Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (32 page)

The party barreled through the kitchens, Stephen pausing to kick a heavy sack of grain in front of the door. The monk led them into a storeroom. There was a trapdoor in the floor, which Gray wrenched back. As Wallace moved in with the torch, Will caught sight of a dark hole, stacked barrels, an earth fl oor, then men were jumping down and arms were lifting him, tugging him. He gasped as the pain overwhelmed him, felt himself falling into blackness.

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“Can we speak?”

Wallace glanced around, then continued poking the fire with the stick he held. A charred log disintegrated into ashes as he jabbed it. “I didn’t think you’d be walking for a while.”

“It looks worse than it is.” Will sat on one of the logs around the fire with a grimace and Wallace raised an eyebrow. The murmurs of men drifted between the trees, but it was early and most were asleep, huddled on the ground beside fires. “Did everyone make it out?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Just fragments. I hear the Dominicans helped us.”

Wallace nodded. “Soon after it was known captives had been taken to the monastery the monks came to tell us about the tunnel. The rock beneath Stirling Castle is riddled with them, most of them natural, but some must have been cut out as escape routes from the foundations. One leads to their college.”

“It was brave of them, risking themselves.”

Wallace shrugged. “They owed us. The monastery was the only building we didn’t burn down when we razed the town. Fortunately for you. If it hadn’t the fall of the templars

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been there, you’d have been out in a field surrounded by the English Army and we’d never have got to you.”

“I’m sorry about Adam.”

Wallace shook his head, but remained quiet.

“I wanted to thank you, all of you. Not just for me, for David.”

“I thought my cousin might be there.” Wallace’s jaw pulsed. He tossed the stick into the fire, where it began to smolder. “But I owed you my life, Campbell, so I need no thanks.”

“Simon tells me you’ve razed Perth.”

“The English will most likely head there from Stirling. The only thing we can do now is waste the land before them. Our scouts have been keeping track of their movements, which is how we knew they’d taken prisoners at Falkirk.

We know the English have run out of the rations they received by sea. If we can cut off their access to food and shelter, sooner or later they will have to turn back.” Wallace stared into the fire. “Edward’s victory will only sustain his troops so long.”

“He thinks he has won.”

Wallace looked up. “He hasn’t. He may have destroyed my infantry, but I’ve still got most of my cavalry.”

“And the earls?”

“They didn’t return to the English side, whatever cowardice they showed at Falkirk. What is more, at Perth I heard a rumor that Earl Robert Bruce is attacking Carlisle.” Wallace rested his broad arms on his knees. His hands were black with bruises from the shield ring. He hefted his shoulders. “Maybe others are fighting their own battles, all over Scotland?”

Will was silent. He had been thinking these things over since he had come around the day before, but he still wasn’t sure how to broach the subject with Wallace. “You know you cannot win like this,” he said, deciding candidness was best.

“We won at Stirling.”

“They’ll not make that mistake again. They’ll make us fight these pitched battles and we will lose. This isn’t the way to defeat Edward. On a battlefi eld, he will always be superior.”

“What are you saying? That I should give up?”

“I’m saying you need to attack him in a different way. The alliance with France,” Will continued, before Wallace could speak, “the treaty made by the council when King John was in power, does it still stand?”

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Wallace nodded. “When I was made guardian of the realm I wrote to King Philippe, telling him I wished to continue the friendship and trade our kingdoms have enjoyed.”

“Then use it now. Go to Philippe and the pope. Enlist the aid of men Edward is threatened by, men who can put pressure on him to stop this war. This is where he is weak.” Will ran a hand through his hair. “It was all so clear to me when I was in that cell with him. I’ve known Edward for many years and I know what he’s capable of. But I’ve never seen him afraid, until he thought the Temple was working against him.”

Wallace’s eyebrows lifted. “Is it?”

“I do not think so, not if Brian le Jay and the others were at Falkirk, but it did seem Edward wasn’t on good terms with the English master. My guess is he wouldn’t believe I’d have left the Temple. He thought I was there as a knight and it worried him.” Will looked down at his hands. “But whatever his relations with the order, it was clear he fears threats to his power. We know his barons have been angered by his war in Gascony, and being bested by Philippe in Flanders must have meant he had to work hard to regain their support. The victory here will raise his esteem for a time, but if Philippe and the pope put pressure on him, the barons would soon react. The threat of excommunication is a powerful one.” Will spread his hands. “To be outcast, alone and vulnerable to attack, all treaties suspended, all trade agreements rescinded: it could cripple a nation.”

