Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (31 page)

He was taken into a chamber on the second floor, which he guessed was one of the monks’ cells. There was a barred window that looked out over cloisters.

The soldiers removed the only furniture: a wooden pallet, a chest and a stool.

Then, beating him again, they left him curled in a pool of blood, his eyes on a crucifix pinned to a wall.

He thought that had been two days ago, but couldn’t be certain. Pain distorted time, made it hard to keep track of anything external. The world had become a place inside him. In strange seas, where he drifted in delirium, were islands of hurt. He was aware of all of them, but they seemed far apart, the throbbing in his head a long way from the delicate agony in his fractured fi ngers and the twinges in his broken ribs. The meal, however meager, brought an uncomfortable lucidity in which both his injuries and his thoughts became clearer. At the forefront of his mind was David. The night before, clinging to the window bars, he had called softly into the darkness, hoping his nephew might be in one of the adjacent cells. But no voice came back to reassure him.

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Will had been living so closely with Wallace and the men for so long that the silence was unbearable. Left alone with his thoughts, bereft of distractions, they clamored in him, tormenting him.

If it wasn’t for him, his nephew wouldn’t be here. He was the one who had taken his family into Selkirk, seeking the rebels. He was the one who deserted the Temple without a word to Simon, his loyal comrade for so many years, who came looking for him out of concern and friendship, and whom he had treated like dirt. Was Simon lying on the battlefield at Falkirk, his body invaded by worms? And what of the Templar he had killed, whose face would remain forever hidden beneath that helmet? Was he there too, or had he been buried by his brothers? It might have been Thomas, one of the last members of the Anima Templi. He might have killed one of the Brethren. The faces of his father and Everard swarmed before him, eyes filled with accusation. He had betrayed them. He had broken his oaths and abandoned his duties, his brothers. His daughter.

The door crashed open. Will barely had time to look up, before men were grasping his arms and yanking him to his feet.

King Edward entered. His mail coat and coif had been replaced by a crimson robe and a gold circlet. The soldiers marched Will into the center of the chamber. One kicked him viciously in the back of the leg, forcing him to his knees. They stepped away at a gesture from the king.

“Leave me.”

“My lord, the prisoner—” began one.

“Cannot even stand. Leave me.”

Bowing, the soldiers left the room. Edward looked down at Will, then crossed to the window, leaving him kneeling on the fl oor.

Even through the pain, Will felt his muscles tighten. After all these years, haunted,
obsessed
by this prospect, he was now alone with his enemy. His eyes flicked to the bucket, where the jagged halves of the bowl were half hidden beneath a layer of piss.

“Have you looked out of your cell today?” When Will didn’t answer, Edward turned. “You should. There is a rather elaborate construction out there.”

Will remembered hearing hammering that morning. Trying to save his strength, he hadn’t got up.

“Do you know what it is?”

A sick feeling slid through him, but Will managed to keep any emotion from his face. “My guess is a gallows.” His voice, unused for days, was a throaty whisper.

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Edward returned to stand before him. “Have you ever seen a man hang, Campbell? It is not a pleasant sight. The face turns red, then purple. It bulges, horribly. The tongue distends and swells. The eyes protrude until you imagine they will pop from the sockets. The neck stretches, about so far.” Edward spread his hands to show the distance. “It can last almost half an hour. In this time, the bladder will void, then the bowels. The fi nal indignity, for men, will be a hardening of the penis and the inevitable release. And all the while the crowd watch on.” He studied Will’s face. “I can save you from such a fate.”

Will glanced up at him, then grunted. “You aren’t going to let me leave here alive.”

“No. But I can offer you a noble death: a swift execution at the point of a sword, rather than the slow torture of the gallows. I
will
offer this, if you tell me why you are here, in Scotland.”

Will looked at the floor to cover his surprise. He had imagined of all the people who might know of his desertion, Edward would be one. The only reason he wouldn’t was if he’d had no contact with Hugues since the meeting in London. This was entirely possible; Edward had been preoccupied in Flanders as well as in Scotland in that time. The question was, could he somehow use this to his advantage? He tried to think through the fog in his brain, but Edward was speaking again.

