by Robyn Young
“So you wanted revenge against the Church?”
“Proof,” said Nogaret sharply. “I wanted proof. Only man can condemn man. The Church proved that when they murdered my family. I proved it when I killed Boniface and Benedict.” He rose abruptly. “And I’ll prove it again when I bring down the warriors of Christ.” Turning, he thrust open the door. “Bring him,” he commanded the guards.
As Nogaret strode ahead, the guards led Will behind him through the fortress, until they came to the main yard outside. There was a wagon and more than two dozen mounted soldiers in royal livery. It was night, the purple sky peppered with stars. Urged into the wagon by the guards, Will saw five pale faces turn to him in the gloom. Knights, he guessed, as the company began to move out.
It quickly became clear that they weren’t heading into the city when the wagon turned north along a rough road that wound for several miles through starlit fields. Will and the other prisoners didn’t speak or look at one another. He supposed they, like him, feared this was a final journey. In the silence, each man prepared himself, head bowed in prayer or thought. Will centered on his father. He wondered what James had felt walking to his place of execution outside the Templar fortress of Safed, the parched ground dusty and hot beneath his feet. Will liked to think he was calm and walked with his head high, the Mamluk swords at his back not needing to force him on.
The wagon jolted off the track and into a field, where it rolled to a stop. The royal guards ordered the knights out and they jumped down awkwardly, one by one, into the long grass. In the distance, Will made out the walls of Paris, a paler shade against the backdrop of night. Closer, a line of oaks rustled in the breeze, boughs creaking. Around fifteen of the soldiers had remained mounted and were pressing out in a circle, their horses jostling and snorting. All had swords drawn and shields raised. What struck Will as strange was that they weren’t facing their captives, but outward into the darkness. Before he could guess why, he heard a fearful murmur and saw one of the knights staring at something obscured behind the wagon. Will took a few steps and realized what had captivated the man’s attention. On the crest of a small hill, a short distance away, three shapes rose against the night sky, barbed and menacing. They were pyres, each with a stout central pole thrusting like a finger out of a bristling mass of twigs, branches and straw. Another of the knights, seeing them, crossed himself and began to pray.
“Secure the prisoners!” ordered Nogaret. “Quickly. Two per stake.”
The silent calm the knights had displayed inside the wagon vanished. They began to struggle, but after a year in prison they were little match for the guards, who dragged them mercilessly up the hill toward the pyres.
“Why go to all this trouble?” demanded Will, when Nogaret moved in to help the soldier who had seized him. “Why not just kill us in our cells?”
“Fool!” panted Nogaret, as Will fought him. “Clement would never give us what we want if we murdered you in cold blood.” The minister staggered back, leaving the soldier to punch Will viciously in the side until he dropped to the ground. “But Guillaume de Paris has, under Philippe’s insistence, proclaimed all those who are willing to defend themselves as relapsed heretics. The law states that those who have recanted their confessions, who are deemed to be unrepentant heretics for whom there can be no salvation, can be transferred to secular authority for execution by fire.”
Will hung weakly on his knees, hands digging in the damp soil. Around him, the shouts of the knights were punctuated by the neighing of horses. Above him, Nogaret’s voice continued, harsh and cruel.
“The king wants the Temple dissolved quickly. He doesn’t want a public trial. This way, we get rid of those knights who are willing to testify, but we do it all within the confines of the law. Clement can do nothing!”
Will’s fingers brushed against something hard, embedded in the soil.
“When your brothers learn what happens to those who retract their confessions, their feeble defense will crumble and my lord will have his prize.” Nogaret loomed over him. “By the way, Campbell, one of the knights gave in to my questioning last week. A man named Laurent. He told me the Temple’s treasury is in Scotland.”
Will felt over the object: a long, thin shaft that ended in a steel point. It was an arrow. For a moment he was astonished, wondering how it had got there. But his questions soon dissolved, overwhelmed by the feeling that the world and God were moving in perfect unison. That the arrow was meant to be here and he was meant to find it.
“Twenty knights took it, Laurent told me, along with a pregnant woman. That was Rose, wasn’t it? When I find the treasury, I’ll find her.”
Gathering the last of his strength, Will wrapped his fingers around the shaft. He had no illusion that he could make it from this field alive, but at least he could take Nogaret with him. This was how it would end. This was how it was supposed to end. Pushing himself to his feet, he lunged at the minister. Before he could strike, the night was filled with the screams of horses and men.
At once, everything was thrown into confusion. Will whipped round, hearing someone utter a rallying cry. A group of royal guards was riding toward the line of oaks. He saw motion in the undergrowth, black shapes rising, then two of the soldiers’ mounts reared up and crashed to the ground, crushing their riders beneath them. There were more cries and flashes of steel. Will turned to where Nogaret had been standing a second before and saw the minister fleeing for the cover of the wagon.
“Guards!” he was shouting. “I want them captured!”
The few soldiers who had dismounted were running to their horses. One man dug his foot in the stirrup and grabbed the saddle, but before he could haul himself up, something punched into his back and he arched backward, his foot catching in the stirrup. His horse bolted, dragging him away across the field, scattering the soldiers in its path. Another man went down, dropping a torch, which blew flames across the ground.
