by Robyn Young
Why should he trust this man, any more than he trusted his tormentors in the prison or the men who put him there? They all wore the same uniform. Esquin’s eyes fixed on the hateful red cross on the mantle, his gaze watchful and brooding. What if this knight was deceiving him? Perhaps his jailers wanted to find out how much he remembered before they finally killed him? Faced with death back in his cell, he thought he would have welcomed it over the slow decay of years. But now, with the sky lightening outside and the icy morning creeping in around him with its promise of freedom, its promise of life, he realized he didn’t want to die. He wanted to live.
Cautiously, Esquin reached out to the fire with his bare foot and teased out a smoldering shard of wood. Scrunching his toes over it, he drew it across the floor toward him. He halted as the fire shifted and the knight grunted in his sleep. When the man didn’t wake, Esquin wiggled his hands, easing the strap down the beam, tugging it gently over knots and ridges in the wood. Finally, feeling sick with the exertion, he managed to position the belt over the smoldering shard, his head almost touching the floor. Slowly, the material began to blacken. He closed his eyes as the heat of it burned away the hairs on his wrists and his skin tightened and reddened. The smell of charring leather was acrid in his nostrils. At last, after what seemed an eternity, the burned strap broke apart.
Freed from his bonds, Esquin slipped across the barn floor. He paused in the ruined entrance, halted by the sight of misty fields stretching into gray-green distance, then carefully untied the knight’s horse.
33
The Sainte-Chapelle, Paris
FEBRUARY 21, 1307 AD
“My prayers are not enough.” Philippe’s voice was muffled, his words spilling into his hands, clasped in front of his face as he knelt on the stone floor. “Not enough.”
“Every man on this earth, no matter the extent or severity of his sins, has the chance at forgiveness. If he is truly repentant.”
Philippe stared up at the man towering above him, whose black, floor-length robes made him appear dauntingly tall. His thin face was starkly white, framed by flint-gray hair carved into an austere tonsure, and a smell of incense came from him, imbuing him with a certain sanctified air as if he were a small piece of the Church itself, broken off and planted before Philippe to judge and punish. At this thought, the king’s eyes moved past Guillaume de Paris and fixed on the winged cherubs hovering over the lofty altar. He half expected them to climb down from their pedestals and stand before him, little gold eyes blazing with condemnation.
“Are you repentant, my lord?”
Philippe’s eyes flicked back to the Dominican at the demand. “You know that I am.”
“Does God?”
“What more can I do?” Philippe whispered, closing his eyes against his confessor’s unforgiving stare. “Every day I pray and do penance. Yet still I do not hear Him. Still He does not speak.”
“Perhaps your prayers are not sincere enough? Your penance not thorough?”
Philippe’s eyes snapped open. “Not thorough?” He rose. “I have ripped myself into shreds for Him. For His love. What more does He want from me?” The king wrenched off his robe and picked at the thongs of his hair shirt. “I have worn it ceaselessly for weeks! I have even slept in it!” His voice echoed in the silent chapel, shrouded in shadow except for a pool of candlelight which illuminated his chest with its sallow glow as he tore off the garment. “Does this not please you?” he shouted, raising his arms and sinking to his knees in front of the altar, where the cherubs looked dispassionately down at his scarred body.
“You wore it ceaselessly, my lord?” Guillaume’s voice was brittle. “Did you wear it when you were with your whore?”
Philippe stared at him.
The Dominican went to him and crouched down, his gray eyes implacable. “You may choose to hide your sins from me and from God. But you cannot hide them from your staff. The rumors are well known. You have been bedding a servant woman, yes?” When Philippe hung his head, Guillaume stood abruptly. “How can I absolve you if you will not confess? How can God forgive you if you are not truly repentant?”
“I miss my wife. Miss her so terribly I can hardly bear to be near my children for the pain the reminder of her causes me. The servant woman is . . .” Philippe shook his head numbly. “Solace.”
