Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (64 page)

All his life had been leading up to that moment. Now the dream of walking through the gates of that golden city in the footsteps of the Lord was fading 380 robyn

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before his eyes. He thought of the grand master’s advice and heard the possibility in the words. But Philippe was the most powerful monarch left in the West and his concentration was occupied elsewhere.

the royal palace, paris, september 13, 1307 ad

Rose sat swaddled in her blue cloak as all around her the Great Hall throbbed with noise and heat. On immense tables stretched between the scores of pillars ranked like an army of marble soldiers beneath the vaulted ceiling, the elite of the kingdom’s nobility gorged themselves on the feast. Everywhere she looked, she saw mouths opening and slivers of meat, juicy with blood, being shoveled inside. A duke several places away told a ribald joke, while flecks of food fl ew from between his teeth and the ladies around him brayed with laughter. Stiff-faced lawyers and bejeweled bishops slurped at goblets of wine that stained their lips and teeth black, and everywhere silver plates glittered under mountains of food. At the heart of each table sat the crowning glory of the evening: a bloated pie stuffed with partridges, quails, larks and a dozen tiny sparrows.

A wide gash had been cut in the center of the pie opposite her and Rose couldn’t take her gaze off the rows of little dark bodies, slippery with fat, crammed inside its pastry folds. She could smell the eggs that had been mixed into the flour, pick out the sharp notes of rosemary and thyme. All her senses seemed heightened, fragile. The sound of a knife slicing through cheese to strike the board was an axe blow, a bishop’s booming voice a thunderclap.

“Rose, you have to eat.”

She glanced around to see Blanche staring at her.

The petite handmaiden nodded encouragingly. “Just a mouthful or two.”

Her murmur dropped to a breathy whisper. “You have to think of the baby.”

Rose looked down at her stomach, hidden beneath the table and the folds of her cloak. Think of the baby? She could do nothing else.

Her belly was as taut as a drum and she knew that when she stood the eyes of most of the men and women in the hall would flick furtively to it. Hands, here and there, would come up to hide mouths as they whispered to their neighbors about the king’s whore and her bastard child. Ladies would toss their veiled heads and lords would grin and make lewd gestures with their sticky fingers. The palace had never been a comfortable home for her, but she had never known it to be so hostile. Some nights, sweating in the darkness of the fall of the templars

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the dormitory, she would lie there, stiff as a board, poised for the sound of footsteps approaching her door.

Once, shortly after she arrived in Paris, she had seen two servants carrying a litter of kittens out of the stables. She had halted, transfixed with pleasant wonder by the blind, soft bodies writhing in their hands, then, as the servants crouched by a pail of water, shock had tightened her skin. One of the worst things about it had been all the people who passed by, not even noticing the tiny lives being drowned in that bucket. When it was done, Rose crept into the stables to fi nd the mother licking feebly at the blood on her fur and mew-ing for her children. She must have sat with that cat for over an hour, murmuring words of comfort and stroking her head until she slept.

If they came to take her in the night would anyone notice?

An image of her father hung in her mind. He used to be a shadow or a ghost, something vague that haunted her. How cruel fate was. His face, now he was gone, was painfully clear. Philippe had angrily denied killing him that night in May and had even accused her of his disappearance, but she knew the king was lying and her father was dead. Sometimes, she relished the violent kicks her child woke her with, each twist a punishment for her betrayal. Penance for her sin.

Rose’s gaze moved to Philippe. The king was seated on the dais that spanned the far end of the Great Hall. The royal table, suspended above the rest of the crowd, was surrounded by his family: his brothers and his sons, now growing into handsome young men, and his beloved Isabella. Barely twelve years old, the princess was betrothed to the new king of England, Edward II, and was due to set sail early next year for the wedding. For months, Philippe, who had secured the profitable marriage in return for the restoration of Gascony to English hands, had hardly let her leave his sight, as if clinging to the last few precious moments of his daughter’s childhood. To either side of the king sat his gray-faced confessor, Guillaume de Paris, and Nogaret. The placing of that table, its height, its remove, was designed to let everyone know the favored positions of those around it. Philippe didn’t need to tell her what he thought of her and his unborn child. Her place on the floor was plainer than words.

