Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (49 page)

“I thought it was over. After Nogaret killed Boniface and Benedict took the 286 robyn

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papal throne I waited, biding my time until I knew for certain they had secured the pope’s support for their plan. When I realized Benedict had defi ed them, I thought their plot had been halted. I had no idea the lawyer would go so far.” Will shook his head. “Boniface was the king’s personal enemy. Ignoring the fact that they wouldn’t have been able to control him and consummate their plan, he could have destroyed Philippe. He was a danger to France. But Benedict . . . ?”

“You know for certain the king’s minister murdered him?” asked Robert sharply.

“No. But I think it far beyond coincidence that the pope died during Nogaret’s visit, given what I know of Boniface’s demise and their plans.”

A cart rumbled toward the gate. They stepped out of the road to let it pass.

Robert looked at the Temple, rising white from the bare fields. “I cannot believe the king would do this.”

“Philippe has gone after every possible opportunity to procure wealth during his reign. The clergy. The Jews. Gascony and Flanders. Even so, his coffers are empty and his plans for expansion remain unfulfilled. His subjects are growing resentful. The king’s aggressive methods and the rise in taxes, especially given the poor harvests of recent years, are making them question his ability to rule. Guienne and Flanders are under his yoke, but they are anything but stable. Philippe needs to give his people something more tangible, else their support will start to crumble. He needs to exert himself, but to do that he needs money. This king is not afraid, Robert, of who he might have to step over on his way to sainthood.”

“We must go to Hugues. Tell him everything.”

“No. I don’t want anyone else involved.”

“You cannot mean that? This is too much, Will, for either of us to contend with. If the king of France intends to bring down the Temple, the rest of the order must be informed at once.” Robert’s brow knotted in thought. “The grand master will have to be recalled from Cyprus. Most of the officials are out there with him. They will all need to return.”

“And then what? What will Jacques de Molay and Hugues and the others do? Storm the palace? Kill the king?”

“They will meet him. Reason with him. You said it yourself: the king is losing the support of his subjects. Can you imagine what would happen if he went after the Temple? There would be riots in the streets.”

“Would there?” Will shook his head. “You’re still on the inside, Robert.

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You still see the Temple through the eyes of a knight. Out on the streets, among the people, I see a different Temple. I see a brotherhood corrupted with pride and greed. I see rich and powerful men above the law, arrogant, untouchable. Suspicious men who work in secrecy, their aims unknown.”

“You think that?”

“I am telling you what others see. For years, the Temple has hidden behind its walls, unwilling to involve itself in the affairs of others, unless interfering in them. Now the grand master is off fi ghting a Crusade the people of Christendom no longer believe in, things are worse. You know it yourself. The Temple has lost its way.” Will exhaled. “Since the war that almost destroyed the Christian empire in the East was started by a Templar grand master, the Brethren have fought to keep the order on course, following the path to peace. With Grand Masters Armand de Périgord and Guillaume de Beaujeu we faltered, but through the efforts of Everard, Hasan, my father, through the efforts of you and me, Robert, we didn’t fail.”

“Acre wasn’t exactly part of our plan,” said Robert in a low voice, moving with Will off the road as a group of monks from Saint-Martin-des-Champs passed solemnly by, followed by a band of raucous youths.

“Acre needed to fall. Elias made me realize that. How could a lasting truce between Christians and Muslims be built upon the foundation of the Crusades? We went there to conquer. It was no basis for peace. We have a much better chance of working toward reconciliation with our armies withdrawn from the Holy Land. We need to send diplomats, not soldiers. Jacques de Molay is wrong. We must steer him right.”

“We?” said Robert sourly. “You left the Temple, Will.”

“But not its Soul.” Will turned to him. “I admit my reasons for deserting the order were self-serving. I wanted revenge on Edward. I still do. But something else has surpassed that desire: the need to rebuild the Anima Templi and set the Temple on its true path. I pledged my life to the Brethren’s aims along with many other men, men I respected and believed in, and that means saving the Anima Templi from itself.”

“Saving it from—?”

