by Andrea Japp
A stabbing pain made him breathe in sharply. And yet the cold that reigned within those walls was biting. His breath condensed in the air, moistening his lips.
He was chasing the woman. She was not fleeing, only keeping the distance between them. She circled as he circled, always a few steps ahead of him as though anticipating his movements, staying on the outside of the ambulatory while he moved along on the inside.
He paused. A single step and then she stopped. He heard the sound of calm slow breathing, but he might have imagined it. As he moved off again so did his shadow.
Francesco de Leone’s hand reached slowly for the pommel of his sword, even as an overwhelming love made his eyes fill with tears. He looked in disbelief at his hand clutching the metal pommel. Had he aged? Great bulging veins protruded under the pale skin, which was covered in a mesh of fine wrinkles.
Why was he chasing this woman? Who was she? Was she real? Did he wish to kill her?
Francesco de Leone woke up with a start, his face bathed in sweat. His heart was beating so fast it almost hurt and he was breathless. He lifted his arm and turned his hand. It was long and broad without being heavy. A layer of silky, pale flesh covered the subtle bluish maze of veins.
He sat on the edge of the canopied bed in the chamber Capella had allocated to him, struggling against the debilitating dizziness.
The dream, the nightmare, was becoming clearer. Leone was nearing his goal. The dream was the future, he was certain of that now.
He had to get out of there, to take advantage of the dawn and wander through the city streets. That chamber, that house oppressed him. The lingering stagnant odour choked him.
Giotto Capella was worried sick. Over the years he had developed a genuine aversion to honesty. This was not in his case because of any particular liking for vice; it was more out of superstition. Honesty had come to be equated in his mind with weakness, and to be weak was to be humiliated.
What could this handsome Knight from an eminent family possibly know of humiliation? Capella resented him bitterly. Not because of his noble birth or because he chose to disregard the privileges of such a birth, not even because of his implacable judgement of the betrayal at Acre. What did he think? That Giotto was such a fool that he had not weighed up his crime when he made his transaction with the enemy? Three hundred gold pieces for so many men, women and children, for so many screams, for so much blood? He had accepted the deal and been cheated. No. Capella resented him for having brought right into his study the proof that no memory can ever be entirely laid to rest. For in the end the usurer had managed to accommodate his. It was true that from time to time they would seep into his brain, above all at night. And yet these infiltrations had gradually become less frequent. Giotto owed his easy conscience to a convenient theory he had invented for himself: after all, who could say that reinforcements would have arrived in time to save the citadel at Acre? What is more, someone else might have revealed the plans of the sewers if he hadn’t. They would have died anyway in the end. And so the usurer had cleared his conscience by convincing himself that the massacre had been inevitable, and that he was one guilty party among a host of other potential ones. Now, thanks to the Hospitaller who had never known fear, the white walls at Acre never left his thoughts. Now, honesty was beating a pathway to his door accompanied by its ruinous counterpart: clarity. Now, here he was telling himself that but for his crime thirty thousand souls would still be alive.
In reality, as much as he hated Leone, his petty predator’s instinct told him that this was not a man upon whom he could wreak revenge. He must be killed outright, and Giotto was too much of a coward to do that.
Before the arrival of Monsieur de Nogaret’s envoy that afternoon he had entertained the foolish hope that some miracle, some sleight of hand might remove this troublesome guest from his midst. Each time he heard the man leave, as he had that early morning, he prayed he would never return. Countless people met their deaths in that city every day so why not the Knight Hospitaller? Giotto Capella knew this was foolish wishful thinking. There was another, less remote possibility: if he were to do nothing, why, the Knight would never meet Guillaume de Nogaret and might end up leaving. He could once again apply his favourite dictum: ‘Always put off until tomorrow what people ask you to do today.’ It had brought him fortune and riches up until then, but he was mindful that it might let him down now.
