The Fall of the Templars: A Novel (Brethren)

by Robyn Young

  “We should be there soon.”

  Will glanced around as his nephew maneuvered his horse up alongside him, his face in the failing light ruddy with cold.

  David smiled slightly. “You look nervous, Uncle.”

  “I’m just weary,” responded Will gruffly, discomfited by his nephew’s shrewdness. It was true. He was nervous. There were so many things that awaited him at the end of this unfamiliar track, the booming sea growing ever louder, so many hopes, any one of which could be fulfilled or dashed. He looked over his shoulder at the long line of travel-worn men stretching behind. “I pray your mother has a pot big enough. There are a lot of hungry mouths to feed. Her husband’s estate cannot house us all, surely?”

  “Not indefinitely, no, but as I told you we’ll find homes for the knights soon enough. I could use a few able men in Elgin and the king would gladly recruit more loyal warriors into his service, I’m certain. He has already accepted into his retinue seven Templars who arrived with Robert last year.”

  Will saw a familiar look in David’s face. It was a look of fierce pride that came over him whenever he was talking about Scotland’s new king. On the journey north, he had heard David tell many stories of Bruce and his band of men, from his battles against Edward’s forces to his ambitious campaign to unite all of Scotland beneath him, quelling the rivals who challenged his claim to the throne. The English might have gone, for now, but the scars of more than a decade of war remained, seeping unrest and the poison of family feuds that had welled up into civil war. Robert Bruce had been faced with a grueling task, but from the respect the Scots in their company showed him, it seemed he was winning.

  “But for now,” David continued, “we’ll be able to house most of them in this area. John is close with many families here.”

  Will nodded, but said nothing. He was still getting used to all the changes that had taken place in his family and all the unexpected connections, not least the fact that seven men in this doughty company, who had risked their lives to free him, were kin.

  At first, he had been scarcely aware of anything, hurt with exhaustion, too numb even to feel relief, but as his strength returned, his curiosity about his rescuers had been stirred. Other than Robert and the six former Templars, there were two spirited young men who were squires of David’s, now the holder of a modest estate in Elgin, come to him through marriage. Will had listened in quiet amazement as his nephew, flushing with pleasure, spoke of his two children, who had stayed with their mother in Elgin, close to Margaret and her young family. Another marriage that had come as a surprise was that of his sister, Ysenda, to a widower named John Campbell, a well-respected knight from a minor branch of the vast family, who owned a large estate in Argyll. They met during King Robert’s campaign in the north and wedded quickly, Ysenda moving south with him early in the summer. Two of John’s youngest sons, rangy and chestnut-haired, were in Robert’s company. But perhaps the greatest shock for Will was the introduction to his nephew, a man named Colin, who was only fifteen years younger than himself and a child of his elder sister, Ede. He had come with his three sons, all of them broad and black-haired, their faces holding echoes of James.

  The emotion he felt, coming into this ancient land, surrounded by men of his blood, was overwhelming. He had spent most of the past twelve months thinking his life and everything in it was ended. To be here, now, knowing that in some ways it had only just begun, felt like a gift straight from God, but a fragile gift that he cradled warily, fearful of breaking it. David had told him he would be welcome, but he hadn’t dared ask his nephew how he knew this, and as they wound their way out of the trees and a wide dark sea filled the horizon, he felt doubts crowding in on him.

  John Campbell’s sons led the way confidently down the rocky cliff path, steering their horses expertly. The wind was raw and strong, snatching back their hoods and whipping tears from their eyes. Below, the sea crashed against the cliffs, spewing foam into the air. In the last of the light, Will could see a line of islands rising from the sea, some near, some distant, clouds rolling gray and low above them. Closer, just below in a sheltered cove with a natural harbor, was a little village. A dozen or more houses huddled around a chapel on a grassy bluff. He caught a whiff of smoke on the wind and heard the lowing of animals.

