by Robyn Young
“Don’t,” said Robert. “The king has surrounded himself with men who share his ambitions for expansion. His son is too young to rule without their counsel. Scotland will still fall under the steel of an English Army and you’ll have done nothing to stop it. The only thing you can do is try to persuade Hugues to end this alliance.”
Will stared at the sword in his hands. It was a Scottish blade. It had belonged to his father and his grandfather. He looked down at his things, strewn across his bed. Was this all he was left with after a lifetime of struggle?
“Edward won’t stop his war if we refuse to give him the men. He’ll just find his soldiers somewhere else. He’ll still lead his army north. He’ll still . . .” Will trailed off.
Robert was speaking again, but Will wasn’t listening. It wasn’t true: he did have something. He had information. He knew Edward’s plans, or at least enough of them to give the Scottish forces a chance.
Robert stared at him as he sheathed his sword and unhooked the clasp of his mantle. “What are you doing?”
Will pulled the white garment, emblazoned with its red cross, from his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. He felt lighter than he had in years. He tugged off his surcoat and tossed it aside. Bending down, he stuffed his belongings back into his sack and grabbed from the head of the pallet the plain woolen cloak that he’d been using as a pillow. He shrugged it on over his hauberk. “I’m going home.”
Robert’s confusion turned to disbelief. “No, Will, for God’s sake!”
“If the only option I have is to hinder his war, make it harder for him to get what he wants, that is what I’ll do.”
“Do this and you’ll be betraying your own men! You won’t find justice where you’re going,” Robert shouted, as Will slung his pack over his shoulder. “You’ll only find war.”
“Peace sometimes has to be bought with blood, Everard was right. And it’ll be with Edward’s blood that I’ll buy it.”
“What about Rose?”
Will halted in the doorway. His daughter’s words rang in his mind. I lost my parents. Both of them. She didn’t even believe he was her father. “She will have a better life without me,” he murmured. “You will watch out for her? You and Simon?”
“Your father ran from his family, from you. It haunts you still. Do not do the same to her.”
“My father left to do something good and right in this world. I failed to continue his dream. Perhaps we should have done more in the Holy Land. Maybe we should have stood firmer in the face of our enemies, used our swords more and our tongues less.”
“We use our swords only when all hope of diplomacy is passed.”
“And that is now.”
Robert went to him and took his arm. “You cannot come back from this, Will. You’ll be imprisoned as a deserter. Do you understand? You cannot come back.”
“I do not want to.” As he said it, Will felt his newfound sense of purpose solidify. Pulling away from Robert, he stepped through the door.
6
The Royal Palace, Paris
JANUARY 14, 1296 AD
Philippe raised his head as the door to his bedchamber opened. His wife entered, followed by two handmaidens carrying her embroidery materials. Philippe returned to his study of the parchment he was holding then looked up again, his eyes fixing on one of the handmaidens, who placed several spools of silk on a table near the ornate bed that dominated the chamber. He stared after her as she headed out, the door clicking shut behind her.
“What is it?” asked Jeanne, following Philippe’s intent gaze. Her voice was soft and low.
“Who was that girl?” he demanded, setting the parchment on his desk and rising.
“Marguerite?”
“Not her. The other one. Who is she?”
The queen frowned at his tone. “Her name is Rose. She has been a servant here for some time. I have just promoted her to my staff.”
“I saw her last month. She was meeting a man outside the palace. The steward was supposed to have expelled her.” Philippe strode to the door.
“Wait.” Jeanne crossed to him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “It was a misunderstanding. The man you saw wasn’t her lover, as you told the steward. It was her father.”
“Why would she be meeting him in secret on the riverbank like some bawd?”
“He is a Templar.”
Philippe arched an eyebrow. “A Knight Templar with a daughter?”