“Jeanne is with God, my lord. She is at peace. You must make your own peace, here in this realm, before you can join her. You must strive every day to uphold the Christian faith. Your people look to you to lead them.”
“My people? Everything I have done has been for them and still they hate me. When they light their candles in their churches it is always for Louis, never for me. The harvests are bad and they blame me. I raise taxes to secure their borders and they rebel against me. You know as well as I the mood in this city.” Philippe sat back, his voice thick with bitterness. “It seems every time I make a proclamation these days there is a riot in the streets. But if God does not hear me, how will I make it into heaven without the prayers of my people? I need them to love me, Guillaume.”
“You must not rely on others for your own salvation, my lord. You must submit fully and honestly to God’s will, giving yourself up to Him to be forgiven. When your prayers and your penance are truly sincere, He will hear you. Of that there is no doubt.”
“There is time then?” murmured Philippe. “Time for me to be pardoned? To feel God’s love no matter what I have done?”
“Of course.” The steel edge had gone from Guillaume’s tone, but his gaze remained uncompromising. “These are troubled times, my lord. Now, more than ever, you must be an example to your people. You know my thoughts on the deeds of your lawyer, but Minister de Nogaret’s fate is not mine to decide. For all his love of the law, he shall be judged in his turn by a higher court. But now the Church and France are no longer at war, I urge you to build upon the close relationship you have forged with Pope Clement for the sake of your subjects. Through your actions they will come to see what they too should be striving for.” The Dominican moved to the altar. “They must be shown the true path; the path of the righteous. Vulgarity and irreverence are rampant in this kingdom. My order mercifully halted the malevolent influence of the Cathars in the south, whose despicable sacrileges were consumed in holy fire. But with the fall of Acre it was shown to us how fickle the faith of many is, with their conversions to the religion of the infidel. All of us must work to ensure that such monstrous heresies are not spread again.”
“They won’t be,” said Philippe flatly, sunk on his knees, weary now. “Those of the Cathars who didn’t perish during the Church’s Crusade against them were forced into hiding. There would not be enough of them left to infect anyone.” He shot the Dominican a willful look. “I am sure Minster de Nogaret would tell you that.”
“Yet every day in my role as inquisitor, new offenses are brought to my attention.” Guillaume turned back to him. “Just this past week, I have been confronted by one such matter that has concerned me gravely. There is a man at our college in the city who is claiming that the Order of the Knights Templar is riddled with heresy.”
“What?”
“He arrived ten days ago, raving, half-starved and begging for sanctuary. He spoke to one of my brothers, but when the seriousness of his charges became clear, I was informed. I have had several discussions with this man, who claims to have been imprisoned by members of the order when he uncovered their involvement in certain depraved ceremonies. Apparently, his own nephew fell foul of these men and was murdered when he refused to obey them.”
Philippe had risen, his hair shirt and robe discarded on the floor at his feet. His eyes followed the confessor, who went to pinch out a candle that was dripping.
“The man displays obvious signs of torture and is clearly vengeful due to a long incarceration, and I am always wary of revenge as a motivation for men and women to alert us to possible heresies. I fear some in the past have been burned for the wrong reasons.” Guillaume de Par
is inhaled briskly. “But as the Dominican Order has declared, it is better to burn one hundred innocents than leave one heretic left standing to corrupt God’s faithful.” He turned to Philippe. “But whether he is just a malcontent, wishing to destroy his jailers, or whether there is truth in his words, his tale is both convincing and extremely disturbing, and cannot be ignored. As the Temple lies beyond my jurisdiction I had intended to take this matter before the pope, but I did want to seek further counsel before troubling His Holiness with something that may in the end prove false. Knowing your close relationship with Pope Clement, I hoped you might aid me in this, my lord?”
Philippe went swiftly to the confessor. “I want to speak to this man.”
