Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (40 page)

There was a flash of movement in the sky. Maiden came out of the sun in a 232 robyn

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ferocious stoop, fast as a lightning strike, a gray missile bearing down on the unsuspecting heron. The hunting party cheered as she dropped like a stone to land on the heron’s head, those razor talons sinking into flesh and brain, crushing the life out of the bird. Philippe barked a command at the varlets as the heron unfurled its wings and tried to fight. Two of the hounds were unleashed and went streaking across the grass to aid the falcon in pinning the quarry down. The animals had lived and worked together for years and moved as a finely tuned instrument, the dogs creeping in to bite and pull at the heron’s legs, while Maiden finished the kill. The saker was swooping down to join them, but the peregrine was the victor and she would receive the heart as a treat.

Will turned from the struggling heron, now in its death throes as the dogs gripped and tugged, to look at Philippe. There was an expression of fi erce joy on the king’s face. Will was struck by the admiration in that look; it was the admiration that comes from shared skill and passion. Maiden’s ability to go after something with such single-minded savagery, to pursue a target so much bigger than she was and cling to it until she or it were dead, these were things Philippe respected. The king had gone after Pope Boniface in the same way and had similarly pursued Flanders and Gascony, the insurrection in Guienne having been brutally put down, the truce with Edward cemented. For the fi rst time since Elias had revealed to him the conversation overheard between Philippe and Nogaret, Will felt a chill of fear. If Philippe did indeed mean to go after the Temple, he would do so relentlessly.

As if hearing his thoughts, Guillaume de Nogaret materialized, trotting his horse down to the king. The minister wore the same black robes he always did, although now his cloak had a trim of scarlet around the collar and hem, the same color as the royal seals he had become the keeper of after Flote’s death.

“My lord,” Nogaret called, throwing a mistrustful look at Will, “the scouts believe they have caught the tracks of a boar leading into the woods.”

“Have they?” Philippe turned to his chattering courtiers. “What do you say? One more pursuit before the day ends and we feast?”

A hearty cheer answered him. Philippe grinned, dug his spurs in and set off at Nogaret’s side, leaving Will to fall in with the rest of the hunting party, thwarted and troubled.

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château vincennes, the kingdom of france,

june 20, 1303 ad

Rose drew the comb through the queen’s thick black hair. Now and then, the teeth snagged on tiny knots and she slowed the movement, working the tangles apart until the comb carried on through. Jeanne’s face floated in the mirror, like the moon in a pool. Her eyes were closed, giving Rose an opportunity to study her. The queen had been unusually subdued since they arrived at the château two weeks ago. Rose had sensed a strain between her and the king, who had been away on campaign and hadn’t wanted his wife to join him.

Jeanne’s face was pale in the sunlight coming through the window and Rose could see a prominent dusting of black hair across her upper lip. Marguerite had delicately offered to use the tweezers on it, but the queen had brushed aside the suggestion.

Jeanne had always been more concerned about books and learning than the same chores of beauty other noblewomen in the court seemed to spend their lives performing: buying perfumed soaps, ivory combs and sparkling necklaces from Venetian traders in the markets, admiring one another’s gowns in the hallways then talking snidely behind one another’s backs at dinner in the Great Hall. As a handmaiden, important enough to be in the same chambers as these noble ladies, but unimportant enough not to be noticed, Rose heard it all.

Marguerite and the other girls used their status as the queen’s attendants to charm trinkets out of Jeanne, so they could play at being princesses, fl oating about like pretty, fl imsy butterflies, provoking the attention of eligible lords and officials. Rose, more invisible than the others, had once spotted Blanche with one of the steward’s aides in a gloomy corridor of the palace. She had been pressed to a wall, the aide pushed against her, his mouth on her neck and his hand up her bunched dress. Blanche’s head had been twisted to the side, the expression on her flushed face somewhere between ecstasy and embarrassment.

“I wonder what they have caught on the hunt.”

Rose gave a start, realizing the queen’s eyes were open and she was staring at her.

“I heard Sir Henri say there could be boar,” answered Marguerite, bustling around the room, gathering the queen’s garments and handing them to 234 robyn

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Blanche, who placed them dutifully on the bed. “What do you wish to wear at the feast tonight, madam?”

