Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (2 page)

The figure paused. “Will you obey me now and always?”

“I will,” breathed the young man.

“Then prove it,” snapped the figure, whipping back the cowl and dropping to a crouch before the young man, who recoiled from the grinning skull that was revealed, the candles on the floor up-lighting it, making the bone that much yellower and the huge, hollow eye sockets that much blacker.

Even though he knew it was just a mask, even though he caught a glimpse of dark human eyes through the sockets of the skull, his terror didn’t dissipate, and when a small gold cross was drawn from the folds of the fi sh-scale cloak and held in front of him, his heart seemed fit to explode in his chest.

“Spit on it.”

“What?”

“Denounce its power over you. Prove you are loyal to me alone, that you speak as one with your brothers.”

The young man’s eyes darted left and right as the men moved out of the shadows. They too wore masks: blood-red with the image of a white stag’s head painted on the front of each.

“Spit!” came the command again.

Feeling the men crowding in around him, blocking out the frail candlelight, the young man leaned forward over the proffered cross. He collected saliva in his dry mouth with difficulty. Closing his eyes, he spat.

PART One

;

1

Bordeaux, the Kingdom of France

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Mathieu’s palms were slick with sweat. He gripped his broadsword tighter and, seeking reassurance, glanced right to where his commander was hunched in a fighting stance. But the man’s gaze was fixed on the double doors at the end of the hall. As Mathieu watched, an oily line of perspiration trickled down the side of his face. The thunderous crash came again, making the doors shudder violently and causing the nine guards lined up in the hall to flinch. In the near hush that followed, their breaths surged, sharp and shallow. Moments later, another brutal impact rocked the wood. This time, there was no brief reprieve. The doors splintered and burst apart, shards of oak exploding into the hall, thumping against tapestries and skittering across the flagstones. There was a wrenching, tearing sound as the iron-headed ram was pulled back out of the wreckage and soldiers poured in through the breach.

Mathieu felt a vertiginous rush of fear. For a second, he was paralyzed by it.

Incoherent prayers and protestations babbled through his mind. He was only nineteen. This wasn’t what he had imagined when his father secured him this post.
Dear God, let me be spared.
Then, hearing his commander yell the order for attack and seeing his comrades racing forth to meet the incoming soldiers, he forced himself forward. A soldier came up on him, all too fast. Mathieu had time to see a kite-shaped shield with an iron boss, rising in a fl ash of blue and scarlet, matching the surcoat the man wore, then he was cutting up with his broadsword to block the blow that was aimed at his head. All around him, the other guards clashed with their attackers, a chaos of blades and bodies. In the confined space, the clang of steel echoed harshly, along with the ear-split-ting cracks of swords striking shields and the ring and stamp of mailed boots.

Unlike the soldiers, who were clad in long mail shirts and iron pot helms, the guards wore only studded leather gambesons and padded cuisses to protect their torsos and thighs.

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Mathieu gritted his teeth as the soldier swung in again, the ferocious concussion of the blow almost beating the sword from his hand. He wanted to turn and run, but the soldier was forcing him back, cutting and jabbing, and now he was almost at the wall and there was nowhere to go. He let out a cry of frustration as he tried to push the soldier away and the man refused to give ground. Sweat was stinging his eyes, blinding him. There was no room to move. He dodged a rapid lunge aimed at his side, swiped away another that came in at his chest, then struck out clumsily. The soldier ducked left, avoiding the strike. Scarlet and blue filled Mathieu’s vision as the soldier’s shield, with its iron boss, punched up into his face. He felt pain shoot through him.

Blood burst from his nose and mouth, and he staggered into the wall, his sword going wide. A moment later there was an awful piercing sensation high up in his side, followed by a sickening agony. The soldier’s blade had plunged into the soft flesh below his armpit, where there was none of the leather armor to protect him. Mathieu screamed as the man slammed his gloved palm against the pommel, driving the blade home with a grunt of effort.

