Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (45 page)

“We were forced to split up. We came when we could.”

Sciarra was nodding. “And Boniface? Do you know what happened to him?

None of my scouts has returned.”

“One of them gave me a message for you. He learned the Templars are to escort the pope to Rome. They planned to leave at fi rst light.” Rainald looked up at the sun. “I expect they are on their way.”

A slow smile spread across Sciarra’s face. “As I had hoped.”

To Will it was suddenly clear why the Italian had retreated to the ruined town. Palestrina lay on the road to Rome. There was a certain bleak poetry in it: Sciarra riding down out of his former home to wreak vengeance on the man who had destroyed it.

As Rainald accepted a skin someone handed to him and drank gratefully, Nogaret grasped Sciarra by the arm. “I need to speak to you.”

Sciarra pulled away from his grip, but seemed to see something uncompromising in Nogaret’s stare, for he nodded to Rainald and turned to follow the minister into the chapel.

A couple of men watched them curiously as they disappeared inside, but soon moved off to help the newcomers, leading horses to a cleared area of grass, handing over scraps of food, listening to accounts of escape.

Will lingered, his mind filled with questions and uncertainties. Nogaret’s words, forgotten in the turmoil of Anagni, returned to him, filled with foreboding.
He’ll not destroy Boniface before me.
Until now, he had been focusing on keeping the pope safe from Sciarra. But what if Colonna wasn’t the only danger? Picking up an empty skin, he made his way around the back of the 262 robyn

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chapel. “I’m going to fetch water,” he told one of the French guards, who nodded disinterestedly.

Making sure he wasn’t observed, Will crept alongside the wall. There were plenty of cracks and crannies, but most had trees or flowers growing out of them. He hastened on, then found what he was looking for: a line in the stone cladding, jagged as a lightning bolt, through which he could glimpse the interior.

Entering, Nogaret stalked down to the choir aisle, swiping cobwebs out of his way.

“What do you want?” asked Sciarra, following, his voice brisk with impatience.

Nogaret turned suddenly and backhanded him viciously across the face.

“
You fool!
”

Sciarra stumbled away. His hand moved to his cheek, then stopped halfway and went instead for his sword, which he wrenched free.

Nogaret didn’t flinch as the sword came up, the tip wavering inches from his throat. “You think your family had it hard when Boniface declared war on them? That is nothing in comparison to what my lord, Philippe, could do.

France is their home now, yes? Their safe haven? We would make it their grave!”

The sword point faltered, but Sciarra didn’t lower the blade. His cheek was scarlet. “I am not a man moved by threats.”

“It is not a threat.”

Sciarra hesitated. Slowly, he brought the blade down.

“You ruined the entire assignment,” hissed Nogaret, pacing the aisle, webs snapping and trailing in his wake. “Boniface was supposed to be on his way to Paris, a pope cowed and beaten by the might of France, taken in chains to face his accusers and their judgment!”

“I couldn’t let him leave this place alive,” Sciarra replied in a low voice, watching him. “You have no idea of the extent of his crimes against my family.” He beat his breast. “No idea how fervently we hate him. I didn’t want him to languish in luxury in a palace tower, while lawyers fought over his future. I wanted him to have no future! I wanted him dead!”

“As did we!” Nogaret shouted, turning back. He halted as Sciarra’s sword flicked out again, but he held his ground. “The pope wouldn’t have made it to Paris. I was to poison him on the way.”

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Sciarra looked astonished. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“I swore to my lord that no other would know of it. Not even my own men were informed. We would have said the pope died of the burden of his crimes.

There would have been no evidence of murder.” Nogaret leaned against a scarred pillar. “Now all is fi nished, because of your rashness. The moment the pope enters Rome, he will excommunicate all of us and King Philippe, if, indeed, he has not done so already.”

“We still have a chance,” said Sciarra, after a silence. “We know he is coming this way.”

Nogaret shook his head. “If we kill him on the road it will be known that it was murder and, for that matter, who his killers are.”

“Not if there are no witnesses. Even with our losses, my men greatly outnumber his Templar escort. We will distract them so you can get to the pope.”

