Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (16 page)

and their armor consisted mostly of leather; only their knight-commanders had mail. Flesh, pale and vulnerable, was exposed to the iron of arrow tips and spear heads. The defenders’ backward scrabble became a rout as the knights overwhelmed them.

One soldier sprinted away, blowing hard on a horn. Two young knights followed him, eyes alight with the exhilaration of the chase. The fi rst pounded up behind him, his sword chopping down at the defender’s back. The man veered off at the last moment, darting into a narrow side street. The knight cursed as he barreled past the opening and his comrade took up the pursuit, using the channel of the street like a jousting list, couching his lance in the crook of his arm, bracing himself for impact. He caught the fleeing soldier in the back, between his shoulder blades, the tip of the lance piercing leather, muscle and bone, driving clean through him. The momentum swept the man off his feet for a few seconds, the knight still holding the lance, until the strain was too much and he was forced to let go. The lance crashed to the fl oor, and as the knight rode on, one of the iron-shod hooves of the destrier came down on the man’s head, bursting it like fruit. Another landed on the horn and shattered it. The knight rode on into the streets, drawing his sword and following his comrades, eager for another target with which to prove his prowess.

The horn had signaled a general alarm, but the garrison who rallied and 86 robyn

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rode out under the command of William Douglas were too late to stop what had started. Doughty they might be, but there were only two hundred men under Douglas. Against eight thousand they were a row of pebbles set against the incoming tide. With a lack of coordinated soldiers to fight, the English cavalry blooded themselves elsewhere, chasing the defenders, many of them farmers and fishermen, into the narrow streets, where the butchery began in earnest. In their wake, infantry broke down the doors of houses, pushing and shoving one another to get inside, the lure of plunder, rape and slaughter urging them on. Veteran commanders directed younger knights to herd the fl eeing inhabitants into open squares so the rest of the knights could get at them more easily. Some locals had erected barricades, from behind which they shot arrows and stones at the knights, but for every man they felled, ten of them were killed, struck by hurled spears and axes. The defenders on the mud fl ats of the Tweed attacking the ships, three of which were now afl ame, drew back as more vessels glided in, cautiously now, the captains aware of the treacherous mud, and the crews disembarked to storm the weak defenses along the banks.

No one found on the streets of Berwick was spared the sword, whether young or old, man or woman. A group of boys raced through a riddle of alleys, followed by whooping soldiers. They cried out in terror, skidding to a halt at a dead end behind a church. One crouched against the wall, making himself as small as he could, as the seven knights chasing them brought their snorting warhorses to a halt at the mouth of the alley. One of the knights called out, promising to spare them if they surrendered. The boys crowded in around one another, panting with fear. One bent and picked up a stone, but didn’t throw it. The knight called out again. Warily, the boys stepped toward the knights, all but the youngest, who remained huddled against the wall. He watched as the others reached the end of the alley. He kept on watching as the knights steered their horses in around them, locking them into a killing zone.

Swords rose and fell and blood sprayed across the walls of the buildings as the boys were cut down. The youngest sprang to his feet and, in desperation, tried to climb the church wall. He made it halfway, his fingertips tearing on the rough stone, before the sound of hooves clattered up behind him and he felt something punch solidly into his back. As he fell, his red felt cap slipped from his head.

The killing continued throughout the day and on into the night. Edward himself, along with the Earl of Surrey and five hundred knights, pushed Douglas and his soldiers back hard, until they were forced to retreat inside the castle.

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Douglas was one of the last through the gates, his roars of frustration sounding above the screams that echoed across Berwick. Inside the Church of St.

Mary’s, bodies of the townsfolk who had sought sanctuary and who had been butchered when the knights had broken through, were dragged out into the street to make way for the king, who set up camp inside as evening drew in.

Around the town fires raged, pushing back the darkness. The bloodstained faces of the knights were ghoulish in the crimson light.

