lipped and silent. There were no songs around the campfires, no coarse jokes and laughter. And still he waited.
On the morning of the fourth day since he was brought before the king a storm drifted in across the plain. He was sitting there, soaked to the skin, licking the rain from his lips, when he noticed movement in the camp. Will crawled to the bars and watched as a few companies headed off into the downpour, water plinking on helmets and shields. Over the next hour, more men began to move out. Some looked downcast, but others appeared relieved, neither of which seemed much like the bearing of soldiers about to head to war. In the distance, Will could see a huge crowd gathered around the royal pavilion.
Some time later, when the rain had moved north and the exodus from the camp had become a flood, all the companies threading their way southward, a soldier came to the cage. He was dressed more plainly than the royal guards, their keepers until that morning. Opening the door, he motioned outside.
“You can go.”
The other Scots glanced at one another in astonishment, then scrabbled quickly out.
Will remained inside. “Who let us go?” he called, as the man went to head off.
The soldier glanced back. “The new king. He didn’t want any extra baggage to take with him.”
Will felt his breath leave him. “Edward is dead?”
“He passed this morning,” replied the soldier gruffly. “His son succeeded him and ordered the retreat. He will not fight his father’s war.”
As the man moved off, Will sank to his knees on the damp grass. He stayed there for some time, while around him the English Army trundled slowly from the plain. Finally, he pushed himself to his feet and climbed the shallow hill, avoiding the red tent, where a crowd was still gathered. As he reached the top, he saw the fields falling away to become marshes and then a wide estuary. Beyond the water, dark gold in the storm-bruised light, the hills of Dumfries rose up. He thought of his family, beyond those hills. Given a second chance at life he wanted to see the living: Ysenda and David, Margaret and Alice, beautiful, red-haired Christian. The lure was tremendous. But he allowed himself only a moment’s pause before he turned and, leaving Scotland shrouded in veils of summer rain, headed south.
37
Franciscan Monastery, Poitiers
AUGUST 18, 1307 AD
“Your Holiness.” Jacques de Molay’s harsh voice echoed in the Chapter House. Going down on one knee, he took Clement’s proffered hand and kissed the papal ring.
Clement smiled graciously. “Master Templar, it is I who should be kneeling in the presence of the few brave men who still toil for the liberty of Jerusalem.” He lifted his gaze to the knights ranked behind the grand master.
There were around forty of them, all erect and austere in mail armor, broadswords slung at their hips, helmets clasped under their arms. Most were high officials or commanders in the order. Clement recognized a few of the older members: the master of France was close behind de Molay and at his side was the master of Normandy, a flint-eyed, hook-nosed man named Geoffroi de Charney. The knights had been given the option of washing and resting before speaking with him, but had declined, preferring to meet him upon their arrival at the monastery. As a result, they looked as though they had all come straight from a battlefield, mantles stained, faces sun-browned and scarred.
Clement felt a twinge of regret that he had given in to Nogaret’s demands and called these men away needlessly from their duties. But he was glad to see them. Their presence simply confirmed his own desire to ensure the continuation of the struggle for the Holy Land, flagging due to the dearth of enthusiasm from the rulers of the West. Perhaps now he would get the response he had so eagerly sought. Shuffling over to the cushioned seat the monks had set out for him, the pope gestured to the servants at the sides of the chamber. “Bring our noble guests food and wine.”
The grand master’s broad face, framed by coarse, iron-gray hair, retained its grim expression. “Your Holiness, my men and I have traveled long to answer your summons. In your message you said there was a grave problem within the order. I myself know nothing of any trouble and so before I break bread with you I am anxious to hear what urgent matter has called me and my officials the many hundreds of miles from Cyprus.”
Clement faltered, taken aback by Jacques’s terseness. After a pause, he nodded to the servants. “Leave us. Tell the brothers we will eat later.” As the door closed he shifted on his chair and tried to recover some of his authority, discomforted by the dour silence of the knights lined up in front of him. He felt like an inept commander, being judged by his troops. “Do you know of a knight named Esquin de Floyran?”
Jacques shook his head. “I have many knights under me. I do not know them all by name.”
“That is the name of the former prior of Montfaucon, my lord. I was given a report by the visitor some years ago detailing his arrest for heresy. He was imprisoned in Merlan.”
Clement glanced behind Jacques as the master of France spoke up. “That is correct. However, earlier this year de Floyran escaped the Temple’s custody and was taken into royal protection. He protests his innocence and accuses the knights of the Paris preceptory who sent him to Merlan of heresy and murder.”
”Royal protection” The grand master’s brow furrowed. “Why would de Floyran be offered this?”
Clement was careful in his reply. He hadn’t yet decided how much to reveal to the Templars of Philippe’s intentions for them. The last thing he wanted was to dash his hope for a new Crusade by causing the knights to turn from their efforts abroad in order to challenge the crown. “The king was concerned and wanted to make certain de Floyran’s accusations were unfounded. He is keen to see that the Temple’s reputation remains untarnished. Both Lord Philippe and myself felt it necessary to recall you and your officials from Cyprus in order to conduct an investigation into this matter. After all, we do not want the people of the West to have any doubts over the honor of the warriors of Christ. They have been concerned enough since the fall of Acre.”
