Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (52 page)

Philippe, however, didn’t seem to expect an answer, for he spoke on into her silence. “Because of this, my queen is dead. I prayed to God to keep Jeanne safe while I was away, prayed to Him to make her well, but He cannot have heard me. Or else He did and chose to ignore me, to punish me.”

“No, my lord, I—”

“Things have been done in my name. Blood has been spilled and my confessor tells me the only way to make amends is to spill my own.” Philippe pulled his hand from hers and flicked the whip hard over his shoulder. The horsehair switched across his bloody skin.

“Please, my lord!” Rose grabbed his hand. “I will pray for you. Let God hear me praising your name. Let Him know your penitence through me!”

He was breathing hard, sweat beading his face, but as she tugged on the whip, his hand uncurled, allowing her to take it and set it on the fl oor. Moving in front of him, her dress smearing the blood across the white stones, she bowed her head, pushed her palms together and began to pray.

At first, her words wandered aimlessly through her mind, then slowly they found a rhythm and began to build inside her into a flowing, if not coherent prayer, made up of promises and pleas, adulations, lines of psalms and repeated Paternosters. She prayed fervently and sincerely, hardly even aware of the king, kneeling at her back, his breathing slower, stronger now, fi lling the chamber along with the faint murmurs that escaped her lips.
May you forgive
him his sins, O Lord, as you forgive us all.

“Jeanne told me once that she wanted to dismiss you.”

Rose stopped, for a split second so caught up in her litany she thought it was God who had spoken. Her eyes snapped open as she felt Philippe shift behind her.

“She said that you desired me. That your affection was dangerous.”

Rose pressed her palms together so tightly her arms began to tremble.

“I laughed and told her she was being foolish. I said it would be a shame to lose such a conscientious servant over some girlish fantasy. I persuaded her to keep you for her sake, but in truth I enjoyed your adulation.” His voice was closer, his words whispering on the back of her neck. “A subject should love her king, any way that love is expressed, whatever form it takes. I am pleased that you pray for me, Rose. I need you to pray for me.”

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Rose felt his hands closing around her upper arms. She didn’t want to breathe.

“Don’t stop,” he murmured.

Her eyes fluttered closed and she tried to pray, but there were no words anymore, just a rushing darkness that made her feel dizzy.

“My Lord King.”

They both started at the voice.

Guillaume de Nogaret was standing in the chamber beyond, his pale face framed between the gap in the black curtains left hanging open. The king stood and pushed his way into the room. “Has your absence made you forget your manners, Nogaret?” he growled. “Why didn’t you knock?”

“I tried, my lord. But you obviously didn’t hear.”

Rose had got to her feet. She felt Nogaret staring at her, cold and knowing.

Heat rose in her cheeks. “My lord,” she whispered, bowing her head and slipping from the room. Before she closed the door, she heard the minister speak.

“I learned of the queen’s death on my way through France, my lord. I am so very—”

“I do not want your pity, Nogaret. I want to hear that you bring good tidings.”

“Then, my lord, let my news be a comfort. We secured two-thirds of the vote. De Got stands elected. He will be the next pope. The way to the Temple is clear.”

30

Near Bordeaux, the Kingdom of France

november 14, 1305 ad

Are you certain this is the right way?” Robert rose in his stirrups to

“

survey the windswept fields. The leaves on the vines were brittle and yellow, the fruit long since plucked and turned into wine. “Perhaps we should have gone left at that fork?” He frowned at Will, who was a few paces behind, looking back over his shoulder. “Are you listening?”

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Will nudged his horse forward. “What?”

Robert looked past him down the track to where he had been staring.

“You’re not still concerned?” he asked, eyeing the four men who were trotting their tired horses toward them. The men wore the same dark-colored riding mantles as Robert and Will, concealing mail coats beneath. Robert exhaled roughly when he didn’t respond. “What else do I have to say to convince you?”

“I’ll be convinced when we’ve done what we’ve come here to do.”

“They’re good men, all. I’ve known them for years. They’ll do what we need them to.”

