Callum could have cursed himself for ever trusting Clare, who had a history of changing sides in war. Nearly thirty years ago, as a young man, he’d fought on the same side as David’s father, Llywelyn, and Simon de Montfort in the Baron’s War, even putting his name to a pact that would have divided England and Wales among the three of them. Then, at a moment when Montfort’s rule stood on a knife’s edge, he’d changed allegiance, betraying all the Marcher barons he’d allied with, including his foster father, Humphrey de Bohun (the current Humphrey’s grandfather), and putting his considerable resources at the disposal of King Henry and Edward.
The current Humphrey’s father had lost his life at Evesham because of that betrayal. At the time, Humphrey had been sixteen to Clare’s eighteen. The eldest Humphrey de Bohun, having buried his son, had gone on bended knee to Henry in order to regain his lands, but Callum knew that none of the Bohuns had ever forgiven either Edward or Clare for the outcome of that war.
It was odd to think that the three Humphrey de Bohuns—grandfather, father, and son—had seen more clearly than any of them.
Chapter Fourteen
14 June 1293
David
“Those men are wanted for the murder of the Duke of Aquitaine!”
It wasn’t clear to whom the rider was speaking—perhaps to the guards on the tower of the gatehouse. In his quick glances over his shoulder, David hadn’t recognized any of the men chasing him, so he hadn’t been able to tell if they were the same riders he and Philip had encountered at the village right after they’d come out of the water.
The gatekeeper himself stood with his back to the wicket door, pressed against it as if he, a lone man, could prevent Clare’s men from battering it down if they chose to try. The black tunic with a red cross he wore indicated that he was a sergeant in the order and not a knight. Watching Kingdom of Heaven twenty times in the year before he’d come to this world hadn’t prepared David for the variety and complexity of monastic orders and their attire, but he knew that much.
They had entered a central paved courtyard, laid with white tiles adorned with a great, central Templar cross. Facing away from the gatehouse, the three other sides of the square consisted of a stable to the left, a huge stone church directly ahead, and what appeared to be barracks and a cloister off to the right. Like the white paving stones at David’s feet, everything was worked in stone and finely crafted, with great attention to detail, down to the little carvings of shields and crosses on the walls as decoration, a match to the symbol on the tiles.
Nobody had yet arrived in the courtyard to see what the fuss was about, which was either because the Templars had no curiosity at all or because they had a level of discipline that David envied. If he’d been standing sentry somewhere on the battlements, he’d be wondering what was going on and tempted to take a few steps to find out. But no head appeared from around the stonework above the gate, and the wall-walk that encircled the interior of the curtain wall was empty of observers.
“We are also supposed to have murdered the King of France, I might add,” David said in a dry tone to the gatekeeper. “Naturally, we didn’t do it, but we do know who is behind the plot, which is why those men are so anxious to capture us.”
“The Duke and King are dead?” The gatekeeper had the look of a man who few pieces of news could faze, but David’s had surprised him.
“Many untruths may be spread throughout Aquitaine and France in the coming days and weeks, and that is one of them. Neither is dead. Don’t believe they are, no matter how certain the man who tells you.” David gestured with his head to indicate the men beyond the gate. “Like them.”
Whether from Avalon or this world, people thrived on gossip, and news could spread quickly around the countryside like a game of telephone—aided and abetted by the riders who’d been following David and Philip for two days. Without any media to counteract the gossip, lies would be believed and could ferment for months and years in little villages and hamlets before people finally learned the truth.
The gatekeeper gave David a steady look, which David returned unflinchingly. He wasn’t telling the gatekeeper that he himself was the Duke of Aquitaine. It was more that he meant for the man to look into his eyes and see truth. And it seemed that the gatekeeper did believe him, or maybe it was simply that David’s password promised him not only entry but no pressing questions or explanations by the man who admitted him. As David and Philip were now captive inside the Templar compound, those questions could be put to him by the master.
After a slight narrowing of the eyes and a quick nod of the head, the gatekeeper moved away from the door enough to swing closed the metal grid that supported it on the inside. The riders outside were still shouting their objections to David’s disappearance, but the gatekeeper ignored them and drove the lock home. Since the walls on either side of the door were made of stone, and iron rods were shot through them and mortared, the door was as sturdy as any door could be. It was such a relief to be safe that David let out a breath. Clare’s men, complicit or not, weren’t getting to them right this second.
Still not having spoken more than a handful of words, the gatekeeper stood with his hands on his hips, looking from David, who loomed over him, to Philip, who, if anything, looked even grayer than before. Philip swayed slightly, opened his mouth to speak, but closed his eyes before he could.
“He’s passing out!” David had been holding Philip up. Awake, with his feet under him, he wasn’t too much of a burden, but an unconscious Philip was too heavy to be held. David went down on one knee in order to lay Philip on the ground and then looked up at the gatekeeper. “This man needs the infirmary.”
Proving himself as capable as first impression had implied, the gatekeeper gave a sharp whistle. After a moment, two younger men, servants or squires since they didn’t wear the cross, hastened out of one of the buildings that surrounded the courtyard.