He felt his broadsword slip from his fingers. Across the hall, he saw more soldiers forcing their way through the mangled doors to aid the others. But there was little need; his comrades were outnumbered and outmatched. It had all happened so quickly. From the main house they had seen the guards at the gatehouse cut down and the soldiers had come, riding furiously through the grounds, barely giving them time to bolt the doors. The blade in his side was withdrawn with a rush of blood. As he was sinking to the floor, Mathieu saw one of his comrades go down, doubling over the sword that punctured his stomach. The others were scrabbling back in a ragged line toward the stairs that swept up to a gallery. Dimly, he heard shouting somewhere above him, but before he could fathom its source, he collapsed, leaving a red smear on the wall behind him.

The shouting grew louder, sounding over the din in the hall, as a man descended. One by one, the soldiers halted, allowing the fleeing guards to retreat.

The man kept on yelling as he sprinted down the last few stairs, his French barely coherent. Brandishing a sword, he moved past his guards up to the soldiers, all of whom had now stopped, their breaths coming fast through their helmets. They held their ground and the man paused several feet from them, taking in their surcoats. The fact that he recognized the uniforms was no comfort. “What is the meaning of this?” His voice shook with fear as well as anger, but he held the sword steady. “How dare you assault my property. My men!”

the fall of the templars

5

He threw a hand toward the bodies of his fallen guards, his eyes lingering briefly on the crumpled form of Mathieu, the youngest. “Who is your commander? I demand to speak to him.” There was silence. “
Answer me!
”

“You can speak to me, Lord Pierre de Bourg.” A man entered, looking around as he stepped over the debris of the front doors. He appeared to be in his early thirties and had a long face, brown eyes and a sallow, faded complexion, as if he had once been much darker, but hadn’t seen sun in a long time.

His hair was covered by a white silk coif and he wore a full-length riding cloak that hung neatly from his thin shoulders, making him appear both broader and taller than he actually was. The cloak was plain, but exquisitely tailored, with a small metal boss sewn on either side of the chest through which was looped a silver chain that fastened the garment in place.

“Who are you?” questioned Pierre.

The man removed a pair of silk gloves to reveal blue-veined, spindly hands, his gaze on the lord. “My name is Guillaume de Nogaret.”

He spoke the
langue d’oïl
, but Pierre detected a softer southern accent fi ltering through the blunt northern tongue. The soldiers moved aside as Guillaume de Nogaret came forward, but they kept their blades trained on Pierre, whose guards had gathered protectively in behind him.

Nogaret gestured to him. “Lower your weapon.”

Pierre fought to regain his authority, lost in the face of Nogaret’s unnerving calm. “I will do no such thing. You have broken into my home, killed my people. On whose orders?”

“I am a minister to King Philippe. It is on his orders that I am here.”

Pierre’s gaze flicked to the soldiers in their scarlet and blue surcoats: the colors of the royal guard stationed in Bordeaux under the command of the king’s brother, Charles de Valois.

“We have been informed,” continued Nogaret, “that you have been spying on our forces and reporting to the English in Bayonne.”

“Ridiculous! Where have you heard this from? Who is accusing me?”

“You will lower your weapon,” repeated Nogaret, “or my men will force you to do so.”

There was a long pause before Pierre obeyed.

“Tell your guards to place their weapons on the floor and move back to the wall.”

Pierre turned to his men with a tight nod. As soon as they laid down their swords the room was filled with activity, the royal soldiers moving in to gather 6 robyn

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the blades and hustle the subdued, embittered guards up against the wall. The bodies of Mathieu and the other dead man were dragged to the side of the hall and dumped.

“How many more people are in this house?” asked Nogaret brusquely.

“Just my family and our servants, but whatever you want with me does not concern them.”

“Search the rooms upstairs,” said Nogaret, motioning to fi ve soldiers.

“Bring down anyone you fi nd. If any resist, use whatever force you deem necessary.”

Pierre looked anguished as they went stamping off up the stairs. “I beg you, don’t hurt them.” He turned to Nogaret. “Please, my wife and children are up there!”

“Bring him,” said Nogaret, to two of the soldiers. He pointed down a gloomy passage that led off from the entrance hall. “Does that lead to the kitchens? Does it?” he repeated harshly, when Pierre didn’t answer.