“I’m more worried about them keeping their mouths shut afterward.” Will urged his horse into a trot as the men drew closer. He could hear a couple of the knights talking quietly. They were all younger than he and Robert, probably by twenty years. They made him feel nostalgic. It felt strange to be back in the company of Templars after all this time. None of them was wearing the uniform, but they had a uniformity of conduct and of purpose, kneeling solemnly together by the roadside to say the Paternosters at each offi ce, breaking bread to share at supper or passing around skins of water, one keeping watch when the others were asleep. He had forgotten what it was like to be part of a unit. He found he missed it.

“They’re sworn to silence,” Robert assured him.

“You told them the master of France ordered you on this assignment. What if they speak to him of it when you return to Paris?”

“They are following my orders, not his. But if you’re that worried then perhaps we should tell them the truth? They know we’re here to save the child of a local nobleman. What difference will it make if they know who the nobleman is and why his child is a captive of the French crown? At least they’ll be fully aware of the gravity of the situation and our need to succeed.”

“The less they know the better,” responded Will. “I won’t run the risk of any of this getting back to Hugues, especially not my involvement.”

“Now we are getting to it.”

“What do you mean?”

Robert glanced back to check that the knights were still out of earshot.

“This is really about Hugues, isn’t it, this fear of anyone else finding out about the king’s plan? Although I cannot tell whether you’re keeping it from him because you’re worried he’d punish you for your desertion if he knew you’d returned to Paris. Or whether going behind his back and getting me and oth-the fall of the templars

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ers on board in secret is some sort of chance for you to punish him for taking your place. Either way, I think you could be risking the order.”

“I’ve told you why I don’t want Hugues to know of it.”

“We may have no choice but to tell him if this doesn’t work,” murmured Robert. “The archbishop is most likely being crowned as we speak. If we fail to save the child I have no doubt de Got will do anything the king demands, including handing him the Temple on a silver platter.” When Will didn’t answer, Robert looked at the knights. “And whatever your reasons for silence, we couldn’t do this alone. I told you to bring Simon into it, but you would have none of it.”

“I stand by that decision.”

“He isn’t a fool, Will. He’s been around both of us long enough to know we don’t follow the same path as other knights. He helped you and Everard retrieve the Book of the Grail for Christ’s sake.”

“He may have suspicions, but that isn’t the same as knowing.”

“You told me you wanted to rebuild the Anima Templi, elect more members. We always had a sergeant as one of the twelve.”

“I don’t want him to be part of this. That is the end of it.”

“Then what do you—”

“Listen to me,” said Will fiercely, turning in his saddle, his eyes fi xing on Robert. “You know as well as I the danger that comes with entering the circle.

The danger, the solitude, the sacrifices we have to make. The Brethren have spent the past century in the shadows, working against our masters, using Temple resources to carry out our intentions, intentions that would be anathema to the Church and to the order, indeed to most people in Christendom.

Intentions that would most likely get us all executed. We’ve bled for this cause and we’ve killed for it. Simon would join us willingly, I know, but not for the cause. He would do it for me. He almost died following me to Scotland and I will not have his death on my conscience. He is certain to be promoted to stable master and I want him to have that. I want him to live out the winter of his life in the Temple. His home. That’s part of what we’re doing here, now, making sure men like Simon still have a home and a future.”

They rode on in silence, the sighing of the wind in the bare vineyards mournful.

“Do you still plan to go to Lyons, if we’re successful?” asked Robert eventually.

“Yes. De Got will need to be told it has been done. Until he knows his son 308 robyn

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is safe, he remains at risk of being manipulated by Philippe. I will have to move fast. It will take at least a fortnight to reach the city.”

“Maybe I or one of the others should go? The king, his ministers, Rose, all of them think you’re away in talks with Wallace. They’ll all be in Lyons for the accession. What if someone sees you?”

“Rose isn’t going,” said Will, in a quiet tone. “I petitioned Philippe to have her stay behind. I said I was worried about her health.” He glanced at Robert.

“I know it was long ago now, but when you spoke with her that time, did she . . .?”