One of the newcomers nudged David aside so he could care for Philip, and David let him. The Templars were knights, destined to fight for the Holy Land, but also monks, and the two roles meshed well for David’s purposes. Monks were known for their herbs and healing, and Templar monks worked hard to perfect the healing arts because men in their order routinely went into battle and were wounded.
The second man the gatekeeper had called disappeared for a few minutes before returning with a stretcher and men to carry it. They loaded Philip onto it and headed off into the nether regions of the commanderie. At a gesture from the gatekeeper, David followed, and he had to assume that word of the arrival of two strangers, one of them wounded, would reach the master, whether through the gatekeeper or one of the other guards.
The four stretcher bearers took Philip along a covered walkway that formed one side of the cloister, out a back door, and then along an open flagstone pathway to the infirmary. Even in June, a fire burned in a grate, vented out the back of the building by a half-chimney, and the room was warm.
The infirmarer, this man dressed in Templar white, with a long gray beard, greeted them. “Over there.”
Of the ten beds in the room, only three were occupied, and Philip was maneuvered onto one of the free ones. The infirmarer then dismissed all but one young man, who seemed to be his aide.
Then the infirmarer sat on the edge of Philip’s bed and gently began the process of removing the bandages and inspecting the wound. David watched in silence. He’d already done everything he could for Philip, and this man clearly knew his business.
The Templar spoke into the silence. “I understand that you arrived with a password. Am I not to ask your name?” He turned to look up at David. “Or his?”
“You can call him Jacques,” David said.
The Templar grunted a laugh. “Of course I can. Well—” He leaned forward to inspect the wound, which he’d bared, and then took a wet cloth from the bowl of water his aide held and began dabbing at the blood. “I believe the master would see you now.”
David turned to look behind h
im. A Templar knight, dressed like the infirmarer in the full regalia Templars were always supposed to wear, stood in the doorway. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, with the nearly black hair, brown eyes, and olive skin of someone from more southern parts of Europe.
“I am Henri. I will escort you to the master.”
David nodded, internally bracing himself for what was to come. He honestly didn’t know in this moment if he was going to tell the commanderie’s master, Pierre de Villiers, the truth. Would Clare have gone so far as to woo him, convince him that David was an ineffective king and would never support a new crusade like the Templars hoped? Certainly, Clare and Villiers had met. Because the Templars were focused on victory in the Holy Land—possibly at all costs—they might be buyable. David had placed his trust in the wrong man, and now he was more than a little wary about trusting anyone else.
It would have been much better for David if Clare’s captain had continued to believe that he and Philip had been mortally wounded when they’d fallen into the river, and their bodies hadn’t been found because they’d been swept out to sea. Even if he’d already sent word to Clare that David was dead, he would certainly need to inform Clare now that David was alive. Somehow, David had to convince Pierre to aid him in beating the news home.
Henri took David through the main hall and along a corridor to a closed door. Barred and blackened, it was nearly as formidable as the main gate. Henri knocked, received a faintly heard permission to enter, opened the door for David, and gestured him through it.
David found himself in a reception room—more of an office, really—not unlike his own, which testified yet again to the wealth and power of the Templars. The room contained a large table that served as a desk, several chairs, and a grate in which a fire was burning brightly. The window opened onto a garden surrounded by a high wall that formed the perimeter of the Templar holding. Pierre stood before the window, looking out, with his hands clasped behind his back.
David took two hesitant steps into the room. Henri didn’t enter with him, and it wasn’t until the door clicked shut that the Templar master turned to study David—still in silence. David didn’t speak either, not because he didn’t feel like it was his place or because he felt somehow inferior to the older man, but because he was taking the measure of Pierre too. Gray-haired like most of these Templars seemed to be, Pierre was tall and thinner than looked healthy on him, as if he’d recently lost a great deal of weight. Templars weren’t as ascetic as other monks, since they could be called upon to fight at any moment, which was difficult to do well on an empty stomach. Pierre, David guessed, had recently been ill—and might still be.
After another few heartbeats of study, Pierre gestured towards a chair on the other side of his desk. “Please come forward into the light and sit. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
David settled himself into the cushioned chair, which wasn’t a luxury he would have expected from a Templar, even a master. The place where the arrows had hit his chest really hurt, and he let out a low groan as he leaned back. He was bone-tired, and acknowledgement of that fact almost had him standing up again out of fear that if he sat for more than a minute, his muscles would lock, and he wouldn’t be able to move again today.
Pierre sat too—with a similar groan and a sigh. “Getting old isn’t for the faint of heart.”
Given what David had just been thinking, that was worth a laugh, though to do so hurt his chest too. Pierre sounded so much like Bevyn, so he answered him with Bevyn’s words. “It is the price we pay for living.”
“Ah.” Pierre’s eyes brightened as he looked at David. “A philosopher. I’ve heard that about you, my lord.”
David froze.
Pierre patted a pair of glasses on his desk. “I have you to thank for these.”
David felt himself stuttering. “Have-have we met?”
“I attended your crowning alongside the master of Temple Church.”
David shook his head. “That was a busy week. I’m sorry to say I don’t remember.”