“Hugues de Pairaud was elected into the Brethren, but he was never made its master. He took that role for himself when I left. None of you voted him into that position. I would not feel so bitter about that had he the vision to lead you, but what has he done to fulfill any of its aims in the years since? You have said it yourself: the Anima Templi does nothing. Hugues is too wrapped 288 robyn

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up in Temple business to attend to it. He doesn’t believe in the Brethren. If he did, he wouldn’t have let it fade into nothing. He wouldn’t have made an alliance with our betrayer. He wouldn’t have sacrificed Scotland and he would have done more, perhaps the only man who could have, to stop Grand Master de Molay following his blind Crusade. Hugues is not my enemy, Robert. But neither is he my ally. The Temple is too fragmented to be guided from within now. We need to rebuild the Brethren outside those confl icting infl uences if we are to have a chance of protecting it from the king’s ambitions.”

“I still do not see how we can do that on our own.”

“Not on our own. Philippe hasn’t told me everything; Nogaret still doesn’t trust me completely, but I do know who they plan to make pope if the Sacred College can be persuaded to support their choice. The king and his lawyer left Château Vincennes yesterday to meet him. They have something on him, I do not know what, but it is something they will use to coerce him. Nogaret sent men out months ago to search for a candidate who could be persuaded to help them achieve their plan. Their man is Archbishop Bertrand de Got.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I’ve met de Got before. He seems a reasonable man. Even as archbishop he is in a position of great power; as pope his power will be virtually absolute.

If we can get him on our side and work with him against Philippe, he will be in our debt. Without the support of the pope we can do nothing to defend the order, and in turn, without that same support, Philippe can do nothing against the order. If we have an ally on the papal throne, we may even be able to stop Edward’s war against Scotland once and for all.”

“And what about Scotland?” demanded Robert. “What if, at the next announcement of an English campaign, you go charging off to save it and destroy your enemy? You admit it yourself, you still want revenge on Edward.”

“Scotland isn’t my fight now. It is in the hands of other men. The Anima Templi is in mine, and yours. I want you with me, Robert, but either way I am going to do this. I will not let Philippe and Nogaret pull down the Temple, with my father and Everard’s dream at the heart of it. You need to decide whether you can commit to this. You need to decide who you work for. Me.

Or Hugues.”

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Bordeaux Cathedral, the Kingdom of France

march 20, 1305 ad

Bertrand de Got wandered the silent aisle between the rows, a gratifi ed smile on his face. The youngest men of the cathedral chapter were bent studiously over their desks and the scriptorium was fi lled with the rhythmic scratching of goose quills on parchment, and the smell of oak gall ink.

“They are coming on well, Your Grace,” whispered the canon at his side. “I believe most will soon be able to assist with readings during services.”

“Which passage do you have them copying?” The archbishop paused to peer over one of the men’s shoulders.

“One of your favorites, Your Grace.”

“Ah, yes,” said Bertrand softly, scanning the neat black script. He closed his eyes. “
Rejoice greatly, O Daughter of Zion! Shout, Daughter of Jerusalem!
” As he lifted his voice and the words echoed in the hushed hall, the young men turned in their seats. “
See, your king comes to you. Righteous and having salvation. Gentle and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey.
”

The doors of the scriptorium cracked open. A canon entered and hurried toward Bertrand, his shoes slapping on the stone floor. “Your Grace!”

“Hush,” Bertrand admonished, setting a finger to his lips.

The canon dropped his voice. “Forgive my interruption, Your Grace, but there are men here to see you. I told them to wait, but they—” He turned, fearfully, as the clank of armored boots sounded in the passage.

A group entered the scriptorium. Ten were royal guards in mail coats and blood-scarlet tunics. The eleventh, walking in their midst, was a short, slender man in a black robe and silk coif.

“Minister de Nogaret,” murmured the archbishop, swallowing back the dryness that rose in his throat. Behind him, the scratching of quills ceased, the young scholars all staring curiously at the imperious company. “Continue with the lesson,” Bertrand ordered the canon. He hastened to meet Nogaret. “Min-290 robyn

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ister,” he called, trying to make his smile natural. “This is indeed a surprise.

What can I do for you?”

“I need you to come with me,” responded Nogaret, not bothering with any formal greeting or title.

Bertrand’s smile vanished. He halted in front of the minister. “Is there some sort of trouble?”

“There won’t be, if you come with me.”

Bertrand was frowning, shaking his head. “I have many things to attend to today; important meetings with the bishops of my province, who have traveled for days to see me. I cannot leave without good reason.”