As she watched, Nogaret murmured something and Philippe nodded. He stood, his black mantle embroidered with white fleurs-de-lis falling around him, and a page hastened to draw back his throne. The minstrels ceased their playing and, one by one, all the men and women around the tables rose respectfully. Ignoring their bows and curtsies, Philippe headed for the ornate 382 robyn

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doors that led to the royal apartments, Nogaret at his side, hurrying to keep up. While the crowd seated themselves and the minstrels struck up again, Rose remained standing. She felt Blanche’s hand on her arm, but shrugging it off, she slipped across the hall, keeping her gaze ahead so she couldn’t see all those faces turn to watch her go.

Through the doors the cool, hushed air of the passage was a welcome relief.

She passed quickly along an open gallery, the rain blowing across the dark courtyard misting her face. It had been pouring for three days without end and the palace grounds were swampy. Puddles gleamed like ink below and the conversation of the guards moving in the compound was muted by the thrum of water. Beyond the walls, the Seine was swollen up to its banks and fl owing fast, white flecks rushing in the darkness.

Heading into a wider corridor, Rose slowed as she approached the king’s chamber, partly to catch her breath, partly to arrange her thoughts. The im-pulse that had driven her from the hall remained, but now she was here she was scared. Philippe had become more and more distant these past few months and she no longer knew his moods. But the feast this evening, with all those unfriendly, judging stares, had confirmed her fear of just how precarious her standing in the palace was and she desperately needed assurance. For some weeks she had harbored the idea that the king might allow her to go to the château at Vincennes, maybe even with Blanche now Isabella was leaving; that he might let her have her baby alone, far from court intrigue and the poison she knew Nogaret had been pouring into his ear.

She could hear the two of them through the door. The king’s voice was pensive.

“You are certain Clement did as he was told?”

“The Paris officials should have already left for Poitiers.”

“Should have? I want to know for certain, Nogaret. You will fi nd out.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I want the Temple wide open when we come for them. I want the rank and fi le separated from their leaders. Now that de Molay is in France we must move swiftly before our plan is discovered.”

“It is all in hand, my lord. The pope and the leaders of the Temple will be occupied discussing Esquin de Floyran’s claims for some while. By the time their assembly is fi nished our men will be in place and ready to act. The summons for de Molay can be sent as soon as you command.”

Rose felt their words like knives, each one a cutting reminder of what she the fall of the templars

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had helped to make possible by the removal of her father. How much ruin a few words could cause. She hadn’t realized her own terrible power.

Steeling herself, she rapped on the door. The voices stopped abruptly. The door opened and Nogaret appeared. Behind him, Philippe stood by the hearth, the flames lighting his hard face. On a table beside him was a pile of scrolls, all bound in black leather cases. As the concern faded from their expressions to be replaced by irritation in Nogaret’s and impatience in the king’s, she understood how little she meant to them. They didn’t even care that she might have overheard their conversation. She was so insignificant she might as well not exist at all. She opened her mouth to petition the king with her request, but all that came were words she didn’t even know she wanted to say until they choked from her. “Please, Philippe, tell me what you did to my father.”

Nogaret spun away with a curse.

The king’s brow knotted. “You dare to question me on this again?”

“My lord, I beg you.” Rose rushed into the room and went down on her knees before him. “Tell me what happened that night and I will never speak of it again. I need to know.”

“Need to know?” snapped Nogaret, turning on her. “I am almost certain it is because of you that Campbell isn’t rotting in our cells! Did you warn him?”

He grasped hold of her shoulder, his thin fingers pinching. “Did you?”

Rose stared in shock as the king turned away and unhurriedly picked up a goblet from the table. She gasped as the minister’s grip dug into her.

“Let her go, Nogaret,” Philippe said, after taking a sip. “She didn’t betray me. She knows what I would do if she did.” He drained the goblet and looked down on her. “Don’t you.”

