Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (55 page)

“You will be remembered as the man who united France,” said Nogaret adamantly. “The man who led his kingdom into a new age of prosperity and order, an age ruled by men of reason, not blind faith.”

“I underestimated our new pope,” murmured Philippe, looking back at the forlorn island. “Can the soldier tell us nothing of those who mounted the assault?”

Nogaret’s expression tightened. “He didn’t see them. When he realized Gilles and the others were losing the fi ght, he fl ed. What the fool should have done was hide out near the house to get a clear look at the attackers. Now I fear we will never know who they were.”

“I expect they were just mercenaries Clement paid to save his child.”

Philippe wandered down to the bridge, the hem of his black cloak trailing in the mud. “He had more backbone than I anticipated.” The king grasped the wooden handrail, but didn’t step up onto the moss-coated boards.

“We could go after the child?” offered Nogaret, rubbing pensively at his chin. “I am almost certain someone in Clement’s circle will know where the boy has been taken.”

Philippe was shaking his head. “No. It is over. Without the pope’s support we cannot bring down the Temple.” He stared out across the bridge. “My plans for the conquest of new territory will have to remain just that: plans.

Without funds I can do nothing more.” His brow furrowed. “Perhaps if we raise the taxes again?”

“It would be risky. The mood in the city and the rest of the kingdom is dark, my lord. The riots have only just been put down. The situation remains volatile.” Nogaret sighed roughly. “The Temple is—”

“The Temple is lost to us,” interrupted Philippe, turning from the bridge and heading up the bank toward the door in the wall. “That is the end of it.”

“There will be another way, my lord, I am certain.” Nogaret followed swiftly. “We just need to think of it.”

“I have done enough thinking. My head is so full of thoughts it feels like it will burst. Just leave me.”

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Nogaret went to say something, but fell silent, dropping back to let the king stride off through the royal gardens alone. Now wasn’t the time to push Philippe. He would have to wait for the dust to settle before he tried again.

This was a disaster. Bertrand de Got had seemed so ripe, so ready to be picked and pressed. But they had elected the wrong man again. Nogaret made his way into the palace, seething with frustration over the incompetence of the royal guards and the pope’s sudden change of attitude. The Temple remained their best chance of securing and strengthening the kingdom, but Philippe was right: without the pope’s support they couldn’t use the order for their own gain.

The minister was so wrapped up in these thoughts as he made his way down the passage to his chambers that he didn’t notice Will until after they passed each other. He stopped short and turned, eyes narrowing. “Campbell?”

“Minister de Nogaret,” Will said to greet him, inclining his head.

“You’re back sooner than I expected. I always imagined the journey to Scotland to be an arduous one.”

“I didn’t have to go that far. I met with one of Wallace’s generals in England.”

Nogaret’s gaze moved to a square of parchment in Will’s hand. “A message?”

“From my sister by the hand,” replied Will, holding it up so Nogaret could see his name, scrawled on the front. “It was waiting for me when I returned.”

He smiled. “I expect it will be a lengthy note on how many words my niece’s child can now say and how many teeth the young one has. But I doubt any of it will interest you, Minister. How was the ceremony in Lyons?”

“There was some unrest,” responded Nogaret, studying Will’s face and feeling suspicious, without knowing why. “Twelve people were killed when a wall collapsed, but the pope was unharmed.”

“I presume the king will continue with his plans now?”

“There have been some unforeseen developments,” said Nogaret, after a pause. “But this is not the time or the place to discuss them. I imagine the king will send for you in due course. I am sure he will want to hear any news you bring from England. We have heard very little from our neighbor of late.”

“I will be happy to oblige.”

Nogaret watched Will head off, before moving in the opposite direction, feeling his frustration building, a restless hum in his mind.