“There will be no evidence, no body. No one will know anything, except that the pope never made it to Rome.”

“The violence in Anagni will confuse accounts. You can still say you came to arrest the pope for heresy, which is known, and that he evaded you. You can also say he died from the weight of his crimes, or however you wish to phrase it, during his flight to the city.” Sciarra was frowning, thinking it through. “A few of Bussa’s men made it here. What if they took the pope’s body to Rome with the story of what happened? No one there would know his own guards had turned against him. They would believe them.”

“What of the Templars? Even if we managed to kill them all, the order would know where they had gone and why. They would no doubt send more knights when they didn’t return.”

“Let them,” said Sciarra flatly. “They would find nothing of them in these hills. Bussa’s men could say the party was intercepted, but that they got away.

The Templars stayed behind to sacrifice themselves for the heretic pope.” He lifted his shoulders carelessly. “Who but the order would mourn them?”

the road to rome, italy, september 8, 1303 ad

Boniface huddled in the wagon on cushions and furs, his gloved hand grasping the side as the wheels bumped and jolted over the rough road. It was late afternoon and the sun glowed through the red cloth covering the wagon, 264 robyn

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rendering it almost translucent, like skin. Boniface had the disquieting impression he was in the belly of some beast that was lurching its way toward Rome. The hooves of the Templars’ horses striking the hard-packed ground echoed all around. The sound drummed in his mind, building the ache in his head to a crescendo of pain. He patted his brow with a silk cloth. The righteous anger that erupted in him when he first learned of the attack and the subsequent rage that overwhelmed him at the sight of his own people with that viper, Colonna, had dissipated. Now he just felt like a scared old man.

Wounded and betrayed.

His home had almost been destroyed. It would have been, had the riots not died away soon after Sciarra’s escape, the citizens sobering up, coming to their senses. He made an impassioned plea from the palace balcony and many, seeing him there surrounded by the Templars, had laid down their weapons.

Some even returned the treasures they had stolen. The miracle was that none of his family had been killed, although many servants and guards perished in the assault. The knights had told him how fortunate he was; if they hadn’t been there he would most likely be dead, or in the custody of that heretic, Nogaret.

Boniface realized his hand, holding the cloth, was trembling. As he let it fall into his lap, he heard a harsh shout come from outside. It was quickly followed by others and the alarmed neighing of horses. Boniface caught the rasp of swords, then the wagon jerked forward violently. Thrown off balance, he toppled. The furs gave him a soft landing, but the wagon was jolting so precariously it was all he could do to push himself up on his hands. He hung there, helpless, bouncing about like a sack of apples, hearing the approaching thunder of many hooves. There were more shouts, crashing and thudding sounds and the screaming of horses and men.

Clawing his way forward on his hands and knees, Boniface made it to the opening at the back of the wagon. He gripped the cloth, just as the wagon rocked into a pothole, almost tipping over. Boniface swung sideways with a cry and the material ripped in his fists. He thumped onto the bare wood, bruising his knuckles. Raising his head, he stared out of the tear. Through clouds of dust, he saw that the road behind him was filled with men. Hundreds of them were riding down the scrubby hillside, yelling as they charged the Templars. Among those shouts, Boniface heard the name of Colonna raised. There were at least four Templars still with him, riding furiously, but even as he watched, wild-eyed with terror, the men on the hillside outfl anked them. A black missile came shooting toward him. Boniface threw himself the fall of the templars

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backward, but the arrow wasn’t aimed at him. It caught the rear of one of the horses, sending the beast reeling into the side of the wagon. Another caught the driver, who tumbled from his seat. The wagon rocked and jumped as the wheels rolled over his body, then veered off course, the horses pulling off the track and down a steep embankment into a field of white fl owers. Boniface cracked his head on one of the chests piled against the side and lay there dazed as the wagon rolled to a stop, the horses stamping and grunting, exhausted.

The sounds of battle continued to reverberate. Boniface hauled himself to the opening before the horses could bolt again. Just as he reached it, a face appeared, shining with sweat and triumph. He cried out and struggled back as Nogaret climbed in. The minister had a dagger in his hand.

“Get away from me! Get away, in the name of God!”