  Skirting the village, John’s sons urged their horses along a steep track that led halfway up the scrubby cliff to a much larger stone house, thatched with brown heather and ringed by a wall that enclosed several outbuildings, a barn, stables and a paddock. It reminded Will a little of his family’s old estate. As they drew closer, he could see firelight winking in some of the windows. The front door flew open suddenly and a gaggle of children streamed forth, calling excitedly. John’s sons cantered to meet them as a group of adults funneled out behind the children. Their voices came to the men on the wind, sharp with joy. Will jumped down from his saddle as he saw one figure running toward him. It was Ysenda, her sandy hair streaked with silver, but her face flushed and youthful as she dashed across the scrubby grass to where he stood, rooted. Behind his sister, stepping from the doorway, one hand pushing back her red hair, was Christian, her eyes searching then fixing on him. There was Simon, his face, slackening with relief, now creasing in a broad grin. After Simon came an old, white-haired woman who looked so much like his mother it pierced him. She was bent with age and obviously blind, being led out by a pretty young woman. That young woman, he realized with a jolt, was Alice, his niece. There were others he didn’t recognize, calling to the men or hastening to take the reins of their horses. His eyes darted over their unfamiliar faces.

  Then he saw her.

  She was chasing a podgy toddling boy, who had teetered out behind the shouting children. As she scooped him up in her arms and planted a kiss on his pink cheek, Will noticed how full and healthy his daughter looked. He took all this in in a matter of seconds, then Ysenda was throwing her arms around him and grabbing at David, weeping and kissing them both. And all Will’s fears fell from him.

  ILE DE LA CITÉ, PARIS, DECEMBER 21, 1308 AD

  Guillaume de Nogaret raised his hand to hide a yawn as he urged his horse across the Grand Pont, onto the island. It was late and the air was bitter, the cold seeping through his fur cloak, feeling its way into his bones. Frost dappled the riverbanks, sparkling in the silvery light of a pale half-moon. Behind Nogaret, two royal guards kept pace, nodding to the city watchmen on the bridge, who inclined their heads as the king’s minister passed.

  It had been another long day, his time divided between the preceptory and the Louvre, interrogating Templars. At least he had been rewarded with two deaths that evening. Some days, he would get nothing for his efforts, not even a confession, and his reports to Philippe were fraught affairs, the king increasingly aggravated by the protracted process, hindered further since the burnings had been forbidden.

  After the attack in which Campbell escaped, Nogaret held two more executions, this time in the safety of the Louvre, but word somehow reached the pope that all knights who agreed to testify were being sent to the stake. When Clement threatened to suspend the work of the inquisitors if any more burnings took place without his authorization, Philippe and Nogaret protested fiercely, saying they were acting within the law that stated unrepentant heretics could be burned if handed over by the Dominicans, but the belligerent pope remained unmoved and in the end they were obliged to continue with the slow process of torture.

  Exasperatingly, it was usually the sergeants and servants who succumbed. Most of these men hadn’t stood on a battlefield and had never even wielded a sword. They weren’t trained for the sort of physical punishments and endurance that the knights were. Bewildered and frightened, many either very young or else frail and elderly, they were led into the torture chambers, where they were forced to accuse the professed knights of committing the crimes on Nogaret’s list. Charged by association, these men faced lifelong imprisonment if they confessed, but more often than not they didn’t make it out of t
he torture chamber alive. Neither they nor any of the knights who perished were allowed the last rites as they were dying, though all begged to be shriven. Instead, their corpses were dumped in unmarked graves on unconsecrated ground, a warning to those left not to resist the inquisitors’ demands. In this way, the fifteen thousand men imprisoned across France were gradually whittled away, one month at a time. Unfortunately for the king, the ones left behind were Templar officials, commanders and battle-hardened knights, all of whom had repeatedly recanted the confessions they had offered up with their screams on the rack and the strappado.