“Just kill the prisoners, damn you!” Nogaret was yelling to the remaining soldiers who weren’t yet in the fight. “Kill them!”
Will saw one knight go down, stabbed by the soldier who had been hauling him toward the pyres. Then another. The other knights began to fight with renewed vigor. Hearing a rasp of steel behind him, Will jerked round to see a royal guard swinging back his sword to strike. An arrow came hurtling out of the night and plunged into the man’s throat. He let his sword drop and fell back. Feeling light-headed with the exertion, Will snatched up the fallen blade, but before he could go after Nogaret, a figure came racing out of the darkness toward him.
It was a tall man with a flop of sandy-blond hair and a strong-boned face. He held a bow. Will stared at him, shock making his hand fall to his side, the sword tip striking the ground. Ten years had passed since he had seen that face. “David?”
“Retreat!” one of the soldiers was crying out. “Retreat!”
Nogaret was yelling hoarsely, ordering the guards back into the fray, commanding them to seize the attackers, but the night was filled with arrows and all the soldiers could do was raise their shields, wheel their horses around and ride back out of range. Another man went down, his horse tumbling over, caught in the rump by two arrows. Within moments, the rest were thundering from the field, abandoning the wagon and their prisoners.
Will, still staring at his nephew in amazement, hardly saw them go. As the young man embraced him fiercely, he felt himself flooded with relief.
“Are you hurt?” questioned David, stepping back and studying him in the agitated light of the torch still flaming on the ground. His brow creased as he saw the bloody rag covering Will’s right eye. “What did they do to you?”
Will checked his hand as he went to finger the bandage. He didn’t like to touch it. Gazing around him, he saw other figures appearing out of the shadows of the tree line. They fanned out, examining the soldiers and helping the three surviving knights. One crossed swiftly to him and David.
“Is it him?” came an urgent voice.
Will took hold of his arm. “Robert, why are you here? Why is David?” He shook his head. “How?”
“We don’t have time to explain, Will.”
Will didn’t relinquish his grip. “Make time,” he said, his tone implacable.
Robert hesitated, then nodded to the knights. “Secure the area. I want to know those soldiers aren’t going to return in a hurry. They were ready for us this time.” He turned to Will as the men moved off, bows primed. “After leaving France we put in around the coast from Aberdeen. While the rest of the men stayed on board with the treasury, I went with Simon to escort Rose to your family in Elgin. It proved to be the best thing we could have done.” His gaze flicked to David. “Your nephew was invaluable in establishing a safe haven for us.”
Will stared at David, struck with pride.
“We stayed in Elgin for a long time, waiting for you,” Robert continued. “But when you didn’t arrive we feared the worst. In the summer, word reached us that a trial against the Temple had begun in Paris. We came to see if we could aid our brothers in their defense.”
“Philippe is sabotaging it. He’ll do anything to prevent the pope from interfering with his plans. If you are caught you’ll be imprisoned, most likely executed.”
“We know,” said Robert grimly. “But we don’t intend to linger long enough. Tonight was to be our last attack.”
“Nogaret’s done this before?” asked Will.
“Several times as far as we know. We were hiding in the city, trying to get information on who was imprisoned where and—”
“And hoping we could find you,” interjected David. “But no one knew anything. We’d given up finding you alive until I saw you being led out of that wagon.”
“We discovered the royal guards were taking prisoners out at night to burn them,” Robert went on. “We managed to intervene in one of these burnings and saved six men, but lost two of our own in the process.”
Will nodded slowly, the cause of the guards’ tension now clear and the arrow’s appearance not quite as miraculous as he’d imagined. He thought back over Nogaret’s reaction and the readiness of the guards. “My guess is he hoped to catch you if you tried again. He has been instrumental in tracking down Templars who escaped the arrests. He doesn’t want anyone left to defend the order. He wants—” Will stopped short, remembering the minister’s final words, then started across the field to where Robert’s men were making sure the soldiers were all dead. He checked the faces of the dead men, going between the bodies, Robert and David following. “He must have been carried away by one of the soldiers,” said Will, rising quickly. He staggered and almost fell, before Robert steadied him. “We need to find him.”
“No. We need to get you out of here,” replied Robert, gesturing to one of the men, who hastened over. “Help him into the wagon.”
“He knows about the treasury, Robert. He knows it’s in Scotland. He knows Rose is there.”
“He’ll never find it, or her. I promise.”
Will was shaking his head. “He knows my sisters live in Elgin. He knows where to look!”
Robert grasped his shoulders. “They don’t. Not anymore. Will, please. We’ve got a ship waiting downriver. But we need to go!”
“Clement,” said Will. “He might still help us.”
“I do not think so. While we were here we learned the pope has issued a bull, outlining plans for a holy war. It is rumored Philippe will take the Cross for him. I suspect they have done a deal: the Temple in return for a new Crusade.”
Will was silent. “Nogaret confessed to me in my cell,” he said finally. “He admitted he killed Pope Benedict. Perhaps if Clement knew this it might convince him to end his alliance with the king.” He stared at Robert. “It is worth a try, isn’t it?”