Jacques’s frown deepened and the men behind him shifted restlessly, their expressions affronted rather than perturbed. The grand master, however, nodded to Clement. “This is a serious allegation and will be examined to the fullest extent. I will speak to this de Floyran personally and judge his words for myself, then meet the men responsible for his arrest and hear their testimonies.”
“I am sure we can endeavor to make that a possibility.” Keen not to lose the confidence of the knights and heartened by Jacques’s staunch response, Clement turned the subject to one of his choosing. “The other reason for my summons, Master Templar, lies in my eagerness to hear of your progress in the East. There has been frustratingly little word from Cyprus of your endeavors, or plans for a new Crusade. Everyone I speak to seems adamant that this is still your priority, but they can tell me nothing else.”
At this, the grand master seemed to relax slightly, although his expression remained somber. “Since the fall of our last base on the island of Ruad to Mamluk forces, our progress has been hampered by the lack of support from the West. Even our own order has been able to send us only the minimum of men and supplies, something I intend to rectify now I am here. As I told the rulers of the West when I made my progress through their kingdoms, a new Crusade will only succeed if everyone is behind it. Small armies without uniformity of purpose or the agreement on a clearly defined target will fail.”
Clement was unable to hide his dis
appointment. “Then you are saying it will not be possible? I had hoped to hear better news, for I am determined to aid you, Master Templar.”
Geoffroi de Charney spoke up at this. “We are grateful to hear your support, Your Holiness, but we remain certain that only by a coordinated move east can we push back the Saracens and regain the territories lost to us. We have been trying to secure the assistance of the king of Cyprus as well as help from the Mongol empire, but it takes time to bring about such alliances.”
Jacques nodded his leonine head at de Charney’s words. “What is needed is the wholehearted alliance of a powerful king of the West. Have one such ruler take the Cross and inspire the people again, have him lead our war and I believe we can succeed. Perhaps the Lord Edward? Or King Philippe?”
“Alas, King Edward died in July. We received word of it barely days ago. He has been succeeded by his son, the Prince of Wales.” Clement’s lips pursed. “A man who I hear is more interested in feasts and unsavory frivolities than holy war.”
The pope sat back as the knights took in this black news. He felt sunken. All his hopes of Jacques and his army of warrior knights making their plans, gathering their might, dwindled to this proud, yet worn-down band of men before him. The moment the cardinals of the Sacred College had placed the papal tiara upon his head in the Cathedral of Lyons, Clement had known, clear as a vision, that he was the pope to call Christendom to a new Crusade. All his life had been leading up to that moment. Now the dream of walking through the gates of that golden city in the footsteps of the Lord was fading before his eyes. He thought of the grand master’s advice and heard the possibility in the words. But Philippe was the most powerful monarch left in the West and his concentration was occupied elsewhere.
THE ROYAL PALACE, PARIS, SEPTEMBER 13, 1307 AD
Rose sat swaddled in her blue cloak as all around her the Great Hall throbbed with noise and heat. On immense tables stretched between the scores of pillars ranked like an army of marble soldiers beneath the vaulted ceiling, the elite of the kingdom’s nobility gorged themselves on the feast. Everywhere she looked, she saw mouths opening and slivers of meat, juicy with blood, being shoveled inside. A duke several places away told a ribald joke, while flecks of food flew from between his teeth and the ladies around him brayed with laughter. Stiff-faced lawyers and bejeweled bishops slurped at goblets of wine that stained their lips and teeth black, and everywhere silver plates glittered under mountains of food. At the heart of each table sat the crowning glory of the evening: a bloated pie stuffed with partridges, quails, larks and a dozen tiny sparrows.
A wide gash had been cut in the center of the pie opposite her and Rose couldn’t take her gaze off the rows of little dark bodies, slippery with fat, crammed inside its pastry folds. She could smell the eggs that had been mixed into the flour, pick out the sharp notes of rosemary and thyme. All her senses seemed heightened, fragile. The sound of a knife slicing through cheese to strike the board was an axe blow, a bishop’s booming voice a thunderclap.
“Rose, you have to eat.”
She glanced around to see Blanche staring at her.
The petite handmaiden nodded encouragingly. “Just a mouthful or two.” Her murmur dropped to a breathy whisper. “You have to think of the baby.”
Rose looked down at her stomach, hidden beneath the table and the folds of her cloak. Think of the baby? She could do nothing else.
Her belly was as taut as a drum and she knew that when she stood the eyes of most of the men and women in the hall would flick furtively to it. Hands, here and there, would come up to hide mouths as they whispered to their neighbors about the king’s whore and her bastard child. Ladies would toss their veiled heads and lords would grin and make lewd gestures with their sticky fingers. The palace had never been a comfortable home for her, but she had never known it to be so hostile. Some nights, sweating in the darkness of the dormitory, she would lie there, stiff as a board, poised for the sound of footsteps approaching her door.
