Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (42 page)

Sciarra inclined his head, but said nothing.

His reticence gave Will a deeper feeling of unease. Looking at the faces of Colonna and the other men, he didn’t see the need for justice. He saw the need for revenge. He knew that look well; had worn it often enough on his own face to recognize it.

The men remained in the Great Hall, discussing the details of the assault on Anagni for some time. Will stood in silence at Nogaret’s side, fi lled with foreboding, until the meeting drew to a close. When the servants were called in to prepare the hall for the evening’s feast, he was able to slip away.

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Climbing the stairs to his dormitory, he was so preoccupied he almost missed it. Passing one of the arched windows, which looked down over the torchlit enceinte and the castle walls, Will glanced automatically at the line of cypress trees beyond the walls. The flash of red burst into his brain several moments after he had seen it, and he had to descend three stairs and return to the window to check. He thought for a second his eyes had been playing tricks on him. But no. There, caught in the glow of the torches on the ramparts, tied to the lower branches of the tree farthest from the gate, was a fluttering scrap of red cloth, bright as a berry against the green.

Swiftly, Will retraced his steps, down through the tower, into the castle courtyard. The night was sultry and filled with the conversation of men. He wove through the crowd and, ducking through an archway, entered the outer enceinte, where soldiers stood sentry at the gates. A dark shape skimmed his head as a bat darted into the sky. Moths tilted at the torches, which threw an amber glow over the sun-baked stones. Whenever one got too close, there was a flicker of fire as its wings caught and it was consumed.

“Campbell.”

Will turned at the sharp voice to see Nogaret behind him, framed in the archway.

“Where are you going?”

Will gave him a relaxed smile. “I need to piss. The latrines are full.”

“Don’t go far. I want you and the others with me at the table tonight.”

Nogaret glanced behind him and lowered his voice. “We need to make certain this goes the way we want.”

“I won’t be long.” Will waited until the minister had disappeared, before striding to the gate.

He still had no idea why the king had sent him on this “critical assignment,” as Philippe had called it when he ordered Will to accompany Nogaret.

That had been early in July, shortly after the second assembly of the estates-general, where the men of the realm supported Philippe’s decision to denounce Boniface and proclaim him a heretic. Will learned this in the days following the assembly, but hadn’t connected the disturbing announcement to the assignment until they had left Paris and were on the road south. Out of the city, safe from spies, Nogaret informed Will and the six palace guards what their task was and where they were going. It was clear, from the minister’s attitude, that it hadn’t been his idea for Will to be a part of the group. But the reasons for his involvement were almost immediately obscured by the realization that the fall of the templars

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the pope’s arrest could well be the king and Nogaret’s first step toward the Temple. Perhaps Boniface’s arrest and trial in France were designed to make him comply with their wishes? Maybe they would offer to release him and end the trial if he gave them power over the Temple? Whatever the reason, Will knew he must do everything in his power to stop Boniface from being sent to Paris, which was why, when they arrived in Ferentino, under the pretense of scouting the area, he had gone to the nearest church to seek aid.

Nodding to the guards on the gate, he headed out and down the dusty track to where the cypress trees bordered the steep hillside, which disappeared into a tangle of bushes, alive with the buzz of insects. With a glance behind him to the ramparts, he pushed his way through the trees and scrabbled down into the undergrowth, scanning the shadows. After several moments of searching, thorns scratching his clothes and face, he was beginning to wonder if there was anyone here at all when he heard a whisper off to his left and a young man’s face appeared in the gloom, pinched with fear.

“You’re late,” murmured Will, as the acolyte struggled toward him, his robes catching on bushes.

“I’m sorry,” the man replied in Latin. “I could not leave for some days.”

“Did you send the message?”

The acolyte nodded nervously. “My brother took it to Rome.”

“When?”

“The evening you came to me.”

Will thought. Rome was a two-day ride. It was cutting it fine, and even if they managed to get to Anagni before Nogaret and Sciarra, now that he knew the men had help inside it seemed increasingly doubtful they would be able to stop this from happening. His only hope was that they would decide to move the pope to Rome before the attack took place. He nodded to the acolyte.