“Her mother was a handmaiden to your grandmother, here in the palace. Andreas di Paolo, the Venetian mercer who supplies my tailor, wrote to me asking if I could find her work. He always struck me as a man of good judgment on the occasions he had an audience with me.” Jeanne went to the table where Rose had deposited the silks. She picked up a vibrant blue spool. “She rarely speaks of her family. I think her mother died at Acre. The other girls say she sometimes cries in the night.” Sighing, the queen set down the silk. “I suppose I felt sorry for her.”
Philippe’s brow furrowed. Going to her, he put his hands on her shoulders and looked down into her brown eyes, always so expressive, so filled with emotion. He traced a finger across her face, which was as soft and round as the rest of her. There was nothing hard about Jeanne. She was a woman of curves and contours with dark, slightly heavy features and thick black hair, inherited from her native Navarre. She had grown even fuller after the birth of their sixth child, a girl called Isabella, but to Philippe she was as lovely as she had been since he had first known her. They were betrothed twelve years ago, when she was eleven and he was sixteen, but before that they had grown up together in the royal house at Vincennes. Jeanne, who inherited the throne of Navarre as a baby, had been placed in the royal household by her widowed mother and the two children had grown close, Philippe taking on the protective role of older brother.
Drawing her to him, he stroked her hair. “I hate to see you sad.” He felt her arms come up, her hands sliding across his back, and he winced when her fingers brushed a fresh laceration.
Jeanne lifted her cheek from his chest as he tensed. “I wish you wouldn’t mortify yourself,” she murmured, the concern in her eyes now all for him.
Philippe pulled away. “Guillaume de Paris believes it necessary.”
“Your new confessor seems to be a difficult man to please, more difficult perhaps than faith demands?”
“I am king, Jeanne. God demands much of a man in my position.” He scowled. “As does this kingdom. My grandfather has not even been canonized, yet the people proclaim him a saint. Can I command such respect?”
“Give them time. Once they know you as I do, they will love you as they loved Louis.”
Philippe looked over at the desk, littered with the parchments Flote had given him that morning. They were rolls from the treasury, listing his expenses in Guienne and his treasurer’s estimations of what it would take to keep his army in the duchy over the coming months. Everywhere he turned another lord was trying to keep him from consolidating his kingdom: Edward, rapacious dukes in the south, stubborn counts in neighboring Flanders. If he couldn’t find the funds to control them he might as well just call himself king of the Ile de la Cité and be done with it. “The people will only see my greatness in deeds, Jeanne. To be seen as a great king, I must act as one.” He kissed her brow. “But, here.” He picked up the blue spool of silk and placed it in his wife’s hands. “Do not burden yourself with my worries.”
Leaving Jeanne to take up her embroidery, Philippe moved pensively through the grand passageways of the royal apartments, servants bowing as he passed. He headed through a set of doors and stepped out onto a covered balcony that ran around to an ornate portal, leading into the upper level of the Sainte-Chapelle. Below, in the courtyard, courtiers and officials hurried about their business, not noticing their king come to a rigid halt before the chapel doors and stand there, eyes on the stone Christ that guarded the threshold. Philippe’s gaze moved over the statue to the pier above, which depicted a scene from the Last Jud
gment. A seething mass of men and women were cut out of the stone, each blow of the masons’ chisels carving another expression of anguish or horror from their writhing forms, while in their midst the angel, Michael, weighed their souls. If he looked at them long enough, they seemed to move. His heart quickened as he stepped toward the doors, swallowing back the rising dryness in his mouth. Reaching out, Philippe placed his hands on the wood. Steeling himself, he pushed. The doors opened into a vast, empty space, filled with glass and echoing silence.
“My lord.”
Philippe started at the voice. He turned, angry to be caught unawares, to see Flote behind him, but his anger thawed, replaced by eagerness, as his eyes flicked to the figure at the chancellor’s side.
Guillaume de Nogaret bowed. “I bring news from London, my lord.”
With greater relief than the two men could know, Philippe grasped the chapel’s doors and pulled them firmly closed, shutting off the sight of the cavernous space beyond. He crossed to his ministers, pulling his fur-lined cloak tighter around his shoulders. “Well?”
