The Fall of the Templars

by Robyn Young

  Will was mortified. “Don’t say that, Elias. I didn’t . . .” But he couldn’t finish. All his excuses for deserting the Temple and abandoning the Brethren stuck in his throat.

  “You were a commander in the Temple, a man of honor. You were, Everard always told me, your father’s son. You were elected head of a brotherhood of men whose ideals lifted them above the prejudice of their age, who worked for the benefit of all people, no matter their faith. You were these things. What have you become? A bitter man. A mercenary. An errand runner for a tyrant king, who abuses his people, steals and lies.”

  “Elias. Please.”

  “In using Philippe against Edward you have been trying to fight darkness with darkness. What will come of that? No light, that is for certain.”

  Will hung his head. He thought of the sense of purpose he felt coming into Paris with Wallace at his side and then the months that trundled into years since then, drawn along by Philippe’s promises of more aid for Scotland and his insistence, despite the truce, that his feud with Edward was far from over. He thought of the scraps of money the king had given to their cause; token gestures, designed to keep the friendship of the Scots, should he ever need them to occupy Edward’s forces in the north. He had known this, but hadn’t let himself think about it. He had been treading water for more than two years, drifting, unable to move against the currents that surrounded him, pulling him this way and that. Elias had just pushed him under. “I . . .” His jaw tightened. “I do not know what to do. Hugues de Pairaud has taken over the Anima Templi and allied himself with Edward. My personal hatred of the man aside, I know the king has corrupted the Brethren and used them for his own ends. But Hugues would never let me back in, I’m certain of it. The only ally I have left in the Temple is Robert de Paris and he can hardly look at me these days. The things I have done.” Will stared at his hands, almost expecting to see the stains. “My daughter will not speak to me. And the war I fought and bled for is stalled, Wallace and his men gone to ground.” He shook his head slowly. “I have lost my way.”

  “Then you must find it.” Elias sought Will’s hands with his own. He held them, weakly now. “Swear you will. Swear it on the lives of those who have gone before you, on the lives of those men and their hopes for this world. Do not let those hopes die with you. Make sure we go on.”

  “But how can . . . ?” Will sat forward as Elias’s hands slipped from his. “Elias?” He grasped the rabbi’s shoulders. “I swear it. Do you hear me, Elias? I swear it!”

  But the rabbi was dead and there was nothing but silence to answer him.

  THE TEMPLE, PARIS, AUGUST 28, 1302 AD

  “After forty days, Perceval came to a land, blackened and scorched by a savage sun. And in the distance, he beheld a ruined tower.”

  As the figure in the glittering fish-scale cloak stretched out his arm, Martin de Floyran followed with his eyes. In the candlelight, shadows swayed on the wall and the young man felt he could almost see a tower rising dark behind one of the masked men who lined the chamber. The air was stifling, but he shivered, trying to resist the urge to wrap his arms around his bare chest. He wore a loincloth, but felt naked under the hooded gazes of the others. There was a sick feeling in his stomach. It had begun during his night in vigil, fear and excitement bubbling up through him in the waiting darkness where he had knelt alone. He had longed for this moment, and its arrival was the culmination of years of hopes and expectations, only the reality was far from what he had imagined. His uncle had told him this would be the proudest day of his life. But Martin felt no pride, just a mounting sense of fear, the sick feeling overwhelming him.

  “Perceval entered the tower and by a winding stair came to the topmost chamber. He found himself in an empty room, the floor and walls scarred and bare. On a crumbling dais stood a broken throne. Windows looked upon a desert, parched and desolate. The floor around the dais was scattered with the bones and skulls of men.”

  The cloaked figure stepped aside and Martin drew in a sharp breath as he saw the floor behind him was indeed littered with bones. Candlelight threw a ruddy glow across them.

  “Upon the throne there was a man. His head was bowed, his body withered by famine.”

  Two of the masked men moved forward and drew apart what Martin had thought was a wall, but now realized was a black cloth. Beyond was a recess. It was filled with a wooden dais, on which stood a battered throne, occupied by a hunched figure in a hooded cloak. As Martin watched, his breath suspended, the figure rose and lurched down from the dais, hands held out, palms upraised.

  “Join me,” it whispered, in a scabrous voice. “My men are dead, my army defeated. Join me.”

  Martin looked around him at the men in masks, searching for comfort. But fifty-four white stags’ heads stared back dispassionately. The figure stumbled toward him and now he could smell something unpleasant coming from it.

  “Join me!” The figure shrugged the cloak from his shoulders.

  Martin barely managed to bite back a cry. Under the cloak the man was naked, except for a ragged loincloth. His skin glistened in the candlelight. From head to foot, he was slick with blood. It dripped from his scalp, where his hair was matted with it, and trickled down his cheeks. Already, a pool was collecting on the floor around him. Martin saw a bloody trail leading from the throne.

  “What say you, Perceval?” demanded the figure in the glittering cloak. “Will you join him? Fight for him?”

  “No,” said Martin, shaking his head. “No!”

  The bloodied figure sank to the floor and was hidden from view, the cloaked man moving in front of him. “And when Perceval denied the bloody king, day turned at once to darkness.”

  Martin couldn’t stop the trembling in his body as around him all the men crouched and extinguished the candles in front of them. The only sounds in the darkness were the whispering of hems on the stones and Martin’s rapid breaths. He knelt there, poised for the unknown, desperate for the trial to be over.