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Philippe walked numbly down the passages of the royal apartments. Somewhere in a nearby room, he heard a young girl’s laughter and guessed it was his daughter. The sound pierced him. He moved on, faster now, heading for his private chamber and solitude. The air in these gloomy corridors was icy, but he hardly felt it through the emotions that boiled inside him: a furnace of rage, despair and humiliation. He paused outside his room, palm pushed against the door, assailed by the memory of himself on his knees before the bewildered pope. He knew he had felt nothing but terror at the time, but almost immediately after he left Clement to make his way, defeated, back to Paris, he had felt a rising, flaming shame. How could he have let himself be cowed so easily? He opened the door roughly, then halted, his eyes on the woman who rose from his bed.

Rose stood in silence. Anger was scrawled across the king’s face, drawn sharply in the lines that knotted his brow, etched in his taut mouth and jaw. She went to move, almost hearing him command her to leave, but stopped herself when she realized he hadn’t spoken. Pushing the door closed, he turned back to her.

It seemed like far longer than three months since she had seen him last. He had returned from Lyons the day before, but had been occupied in meetings.

“What are you doing in here, Rose?” Philippe asked, taking his gaze from her and removing his cloak.

As he tossed it on the bed she stared at it, wondering where he had been.

The hem of the garment was coated with mud. “I wanted to see you.” The words came out in a whisper. She had meant them to sound stronger. Philippe’s blue eyes were wintry. She shook her head, realizing how dangerous this was; how great a trespass. “I . . . I apologize,” she said, stumbling over the words as she crossed the room. “I will leave you.”

“Wait.”

She faltered, reaching for the door.

“Stay.” Philippe kicked off his boots and sat back on the bed, leaning up against the silk pillows. “Sit with me.”

Rose moved slowly back, keeping her eyes downcast so he wouldn’t see her emotions caught within them, naked and exposed. She perched awkwardly on the large bed, close to one of the carved wooden posts at the foot. His cloak, she noticed, was dripping mud on to the floor. Philippe had closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall. Unlike hers, his breathing was slow and even. As she watched, he moved a hand to the space beside him.

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“Sit here.”

Rose bent to slip off her shoes. He moved his hand away as she slid over onto the place where it had been. She could feel every part of her: the blood in her cheeks, the trembling in her hands, the rapid pulse of her heart. She didn’t think she had ever felt so alive or so terrified as she lay back against the pillows, as stiff as a board. She jumped, feeling something icy against her knuckles and realized it was his finger. His eyes remained closed as he brushed it unhurriedly, lightly up her hand, over her wrist and under the sleeve of her black gown. She tried to close her own eyes, but the feel of his dislocated touch in the darkness made her feel giddy. His breathing had shifted its rhythm. All at once, he sat up. Removing the gold circlet from his head, he placed it on the table by the bed and turned back to her. He leaned over, planting his hands to either side of her. Finally, she closed her eyes as his mouth came down to press against hers. She could smell the river on him. After a time, he raised himself again. They stared at each other, unspeaking, as he unlaced the ties at the sides of her gown. Rose shivered as he pulled it from her.

The air was freezing against her skin and she crossed her arms self-consciously about her chest, one resting over the other to cover the burn marks.

Philippe tugged his velvet tunic over his head and unpicked the thongs that fastened the hair shirt in place. When it came away from his body, her gaze traced the red-raw skin, following the lines the whip had made, patterns of punishment and shame. Tentatively, she uncrossed her arms, laying her own scars bare. She wanted to reach out and touch his web of wounds. The queen’s voice murmured in her mind.

All his veins on the outside.

His movements were quick now, impatient, as he pushed her thighs apart, his hand going between them. His fingers were still icy. Rose wanted him to slow, to be gentle. She wanted to whisper her thoughts, her fears and wishes, to tell him how long she had waited for his attention. She wanted him to kiss her again. But she didn’t know how to command a king and so she lay in frozen silence as he moved on top of her, his face flushed and feverish. His eyes were shut. He didn’t see her turn her head to mask the wrenching, stinging sensation, didn’t notice her hands splay and grip the blanket. Rose squeezed her eyes together as she felt herself pulled apart, but through the pain she heard him speaking softly. She twisted her head closer to his to listen. After a moment, the whisper came again.