Nogaret advanced, his dark eyes alight.

“How dare you attack me!” Boniface shouted. “I am God’s vicar! St. Peter’s successor!”

“You’re an old fool, standing on the top of a crumbling edifice, trying to hold it up by will alone. The Church’s power is waning. The people will soon put their faith in the temporal, and the spiritual will be nothing more than fantasy.”

“Why?” breathed Boniface. “Why would you want this?”

“You are riddled with corruption,” spat Nogaret. “All of you. Nothing but hypocrites! You kill in the name of your God, but it is your hand that smites down your enemies, not His! You use your faith as an excuse to destroy any who oppose you and your beliefs. What I do, here today, will cleanse the world of your pollution.”

“It was not I who ordered your family to the fire, Nogaret,” said Boniface, stopping short as he came up against the back of the wagon. He struggled onto his knees. “If you allow me to I can absolve them, clear their names and yours.”

Nogaret was shaking his head.

“I can lift the order of excommunication I have put on you and on France.”

Boniface held out his hands as the minister paused. “I will do all this tonight.

If you let me live.”

Nogaret stood hunched in the wagon, poised over the pope, his black robes blocking out the sun. The sounds of battle were growing faint and sporadic.

“The next pope will do this for us,” he said bluntly, thrusting the dagger toward the pope’s neck.

As Boniface screamed, Nogaret rammed the phial he clutched in his free 266 robyn

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hand into the pope’s mouth. The old man’s eyes went wide as the bitter liquid splashed into his throat. His hands came up and grasped Nogaret’s wrist. He choked, tried to turn his head, but it was too late; he had already swallowed half of it. Just then, riders came cantering down from the track, startling the beasts tethered to the wagon. As they jolted forward, Boniface kicked Nogaret in the stomach. The minister staggered backward and fell out of the wagon as the horses took off across the field. He landed on his back in the grass.

Will shouted in frustration as he saw Nogaret climb inside the wagon, alone in a sea of gold-tinged grass. He slashed savagely at the Templar in front of him, trying to disarm him and get past. But the knight, who couldn’t have been more than twenty, was a canny fighter, and although he grimaced as he countered Will’s mighty strokes, he kept tight hold of his blade and shield. Most of the knights were dead on the roadside; just a few, like this brave youth, battled on determinedly. Will heard a desperate cry come from the wagon. It distracted him and he lost his balance. It was only for a second, but it was enough for the knight to lunge in, kick the sword out of his grip and drive his own weapon home. The blade stopped short. Will, who had crashed to his knees, saw an arrow embedded in the young man’s throat. His eyes still fi xed on Will, he let his sword fall. It clanked in the dust. The knight collapsed as one of the French guards came riding up, a bow now empty in his hand.

Numbly, Will pushed himself to his feet to see Nogaret come tumbling out of the back of the wagon, which rumbled away across the field. It didn’t get far before some of Sciarra’s men cornered it. Seeing Nogaret stand and walk toward it unhurriedly, Will knew it was over. As he stared at the young Templar, whose eyes were empty reflections of the darkening sky, the ghosts inside him shifted, whispering and afraid.

st. julien le pauvre, paris, november 20, 1303 ad

Esquin de Floyran turned as the church doors creaked open. His heart lifted in relief as his nephew entered. His relief became a frown when he saw the young man was wearing a servant’s brown robe and had a bundle on his back. A row of candles in front of an altar lit his face as he hastened down the aisle to where Esquin was waiting. In the pallid light, Martin looked sick with fear.

Esquin pulled his plain cloak tighter around him as his white mantle slipped into view. The priest had been a little too interested in him, a stranger the fall of the templars

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in his church, and there was no sense making the man more intrigued by revealing what he was. “Martin?” he queried, as the young man came toward him. “What is this?” He gestured at the bundle.

“I’m leaving the order. I’m coming home to Montfaucon with you. Tonight.”

Esquin’s concern was overcome by a rush of anger. “That is out of the question! Your father and I didn’t spend all those years training you to have you run away at the first sign of difficulty. I came to meet you tonight to try to help you, not escape your troubles, but face them.”