Pierre flicked his fingers as if it were no matter. “Much has happened since then.”
David felt like saying, “You can say that again,” but refrained. He didn’t have a read on Pierre yet and was afraid of putting a foot wrong.
“I was invited to Chateau Niort to dine with you the evening King Philip arrived, but I have been—” Pierre paused a moment before continuing, “incapacitated.”
David hadn’t been told any of that, and he wondered how differently that night would have gone if Pierre had been at the chateau. Maybe Clare’s captain would have blithely murdered him too.
“I heard the news of your assassination not two hours ago from my own men. The news grieved me sorely, for the sake of my Order as well as the people you rule. Your death would bring disorder yet again to Aquitaine—and to England.” He gestured to David. “But here you are alive and on the run. Why did you not seek sanctuary at Vauclair or any number of your castles between here and Chateau Niort? Surely Charles’s influence doesn’t reach this far?”
David gave a rueful grunt. “Is that what you heard—that the man behind the assassination was Philip’s brother, Charles?”
Pierre nodded. “You’re saying he isn’t?”
“Oh, he might be behind it all right, but he had help on this end from Gilbert de Clare, who I would peg as the actual mastermind. Did you hear what those men who were chasing us said? They accused us of murder.”
“Who are you supposed to have murdered?”
“Ourselves!” David laughed. “It’s an ingenious plan, actually. Clare’s captain must have been hoping we’d be executed on sight, long before we could prove our identity.”
“You say our? Then—”
“Yes. My wounded companion is Philip, the King of France.” There didn’t seem to be any point in hiding his identity, now that David’s was out of the bag.
Pierre leaned forward, his gaze intent. “By your very presence, I believe you that there is a plot against you, but do you have any proof that Clare is behind it?”
“Are not the words spoken by Clare’s men enough?” And then David explained all the reasons why it had to be Clare who’d orchestrated everything. With each item he listed, David found his anger rising again, and he fought to tamp it back down.
“I kept one of the arrows the assassin shot at me. It is Welsh-made, loosed from a longbow rather than a crossbow.” He looked straight into Pierre’s eyes. “Do you believe me?”
Pierre held David’s gaze for a few seconds and then nodded. “Do not fear, my lord. You have come to the one place in all of Aquitaine where you are safe.”
David breathed more easily. He’d poured out everything he knew to Pierre because he’d needed to do so. His welfare was entirely in Pierre’s hands, seeing how he was captive in a Templar stronghold. If he couldn’t trust this Templar, he had nowhere else to turn. “I had hoped as much. It was my understanding that if you served anyone, it would not be Gilbert de Clare.”
“Unfortunately for Clare, he did not include us Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ in his calculations, I don’t think,” Pierre said, using the formal name of the Templars. “The pope has made a similar error.”
David leaned forward. “Boniface and Clare are in league together?” He’d been so preoccupied with survival that the idea that Clare had been working with the Church as well as Charles hadn’t occurred to him. Boniface couldn’t see the future like David could, so he couldn’t know that he would die at the behest of Philip in 1303, or that the great writer, Dante, would place Boniface in the eighth circle of hell for questing after temporal power. That was in Avalon, of course, where Boniface wasn’t yet pope. There, the papacy had been left empty for two years as a result of bickering over the election. Whether due to David’s presence or some other vagary of fate, they’d been stuck with Boniface in this world a little early.
But even without knowing his own future, Boniface could see a threat when it stared him
in the face, and both David and Philip jeopardized his power. He’d begun by threatening to excommunicate David as a way to control him. When that hadn’t worked, he tried to co-opt David by calling for a new crusade and putting him at the head of it. That hadn’t worked yet either.
Pierre, however, hastily put up his hands. “Not to have you murdered, I don’t believe. Not that. But they have met. Clare supports a new crusade and has assured the pope that he does not share your curious religious—” he paused as he appeared to search for the word, “—convictions.”
David rubbed his chin. He was speaking to a Templar master, a monk, and a man completely committed to the Church, but he couldn’t let that pass. “I desire peace for all peoples, regardless of their religion, and I do not condemn a man for not sharing mine.”
“Yes, yes. I know. But we must have Jerusalem.”
David canted his head, in apology and appeasement, deciding they’d better talk about something else. “With the events of last Christmas, we did not take the chatter about Clare seriously. That was our mistake for which I apologize and—” he gave a mocking laugh, “—for which it seems I have paid in full.”
Pierre accepted the change of subject. “For my part, the directives coming out of Italy are disturbing. Boniface is pressing our grand master, Jacques de Molay, to renew our assault on the Holy Land this year. If we do not, he insists we should disband immediately.”
Pierre left and give up our wealth to Boniface unsaid, but it was what Pierre meant and what Boniface wanted.
David didn’t want to offend Pierre, but he couldn’t help asking the question: “Wouldn’t taking back the Holy Land be the purpose of your order?”
“Of course,” Pierre said, “but God’s kingdom is forever. Far better to delay the renewal of our attempt to wrest the Kingdom of Jerusalem from Muslim hands until we have an actual chance of success, rather than waste the lives of good men.”
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