Rose touched her bruised shoulder as Nogaret stepped reluctantly away, but her eyes didn’t leave the king’s. “I wish I had,” she whispered, struggling to her feet. “I wish to God I had warned him. I hate myself for what I did.” The words were out before she could stop them. “And I hate you for forcing me to do it!”

Nogaret started forward, but the king held up his hand. “Forcing you?”

His mouth twisted. “You were champing at the bit.” He moved to the table where the scrolls were piled high. There must have been dozens of them. Turning his back on her, Philippe gestured to Nogaret. “I want these delivered to the seneschals of France tomorrow morning.”

“What about your child?” Rose shouted, her hand clutching her stomach.

“Do you not even care for it?”

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Philippe spun. “Child? That thing inside you is no child!” His voice lashed out. “It is grief, swollen and putrid. It is a boil. A cyst!” Rose stumbled back as he tossed his goblet aside and strode to her. “By God, it should have been lanced when it was made, rather than allowed to grow into this monstrosity, paraded before me as proof of my sins!” He thrust her toward the door. “Get out, before I decide to do it myself!”

Rose staggered into the passage as the door slammed shut. She struck the wall with painful force and slid down, feeling the baby writhe blindly inside her.

38

The Temple, Paris

september 14, 1307 ad

It was past midnight and the city was a watery smudge of darkness, obscured by bands of rain. Here and there, flickers of torchlight in the windows of the taller towers winked out of sight as the downpour worsened, lashing the air in solid sheets.

Will crouched close to the roadside, the rain on his leather hood like the rapid drum of fingers. He blinked water from his eyes as he focused on the preceptory gate, visible through the swaying trees. Atop the gatehouse tower, the Temple’s black and white banner twisted limply. Will made out the shadows of two men guarding the entrance, mail coats glimmering in the guttering flames of a torch. Keeping low, he crept into the tangle of bushes that ran rampant around the walls. The Paris preceptory was immense and it would usually take fifteen minutes to walk from the main gate to the servants’ entrances at the back. In the gusting rain and dark and mud, it took Will almost an hour to negotiate his way through the undergrowth. By the time the brambles opened onto a path that led to a small gate in the sheer walls, he was exhausted.

After leaving the Scottish border, he had made it to London, surviving on berries, nuts and river water. In the city it took him almost a fortnight to beg passage on a vessel headed for France. This was the hardest part of the journey.

The docks were crawling with whores, beggars and thieves, all trying to make a penny, feed themselves or escape the city. Without the fruits of the fi elds free the fall of the templars

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to him, he was forced to pick through rubbish-strewn alleys outside inns and brothels to fi nd food.

Finally, after a rough, uncomfortable crossing on a horse-carrier, he landed at Honfleur and followed the broad curves of the Seine to Paris. He hadn’t shaved in weeks and his beard was as full as it had been when he was a knight.

Crouching to cup water from a stream that morning, he had been struck by his reflection: crinkled green eyes staring up at him, hair, almost all gray, hanging raggedly around his sun-dark and battle-pitted face.

Ignoring the weariness dragging at his limbs, Will made his way up to the gate. He paused outside, listening, but only heard the roar of the rain. It was the dead of night, between midnight and Matins, and most men in the preceptory would be asleep. After trying the door, locked as expected, he crossed to a gnarled chestnut, the thick branches of which stretched over the wall. He was relieved to see it was still there. Once, many years ago, returning late from an errand for Everard, he had found himself locked out of the preceptory and, not wanting to be challenged by the guards, had shinned up the tree and down the other side. But he was sixty now, not sixteen.

Gathering his strength, Will hauled himself up and swung awkwardly onto the lowest branch. The leaves flurried around him as he climbed the next two, hands slipping in the wet. Straddling the fourth branch, he inched forward, until he could slide off and crouch on the top of the wall. As he paused to catch his breath, he sought a soft landing. The ground, a smear of black beneath him, looked a long way away. After a moment’s hesitation, he gritted his teeth and threw himself out into space. As his feet slammed into the ground, he rolled with the impact. Coming to a stop, he lay on his back, staring into the rain and waiting for the scream of broken bones. When he felt no pain, he pushed himself to his feet.