“Edward did make an alliance with the Temple, as you feared,” answered Guillaume, “but against Scotland, not you. According to the queen mother, the meeting was initially called to discuss the pope’s proposition to merge the Temple and the Hospital, but Edward’s designs on Scotland took precedence. She sends her regards to her daughter,” Guillaume added, when Philippe remained silent.
“I will pass them to Jeanne,” replied Philippe distractedly. He looked at Flote. “What are your thoughts?”
“I would say this is good news, my lord. Your fears that Edward would ally with the Temple against you have been assuaged.”
“But that they would ally with him at all still concerns me.” Philippe toyed with his lower lip, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. “Did you manage to find out anything else, Nogaret? Edward’s plans for Gascony? Troop movements?”
“Unfortunately, Blanche hasn’t been privy to any reports her husband has sent to Edward. It seems the king is wary of her presence in his household and has kept her under close scrutiny since his brother left for Gascony. Edward is more intent on his plans for Scotland at present; that much was plain. From what I could ascertain, he intends to put down the rebellion under King John before making any further move in your territory. We could use his distraction to step up our own efforts in the region.”
Philippe was nodding, but Flote quickly interjected. “My lord, if you had a chance to study the rolls I sent to you this morning, you will see that we simply do not have the revenue for any extension of our forces in the area. We are already stretched to the limits. Perhaps a temporary truce with Edward might be the best way forward, at least while he is preoccupied in Scotland? This will allow us time to consolidate our resources and—”
“No,” argued Nogaret, “the king must show his strength. Any display of weakness at this point could prove fatal. The English must not know how precarious our situation is.”
“What do you suggest we do?” countered Flote. “Bankrupt the realm?”
“Tax the clergy again, my lord,” said Nogaret to the king.
Flote shook his head. “We cannot make an enemy of the Church. The taxes were extremely unpopular when they were levied last year. Many bishops simply refused to comply.”
“Then use force this time,” said Nogaret harshly. “The clergy are rich and greedy. When did you last see a poorly dressed bishop? Or a thin cardinal?”
“The Franciscans,” snapped Flote. “The Dominicans.”
“Formed because their founders felt the Church’s use of its own wealth was abhorrent!”
“Enough.” Philippe nodded. “It is a good idea. Chancellor, you will draw up a proclamation immediately.” He spoke on as Flote went to protest. “The clergy will come to thank me in time if this kingdom is made stronger by their sacrifices. You are dismissed, both of you.”
Nogaret bowed and headed off, but Flote hung back.
“What is it, Chancellor?”
“My lord, this idea will only work in the short term. We need to put other strategies in place.” Flote’s voice lowered. “Nogaret is young and ambitious, but his lack of faith or respect for the Church perturbs me. I advise you most strongly against listening too closely to his counsel. We both know the hatred that drives him.”
“This has nothing to do with that. Nogaret sees how the balance of power is shifting. The Church is the mother: the teacher, the consoler. The state is the father: the law-giver, the protector. Let the bishops worry about the souls of my people and I will worry about the defense of their country.” Philippe began to walk along the balcony toward his apartments. “The world is changing, Flote. It is the men of the law who are taking control now. I would have thought this would please you?”
“It does, my lord. But that should not mean we become Godless.”
Philippe stopped.
Flote halted, frowning at the king, who was staring at the closed chapel doors. “My lord?”
‘No,” murmured Philippe. He glanced at Flote. “Draw up that proclamation.” Turning, he forced himself to walk back toward the chapel.
MIDLOTHIAN, SCOTLAND, FEBRUARY 7, 1296 AD
It was late afternoon and the light was fading fast. He drove the horse on relentlessly, whenever its pace began to flag. The beast’s hooves sank into the boggy ground with every stride and kicked free with a spray of muddy slush that splattered its flanks and his legs. Once or twice, the horse splintered through a layer of ice and plunged into a pocket of black mud, threatening to jolt him from the saddle. Still he didn’t slow. He was almost there. Just a few more miles and he would see it.