Wallace was quiet, his blue eyes fi xed on Will.

There was a cough behind them as Gray headed over. He spat in the fi re, then nodded to Will. “You’re alive then.” He picked up a waterskin and sat.

“Stephen’s brother died in the night,” he added, looking at Wallace. “How many more sons of Scotland do you think God will take from us?”

Wallace didn’t answer. The three of them lapsed into silence, broken now and then by Gray’s coughing.

Seeing Wallace wasn’t going to talk while Gray was there, Will rose unsteadily. “I’m sorry about that,” he said, tapping his forehead, where Gray still had a purple bruise from the crucifi x.

“Just prove you’re worth saving . . . brother.”

Wondering if that was some allusion to Christian, Will headed off.

“I’ll think about what you said,” came Wallace’s voice behind him.

Will made his way slowly through the trees, pausing to catch his breath.

His body had never felt so feeble. A couple of men he passed greeted him, but most were silent, subdued by the defeat and the scale of the slaughter at Falkirk. Everyone had lost someone they knew, comrade or kin.

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As he headed for a clearing on the edge of the camp, Will saw Simon coming toward him, carrying a sack.

“I woke up and saw you gone,” said the groom, looking relieved. “For a moment, I thought . . .” He shrugged. “Well, never mind.”

“What’s that?”

Simon held out the sack. “I was going to give it to you when you’d recovered, but as you’re up . . .”

Will frowned as he took it. Opening it, he saw a belt curled up inside, a leather scabbard attached. His heart skipped. Taking hold of the hilt of the falchion, he pulled it free, letting the sack fall. “How did you find it?” he murmured, studying the broken blade.

“One of the cells we looked in at the monastery was empty, but for a pile of clothes and weapons. I recognized the scabbard. I don’t know if it can be mended.”

“Neither do I.” Will met Simon’s gaze. “Thank you.” He shook his head.

“I’ve been a fool, Simon, a true fool. But I intend to make it right. I’m going back to Paris. I’ve spoken to Wallace of an idea I’ve had. He might come with me, but either way I’m going, as soon as possible. I think there are things I can do there, and things I must do.”

“Rose?”

“Leaving her was one of my greatest mistakes, that and my treatment of you.”

Simon stuffed his thumbs in his belt and looked away, his eyes bright. “You want me to come?”

“Yes.”

“And David? Ysenda?”

“They will stay. It is possible my sister Ede is still in the north. If she can be found, they will have somewhere to go.”

“You know David won’t be happy.”

“I’ll talk to him today, but there is something I must do fi rst.” Will handed him the sword. “Keep it for me, for now.”

Leaving Simon with the broken blade, Will continued to the clearing, where he had heard a host of men whispering the Paternoster the evening before. It was almost time for morning Mass. Sure enough, John Blair was there, washing his hands in the stream that trickled through the woods on the edge of the glade.

The priest turned as he approached. He eyed Will with some surprise, but gave a nod. “Good day to you,” he said, walking to where a leather-bound Bible was laid out beside a smoking censer.

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“Will you hear my confession, Father?”

John studied him. “Of course.”

There in the wooded glade, Will knelt on the grass before the chaplain.

John was silent, listening, as he began to speak, haltingly at first, then faster, louder. His words at times broke in his throat as he told the priest of his love for Elwen and the violation of his vows as a knight, their secret marriage and the birth of their daughter. He spoke of her betrayal with Garin, his failed attempt to save her from the burning house, the fall of Acre. Then, at the last, the words coming up and out of him like bile, he spoke of his murder of Garin, his former comrade, and the killing of the Templar at Falkirk. His sins, old and new, stagnant and raw, seemed to dissipate like smoke in the golden light that bathed them, as John put his hands on Will’s bowed head and absolved him.