The Dominican’s pale brow creased in surprise at the king’s forcefulness, but he nodded. “Your opinion on the validity of his claims would be most welcome, although I must warn you he is filled with rage and madness.”
“We will bring him here at once.”
Guillaume de Paris held up his hand. “No, my lord. First we will finish your confession.”
After a pause, Philippe returned to his knees in front of the black-robed Dominican and began to list his sins, his clasped hands hiding an intense expression.
THE BANKS OF THE SEINE, PARIS, MARCH 2, 1307 AD
“Listen, I can still find him given time.” Robert went to Will, who had slumped on one of the eel pots littering the muddy riverbanks. “At least we now know something is happening in the Paris Temple that needs to be investigated. De Floyran said he couldn’t identify the men, so to be honest his testimony isn’t much use anyway and . . .” Robert stopped, seeing Will’s expression. “What is it?”
“I know where Esquin de Floyran is.”
“What? How?”
“Just over a week ago a man was brought into the palace from the Dominican College under heavy guard. The king and Nogaret spent several days in closed meetings with him, which the king’s confessor, Guillaume de Paris, was privy to. It came to my attention because Philippe canceled a feast and a hunt in order to spend time with this man. I wasn’t told why he was there, but I did hear his name.”
Robert’s face fell as he realized what Will was saying. “Dear God. Why would de Floyran come back to Paris? He was terrified by the idea when I suggested it.”
“You said he wanted justice. If I wanted to accuse anyone of heresy the Dominican College is the first place I would go. Where better to get everything he needs? Food, shelter, protection. Revenge.”
“Christ.” Robert pushed his hands through his hair and paced the bank. A couple of boys were sword-fighting with sticks down by the water’s edge. Their excited calls mingled with the piercing cries of the river birds swooping over the Ile des Juifs. “Can you get him out?”
“He left five days ago with Nogaret under armed escort. They were heading for Poitiers.”
“Why there?”
“Pope Clement has been traveling around the kingdom visiting the provinces. He has been in Poitiers for some months. I imagine Esquin is being taken to him.”
“This is it, isn’t it?” said Robert after a long silence, filled with the shouts of the boys. “This is what the king needs to get what he wants. As soon as the pope hears de Floyran’s testimony he will be forced to launch an inquiry into the Temple. A charge of heresy is serious when set against anyone, but against the most powerful religious order in Christendom? His Holiness will have no choice but to act.” The knight stared out across the Seine, turquoise in the dazzling spring sun. “I should never have taken de Floyran out of Merlan.”
Will didn’t say anything for a time. “I wish you had come to me as soon as Simon alerted you to the sergeant’s story.”
Robert shot him a defensive glance. “I thought you would be occupied with other things.”
“Other things?” Will’s face hardened. “I’ve been trying to save my country and my daughter.” When the knight looked away, Will stood. “You act as though I’m somehow to blame here. How could I have known any of this if you don’t inform me?”
Robert faced him. “The moment we returned to Paris after rescuing Clement’s son, you disappeared back into the palace. You say you’re still a part of the Anima Templi, but I’ve hardly seen hide nor hair of you this past year.”
“Pope Clement charged me with finding evidence that Nogaret murdered Benedict. If I do that he will continue to put pressure on Edward as well as safeguard the Temple from Philippe.” Will’s voice was rigid. “I am doing everything in my power to make these things happen. I have already persuaded Clement to send papal letters to England, demanding Edward cease his war against Scotland. After Wallace’s execution this was my country’s—my family’s—best chance of survival. Can you blame me for taking it?” He didn’t wait for Robert to answer. “But I find myself on thinner and thinner ice. Since their plan for the Temple was halted, Philippe and Nogaret no longer need me in their circle and it has been all I can do to remain a guest in the palace, let alone keep close enough to them to uncover any evidence for the pope.”
“Do you actually believe you will be able to find proof of Nogaret’s involvement in Benedict’s death?”
