Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (35 page)

“Rumors?”

Robert shook his head. “I am sure it isn’t anything to be concerned about.

You know how the younger sergeants can be, always trying to frighten one another about their initiations.” He looked around as a priest headed out of the sacristy, followed by two acolytes bearing a breviary. “If you have questions the king needs answers to, you should ask them. It will be Vespers soon.”

Will sat back. “I didn’t come for Philippe, I came for me. It’s Rose, Robert.

I cannot get through to her.”

“Can you blame her?”

“It’s been over two years and still she acts as if I don’t exist. When we pass in the palace halls she pretends not to see me. If I ask her a question she ignores me. I don’t know how many more apologies I can make. She is so distant.” Will’s brow furrowed. “Not just from me, from everyone. I’m worried.”

“I don’t see how I can help.”

“You’ve known her since she was a baby and she has always respected you. I need her to understand why I did what I did.”

“I’m not sure I understand it.”

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“Please,” said Will quietly, as Robert turned away.

The knight looked down at his hands, then let out a rough sigh. “All right.

I’ll speak to her. Get a message to Simon, telling me where and when. But I cannot promise she will listen.”

19

The Sainte-Chapelle, Paris

may 30, 1302 ad

For I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me will live,

“

even though he dies, and whoever lives and believes in me will never die.”

Rose raised her eyes, but kept her head bowed, as the priest read from the gospel. The upper chapel of the Sainte-Chapelle was bathed with many colors, as the diffused morning sunlight streamed through the stained glass. It was like standing in the center of an enormous jewel.

Rose loved the chapel, not for the splendor of its architecture, or the importance of the relics it housed, but for the daily moments it afforded her to look, unobserved, upon the object of her devotion. The dormitory was usually occupied with other handmaidens and offered few occasions for spying, and during meals in the Great Hall there were too many other roving eyes and scrutinizing glances for her to stare unnoticed. But here, with all the heads of the royal court bowed in reverence, she was free to drink in every aspect. It gave her a thrilling sense of power, to be the only one seeing him in such a private moment. She shifted on her feet, her skin tingling in the heat coming through the windows.

Today, the king wore a black velvet cloak, which flowed down his back like ink, to pool on the floor, where he stood before the priest. His hair was the color of burned honey in the sunlight and part of it had fallen over his shoulder, exposing a triangle of flesh at the back of his neck. Rose fixed on that surface, letting her imagination wander across it, envisioning the warmth of it, the pulse of blood beneath, the softness under fingertips, lips. Sometimes, such the fall of the templars

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thoughts would become unbearable. Her heart would quicken, her face would flame and her body would tremble until it felt as if a thousand bees were trapped inside her. She felt the sting in her skin and in places unexplored.

There was movement at Philippe’s side and her gaze fell on Jeanne’s broad back, tightly laced in a sapphire-blue gown. The queen’s thick black hair was wound in plaits that Rose had braided and pinned that morning. Jeanne’s plump shoulder was now touching Philippe’s arm, ruining the reverie. To Jeanne’s side stood their five children: the heir, Louis, at thirteen, then Philippe, Charles, Robert and the youngest, Isabella, a darkly beautiful child of seven and their only surviving daughter. Rose glanced over their profiles without interest, before moving back to the king. As she did so, she locked gazes with Guillaume de Nogaret, standing to her right, just behind Philippe. He was looking straight at her. Rose dipped her head to stare, shaken, at the fl oor, as the priest finished his reading.

Philippe was first to leave, followed by his family, then his closest ministers.

The handmaidens and other attendants fi led out onto the balcony last. When she was an anonymous servant, Rose heard daily services in the lower chapel and ate her meals in the chamber beneath the Great Hall, with its labyrinth of white marble pillars. Both were plainer, the ribbed ceilings low, claustrophobic in comparison to the upper rooms which were light and airy, without limits.

She found these physical reminders of the levels of status sinister, as if they represented more the divides between heaven and hell.