Robert looked away when Will paused. “Did she what?” he asked, a little defensively.

“Did she tell you about any feelings she had for the king?”

“Does she have?”

“There,” said Will suddenly, pointing toward a huge oak rising from a brown field in the near distance, with two hills beyond. “Just as de Got described. We’re going the right way.” He pulled the horse to a stop and slid from the saddle. “We should find somewhere to hide the horses. We’ll walk from here.”

Robert motioned behind him for the knights to dismount. “I’m still surprised they kept the child at the house.”

“It’s out of the way, self-contained; a perfect prison. The only one who knows of it is Bertrand and who would they imagine he would tell? The moment he does, he exposes his secret and endangers himself and the child anyway. The only reason he revealed it to us was because we knew the king was coercing him.”

Robert vaulted from his saddle as the knights approached. “So we’re in agreement? We cannot let the boy’s jailers live?”

“If we do, we could be identified. We have no choice.”

“I thought we’d seen enough death in the Crusades.”

Will stared down the track ahead. “I fear it won’t be the last blood we’re forced to spill before this is over.”

lyons, the holy roman empire, november 14, 1305 ad

Bertrand de Got grabbed the arm of the throne and tried not to drop the papal cross as the litter swayed precariously, the bearers jostled by the surging crowds. The noise was overwhelming. Bertrand was glad of the canopy of stiff, the fall of the templars

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brocaded silk erected over the throne that shielded him on three sides. Flowers and sprays of leaves were being hurled at him from the seething multitude, but judging by some of the weightier thumps these gifts made as they struck the cloth, they wouldn’t all be gently received. There was a fire in his belly and acid rose bitter in his throat, but he kept the serene smile fixed on his face, waving now and then to the adoring congregation lining the road to the cathedral. All along the banks of the Saône they waited, trying to catch a glimpse of the new vicar of God, arrayed in his ceremonial garments, bejeweled and imperious. Thousands had come to see their son, a Frenchman, crowned with the papal tiara. There were many from Gascony and Bordeaux, all pushing and shoving one another to get a better view, as fretful as a stormy sea. They were calling his name now, the name he had taken upon his election. He still wasn’t used to it.

Clement V.

Coming from so many gaping mouths at once, it was an unholy roar.

Dark clouds were flying fast across the city of Lyons, in stark contrast to the snatches of blue sky between. The sun flashed in and out, its sweeping light turning the river to a sheet of solid silver, then disappearing again to leave the broad waters inky. Bertrand’s fist, gripping the
ferula
, was oily with sweat inside his silk gloves. Under his flowing robes, his body felt hot and prickly, despite the glacial November wind. In the distance, he could see the white towers of the cathedral, framed against the backdrop of the hill that loomed behind it, the shadows of clouds climbing its sides, turning the trees from gold to black. The king of France and the cardinals of the Sacred College would be waiting for him there. But in the midst of this grand occasion, the pomp, the ceremony, the magnificent line of succession he was about to join, from the origins of St. Peter down, all Bertrand could think of was his son.

It was nine months since he had seen Raoul. Nine months since King Philippe had met him in that red tent outside Bordeaux. He had barely slept in that time, each day hovering restlessly between rage, despair and hope. Today, the predominant feeling was hope. He would be crowned and either Campbell would do what he had sworn to or he, Bertrand, would give the king what he and that impious minister wanted. He had made this decision on the day they had come to him, with their demands and their threats. Whatever happened, he would not sacrifice Raoul, even if it came at the terrible price of sacrificing the very men who might yet fulfill his dream of the liberation of Jerusalem. There were other soldiers who could take the Cross. He would never have another son. Another miracle.

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Up ahead, the mob was thicker. The road narrowed, caught between the riverbank and the bulging wall of a convent. Hundreds of people were crammed there, held back by royal guards. A great many had climbed up the wall and were perched on the top, feet kicking above the heads of those below.

The jubilant cheers ringing out his name were fading behind him. The pitch of the crowd’s roar was different here: louder, deeper. Bertrand opened his eyes. It was a sound filled with yells and shouts of protest, a sound of violence.