“You choose.”

In the mirror, Rose saw Marguerite smile.

“I think the red and the gold. Yes. That will look beautiful.” Marguerite’s smile widened. “The king will not be able to take his eyes off you.”

Rose noticed Marguerite’s gaze dart to her, the handmaiden’s face becoming hostile. She wondered what the look meant, but was distracted as the queen spoke.

“Leave me for a moment. I wish to speak to Rose.”

Rose’s puzzlement gave way to unease.

“Of course, madam,” said Marguerite. Throwing another look, this one almost triumphant, in Rose’s direction, she left, hustling Blanche and the three other handmaidens in front of her.

Rose forced herself to continue combing, trying to keep her hands steady as she coaxed and teased the tangles.

“I grew up in this house, Rose,” began Jeanne, her soft voice taking on a dreamy quality. Her eyes were closed again. “I was an infant when I came here, after the death of my father. Philippe was with me when I learned to read and to ride a horse, with me when my mother married again and moved to England. He was with me all the way up to the point where he ceased being as a brother to me and became my husband. I’ve loved him from that fi rst day.”

Jeanne’s eyes opened. Her hand came up and gripped Rose’s wrist, halting the comb. “I know my husband is a handsome man. But I fear your infatuation is turning into obsession. It must stop.”

Rose wanted to deny what the queen was saying, but her guilt was there in the mirror, caught in her flaming red face; a sun behind Jeanne’s pale moon.

Jeanne let go of her wrist. “You may go. Send Marguerite in. She can fi nish my hair.”

Rose set the comb on the table and walked unsteadily to the door. Entering the dormitory beyond, she saw the handmaidens huddled in a tight circle that parted as she came in. From the look on Marguerite’s face, she realized they knew what the queen had wanted to speak to her about. She felt as though the queen had just made her strip off and stand before them all, naked and ashamed. She prayed to God Philippe didn’t know. The thought made her squirm inside.

Marguerite flounced toward the queen’s chamber. “Did you really believe the fall of the templars

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he would ever look at you?” she whispered as she passed, her gaze going point-edly to Rose’s scarred hand.

As the other girls followed her, Rose went to the window and pretended to look out. She felt someone move in behind her.

“You should be careful, Rose,” came Blanche’s quiet voice. “The queen is most displeased. If I were you I would focus my affection elsewhere. There are plenty of handsome men in the royal court. Even if you do not want them, you can pretend, so madam thinks you have forgotten your amour.”

Rose rounded on her. “And then what? Should I let one grope me in the shadows to make the pretense complete?”

The color drained from Blanche’s face. Turning, she fled. As the door banged shut, Rose fl ung herself on to her narrow bed. Anger coursed through her, molten, insatiable. She was angry at herself for letting her desires become noticed, at Marguerite and her snide ways, at Blanche for thinking she had any idea how she felt. Most of all she was angry at the queen and her dour, pasty face. Closing her eyes, she imagined Jeanne falling from her horse in a terrible accident. Her neck snapping as she hit the ground. A swift, painless, tragic death. Philippe at her funeral, silent and strong. Her hand, later, a comfort on his arm. Him burying his head in her breast, letting his tears come.

Their falling would be slow and tender, as the period of mourning was observed, but it would only make the passion more intense when they fi nally admitted their love.

château vincennes, the kingdom of france,

june 21, 1303 ad

“This cannot be our only option?”

Nogaret frowned as Pierre Dubois, one of the five other men in the chamber, voiced his doubts again. “We have been over this, Minister.”

“Yes, but we are still not all in agreement,” replied Dubois sharply, looking at Nogaret.

“What else are we supposed to do? The pope has made his intentions apparent in his latest bull: bow down to him or risk excommunication. If we do not take a stand now we might as well let Rome tie its leash around our neck and France will become its obedient dog.”

“Are we certain excommunication is threatened in the pope’s proclama-236 robyn

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tion?” The quiet voice belonged to a prematurely gray, austere minister named Guillaume de Plaisans. He collected the bull from the table, decorated with the pope’s seal, which was starting to crack, the bull having been studied often during the past six months since its arrival in the royal court. “It is an odd letter indeed, full of biblical allusions, but few clear intentions. Nowhere does Boniface even mention France.”