Capella’s world, which he had worked so hard to build, was being trampled under the Knight’s feet. In the space of a few days he had lost his appetite for life; even the lure of easy profit no longer filled him with feverish excitement. Why not admit it, since Leone was forcing him to be honest: it was not remorse that was demoralising him so much as the fear of his faults being imminently made public. A fault confessed is half redressed. Poppycock! Only those you succeed in burying never come back to haunt you.
Dressed in his nightclothes and a flannel nightcap, Giotto Capella was worried sick, plunged into despair for the past few minutes by the thought that his fear of reprisal prevented him from striking back. This impossibility had taken away his appetite for his supper and he was livid. Monsieur de Nogaret’s messenger had left discreetly a few hours earlier and Leone could not have seen him sneaking out of the service entrance to the building. Monsieur de Nogaret had requested Giotto’s presence two days later. The matter could only relate to money. King Philip did not baulk at borrowing vast sums of money even if it meant later on having to expel the moneylenders in order to avoid repaying the debts of the realm. If that meant money could be made by practising a barely concealed usury on, among others, the King’s barons, then all the better. Since the man had left, Capella had been dragging his feet. What if he went to the meeting alone and warned his Seigneur de Nogaret of the Knight’s extraordinary request? After all, what did one more betrayal matter? And yet the memory of the Knight’s silences dissuaded him. Silences reveal a great deal more than words. And those of this man declared that he belonged to that race of wolves whom God’s love has convinced to watch over His flock. A wolf possessed of a terrifying purity.
A nervous servant girl entered, stammering unintelligibly:
‘I … I … he wouldn’t listen, master, it’s not my fault …’
Francesco de Leone appeared behind the girl, and dismissed her with a gesture. He studied Giotto Capella’s apparel. A man in a nightshirt and nightcap will give less resistance than the same man fully dressed. No. The Knight expected no opposition from the Lombard usurer. His threats had already turned Capella’s face even more sallow. Would he carry them out if it proved necessary? He might. Only those capable of pity were deserving of it and this man had not hesitated to profit from the massacre of men, women and children.
‘When do you plan to arrange my meeting with Nogaret, Lombard?’ he asked, without troubling to greet his recalcitrant host.
The coincidence was too great and Capella understood that the Knight had seen the messenger sent by the King’s Counsellor.
‘I was waiting for the right moment.’
‘And?’
‘It has arrived.’
‘When did you mean to inform me?’
‘Tomorrow morning.’
‘Why the delay?’
The Knight’s calm voice alarmed Giotto, who protested in a rasping whine:
‘What were you expecting?’
‘From you? The worst.’
‘Foul lies!’
‘Take heed, usurer. I have killed many men who caused me no harm. You, I shall turn over. The King’s executioners have an enthusiasm for torture that inspires … respect.’
The apparent irony of this last remark worried the usurer, who made a show of his sincerity, explaining:
‘We shall undoubtedly be received by Guillaume de Plaisians. Do you know him?’
‘Only by reputation and not very well. He was Nogaret’s student at Montpellier, I believe, and then a judge at the royal court in that city before becoming seneschal at Beaucaire.’
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‘Make no mistake, he is Seigneur de Nogaret’s éminence grise. He began working with him last year as a jurist under direct orders to the King. In this case the expression “right-hand man” would be inexact for no one knows whether Nogaret or Plaisians is the brains behind any reform. The two men are equally brilliant, but Nogaret is no speaker, while the other will harangue a crowd until it no longer knows whether it is coming or going, and then make it perform a volte-face. I still remember his extraordinary and fearsome diatribe against Boniface VIII. Their physical appearance is as dissimilar as their talent for oratory. Guillaume de Plaisians is a handsome fellow. In brief, he is no less of a man to be reckoned with than my Seigneur de Nogaret.’
A doubt flashed through Francesco de Leone’s mind. Why had the prior Arnaud de Viancourt not mentioned Nogaret’s éminence grise as Capella referred to him?