“Why are you here? Answer me! Did the Temple send you to make contact with Wallace? Is the order working against me?”

Will’s mind cleared. Edward had no idea he had left the Temple, but what was more, he doubted the order’s loyalty. He wondered what had happened to give rise to this. Had Hugues come to his senses and ended their alliance? Or was it something else? He thought of the king’s callous response to the reported death of Brian le Jay. Perhaps not all the masters were comfortable with the order’s support of Edward and his war. “I will tell you everything you want to know,” he said slowly, “if you let the man who was with me go free.”

“Who is he? Another knight?” Edward was contemptuous. “Set him free to report back to his masters? I am not a fool. You will both die here. The only choice you have is how.”

“Then you will never know the reason I came.” Will lifted his head, fortified by the knowledge that David was at least still alive. “I know about Honfleur, Edward.” The king’s eyes narrowed, whether at the revelation, or the insultingly familiar use of his name, Will wasn’t sure. Either way, Edward’s visible anger satisfied him. “I know you tried to steal the crown jewels, pawned to us by your father. I know you forced Garin to get the Book of the Grail. I the fall of the templars

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know you used Everard, just like you used Hugues. I know all about your treachery.”

Edward rounded on him. “None of that matters. Thanks to your visitor, Jacques de Molay gave me what I wanted, when I wanted it.” His voice was saturated with venom. “My men estimate ten thousand died on the hills of Falkirk. Whatever you told Hugues de Pairaud, whatever he knows, does not matter. I do not need the Temple. I can destroy the Scots on my own. I have proven that. The barons will support me fully now.”

“And when your war here is done, do you believe the order will be content to let you play them for fools? Do you think there will be no repercussions for your actions? Your betrayal of the Anima Templi?”

Edward gave a bark of laughter. “Repercussions? The Temple is fi nished.

That fool de Pairaud practically got down on his knees and begged me to help him rebuild it! The time of knights has passed. Now is the time of kings.” His eyes blazed. “Of empires.”

“Even the greatest king can become the victim of a determined man. You are still flesh and blood.”

Edward went still. “Is that it?” he murmured. “Is that why you are here?”

Summoning the last of his strength, Will lunged for the bucket.

Even as Will was thrusting his hand inside, Edward was shouting for his guards. As Will threw himself at the king, the door burst open and two soldiers entered. His hand arced through the air, the broken bowl in his fi st. The king staggered back, the jagged edge missing his neck by inches, just as the guards barreled into Will, slamming him back into the wall.

He cried out as his broken ribs ground against one another, the piece of bowl slipping from his fingers. Soon, that pain disappeared as a dozen other agonies burst into life all over his body, the soldiers bombarding him with punches.

“
Enough!
”

Through streaming eyes, Will saw Edward coming toward him.

“I want him alive,” the king said breathlessly. “When his death comes, I want him to live through every suffering imaginable. Not just the gallows,” he said, his gray eyes wide. “That is too swift.” He came closer. “Before you die on the scaffold, I will have you cut down. Your wrists will be bound and tied to horses that will draw you apart until your arms are dislocated. But still, you will not die.” He was almost face-to-face with Will, whose head was being held up by one of the soldiers, who had hold of his hair. “You will be laid out on a table, for all my men to see. A spectacle. There you will be opened, from 178 robyn

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neck to groin and every part of you removed and burned before your eyes.

Then, and only then, will the axe end your torments in this life. In the next, they will just be beginning.”

Will saw a line of muddy-colored droplets staining Edward’s cheek. He realized, dimly, that when he attacked with the bowl he had splattered the king’s face with piss. His lips curled back, revealing bloody gums and a grin.

When he regained consciousness, some time later, it was dark, the square of sky in the window dusted with stars. Will lay there, letting some of the feeling return to his limbs. They had taken the bucket and the fragments of the bowl; the only things left, four bare walls and the crucifix. The bravado he had shown Edward was long gone. Now he just felt a profound sense of despair.