By dawn, the Red Hall, owned by the Flemish merchants, was afl ame. Inside, over forty men huddled together, hands clasped over their mouths against the suffocating smoke, eyes weeping. They had held firm against the English, shooting volleys of arrows from the upper windows of their hall into the ranks on the street below. One man, more by luck than judgment, had launched an arrow that shot straight through the slit of one knight’s helm and pierced his eye, killing him instantly. The merchants’ relish over his feat became all the greater when word went up that the knight killed was none other than a cousin of King Edward. But with no chance for surrender and nowhere to run, they were no more than prisoners in the hall. Now, over the fierce crackle of fl ames, the merchants could hear the knights who had barricaded the doors and set the fires laughing and shouting abuse.

As morning dawned, pale and cold, Berwick lay shrouded in smoke. Bodies choked the narrow streets and the stink from opened corpses was revolting, turning even the hardest warriors’ stomachs as their horses slipped and skidded in the gore. So much blood had been spilled that it had run down onto the banks of the Tweed, where, as the dawn tide rose, the river turned red. The butchery had become weary now, almost perfunctory. The knights and their mounts were tired; battle-lust faded, fury spent, honor regained. But still, Edward refused to give the order to halt the assault.

After hearing Mass in St. Mary’s and breaking his fast, the king rode out to survey the carnage. Bishop Bek went with him, as did Brian le Jay, who, several hours earlier, had asked the king to bring an end to the butchery.

“My lord,” the English master had reasoned, “this town is on its knees. Is it not time to fi nish it?”

“We must make an example here,” the king replied. “Let all Scotland know what awaits them if they insist on challenging my authority.”

Le Jay had gone to protest, but Bek warned him away with a quiet reminder of Edward’s violent temper and what had befallen other men who had argued with him when he was in such a black mood.

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The Templar master now rode at Edward’s side in a tense silence, his knights riding behind him, steering their horses around the carcasses that littered the ground.

Ahead, a bloodcurdling scream rent the air. It was impossible to tell whether it was male or female, but whoever had uttered it was obviously in horrendous pain. The company rode on toward the noise, which stopped momentarily, then started again. It was a terrible, almost animal sound, filled with agony. As the knights trotted their horses around the side of a building, they saw its cause. A young woman was dragging herself along the street toward a shoe-maker’s, the doorway of which had been battered down, leaving a gaping hole that led into darkness. Her belly was huge and swung from side to side as she crawled forward on her hands and knees. The back of her white dress was scarlet with blood, although whether this was caused by the wound to her side, visible through the rips in the gown, or the act of childbirth in which she was clearly engaged, wasn’t certain. Behind her a soldier picked himself up off the floor, where he seemed to have fallen, or to have been pushed, and with a shout of anger snatched up his sword, lying several feet away. Before any of the company could call out, he ran forward and began to hack at the woman. Her screams cut off as the sword rose and fell.

Sickened by the display of mindless savagery, le Jay turned to Edward. “End this, my lord. Call off the assault and rein in your men.”

The king, who had sent two of his men to pull the blood-splattered soldier back from his frenzied attack on the woman, arched an eyebrow at the English master. “Are you giving me an order?”

“I am giving you a choice,” replied le Jay harshly. “Call off the assault or I’ll withdraw my support. You will have to continue this war without my men and without the use of Balantrodoch.”

“Your grand master commanded you to aid me.”

“Grand Master de Molay commanded me to help you put down a rebellion, not murder pregnant women in the street.”

There was silence, broken only by the sound of the soldier’s sword clattering to the ground and the noises of his retching as he bent over beside the mutilated woman and her half-born child and began to vomit.

“My lord,” said Bek, his voice quiet with caution. “Perhaps this has gone on long enough. We mustn’t spend ourselves on one town, not when we have other battles ahead.”

Edward glanced at him, something shifting in his gray eyes, some spark of the fall of the templars

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reason entering his flat stare. After a long moment, he nodded. “Send orders to the men that the assault is ended, then deliver word to Douglas that if he surrenders himself to me I will spare the lives of his soldiers. Search the houses.