Will was silent. He had known from the moment the pope charged him with this task how challenging it would be. It wasn’t as if Nogaret would have left any kind of written evidence anywhere. “I have to try,” he said, as much to himself as to Robert. “I have to do what I can to keep the pope on our side. The king, however, is becoming ever more untrusting of me.” He let out a rough breath. “I believe the main reason I haven’t been evicted is because the bastard is bedding my daughter.”
Robert stared at him in disbelief. “What?”
Will waved his hand and strode down to the water. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said grimly when Robert followed. “Just believe me when I say I am trying to salvage what I can of the Anima Templi’s aims by remaining in Philippe’s company, even though it is taking every ounce of strength I have left not to strangle the cur in his sleep.”
“Can you not take her out of Paris?” Robert asked quietly.
“And lose my last foothold?” demanded Will, the sunlight glinting in his eyes. Bending, he dug a stone out of the mud and flung it into the river. “If I remove Rose from the palace against her wishes I think she will be lost to me for good. This way, I get to stay close to her and the king. Perhaps I am a fool, but I still believe my daughter might need me. I want to be there if that day ever comes.”
“What about Robert Bruce?” Robert ventured. “Now Scotland has a new king, surely there is hope for your homeland at least?”
“The last I heard, Bruce and his followers had gone on the run. They had a victory at first, but it is rumored Edward is gathering a vast army to send north, despite Clement’s objections. If he has his way, Scotland’s new king will be staring out across the Thames from a pike by the autumn.”
Robert watched the two boys chasing each other across the mud flats, birds wheeling up in white clouds before them. “I suppose it was naïve, but I thought when we returned from the Holy Land things would be simpler. Do you think we will ever see peace in our lifetime? Is it even possible?”
“More and more I think not. But then I remember Everard and my father and Kalawun, and all those men who believed it was, believed so completely they gave up everything they had for it. I have to hope that . . .” Will trailed off, shaking his head. “What I hope isn’t important right now. Whatever any of us wants will not matter if King Philippe has his way. Have you spoken to Hugues?”
“No. He is still in England.”
“Do you believe he had anything to do with de Floyran’s imprisonment?”
“I cannot imagine he is involved in any of this,” replied Robert.
“But the order to keep de Floyran in isolation bore the visitor’s seal?”
“I think I proved that using Hugues’s seal without his knowledge is possible.”
“That may be so, but we cannot ignore th
e fact that Esquin’s charges bear a striking similarity to practices and tenets within the Anima Templi. Secret initiations. Drinking the blood of fellow knights. Spitting on the cross. All these things were detailed in the Book of the Grail.”
“Drinking blood?”
“The Book of the Grail was written on the orders of former Grand Master Armand de Périgord, who was also a member of the Brethren. According to Everard, the grand master had an obsession with the tales of Perceval and King Arthur and wanted a special ceremony for initiates into the Anima Templi that was different to the rituals of induction into the Temple. Everard wrote the Book to be Armand’s new code.”
“I know this,” Robert cut across him.
Will ignored the interruption. “Like other Grail romances the Book was filled with unusual, even profane imagery, but unlike a simple story, it contained within its pages the aims and beliefs of the Brethren, which as we both know are as unorthodox as the Book itself. When Armand died in a Mamluk prison, the Book became obsolete and was never used, but some of the philosophies evoked within remained at our core. Remember how Everard always called Acre our Camelot,” Will added, when Robert frowned in question. “It was all just allegory of course. No one was supposed to drink anyone’s blood; that just symbolized brotherhood. But the Book wasn’t some delicate romance for ladies at court. It was dangerous, blatantly heretical in many of its themes, and what is more, it was evidence of our existence. This is why the Hospitallers stole it, hoping to expose us and, in so doing, bring down the Temple. It is also why Edward wanted it. With the Book in his possession, he could have used the threat of exposure to gain access to our funds. Everard always regretted not destroying it after Armand’s death.”