Environs of the Templar commandery at Arville, Perche, July 1304
The pitch-black stallion pawed the ground while its rider, a shadowy figure wrapped in a brown woollen cloak, scanned the gloomy forest in search of his prey. A shiny metal claw on the end of his right hand gripped the reins. The ghostly figure sat up in his saddle and gave a grunt of disgust. This time, the fools had chosen a slip of a girl as a messenger. Did they really think she stood more of a chance than the men they had sacrificed up until then? The fools. And yet, having tracked her for more than half an hour, the ghostly slayer’s contempt was gradually giving way to impatience, even to a sense of unease. The young girl moved swiftly and noiselessly. How could she not be exhausted? Where was she hiding, in which piece of undergrowth? Why had she not given in to her panic like the others before her? For they had not all been poisoned to the point of delirium. Why did she not make a run for it in a pathetic attempt to flee?
The figure tensed his calf muscles against the horse’s flanks. The animal shifted restlessly, sensing the doubt creeping into the mind of its master.
What had brought this girl to Arville? Was her mission related to the Templar commandery? Hitherto all papal messages had passed through Clairets Abbey. The ghostly figure began to grow angry. He hated straying from his habitual hunting ground. He tried to calm himself by imagining what effect killing his first female would have on him. Would her face register the same expression of terror when she saw the metal claw? Would a woman’s flesh tear more easily than a man’s? Let it be done. Night was falling and the journey back was a long one.
The robed phantom scoured the brambles, shrubs and thickets. All the scheming, lies and murders he had been forced to tolerate and then to accept. For he did not revel in them, that was not his vice. Killing brought him neither pleasure nor displeasure. At best it was a hazard of the job, and at worst an unavoidable part of his mission, and if there was no other way …
The years of bitter disappointment, humiliation and needless hardship had placed his life on its present course. The exhilarating feeling of no longer being an insignificant person among others had achieved the rest. For the first time his existence had meaning, was becoming pivotal, and little did it matter in the end what cause he served. For the first time, he was no longer the victim of power but the one wielding it.
Lying flat on the forest floor some twenty yards from the horse’s hooves, concealed under a mass of ferns, Esquive watched her pursuer, who had begun tracking her before she was able to deliver the message she was carrying. She had known of the dangers involved when she accepted the mission. Why had they chosen novices as messengers before sending her? The idea of taking a life was so alien to them that they preferred to sacrifice their own. Not she, who was a redoubtable swordswoman thanks to her father. The archangel Hospitaller would also have known how to fight the phantom and his pitch-black stallion, but he was still so far away. What did he remember of their meeting years before? Very little no doubt – at least with regard to her.
Esquive concentrated all her attention on the horse once more as it nervously sidestepped a few paces then came to a standstill. The evil phantom was growing anxious and communicating his alarm to the horse.
In spite of her faith, the strength of mind she had inherited from her father, and her immeasurable love for the archangel of Cyprus, Esquive had been seized with dread when she first caught sight of the enormous black stallion rising out of the evening mist. The animal had hurled itself at her and the spectre had raised his hideous gloved hand.
She had fled, her suppleness and speed giving her a head start. She had dug herself down into the earth and remained there motionless, like a root, in order to catch her breath and recover her presence of mind.
She could not allow herself to die now. She was less important than the information she was carrying. What then? Then God would decide. Death mattered little to her for she would be taking her archangel of flesh and blood with her.
At first the phantom saw only two pale amber pools, two almost yellow pools. Two immense eyes. Then a mane of long dark wavy hair. Finally a tiny heart-shaped mouth and skin as pale as moonlight. The command rang out even as a slender hand drew a short sword from a belted scabbard.
‘Dismount. Dismount and fight.’
This unexpected reversal of fortune gave the phantom cause to hesitate. The young girl continued in a startlingly deep voice:
‘Do you want my life? Come and take it. It will cost you dearly.’
What was happening? Nothing had gone according to plan. What came next was so unexpected it caught the phantom off guard. The girl hurled herself at the horse, brandishing her sword, and thrust the sharp blade into the powerful chest of the animal, which whinnied in pain and surprise and threw its rider, rigid with shock.