The light hurt her eyes as she stepped through the doors. The queen and a nursemaid were ushering the children into the royal apartments, but the king had halted on the balcony with Nogaret and Flote. There was a man there, clad in scarlet and black: a royal messenger. Rose glanced at Philippe as she passed, hoping he would look back, but his expression was troubled and he was listening too intently to the messenger to pay her any attention.

“Massacred?” Philippe shook his head. “How soon can we send reinforcements to assist the survivors?”

The royal messenger looked uncomfortable. “I’m afraid you misunderstand me, my lord. There was only one survivor. The rest of the garrison were killed.

He fled to Courtrai and alerted our men there. I was dispatched to inform you immediately.”

Philippe went to the stone balustrade and planted his hands on it. “How did this happen?” His eyes moved to Flote and Nogaret, standing in silence.

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“How?” He turned back to the messenger. “They were soldiers for Christ’s sake! They had swords, horses, armor. How did weavers and butchers massacre four thousand French troops?”

“The textile guilds formed their own militias some time ago to protect their interests from the local nobility,” answered the messenger. “They are made up of able-bodied men from the working classes, armed by the guild leaders. It was these men who attacked our soldiers. The assault in Bruges was carefully planned. It came just before Matins, when most of the garrison were in the lodgings we had commandeered. The marauders went from door to door with weapons concealed. When the doors were opened they demanded each man speak a phrase: Friend of the Guilds. It is difficult to pronounce in their language. Those who couldn’t were considered to be French and killed on the spot. Most of our men weren’t even dressed, let alone armed.”

“Four thousand?” breathed Philippe. “
Four thousand
.” He turned to Flote.

“My rule will suffer for this, Chancellor.” He struck the balustrade. “I barely convinced my people that I am powerful enough to challenge the pope. Now they will all see my might can be broken. And by peasants!”

“We must send in more troops, my lord,” said Flote, going to him.

“I’m afraid the trouble in Flanders is only just beginning.”

Flote looked around at the messenger.

“The Matins of Bruges, as the Flemish are calling it, has signaled a revolt across the region. The guild militia is on the march and their numbers are growing. As I left Courtrai, it was rumored they were on their way to the castle, recently captured by our men. It is believed they intend to storm it.”

“Can Guy de Dampierre not be reasoned with?” Nogaret said into the silence. “Can we offer him some olive branch that will induce him to take control of these men?”

“We took the count hostage when we occupied Bruges,” responded Flote in a caustic tone. “I doubt he will be in any mood to listen to our pleas.” The chancellor met Philippe’s gaze. “The decision has been made for us by the actions of the guild workers, my lord.”

Philippe nodded. “Withdraw more troops from Guienne,” he said quietly, his face rigid. “Send them to Flanders with forces from Artois under Count Robert. Flote, I want you—”

“My lord—” began Nogaret.

“Our king was speaking, Minister,” Flote cut in. “Hold your tongue.”

“I want you there, Chancellor,” said Philippe, taking no notice of the ex-the fall of the templars

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change. “I want you to go to Flanders and see that this is done. You will be my eyes. My voice.”

Pierre Flote bowed. “Of course.”

“These peasants may have found it easy to kill unarmed soldiers,” murmured Philippe. “But we shall see how they fare against the flower of French chivalry. Let them taste the lily.”

the ville, paris, june 4, 1302 ad

As Rose tugged off her coif, a few strands of hair dragged free of their pins.

Brushing them back, she fanned herself with the cap. The air was sticky and all the smells of the marketplace seemed trapped in it, the reek of dung and food mixed together making her feel nauseous. A group of men passed and glanced over at her appraisingly. Ignoring them, Rose carried on waving the coif in front of her face, the breath of wind a sweet relief.

“What are you doing? Cover your head!”

Rose turned to see Marguerite, the oldest of the queen’s handmaidens, staring at her. “I needed to cool myself.”

“When on business for the queen you will behave as a lady of standing should.”

Rose pulled the coif over her hair, leaving several wisps clinging to her damp skin.

Marguerite turned to the petite, dark-haired handmaiden at her side, called Blanche. “I always said it would be impossible to make gold from straw.” She flicked her gaze back to Rose.