After a long pause, Robert nodded. “All right. I will make sure word is sent to Clement before we leave. After that, it is up to him. We can do nothing more.”
With David walking at his other side, Will limped across the grass toward the wagon, leaving the pyres unlit behind him.
FRANCISCAN PRIORY, POITIERS, NOVEMBER 24, 1308 AD
Clement stood in the window, staring out over the moon-bathed cloisters. Behind him, his chamber lay in shadow. Earlier, a servant had offered to bank up the fire and light some candles, but the pope had declined the offer. It seemed somehow appropriate to remain in darkness this evening. In his hand was a piece of parchment, limp and crumpled. He glanced at the words, but his eyesight was poor these days and, anyway, it was too dark to see by. Still, he knew what it said.
There was a knock.
Placing the parchment on the window seat, the pope turned to face the door, feeling acid bubble in his stomach. “Come in.”
When the door opened two figures entered. The first wore a gray hooded robe. He bowed low. “Your Holiness, your guest has arrived.”
Clement inclined his head. “Thank you, Renaud. You may leave us.” As the monk backed out of the chamber, closing the door, the second figure remained in the shadows. He was tall and broad, that much Clement could discern from his outline. The pope cleared his throat. “I take it your journey was without incident?”
“Your Holiness, it is late and I have traveled far. Let us dispense with unnecessary pleasantries. Tell me why you have summoned me here.” The native accent behind his French was thick.
Clement nodded, but it was some moments before he could decide how to begin. “Your family has not been treated well by the Church. My predecessor, Pope Boniface, was responsible for your downfall and you have suffered great loses, in terms of persons and property.”
“I do not need a history lesson. I am well aware of the hardships my people have faced.”
“Pope Benedict refused to lift the order of excommunication placed on you by Boniface. You have been a fugitive in France ever since, unable to return to your country or rebuild your life.” Clement paused. “I can lift that order.”
The man’s voice came to him, gruff with suspicion. “Why would you do this?”
“I would consider it payment for services rendered.” Clement looked down at his hands, feeling his stomach churn.
The tall figure came forward, closer to the window. “What services?”
Clement glanced at the crumpled parchment lifting slightly in the chill draft coming through the windows. He raised his head. “That you end the life of the king’s minister, Guillaume de Nogaret, for his part in the deaths of popes Boniface and Benedict.”
The figure said nothing. Clement just heard his breaths. “Well?” he pressed, discomforted by the heavy silence. “Is this something you would be willing to do?”
Finally the man stepped out of the shadows. Sciarra Colonna’s black eyes glittered in the moonlight.
43
Argyll, the Kingdom of Scotland
DECEMBER 20, 1308 AD
The horses hung their heads and plowed on, threading their way beneath the dank canopy of trees, hooves splintering through frozen puddles. The sleet wind that had driven at their backs for most of the morning was easing and the company could now hear the distant drag and roar of waves ahead. The dark towers of the mountains that had been their marker for five days were hazy shapes far to the north, ringed with vaporous clouds. The largest peak, Ben Cruachan, squatted like a granite giant over the northern shores of Loch Awe. It was barely mid-afternoon and already evening was drawing in, spinning webs of shadow around them. The loch, which had turned from deep jade to glassy black, was still visible some miles behind them as the track climbed torturously toward the coast.
Will, slumped in his saddle and wrapped in a soggy, fur-trimmed cloak, had forgotten how short the winter days were this far north. On the sea-bitten west coast, they seemed shorter still. This wasn’t a S
cotland he knew. This wild kingdom of mountains and water was the realm of his forefathers. His grandfather, Angus Campbell, struck out from these lands and made a life for himself in the tame and fertile east, leaving four generations of Campbells to make their mark. Now a large and powerful family, with many different branches, some of which were highly favored by King Robert, they owned a number of prominent castles in Argyll. Passing them on their journey south, his nephew recounting the history of each fortress and the names of the current lords, Will had begun to feel a strange sense of nostalgia. This was a place of kinship, of loyalties and family. The hostility of the landscape nurtured these things, binding people together in safety and shelter. It was a place where memories were honored and blood ran deep. But the price for those bonds was its isolation. The way here was not an easy one, especially in winter, and for Will, suffering a year of starvation and torture, it was the hardest journey of his life.
They had left the coast of France in September, Robert’s company conveying Will and the thirteen knights they had saved from Nogaret’s pyres to London, where two Templars were waiting with horses and supplies. Edward II had been slow to react to Pope Clement’s letter insisting he arrest the Templars in his lands, but after growing pressure from the papacy and Philippe, he finally agreed to allow the inquisitors into his kingdom. The trial against the English Templars was well under way by the time the company docked in the Thames, and it was with the sense of the hunted that they made their way north, plagued by snow on the hills and wolves in the forests. Once they were over the border, the terrain became ever more hazardous and they lost two men during one especially frozen night, but despite these physical hardships, Will found himself secretly eased by Scotland’s impassibility. With every boggy valley they wound their way through, every gray skirt of mountain they inched themselves around, every sea loch that yawed around the next corner, he felt his enemies receding. It could take Nogaret a lifetime to find them here.