“You did well.”

“Will they get there in time?” whispered the acolyte, as Will turned to climb back up toward the castle gate. “Will the Temple be able to save His Holiness?”

“For their sake, I hope so.”

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the temple, paris, september 4, 1303 ad

Esquin de Floyran hurried along the cloisters toward the officials’ building. He waved a hand distractedly as someone called to him, but he didn’t stop to talk.

The Paris preceptory was packed with hundreds of masters and knights who had journeyed from across the kingdom, summoned to attend the annual Chapter General to discuss Templar business in France. They had been in session since Prime, only pausing to recite the Paternosters for the offi ces of Terce and Sext, and it was now past Nones.

In the short break, men gathered in the sun, debating various matters that had arisen. Most of the snatches of conversation Esquin caught as he bustled through were centered on the failure of the grand master’s Crusade. The offi -

cials of the order were concerned, but with Jacques de Molay encamped on Cyprus and the Crusade halted, there was little they could do except concentrate on matters at home: legal proceedings against knight brothers, requests for funds to renovate various preceptories, disputes over territory, the acquisition of new holdings. In between the discussions, men stifled yawns and speculated over what delicacies would be on offer at the evening’s grand feast. One old master was reminiscing on the year King Louis IX had sent a gift of seven swans to the preceptory for the Chapter General.

Esquin hastened through the doorway of the officials’ building and breathlessly climbed the stairs, his short legs aching with the effort, the hem of his mantle trailing up behind him.

As he rapped on the large door at the end of the passage, he heard an irate voice beyond.

“Enter.”

Steeling himself, Esquin pushed open the doors.

Hugues de Pairaud was standing at a desk between two clerics, who were sorting through piles of parchments. He glanced up with an impatient frown, which didn’t get any less irritated as his gaze fixed on Esquin. “Yes?”

“Visitor de Pairaud,” Esquin began quickly, “I am aware this is a rather in-opportune moment in which to request an audience, but as I shall be traveling back to Montfaucon tomorrow on an urgent matter to which I must attend, I thought this may prove to be the only opportunity I shall get to speak to you.”

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The visitor was shaking his head. “And you are?”

“Esquin de Floyran, prior of the Montfaucon preceptory,” replied Esquin, a little bemusedly.

“Of course,” said Hugues absently, as one of the clerics passed him a skin.

Esquin plowed on, despite the fact that the visitor now seemed to be engrossed in the parchment he had been handed. “It is a family matter for which I seek your aid, Visitor de Pairaud. My nephew was admitted into the Temple as a knight here in Paris last year. As far as I and his father were aware, he was to return to my preceptory to serve under me, but he was told after his inception that he would remain in Paris. I am proud he should be posted in our principal preceptory, but in recent years I have seen a decline in the number of noble men wishing to join the order, a decline that has left me with only a small staff, many of whom are laymen. Coupled with this, I have received many messages from my nephew in recent months beseeching me to apply for his transfer home. And so I am here to ask for your agreement that Martin return with me to Montfaucon.” Esquin shook his head, troubled. “I do not think he is well. There is something that troubles him, but he refuses to speak of it.”

Hugues had stopped reading. The second cleric was holding out another parchment, but the visitor hadn’t taken it. “Martin?”

“Martin de Floyran. As I said, he is my nephew and—”

“I am sorry, I cannot agree to your request. De Floyran is a valuable addition to this preceptory. As a knight, he will serve wherever he is posted, as was explained to him during his initiation.” Hugues’s face soured. “Despite how
homesick
he may be.”

“But, Visitor de Pairaud,” protested Esquin, when Hugues snatched the skin from the cleric and headed for the door. “I simply do not have enough knights to defend Montfaucon adequately. Surely my nephew would be serving the order admirably were he to—”

Hugues turned abruptly as he reached the door. “This is not a matter for discussion. My decision is final. He stays.”