It was thirty days since he discarded his mantle and stole the palfrey from the stables at New Temple. Thirty days since he deserted.
Leaving London by Ermine Street, Will had made good speed through the sprawling forests of the hunting shires, traveling by day from hamlet to hamlet, keeping a wary eye out for robbers and cutthroats, aware of the attractive target he made: a lone rider on a well-bred horse, the glint of mail beneath his cloak a tempting challenge. The days were short and gloomy under the canopy of trees, and even when the forests gave way to rolling miles of crop fields, it rarely got light, the sky growing grayer and heavier, until finally it opened and the first snows began to fall, leaching the last of the color from the land. The wide road was treacherous with wagon ruts and potholes that were soon concealed beneath the rising drifts, and he went from covering twenty-odd miles a day to barely fifteen. Coupled with this, he had to take several detours to ford rivers, avoiding the tolls on bridges. As a Templar he was exempt from such taxes and could have found free lodgings all along the route, but he was a knight no longer and had no proof that he had ever been. Cursing himself for not having had the foresight to keep his mantle, the bold gesture now seeming foolish, he was forced, on the second day, to sell the only thing of value he owned, other than his sword.
He sat for a time on the steps of a church in the town of St. Albans, cold-numbed fingers rubbing at the tarnished pendant. Beneath the layers of grime, the figure of St. George gradually appeared. Elwen had stood on her toes to put it on. He could still recall her breath, warm on the back of his neck, as she fastened the chain. He thought it might break his heart to sell it, but in truth it was a relief to hand the pendant to the trader. It was one more burden to be rid of, one more memory to release. In return he had been given enough coins, so long as he was careful, to see him in food and board all the way to Edinburgh.
The land changed slowly, forests and farmlands giving way to towns. Fields scraped bare by the plow, the autumn wheat buried beneath the snow, were replaced by warehouses and mills, and the road grew crowded with merchants. In the inns he stayed at Will expected to hear much talk of the coming conflict, but other than the odd snatch of conversation, one man saying the English in Scotland were being arrested, another that the Scots were planning to invade, there was no mention of it. Life in the villages an
d towns of England went on as normal, and if people were aware they were now at war, they showed no sign of it. It wasn’t until he crossed the crumbling wall built by the Romans to imprison the wild north that the atmosphere began to change. It was subtle at first; the men in the taverns were more guarded and conversation was hard to come by, then he began to notice travelers were moving in caravans, many with armed escorts. In the windswept uplands of Northumberland, where hills and sky seemed to marry in whiteness, hospitality became positively scarce and he was forced to sleep on the hillside in stone shelters that he shared with huddles of sheep.
A week ago the snows had stopped and a red wintry sun appeared. Four days after that, he crossed the Tweed and the Teviot at Kelso and entered the Borders. Here, the tension was palpable. There was a heavy presence of soldiers in the towns, the gates guarded and often barred. Will was stopped and questioned several times, but his knowledge of the area granted him passage. Beneath the tension, he began to sense confidence. These men appeared ready for war, some even seemed eager for it, gathered in tight groups outside newly erected palisades, joking about the soft English. Hearing their laughter, Will spurred his exhausted palfrey on toward Edinburgh. Their assurance disturbed him. He knew what was coming.
The earls and barons summoned to the king’s service would be leaving their estates with their knights, marching in armored lines all along the roads of England to converge, in three weeks, on the city of Newcastle. Together, under the banner of the lions, this feudal host would move north as one vast army, the like of which Scotland hadn’t seen in a hundred years. These young men with their wooden clubs and scornful jokes weren’t ready at all.
But despite the pressing need, Will was unable to ignore the strange familiarity of the landscape surrounding him. The closer he came to Edinburgh, following the curve of shallow, stony rivers, the more he felt the pull of home, until late that morning, barely seven miles from the royal city, he changed direction, swerving west over the hills.