  Nogaret had tried everything his legal mind could conceive of to hasten the process whereby Clement would dissolve the order and transfer the wealth to Philippe; such was the agreement the two men had come to. The trouble was the king was unwilling to take the Cross until Clement passed judgment upon the Temple, and the pope was just as stubbornly insistent that the trial would be conducted fairly. Combined with this, the pope was often ill these days, which created more lengthy delays. There was something of Nogaret’s pride at stake in this now. Not only was the attack on the Temple his idea, but he had dedicated a great deal of time and effort to making it happen. Furthermore, he had been stung by Campbell’s escape, which Philippe blamed him for, along with the fact that the treasury remained lost. He promised the king faithfully that when the pope dissolved the Temple he would personally lead a mission to Scotland to find the Paris treasury and destroy those knights who remained at large, along with Rose and her child. Philippe had sullenly agreed, clearly discomfited by the thought of his illegitimate son.

  Nogaret was drawn from his thoughts by the sound of his name. At first, he assumed it was one of the royal guards, but as he glanced over his shoulder, he saw both of them had reined in their horses and were staring down one of the narrow side streets that tapered toward Notre Dame. He trotted back to them. “What is it? Who called me?”

  “It came from down there, Minister,” answered one, frowning into the gloom.

  As Nogaret watched, he saw movement under the overhanging eaves of one of the buildings and a man came toward them.

  “Who goes there?” called the guard, drawing his sword. “State your business!”

  Nogaret let a faint breath of surprise through his lips as the man came closer. “Colonna,” he murmured, gesturing to the guard to lower his blade. “This is unexpected. What brings you here?”

  “I need to speak to you.”

  Nogaret glanced at the palace towers rising ahead, then back at the Italian. “It will have to wait until tomorrow. I have to report to Lord Philippe.”

  “It is about Pope Clement. Trust me, Minister, you will want to hear this.”

  Nogaret hesitated, but his curiosity was piqued. “Very well.” He swung down from the saddle.

  “Not your men,” said Sciarra curtly, when the guards made to dismount. “I will only speak to you.”

  Nogaret nodded to the royal soldiers. “Wait here.” As Sciarra moved into the shadows of the street, he followed, picking his way around piles of moldering rubbish. He started with a curse as several rats scurried away in front of him. “Make this quick,” he said testily.

  Sciarra didn’t reply, but continued walking, past the darkened doorways of buildings as the street bent around to the right. Beyond the rooftops, the twin towers of Notre Dame glowed ghostly white in the moonlight. Finally, Colonna halted.

  Glancing round, Nogaret saw his guards had now vanished from view. “Well?”

  Sciarra’s breaths were coming quickly, each one fogging the air in front of his face. Nogaret felt a prickle of unease. His hand drifted to his sword. He was about to command the Italian to speak, when Sciarra answered.

  “You left us to the wolves when you left Anagni, Nogaret.” His voice was low, trembling with suppressed emotion. “I lost many men in the assault on Boniface. You promised King Philippe would restore our fortunes in return for our sacrifice. But no word ever came to me from you, or him. No pardon, no thanks, no riches. I wrote to the king, more than once, but I never heard anything from him. I then learned that Pope Clement lifted the order of excommunication on you for your crime against Boniface. For me, he did no such thing. One word from your king and he would have.”

  Nogaret’s unease vanished in a flare of anger. “You brought me here to berate me? Damn you, Colonna. I do not have time for this!” He went to move off, then turned back, his face sour. “Besides, you got what you wanted.”

  “No!” snapped Sciarra. “Revenge against Boniface was only part of what I craved. What I wanted was the restoration of my family’s power: our strongholds returned to us, my brothers reinstalled in the Sacred College, the Colonna name lifted to its former glory.” His voice dropped again, full of bile. “You betrayed us, Nogaret. You and your king.”

