29th November 1307, Château de Beynac, Beynac, France
“What do you think?” the captain of the garrison said to De Floyran as he saw him approaching. He pointed to the berm upon which four stakes had been erected and where his men were piling up wood and kindling in preparation for the macabre event that was to take place.
“Well that didn’t take long!” De Floyran said jovially as he stepped up onto the berm. “Let’s see if you’ve made a good job of it.”
He had arrived at the Château de Beynac just three days before, with his men and ten of Philip’s Royal guards. Thirteen Templars were being held in the château and with a letter from the King securing his authority on the matter, De Floyran had immediately, upon arrival, ordered the construction of an execution berm.
He had a list of the names of the Templars that were here and had chosen this place to begin the process of assembling his renegade army because it was far from the capital, only had a few prisoners and the austere château afforded him adequate privacy in order to carry out his grisly deed. It was a good place to trial, and if necessary, he could have every one of the Templars here executed. He was determined though to make a success of his recruitment campaign. Apart from the practical advantages of the château’s location, Beynac itself was a pleasant village. It was situated on the banks of the Dordogne river and De Floyran was keen to be as far away from Paris, Philip and De Nogaret for as long as possible.
He thudded his fist against one of the stakes, testing its strength and then grasped it with both hands and gave it a shake to make sure it was well anchored. He was aware that in the agony of being burned alive, the victim was wont to thrash about in an attempt to escape from the unbearable torture, therefore the security of the stake was paramount. No one had, of course, ever broken free from their shackles or ripped a stake from the ground no matter how desperately they may have tried to. He was, however, not so sure how this would play out with a werewolf tied to the stake. Their strength, being several times that of a human, could not be underestimated here.
In addition, he would have to burn two at a time for they would have to be securely bound together in order to prevent them from changing forms. Contact with living flesh was the only thing that prevented a werewolf from changing states. Though the correct dose of wolfsbane could also prevent a werewolf from shape shifting, his recent experience with the effects of the poison made him immensely mistrustful of such a method and so he decided to stick with what he was certain of.
He inspected each of the stakes and saw that they were good thicknesses as he had requested and they all appeared to have been securely anchored to the ground.
“This should be interesting,” he muttered to himself as he jumped down from the berm.
“Sir?” the captain asked.
“I just said that this will be interesting. Now,” De Floyran began more seriously, “I don't have to remind you of what we spoke of yesterday.”
“Of course not,” the captain said resolutely.
“You are responsible for your men’s tongues also, so make sure they keep them tied. What occurs here is not to be spoken of without these walls, not to a soul. I am trusting you to ensure this. If you fail me, you will find yourself upon a stake of your own and believe me, your burning will be a relief compared to the agony I would have put you though before it, do you understand?”
The captain felt a shiver enter his soul as he stared into De Floyran’s eyes. The knight’s eyes were green, but they almost turned black and soulless as he uttered his chilling threat. The captain knew all too well how to turn a blind eye to goings on, especially when requested to do so by the King of France and he was not about to give his man, De Floyran, reason to doubt his fealty or cause to carry out his gruesome threat.
“I do, sir, be assured of that.” He swallowed hard, nevertheless, trying to get rid of the nervous lump in his throat.
“Good,” De Floyran said merrily, “and be prepared to erect more stakes. I don’t think these will be enough. We’ll see how it goes.” He dismissed the captain as he saw Raymond Caradas walking towards him.
“What do you think?” De Floyran said proudly.
“A good job.” Caradas said evenly but grimaced as he looked at the stakes stretching up to the heavens like pulpits of death. De Floyran noted the look of distain on Caradas’ face and frowned.
“You don’t seem very happy, Raymond. Do you not have the stomach for this?”
In truth he didn’t, the stake sickened him. Caradas was no saint and had dished out his own brand of cruelty over the years. He certainly had no qualms about running anyone through with a sword, breaking their neck or beating them to a bloody pulp, but being burned at the stake was a fate that no one deserved.
He had his gripe with the Temple, but not with those individuals who were about to receive this as their end. He had no quarrel with them and they were of his race. It was something he had never considered before, but looking at the wooden stakes that were now before him made him feel compassion for his brethren. They were unique, gifted and Templars or not they were still his kind. De Floyran’s cruelty knew no bounds and he seemed to be becoming even more brutal in his objectives, enjoying the suffering of others more and more with the passage of events. This latest venture of his was beyond redemption.
Caradas could always tell himself that he had played a part in denouncing his own race to the French King and Pope and that it was their decision to burn the Templars, but this was different somehow. De Floyran had taken things into his own hands. They may have come here to recruit Templars to their side but they had also come here to eliminate the threat that concerned the French King. Now, he was directly involved and he wondered if he had bitten off more than he could swallow.
“If this is the best method to see that the mission is executed successfully, then it must be done.”
“But you sound unsure of the method.” De Floyran said, his eyes narrowing to snake like slits.
“I do not like the stake.” Caradas said truthfully, at least if he made his feelings known it may relieve some of the guilt he would later feel.
De Floyran threw his head back and bellowed out a sinister laugh.
“Oh Raymond,” he said wiping the tears from his eyes when he’d finished, “you do make me laugh! Did you think that we would not have blood on our hands? We are in too deep not to.” He said, inclining his head knowingly.
“But this is not the King’s idea, it is yours.” Caradas said boldly and almost with a note of scathing in his tone.
“Are you judging me, Raymond?” De Floyran asked menacingly.
“No, Esquin,” Caradas answered evenly, “I had just hoped that this would have been over with sooner and we would be enjoying our spoils far from this dirty work.”
De Floyran smiled and patted Caradas on the back. “I did too, but it hasn’t turned out that way. Huguard is dead, Catherine has been stolen from me and we must at least prepare ourselves for a strike by Galeren and his minions. He will not run or hide. We need to protect our interests, Raymond, and our future. We have been friends for a long time, have we not, and weathered some severe storms. Do not go soft on me now.”
“I am not, Esquin.”
“Good, because I want you to help me with task in hand.” He smiled, and motioned with his hand towards the direction of the dungeons. “Shall we then?”
The Wolves of Solomon (Wolves of Solomon Book One) Page 47