He had damned himself and David to the worst death imaginable. He would die, most likely tomorrow, with a hundred stains on his soul and no chance of repentance and forgiveness. The oaths he had made before God were broken and Edward’s last words rang in his mind like a judgment. His only hope, however faint, was that the king would be so intent on making him suffer that less attention would be paid to David’s trial.

Will crawled to the wall. Digging his bloodied fingertips into the stone he pulled himself up and grasped the crucifi x. He tugged it from its nail and slid to the floor, clutching it. “O Lord, have mercy upon me for I . . .” But although his mouth still moved, no more words came. He wasn’t ready to say them. There were so many other words needed first; so many atonements.

He stared at the door. They would feed him again before the end. Edward would want him awake and aware for the torture. His mind mocked him, asking how he planned to subdue armed guards when he could barely walk, but he pushed the question away. Making the decision that he wouldn’t give Edward the satisfaction of his slow death, he inched across the chamber and sagged beside the door. He would fight his way free, or die trying. But his eyes kept closing, his head lolling onto his chest then jerking upright as he fought the exhaustion, and despite all his efforts he was soon asleep.

Will woke with a start. His eyes, hooded with sleep, rolled to the closed door, then opened fully as he heard several muffled thumps. There was a louder thud, this time right against the wood. Will dragged himself up the wall, holding the crucifix like a dagger. The door opened and a head appeared.

He slammed the wooden cross down as hard as he could and the fi gure dropped with a shout, lifting an arm to fend off further blows as Will scrab-the fall of the templars

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bled over him, lunging for the corridor. Before he got past the door a large hand wrapped around his throat, cutting off his air and his voice. As he was forced back into the room, he saw part of a jaw, the face shadowed by a cowl, then he was striking out again with the crucifi x. The figure grabbed his wrist and squeezed. Will’s fingers went numb and he dropped the cross. At the same time, he realized the man was hissing his name. The cowl inched back and in the gloom he made out the face of William Wallace. The man by the door, rising to his feet, clutching his head, was Gray. There were dark outlines of more men out in the corridor, a brief flash of steel.

“How—” Will began.

Wallace shook his head. “Later. Is Adam here?”

“Adam?”

“They know he’s my cousin,” said Wallace impatiently. “They would have brought him with the other prisoners. Gray said he saw him with you on the fi eld.”

Will faltered. “Adam’s dead,” he said, after a pause.

Wallace stared at him.

Gray’s voice sounded from the doorway. “Let’s go!”

Slinging an arm around Will’s waist to hold him up, Wallace led him out into the corridor.

Will recognized Stephen of Ireland among his rescuers. There were also a couple of prisoners, who had been on the cart with him. They were in better shape and had been given weapons. The bodies of the English soldiers guarding the cells were crumpled shadows on the fl oor.

“Wait,” breathed Will. “They have David. I have to—” He stopped as another two figures appeared from a door on the opposite side of the passage.

One was David, badly bruised, but limping on his own. The other was Simon.

The groom met his gaze as he wrapped his cloak around David’s bare shoulders. Before Will could say anything, he was being bundled down the corridor.

He noticed that a man in monk’s robes was leading the company.

Gray took point as they descended a spiraling staircase, stepping over another dead soldier at the bottom. They pushed through doors leading out into the cloisters and raced across the starlit lawn, past the scaffold erected in the center. The nooses hung dark against the sky. Behind them there was a shout as three royal guards appeared. Two sprinted down the cloistered passage after them. The third dashed back through the doors and continued shouting, raising the alarm. Wallace let go of Will, who stumbled and almost fell, before 180 robyn

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Simon caught hold of him. Drawing the massive claymore from the scabbard on his back, Wallace charged the soldiers. Steel chimed on the quiet and there were more calls as other soldiers came running.

“Quickly!” yelled Gray, leading them through an archway with steps heading down.

Will smelled stale food and guessed they were going down into the monastery’s kitchens. He grasped Simon’s arm, teeth gritted. Wallace sprinted down behind them, his sword dripping blood. He snatched a torch from the wall as a bell began to clang.