17

The Docks, Paris

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It was a bright, windy afternoon. The birds circling the towers of Notre Dame struggled against the gusts that buffeted them and sent ripples across the Seine. The trees swaying on the banks were tinged with the fi rst blush of autumn. In just a few months it would be the end of the year and the beginning of a new century.

Will turned to Simon. “This is where we part.” He smiled. “For now.”

Simon stared over his shoulder in the direction of the Temple. “It’s going to be strange returning, after everything.”

“Just find Robert. He knows what you went to Scotland for, so you can tell him what you wish. If anyone else asks, say you transferred to Balantrodoch, but got caught up in the war.”

Simon blew out his cheeks. “I suppose that’s almost the truth.”

“It doesn’t matter. No one will check. Even if they did, the Temple in Britain would have been thrown into confusion with the death of Brian le Jay.

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Records could have been misplaced, mistakes made.” Will grasped Simon’s shoulder. “Don’t worry.”

“And you? Will you see Robert?”

Will looked around as Wallace hailed him. The rest of the party had gathered their packs from the boat and were waiting on the dockside. “In time.”

Leaving the groom to walk alone up the muddy banks, Will headed to Wallace, hefting his pack on his shoulder.

After being questioned by the guards at the Grand Châtelet, the six men crossed the Grand Pont onto the Ile de la Cité. A few people stared as they passed. Wallace’s height always drew attention, and although his woolen tunic and cloak were well made and his boots polished, he couldn’t quite shake off the look of an outlaw. His long hair was tied back, revealing his scarred face.

As he strode along the bridge, past flower sellers and chattering shopkeepers, Will thought how notable Gray’s absence was from his side. The general had stayed behind to command the army, and without him, Wallace seemed at once alone. But rather than diminishing him, this solitariness gave him an aura of power that increased as he marched toward the royal palace.

Will led them to the entrance, between the towering walls of the Tour d’Argent and the Tour de César. The men standing sentry eyed the rough company suspiciously, but accepted the parchment Wallace handed over, marked with the seal of the king of France. As they scanned it, Will stared up at the slit windows of the towers and rubbed at his chin. He had scraped himself raw shaving that morning on the boat. He doubted anyone from the Temple would be in the royal palace, but he felt exposed nonetheless and pulled his hood lower as the royal guards ushered them into the Salles des Gardes; he wasn’t so certain he would receive the forgiveness Simon still believed he would for his desertion. But despite his trepidation it was a relief to be fi nally walking in through these doors.

Having made the decision to return to Paris the previous year, Will had been impatient to be under way with the journey, but Wallace had been more circumspect, wanting things to be done properly. His first act was to resign his position as guardian of the realm. That heavy cloak and the intricate robes of politics that came with it had never fitted him anyway. He was always more comfortable in the wild, living by his own rules. Some time later, they learned Robert Bruce and a man named John Comyn had taken over as joint guardians. Wallace had been satisfied with the choice.

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through Scotland, securing castles, invading towns. There were several minor skirmishes, but nothing decisive, and by the end of the summer, his men growing mutinous, he was forced to retreat across the border. He had won a bloody victory at Falkirk, but it cost him dear. The Scots were grimly satisfied by reports from their scouts informing them that the English were forced to feed on their dying horses to survive the journey home. The war had paused. But it wasn’t over.

As autumn drew in, Wallace wrote to Pope Boniface and King Philippe, requesting an audience. By the following spring, he received replies from both, inviting him to meet them to discuss the future of the nation, for John Balliol remained in Edward’s custody and Scotland was still without a king. Wallace made his final preparations during the summer, amid disturbing rumors of a truce being formed between Edward and Philippe.

These were strange days for Will, assailed by mixed feelings of anticipation and sadness, though the wrench he expected to feel leaving his family was lessened by the timely arrival of a message from his elder sister. A letter Ysenda had sent to Elgin with one of Wallace’s scouts had found its way into the hands of an old neighbor of Ede’s, who knew she had taken up residence in a new dwelling close by. The scout returned with Ede’s elated reply and Ysenda at once made to journey north with her children. David agreed to go with her, but on the day they left he pledged solemnly to Wallace that he would fi ght by his side once more when he returned. David then clasped Will’s hand for a time, neither of them speaking. Alice and Margaret embraced him in turn, but Ysenda held him the longest. After this, there was one more farewell for Will.