Pierre nodded mutely. As he was marched down the passage, Nogaret followed, leaving the remaining soldiers to watch the guards.

The kitchens were expansive, the main chamber divided by a trestle table, upon which sat two pots filled with diced vegetables and a stack of knobbly carrots beside a knife. In a hearth, steam curled from a cauldron and a brace of pheasants dangled from a hook, their bronze and turquoise feathers catching the light from a row of high windows. The place was warm and smelled of herbs.

Nogaret’s gaze alighted on the carrots. One was half-chopped near the knife, the severed pieces strewn around it. “Where are the cooks?”

“Upstairs. When the alarm was sounded I sent everyone up there until I could find out what was happening.” Pierre fixed Nogaret with a bitter look.

“But you gave me no time to do that, breaking down my door and attacking my men.”

“Traitors aren’t generally given warning and it was your men who refused entry and forced me to break into your home. Your men who rushed at mine before they had a chance to explain themselves.”

“I am no traitor,” responded Pierre fi ercely.

“That we shall discover.” Nogaret went to the table and picked up the knife. “Hold him.”

“Wait . . . please!” cried Pierre, as the soldiers gripped him.

Nogaret inspected the knife. The thin blade was stained with juice from the fall of the templars

7

the vegetables. “We know you have been in contact with English troops in Bayonne, sending them information on our forces in Bordeaux. Our numbers.

Defenses.”

“I do not know where you have found this information, but I assure you it is false. I have never even met any English soldiers.”

“Come, now,” said Nogaret wryly. “That cannot be true. When King Edward was residing in the city you must have met many.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“You paid homage to Edward for your lands when he was in possession of the duchy. You even supplied laborers to help him build his bastide towns.”

Nogaret’s tone was contemptuous. “Scattering the area with his little settle-ments, like a hound marking its territory.”

“Well, as you say, if Edward is my liege lord and I hold my lands in his name, how could I, or any noble in the duchy of Guienne, not have had contact with the English at some point in the past?”

“Edward
was
your liege lord,” responded Nogaret sharply. “He hasn’t been for over a year, not since King Philippe took control of the duchy, and yet it would seem your allegiances, be they merely dutiful or else willing, are as of old.”

“That is not so. I am loyal to my king.” Pierre raised his head higher. “Despite what he has done here.”

“What he has done here?” echoed Nogaret.

“I am not blind. I know this is happening all over the region. Royal troops still pour in from the north, taking over cities and castles, only now they are also driving out noblemen, seizing their property, their wealth. I have watched these past months and I have borne this with my teeth gritted, but borne it I have. I have had no contact with Edward’s forces, nor do I intend to.”

“You have borne it?” Nogaret’s voice was low. “You speak as of a child who has done something tiresome that displeases you, rather than of your king.

The sovereign ruler of this kingdom rightfully confiscates the territory of a foreigner, whose own deeds saw them forfeited to the French crown, and you have borne it?” Nogaret’s brown eyes were hard. “Bring him.”

Pierre struggled, but together the soldiers hauled him to the trestle in the center of the kitchen.

“Put his hand on the table, hold it flat.” Pierre fought wildly as one of the soldiers took hold of his wrist. The other grabbed him around the neck in an armlock and squeezed, breaking his ability to resist. The one holding his wrist 8 robyn

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pushed his hand, palm down, onto the table. Nogaret handed the knife to the soldier who had hold of Pierre’s wrist. “I tell you, Pierre de Bourg, you have borne nothing yet.”

In the passage outside came sounds of a commotion. Nogaret looked around, hearing an indignant and unfamiliar voice. The door opened and a man entered, his flushed face filled with concern. He was around Nogaret’s age, short and slight, with a hook nose and a downturned mouth that drooped over a feeble chin. A royal guard was lingering uncertainly behind him. Nogaret, ignoring the soldier’s apology, studied the intruder. He was wearing a voluminous hooded cape lined with brown fur, and underneath a white linen tunic that reached to the floor. A pair of sandals peeked out from under the garment’s folds. He was a clergyman.

The intruder forced his gaze from the knife that was held over Pierre. “I implore you, unhand this man!”

“What do you want here?” demanded Nogaret. “Who are you?”