Nogaret leaned over the minister’s shoulder. “Here,” he said, pointing to the parchment. “
When the Greeks and others claim not to be subject to Peter and
his successors, by the same claim they affirm that they are not members of the flock
of Christ. For there shall be one fold and one shepherd.
‘And others’?” said Nogaret. “I think it is clear enough. If we are not part of the fl ock, we do not come under the authority or protection of the Church. We stand alone.”

“Sir Pierre Flote feared this very threat,” commented Dubois darkly. “We should have listened to his counsel more closely.”

“Flote is dead,” responded Nogaret. “His speculations are no longer relevant.”

“Enough, Chancellor de Nogaret,” said Philippe, as Dubois and a couple of the others made to retort, anger rising in their faces. “You will show your predecessor the respect he deserves.”

“My lord.” Nogaret submitted.

“But the chancellor is right,” Philippe continued, studying the men clustered around the table. “We must remain strong or France will suffer.” The king’s eyes went to the bull in Plaisans’s hand. “
Unam Sanctam
is his most pompous edict yet. You are correct, Minister de Plaisans, it isn’t entirely transparent in its intentions, but Pope Boniface’s belief in his own superiority has never been clearer.” Philippe paused, recalling the words he had read so often he knew them by heart. “
Therefore, we declare, state, define and pronounce that
it is altogether necessary to salvation for every human creature to be subject to the
Roman Pontiff.
” The king exhaled suddenly. “He has given me no choice,” he murmured, no longer looking at them.

“We must act as one in this matter,” insisted Nogaret, turning to the ministers. “Next month in Paris, we will hold a second council of the estates to gain the support of our subjects. At the assembly, we will denounce
Unam
Sanctam
and proclaim Boniface as a heretic. Furthermore,” he continued harshly, as Dubois shook his head and looked away, “you will no longer call the pope by the name he chose, in conversation or on paper. You will call him by his secular name, Benedict Caetani. We no longer recognize him as our spiritual leader on this earth. The ban on the export of money to Rome is once the fall of the templars

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again in place, but we will extend that ban to include the clergy themselves.

For the time being, none of them will be allowed to leave France. It will stop the pope from acquiring funds or information from those bishops still loyal to him.”

“Does all this have your blessing, my lord?” said Dubois, moving past Nogaret and planting his hands on the king’s table.

Philippe looked up. “It does,” he said, after a pause. He waved his hand.

“Go, all of you, I wish to speak to Nogaret alone. Go!” he ordered, when Dubois seemed reluctant to move. When the door had shut the king stood and went to the window. He looked out over the forest, spread below him. The freedom he had felt yesterday on the hunt was long gone. He felt trapped in the prison of his mind. It was a dark cell, filled with painful things that worried at him in the blackness. “We will do it.”

“My lord?”

“As soon as we denounce him, the pope will excommunicate me. There is no other way for this conflict to end. You are right, we can perhaps damage Boniface’s reputation by naming him a heretic, but in the end he still holds the power. If France is excommunicated, all the treaties we have formed, with Edward, Flanders, Scotland and elsewhere, will be declared invalid. The agreements for the territories I have bought will be rescinded. Trade in or out of the kingdom will cease. Any French citizen abroad will be open to arrest or harm, ships seized, cargo taken.” Philippe turned to Nogaret. “I will not let my reign suffer through his actions. We do it, Nogaret. We execute your plan.”

Nogaret’s eyes filled with triumph. “It is the right decision. And with Boniface gone and a more sympathetic pope on the throne, we can make our move against the Temple. You have been forced to put your plans for expansion on hold for almost seven years, my lord. Finally, you can make your reign as great as your grandfather’s and France as powerful as it once was under your Capetian ancestors.” He smiled. “Warrior kings of a mighty empire.”

Philippe returned to the table and sat. “When the assembly of the estates is over, you will go to Italy. Boniface resides for most of the time in Anagni, only traveling into Rome for councils and ceremonies. He will be more easily open to attack there, but you will need help, for he has many allies in the city of his birth.”