  Nogaret saw Sciarra’s gaze flick to the left, somewhere behind him. A rat darted past and he heard the crunch of footfalls on the frosty ground. Unsheathing his sword, he spun. Two figures were moving out of a doorway, coming straight at him. One held a length of something that looked like rope. Knowing he couldn’t fight all three, Nogaret turned and lunged at Sciarra, who had drawn his own sword. The blades clashed in the stillness. Nogaret shouted for his guards, but as he parried Sciarra’s strikes he heard no hoofbeats and guessed they were no longer capable of helping him. Dodging under one of Sciarra’s swings, he straightened and kicked the Italian savagely in the stomach, sending him crashing backward into a stack of rotten timbers. A dog began barking. Someone thrust open shutters in a house above and shouted for them to be quiet. As the other two men closed in, Nogaret began to run. Halfway down, he slipped on a crust of ice and fell forward, cutting his hands on the hard ground. His sword skidded away into the darkness. Jerking round, he saw Sciarra and his men racing toward him. With no time to grab his weapon, he pushed himself up and sprinted for the end of the alley. It was coming up quickly, the colossal towers of Notre Dame rising before him. Suddenly someone barreled into him. He flew forward, sprawling onto his stomach with a winded groan. His attacker rolled off him, leaving him gasping. He felt hands seizing him, pulling him up until he was on his knees. His arms were yanked painfully back. Nogaret twisted away as he felt rope being wrapped around his neck. “I’ll give you what you want!” he panted, feeling the rope draw tight. “I’ll go to Philippe, tell him to talk to the pope, get you your pardon! I swear it, Sciarra!”

  Sciarra crouched before him, his face pale in the moonlight, glistening with sweat. “I already have Clement’s promise of a pardon. All I need from you, Nogaret, is your last breath.” He nodded to the men who held Nogaret between them.

  “No!” screamed Nogaret, but his cry was cut off as the man who held the rope began to pull. Nogaret felt his throat constrict. Rage billowed within him, towering and pure. Clement was his puppet! His instrument! He was not the master of his death! His fury was swiftly overwhelmed by panic as he started to choke. His tongue swelled and thrust out between his teeth. He began to convulse and the men holding him struggled. But they held on. As Nogaret’s vision began to cloud, he saw Sciarra rising to his feet. Beyond, Notre Dame filled his failing sight, white and imperious, a soaring creation of man’s unfailing devotion.

  44

  The Royal Palace, Paris

  MARCH 18, 1314 AD

  Philippe stared into the mirror, while around him servants fussed and bustled. In the depths, his reflection shimmered, the jewels on his fingers catching the light streaming through the chamber’s high windows. Dust motes swirled in the slanting beams, glittering through ghostly trails of incense. Raising a hand, Philippe adjusted his crown. He looked like a painting of a king: perfect in his majesty, his floor-length robes of white samite the essence of chastity, the simple circlet of gold resting on his graying hair the embodiment of dignity. His smile was one of cold triumph as the servants reverently unfolded a faded vermilion cloak, trimmed with ermine. The ceremonial garment had belonged to his grandfather and now he, Philip
pe, would don the mantle of a saint. As they placed it around his shoulders, smoothing down the creases, and fastened the gold clasp at his throat, his reflection became complete. He was ready. After seven years of waiting, he was finally ready.

  The trial against the Order of the Temple had been the most arduous ordeal of his reign, indeed of his life, more fraught with delays and frustrations than he could have ever imagined when Nogaret first conceived the idea in the bowels of the Louvre. After the secret agreement forged with Clement, Philippe had found himself in a tug-of-war with the pope, who had grown more belligerent and stubborn the older and sicker he became. Months of interrogations and examinations turned into years of councils and assemblies, debates and fierce disputes. Nogaret’s murder, still unsolved, had been a severe blow to the king, but although he had lost the trial’s architect, the minister’s notorious list of charges lived on, along with Esquin de Floyran’s damning testimony.

  Knights were hunted down and rounded up from Cyprus, Portugal and Spain, to Germany, England, Italy and Ireland. Across these kingdoms, the initial shock and disbelief at the charges quickly gave way to outrage and calls for justice, Philippe’s ministers working hard to ensure the Templars were left with no support. Clement insisted the properties and other assets of the knights from these countries be sent directly to him, announcing that in the event of the order being dissolved, the wealth of the Temple would be transferred to the Hospitallers. What wasn’t so widely known was that Philippe was to be elected as the new grand master of the Knights of St. John.