Esquin stared after him as he swept out with the clerics. Outside, a bell began to chime, summoning the men back to the Chapter. Frowning pensively, Esquin made his way down the stairs and out into the courtyard. The officials were beginning to file toward the Chapter House, but it would take the press of men a little while to get settled once inside. Turning from the slow-moving crowd, Esquin hurried toward the knights’ quarters.

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He was sweating inside his mantle by the time he reached the dormitory.

His nephew was standing by the window in the empty room. He turned with a start.

Martin’s expression filled with such hope that Esquin felt a wrench in his gut. Martin studied his face for a long moment, then turned back to the window.

“He denied you, didn’t he?”

Esquin crossed to him. “I am sorry, Martin, but it is clear Visitor de Pairaud needs you here and for that you should be proud. It is an honor to serve him.”

When Martin said nothing, Esquin exhaled. “I know it is difficult, being away from your family and familiar surroundings, but I promise in time you will—”

“Please, Uncle. Please take me with you when you leave tomorrow. I have to come home. I cannot stay here.”

Esquin looked on hopelessly as the young man put his head in his hands.

“I cannot appeal against Hugues de Pairaud’s decision, other than by going to the grand master himself.” He gripped his nephew’s shoulders. “All this fuss?

All those letters you sent? Yet still you will not tell me what is wrong. If you perhaps explained what it is that—”

“No,” said Martin swiftly. He pulled away, his jaw set. “No. I cannot.” He glanced around as if fearing someone might overhear. “Not here.”

Esquin tutted as the bell ceased its chimes. “I must return to the Chapter now and there are matters I must attend to back home.” He paused, then nodded determinedly. “But I am going to come back as soon as I can. If I do, will you meet me? Martin?” He pressed, when the youth didn’t answer.

After a long silence, Martin nodded.

Esquin smiled encouragingly and patted his shoulder. “Then we shall see what all this is about.”

anagni, italy, september 7, 1303 ad

The sky was midnight-blue. Soldiers scrabbled silently over the rocks that littered the sides of the track, carrying swords and daggers. There was no moon and it was by starlight that they moved, shrouded in velvet gloom. The hooves of the three hundred horses were muffled on the dusty ground, but the clink of bridles and armor echoed unavoidably in the hush and the company’s commanders were poised for the alarm to rise, any moment, from the sleeping the fall of the templars

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town perched on the hill above. They needn’t have worried, for the high Roman walls surrounding Anagni shielded its citizens from any disturbing night noises as well as potential attackers, and their advance went undetected as they climbed steadily up the hillside toward the Porta Tufoli.

Sciarra Colonna, riding at the vanguard, sent two of his men ahead as the company approached the gate. Nogaret craned his neck to watch as the knights trotted their horses toward the arched entrance. Two torches flickered in brackets, throwing long shadows up the walls. Turning, one of the knights signaled.

A smile crossed Sciarra’s face before he pulled on his helmet and urged his horse forward. Men threw relieved, jubilant glances at one another as they saw the gate was not only open, but completely undefended. Sciarra snatched one of the torches from its bracket. Swinging his foot out of his stirrup, he kicked at the wooden barricade as he passed through, holding the brand aloft.

The gate shuddered wider with a groan. Behind him, the rest of the cavalry poured in.

Once inside the walls, their stealth ended. Sciarra wanted the townsfolk to know who had come and why. His voice struck the quiet, rising over the rumble of hooves on the steep, narrow streets. “Good people of Anagni! Arise!

Awake! By order of the king of France, Pope Boniface is to be arrested as a heretic and taken hence to trial!”

As his voice resounded off the walls of the grand palazzos around the Porta Tufoli, many of them home to the cardinals of the Sacred College, shutters and doors began to open all over the lower town. Citizens started from sleep, pulling cloaks around them. The hoofbeats clattered in the night and mothers dashed to check on children, huddled wide-eyed as the shadows of riders and swords drifted past on bedroom walls. Soldiers, loping along beside the mounted knights, raised sputtering torches, bringing early dawn to the streets that wound up toward the cathedral and the papal palace. Birds fl ew chattering into the sky.

“Arise! Awake! We are here to arrest the heretic pope!”