A fierce joy made Esquive’s strange eyes shine even brighter. She smiled, stepped back a few paces, and stood with her legs apart, ready to fight.
The phantom heaved himself up. Fear. The fear he had believed he could make vanish forever pervaded him again. That dreadful fear of death, of suffering, of being nothing again. He removed his glove, which felt ridiculous now, and tentatively drew his dagger. He knew how to fight, of course, but the girl’s posture informed him he was dealing with an expert swordswoman.
He cast a desperate glance around him, choked by the self-loathing which up until a few minutes before he had believed himself rid of. He was a miserable coward, a weakling who had become drunk on the power of others, mistaking it for his own.
He hated the girl. She was responsible for resuscitating his past. She would pay for it; she would pay for his self-loathing. One day, he would take pleasure in killing her, in hearing her scream, then whimper, then die. One day. Soon.
Esquive sensed her enemy was about to flee. She hesitated a fraction of a second too long between her anger, her desire to slay the one who had killed so many of their own, and the overarching importance of her mission. Did the phantom notice?
He bolted towards the big black stallion that had come to a halt a few dozen yards away, not quickly enough though to avoid the broad blade thudding into his right shoulder. The pain made him cry out, but fear and loathing drove him on. He heaved himself into the saddle with his left hand, and horse and rider vanished into the dark night of the forest.
Vatican Palace, Rome, July 1304
The first days of July had brought with them a sweltering heat even more terrible than the one people had endured in June. The air seemed so rarefied that breathing it in required an effort. No breeze stirred to offer even a moment’s reprieve.
Cardinal Benedetti had been overcome by the merciless heat. He had dozed off at his desk, his forehead resting on his left hand, his nose on the beautiful mother-of-pearl fan.
The figure paused and strained his ears. He was carrying a small basket, the arch of which was decorated with a white ribbon. The anteroom was empty, it being lunchtime, and the Archbishop’s breathing was calm and regular. The figure glanced at the half-empty goblet of macerated sage and thyme, which it was the Cardinal’s custom to drink every afternoon as a remedy against bloa
ting and wind. The taste was unpleasant enough to mask the bitterness of the dose of powdered opium administered in order to induce extreme drowsiness.
Without a sound, without even stirring the air, the figure walked behind the desk inlaid with ivory, mother-of-pearl and turquoise. A gloved hand lifted a tapestry, which depicted a shy diaphanous Virgin surrounded by hovering angels, and concealed a low passageway between two thick walls. At the far end was the Pope’s council chamber.
The figure stooped and crossed the ten yards separating him from the conclusion of his mission.
The vast chamber was empty, as predicted. Benoît XI had not yet returned from his midday meal. He was not known for his vices, with the exception of his fondness for food, especially anything that reminded him of the pleasant years he had spent as Bishop of Ostia.
The figure moved forward, crossing the luxurious carpet with its purple and gold motif that covered almost the entire expanse of marble floor. The consular table evoked the Last Supper and was dominated by the heavily ornate papal chair perched on a white dais in the centre. As he set down the basket directly opposite it on the table he grimaced from the pain he still felt in his shoulder. Figs. Splendid, perfectly ripe figs. Nicolas Boccasini had been very partial to them before he became Benoît.
The afternoon meeting began late as a result of Benedetti needing to be roused. His face had a sickly pallor and his head was swimming. As for his garbled speech, it shocked the others coming from the lips of a man renowned for his oratory skills. Nevertheless, the Pope listened attentively to his Cardinal’s counsel. Honorius was undoubtedly the only friend who had remained true since his election. He was all the more grateful because the prelate had made no secret of his admiration for Boniface VIII. Benoît was ready to admit that he possessed neither the authority nor the Olympian nature of his predecessor, nor did this man whose eyes filled with tears at the evocation of Christ’s torment or Mary’s flight share the same imperial vision for the Church. And so the Cardinal’s unfailing support, at first invaluable to him, he now cherished.