“The reason, Archbishop de Got, is that your king wishes to speak to you on an urgent matter.”

“The king?”

“Lord Philippe is outside the city. He is expecting you.” Nogaret motioned to the open doors. “Shall we?”

Bertrand’s gaze moved to the soldiers, who stepped aside to let him pass.

After a moment’s pause, he followed the minister out of the scriptorium.

Half an hour later, after an agonizingly bumpy ride in a covered wagon, into which he had been ushered, alone except for two silent royal guards, Bertrand found himself in a wide green field, the city walls marching away behind him. In the center, rising incongruously from the grass, was a lurid red pavilion. Bertrand grunted with discomfort as the guards helped him from the wagon. The chronic pain in his stomach, which he had lived with for some years, always seemed worse when he was anxious. He didn’t speak, but allowed Nogaret to lead him into the pavilion, where he found King Philippe waiting for him.

bordeaux cathedral, the kingdom of france,

march 23, 1305 ad

“No. Absolutely not. His Grace is not to be disturbed.”

“It is imperative we speak to him.”

“You will have to return tomorrow, request an audience.”

Will stepped back as the door slammed shut. He glanced irritably at the figure leaning in the shadows of the porch wall, chewing an apple. “You might have said something. Backed me up.”

Wiping his mouth, Robert moved out of the gloom. He tossed the core the fall of the templars

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into the deserted square. “Well, I did say they wouldn’t let us in, but you didn’t listen. It is late. What do you expect? He’s probably asleep.”

“It’s only just past Compline,” responded Will, heading down the steps to the square and staring up at the cathedral, soaring dizzyingly above him, its walls bone-white in the moonlight, gargoyles and angels perched ghostlike on their plinths. Beyond, gossamer wisps of cloud chased across the sky. “We’ll try another way.”

Robert followed, glancing around to check they weren’t being observed, as Will moved silently alongside the cathedral wall. They were both dressed in woolen cloaks and tunics that hid their armor. There were doors set at intervals around the main structure, but Will ignored them all and headed instead for a stout entranceway in a high wall. It looked as though it bordered an open space, perhaps gardens or a courtyard. “Servants’ entrance,” he murmured, as Robert came up. He took hold of the iron ring and turned it carefully. The ring creaked, but the door didn’t budge. “Locked.”

“Even if you get inside, how do you expect to find the archbishop? For that matter, how do you know he even resides here? Many bishops have lodgings outside their churches these days.”

“Our friend said he wasn’t to be disturbed.” Will had moved away and was staring up at the rough stones. “He’s in there. I’m certain.”

“Why don’t we leave it until morning? A few hours cannot make that much difference.” Robert followed his gaze to the top of the wall. “Christ, Will, we’re not fi fteen anymore.”

“Lost your nerve?” Will’s teeth flashed in the moonlight. He took a few steps back, then launched himself at the door, ramming his shoulder into the wood.

Robert swore as the sound echoed. A couple of doves flew up out of a cote, flickers of white against the black. Will tried again, grunting with the effort.

On the third try, the lock snapped and the door sprang open. He grabbed it before it could slam back, and he entered quickly, flexing his bruised shoulder.

Finding himself in a courtyard, he drew his sword. Large stones set at intervals in the grass formed a path, leading to a grand building that backed on to the cathedral. There were a few outbuildings and a cistern in the yard.

Pushing the door closed behind him, Robert followed Will, unsheathing his own blade. “You never had it mended?”

Will was heading for a passage in the building ahead, into which the path of stones disappeared. “What?” he murmured distractedly.

“Your old sword.”

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The two of them pressed themselves up against either side of the passageway. As Robert stared down it, squinting into the gloom, Will glanced at the sword in his hand. The broken falchion was back in his room in the royal palace, wrapped in an old shirt inside a locked chest. For a long time, he had planned to take it to an armorer, certain that it could be restored. But he never had. There was something that felt wrong about it. He hadn’t understood what until he had taken the blade out one day, not that long ago, to find tiny specks of dried blood embedded in the pits and grooves in the shaft. Scratching them off with a fingernail, he guessed they belonged to the last person he had killed with the sword: the unknown Templar at Falkirk. That the blade should remain broken seemed somehow fitting. He looked at Robert, feeling a need to explain himself, but just then hurried footsteps sounded, clapping off the passage walls.