Once, shortly after she arrived in Paris, she had seen two servants carrying a litter of kittens out of the stables. She had halted, transfixed with pleasant wonder by the blind, soft bodies writhing in their hands, then, as the servants crouched by a pail of water, shock had tightened her skin. One of the worst things about it had been all the people who passed by, not even noticing the tiny lives being drowned in that bucket. When it was done, Rose crept into the stables to find the mother licking feebly at the blood on her fur and mewing for her children. She must have sat with that cat for over an hour, murmuring words of comfort and stroking her head until she slept.
If they came to take her in the night would anyone notice?
An image of her father hung in her mind. He used to be a shadow or a ghost, something vague that haunted her. How cruel fate was. His face, now he was gone, was painfully clear. Philippe had angrily denied killing him that night in May and had even accused her of his disappearance, but she knew the king was lying and her father was dead. Sometimes, she relished the violent kicks her child woke her with, each twist a punishment for her betrayal. Penance for her sin.
Rose’s gaze moved to Philippe. The king was seated on the dais that spanned the far end of the Great Hall. The royal table, suspended above the rest of the crowd, was surrounded by his family: his brothers and his sons, now growing into handsome young men, and his beloved Isabella. Barely twelve years old, the princess was betrothed to the new king of England, Edward II, and was due to set sail early next year for the wedding. For months, Philippe, who had secured the profitable marriage in return for the restoration of Gascony to English hands, had hardly let her leave his sight, as if clinging to the last few precious moments of his daughter’s childhood. To either side of the king sat his gray-faced confessor, Guillaume de Paris, and Nogaret. The placing of that table, its height, its remove, was designed to let everyone know the favored positions of those around it. Philippe didn’t need to tell her what he thought of her and his unborn child. Her place on the floor was plainer than words.
As she watched, Nogaret murmured something and Philippe nodded. He stood, his black mantle embroidered with white fleurs-de-lis falling around him, and a page hastened to draw back his throne. The minstrels ceased their playing and, one by one, all the men and women around the tables rose respectfully. Ignoring their bows and curtsies, Philippe headed for the ornate doors that led to the royal apartments, Nogaret at his side, hurrying to keep up. While the crowd seated themselves and the minstrels struck up again, Rose remained standing. She felt Blanche’s hand on her arm, but shrugging it off, she slipped across the hall, keeping her gaze ahead so she couldn’t see all those faces turn to watch her go.
Through the doors the cool, hushed air of the passage was a welcome relief. She passed quickly along an open gallery, the rain blowing across the dark courtyard misting her face. It had been pouring for three days without end and the palace grounds were swampy. Puddles gleamed like ink below and the conversation of the guards moving in the compound was muted by the thrum of water. Beyond the walls, the Seine was swollen up to its banks and flowing fast, white flecks rushing in the darkness.
Heading into a wider corridor, Rose slowed as she approached the king’s chamber, partly to catch her breath, partly to arrange her thoughts. The impulse that had driven her from the hall remained, but now she was here she was scared. Philippe had become more and more distant these past few months and she no longer knew his moods. But the feast this evening, with all those unfriendly, judging stares, had confirmed her fear of just how precarious her standing in the palace was and she desperately needed assurance. For some weeks she had harbored the idea that the king might allow her to go to the château at Vincennes, maybe even with Blanche now Isabella was leaving; that he might let her have her baby alone, far from court intrigue and the poison she knew Nogaret had been pouring into his ear.
She could hear the two of them through the door. The king’s voice was pensive.
“You are certain Cle
ment did as he was told?”
“The Paris officials should have already left for Poitiers.”
“Should have? I want to know for certain, Nogaret. You will find out.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I want the Temple wide open when we come for them. I want the rank and file separated from their leaders. Now that de Molay is in France we must move swiftly before our plan is discovered.”
“It is all in hand, my lord. The pope and the leaders of the Temple will be occupied discussing Esquin de Floyran’s claims for some while. By the time their assembly is finished our men will be in place and ready to act. The summons for de Molay can be sent as soon as you command.”
Rose felt their words like knives, each one a cutting reminder of what she had helped to make possible by the removal of her father. How much ruin a few words could cause. She hadn’t realized her own terrible power.
Steeling herself, she rapped on the door. The voices stopped abruptly. The door opened and Nogaret appeared. Behind him, Philippe stood by the hearth, the flames lighting his hard face. On a table beside him was a pile of scrolls, all bound in black leather cases. As the concern faded from their expressions to be replaced by irritation in Nogaret’s and impatience in the king’s, she understood how little she meant to them. They didn’t even care that she might have overheard their conversation. She was so insignificant she might as well not exist at all. She opened her mouth to petition the king with her request, but all that came were words she didn’t even know she wanted to say until they choked from her. “Please, Philippe, tell me what you did to my father.”
Nogaret spun away with a curse.
The king’s brow knotted. “You dare to question me on this again?”