“Jeanne,” he was murmuring, as he plowed blindly into her. “
Jeanne
.”

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Will felt Nogaret’s eyes lingering on him as he walked away down the passage.

He didn’t look back as he turned a corner and headed for his quarters, the folded parchment now soft and slightly damp in his fi st.

When he reached the small room, which had been home for so long, he shut the door gratefully. There was a crack in the window that looked out over a large courtyard and the chamber was freezing. The only items of furniture, other than a locked chest in the corner upon which lay his sword, hauberk and traveling cloak, were a stool and a table with a jug of water and a few misshapen stubs of candles on it. He had returned that morning to find a thin sheet of dust over everything, but now as he ran a finger across the table and it came back clean, he realized the servants must have been here. He wondered who else had noted his arrival, and he felt all at once uneasy, as if the palace were full of watching eyes, waiting for him to slip, to reveal himself. Forcing these thoughts away, Will sank onto his pallet. He was an honored guest of the king; it was to be expected that people would notice his comings and goings.

He was just feeling guarded because of Nogaret’s chilly reception, but the minister’s distrustful manner was nothing new. No one suspected him.

He focused instead on the parchment in his hands. News from his family was such a rare treat, he didn’t want anything to spoil it. Smiling in anticipation, he broke the wax that sealed it and pulled the pages apart. As his eyes moved over the crumpled skin, his smile faded.

My dear brother,

I hope this letter fi nds you well. Alas, I cannot say that all is well with us,
or ever will be again. I am sorry I have not written for so long, but times
have been hard and there has been scant occasion for much other than the
business of keeping alive. The harvests have not been good and this in itself would be a hardship, but coupled with King Edward’s wars we fi nd
ourselves poorer and our larders emptier than any of us could have imagined. John Balliol remains in exile in France and we have given up hope
of ever having a king upon our throne again, unless it be the Hammer
himself. We are at least fortunate where we are in the north to have been
spared from much of the violence of his campaigns, although since the fall
of Stirling Castle to the English last year there has been little fi ghting. You
may have heard that the Scottish nobles were forced to yield to the king
and make a truce at that time, but what many outside our borders are
unaware of is that they were only granted their freedom on the condition
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they hunted down the one man who still defied the English king, your
friend and general, Sir William Wallace. Even Sir David Graham was
enlisted in this cause, although of course he did no such thing.

The same cannot be said for others. Where the many men Edward sent
out to capture Sir William failed, Sir John Menteith succeeded. He discovered Sir William was hiding out in a house in the woods near Glasgow
with Gray. It is known that he and his men came upon them in the night.

I am sorry to tell you that Gray was put to the sword. Christian can hardly
speak for the grief of it. Sir William apparently fought and killed many of
his captors, but they were too many even for him and in the end he was
overpowered. He was borne in haste to Carlisle, bound to his own horse,
and delivered to English nobles who took him south to London. It all happened so quickly that it was some time before we heard any of this in Elgin. David, however, was near the border on business with his lord and
they made the decision to follow. I am still not sure what they intended to
accomplish by this. I think my brave son hoped they would somehow be
able to rescue Sir William. But as soon as they arrived in London they realized the futility of this. David says the city was packed to the walls with
people from all over, come to watch. Sir William was under heavy guard
and the streets around his prison were so crowded they couldn’t even get
near.

On the twenty-third day of August, Sir William Wallace was taken to
Westminster, they say to stand trial, but I think you know as well as any of
us the mockery of that. Sir William, who had never sworn fealty to the
King of England, stood accused of treason to the crown. He was charged
and the sentence passed that very day. David has told me some of what
followed, but by no means all. I think he wanted to spare me the horror,
which I know haunts him, even with all he has seen. When I start to
think of it—the crowds, the heat, the terror of it—I feel sick to my soul.