Blanche put her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle and Marguerite looped an arm through hers. “Come, we still have the gingerbread to buy. Prince Louis will not be happy if we return without it, and if the prince is not happy, neither is madam.” Together, the two of them strolled off through the market, leaving Rose to trail in their wake.

As they passed several flower sellers, who called hopefully to the three young women in their finely tailored gowns, a couple of dirty-faced children came running over, hands outstretched. Marguerite shooed them away and picked up her pace, Blanche close at her side.

“Please,” implored one of the children, planting himself before Rose. “Spare me a coin.”

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Rose stared down at the grubby child. Many of these street children she knew were sent out by their parents to tug the heartstrings of the rich. The boy, who couldn’t have been more than eight, had two fi ngers missing. There was a knobbly stump of skin where they should have been. She had heard tales of beggars mutilating themselves to get more sympathy and wondered whether the child’s disfigurement had been accidental. She shook her head, feeling faint in the heat. “I’m sorry, I have none.” She spread her hands to prove it and her long sleeves fell back.

The boy’s face hardened. His eyes fell on her withered hand. “
Ugly
,” he sneered, before running after his comrades.

Rose stood there, feeling as though the boy had just kicked her. She saw one of the flower sellers look over, so she tugged down her sleeve to cover the burn scars and hastened on. The market was packed and she had lost sight of the handmaidens. Feeling tears prickling in her eyes, she spun in a circle, trying to spot them. As she did so she saw a Templar heading toward her. It was Robert de Paris. She hadn’t seen him in over a year.

“Rose,” he called, smiling in greeting. “Can I speak to you?”

She started to shake her head. “I have to—”

“Please. It won’t take long.”

Numbly, she let him escort her away from the center of the market and into a quiet side street. “How did you know I—” She halted. “He told you where I would be, didn’t he? He sent you.” She shook her head furiously. “I don’t want to hear it, whatever message he sent you with.”

“He just wants a chance to explain why he left the way he did.” Robert caught her arm as she went to walk away. “He’s your father, Rose. He deserves that at least.”

She wrenched away from his grip. “He’s not my father! I owe him nothing!

Garin
,” she hissed at his bemused expression. “Garin de Lyons. He was my father. My mother lay with him and . . .” Rose stopped, her eyes fi lling up.

Robert looked stunned. He put his hands on her shoulders, searching her face. “Are you certain? Did Elwen . . . Did your mother tell you this?”

“The day she died, my mother and Garin were arguing in Andreas’s house, before the fire. She said she didn’t know.” Rose met his gaze. “She didn’t know which of them was my father.”

“Then you don’t either,” said Robert gently.

“Do you know the worst thing? The worst thing is remembering how it was to feel loved. If I could choose, I would rather have been some orphan at the mercy of the streets than to wake each day and remember I once had a the fall of the templars

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family who loved me. I had a home.” She held out her scarred hand. “I was whole. Now my mother is dead, my home long gone, and every time I look upon the man who might have been my father I am reminded of what was taken away.” Rose’s hands came up to hide her face as her tears fell.

Robert drew her to him and held her, his hand stroking her back, until her sobs began to ease.

Rose closed her eyes, feeling Robert’s arms, strong as bands of iron around her. His mantle was warm against her cheek and smelled of smoke and straw.

He stirred as if to move and she clutched at his surcoat to keep him there. He was speaking about her father, about how he loved her still and was desperate for her forgiveness. Rose squeezed her eyes tighter, blocking out the words and concentrating on the feeling of that strong hand rolling over the bumps of her spine. She felt encircled, safe in a way she hadn’t felt in years. Keeping her eyes closed, she moved her arms around his back, feeling the muscles shift under his mantle as she slid her fingers toward his neck. Robert had stopped talking.

His hand was now still, flat against her back. She could feel his heart. It was thrumming. As her fingertips met the hot skin at the nape of his neck, she felt a shudder go through him. Rising onto her toes, her tears drying cold on her cheeks, Rose pressed her mouth to his. She felt the warmth of his breath, the roughness of his beard, then a slight wetness as his lips parted that sent a delirious rush of shock through her.