Any women and children you find alive are free to go, but you will kill any man who will fetch no ransom. These people will breed no more sons to defy me.” Turning his horse, he paused beside Brian le Jay. “You have your way today,” he murmured, “but talk back to me again and I’ll have your head.” His voice rose as he addressed Bek and the others. “When the streets are cleared we will begin work on refortifying the defenses. Berwick will be rebuilt as an English town.”

Later that morning, the scattered forces, exhausted and bloodstained, came to order as the word went out for the assault to be raised. Men dressed their wounds, said prayers over dead comrades. Others returned to their captains with saddlebags stuffed with jewelry and silver. Down on the riverbanks, men worked in lines, tossing corpses into the Tweed. It was backbreaking work, for over eight thousand inhabitants had perished. The bodies tumbled slowly over one another in the current, clogging the estuary like thousands of enormous dead fish. Gulls and crows swooped and dove, picking a feast from the waves.

9

The Temple, Paris

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The troughs need cleaning again, Etienne.” Simon motioned to a

“

spotty-faced sergeant as they filed out of the Great Hall. “And this time,” he added gruffl y, “if I can’t see your face in that water, I’ll see it in the dung heap.”

“Yes, sir,” murmured Etienne, trudging off toward the stables.

Simon chuckled to himself, still tickled by the fact that the younger ones called him that. He was the son of a tanner from Cheapside and a sergeant like them. But as one of the senior grooms, he was beneath only the stable master in rank, a position that granted him almost as much respect as the knights 90 robyn

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themselves. His mirth faded as he caught sight of a tall figure with silvery-blond hair heading into a building on the other side of the quadrangle. “Sir Robert!” he called, hastening after the knight, ignoring the glare of disapproval his shout elicited from a passing priest. As Robert disappeared inside, Simon followed. He caught up with him in the cloisters that connected the knights’

quarters to the grand master’s palace.

This time, Robert turned at his call. The knight greeted him tersely, halting in a patch of sunlight that was streaming through the arches, making stark shadows on the wall behind.

Simon thought he looked old suddenly, old and tired. “I heard you’d all returned this morning, but I’ve been looking for Will and no one knows where he is.” When Robert didn’t answer, Simon added, “I didn’t think you’d be gone so long.”

“The grand master wanted to visit several preceptories in England.”

“Will’s friend from Acre, the rabbi, has been asking after him. He was aggrieved Will hadn’t been to see him.”

“Elias?” Robert nodded wearily. “I’ll visit him when I get the opportunity.

Explain what has happened.”

‘Explain what?” When Robert looked away, the burly groom took a step toward him. “What’s happened? Where’s Will?”

“In Scotland, I believe,” said Robert, lowering his voice as two knights walked by. He exhaled roughly. “He’s gone, Simon. I couldn’t stop him.”

Simon remained silent as Robert told him what had happened in London.

“This has to be a mistake,” he murmured, when the knight fi nished. “Will wouldn’t desert the order.” He frowned at Robert’s uncompromising expression. “He wouldn’t,” he repeated. “And he certainly wouldn’t leave Rose. You must have got it wrong. Maybe he just meant to see that his sister was safe, then planned to come back?”

“I watched him take off his mantle.” Robert’s face was tight. “He’s not coming back.”

“It’s Elwen. That’s why he’s gone. He’s mad with grief. Did he say anything else? Did he give you any message for Rose?” The lines in Simon’s forehead deepened. “Or me?”

“Only that he wanted us to keep a watch on her.”

Simon sat down on the wall that ringed the cloisters. “Has the grand master sent anyone after him?”

“Hugues managed to cover his disappearance saying Will was running a the fall of the templars

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message to Scotland. No one but the two of us, and now you, know he’s deserted, although I doubt we will be able to keep it hidden indefi nitely.”

“I always thought the visitor was a stickler for the rules?”

Robert hesitated. “The visitor thinks Will has gone for the sake of his family; to warn them the English are coming.” His tone was quiet, but fi rm. “I never spoke of Will’s intention to inform the Scots of Edward’s plans and you mustn’t either. For deserting he could be imprisoned, but for that he could be executed. He’s threatening the lives of our own men with this action.” His jaw tightened further. “Not that this seemed to matter to him.”