  “Then all at once, dawn broke. And it was soft and beautiful.” The cloaked figure’s voice was hushed, reverent. A muted glow lit his cowl. It grew brighter as he took his hand from the candle, the flame of which he had been cupping. “The tower had gone and Perceval found himself in a verdant forest. A noble white hart, its antlers slender and new, was cropping the turf. Between the trees, Perceval glimpsed a proud fortress of many spires and turrets. Flags of every color blazed in the morning light and faint on the breeze he could hear the fair call of trumpets. Perceval yearned to go to it, for he felt inside he would find shelter and comrades. But the fortress was surrounded by a broad moat and the drawbridge was raised. Before him on the bank stood a knight, his white surcoat unstained by blood or toil.”

  Another man moved in at the figure’s side and held a candle to the flame. As the wick flared, Martin saw it was a tall knight, dressed in a plain white surcoat and faceless helm. With the change in atmosphere and the growing light, Martin’s heart slowed.

  “Will you join me, Perceval?” asked the knight. “Together, we can ford this river and cross to the castle beyond. Inside, we will at last find safety. Will you join me?”

  Martin nodded uncertainly. “Yes,” he whispered, when he realized the knight was waiting for a more definite response. “I will join you.” He raised his voice and lifted his head, starting to wonder if he had been terrified for nothing. He felt worried, thinking what impression he had made. Had anyone heard his cry of fear? Seen his quaking body?

  “You have chosen the path,” said the man in the glittering cloak. “And it was wisely chosen. You have sworn the oaths and stood fast in the face of temptation and dread. Now comes the final test and the most perilous. But obey me and all will be well. Will you obey me, Perceval?”

  “I will obey you.”

  “Then prove it!” The figure dropped to a crouch and snatched back the cowl to reveal a grinning skull.

  Martin shrank back in terror as the man produced a small golden cross and held it o
ut before him.

  “Spit on this. Prove you are loyal to me alone. Prove you are one with your brethren. Do it now! Or suffer the consequences.”

  Martin leaned over and let a glob of spit fall from his lips onto the cross. He closed his eyes as he did it, the Paternoster rolling over and over in his mind.

  The figure stowed the cross inside his fish-scale cloak. He placed the candle on the floor, then raised his hand and gripped the protruding chin of the skull mask. For a moment, Martin thought he was going to remove it. But instead, the figure turned the mask and a different visage appeared. It was a smooth, white face, with the prominent cheekbones—perhaps carved from wood—and strong chin of a young man. Brown hair dangled to either side of it, fixed to the top of the mask. Martin thought he could see part of a third face, behind the hair, but his gaze was distracted as the figure spoke.

  “You have passed the test. Arise, Sir Martin de Floyran, for you are now a knight and in the presence of brothers.”

  The figure stepped back as Martin rose unsteadily. The men lining the chamber came forward to embrace him and kiss his cheeks. But all Martin could see was his saliva dribbling down to desecrate the symbol of Christ.

  22

  Near Château Vincennes, the Kingdom of France

  JUNE 20, 1303 AD

  Down on the marshy flats where pale gold reeds lined the banks of the meandering river, a heron stood sentry, watching for fish. A breeze swept the blue waters. Ducks bobbed on the eddying surface, their raucous calls like mad laughter. Above, smaller birds struggled against the gusts, feathery white clouds racing high beyond them.

  Some distance from the river, the company of men, almost one hundred strong, drew up on the firmer ground. The varlets kept the hounds on short leashes, tapping their hinds with sticks whenever one uttered a low keening sound. The dogs’ ears were pressed flat against their heads, nerves tightening as they sensed the quarry arrayed before them. Behind the dogs and huntsmen, the courtiers lined up astride their jostling mounts: ministers and high officials, lords and princes, gaudy in their fine velvet cloaks and hats, many of which were crowned with peacock or swan feathers. In between the horses, pages and squires moved about, adjusting girth straps, passing skins of wine or water up to their masters.

  Sir Henri, the master falconer, steered his horse to the front to order the two cadgers to the edge of the field. Inside the cadges, which were strapped to the backs of the men, were over a dozen birds, leashed to padded perches. All were hooded, their small heads flicking this way and that as they caught the calls of the ducks. There were gyrfalcons, a couple of goshawks, an elegant saker and several powdery-gray peregrines. The cadgers waited patiently as the hunting party decided which birds would fly together. They had been out for several hours already and had flown the goshawks and four falcons. The corpses of three mallards, two hares and one pheasant were stuffed into the hunting bags.

  “Sir Henri?” called King Philippe, mounted on his sleek black mare. “Shall we test the skills of your new acquisition?”

  There were grins among the courtiers as Henri inclined his head and nodded to an aide, who crossed to one of the cadges. Opening the frame, he unleashed the dappled saker and coaxed her onto his gloved hand, keeping a tight hold on the jesses as he withdrew her and passed her to Sir Henri. No bird was given to Philippe, who already had Maiden poised on his wrist. The peregrine wore a hood of soft calfskin, decorated with the gossamer feather of a dove she had killed the week before. Philippe nudged his mare with his knees and walked her down to meet Henri. He glanced at the river. The ducks had moved a little way downstream, but the heron was still stalking the marshy bank.

  Sir Henri offered up a prayer for the success of the hunt and the safety of the birds. “In nomine Domini, volatilia celi erunt sub pedibus tuis.”

  In the name of the Lord, the birds of the heavens shall be beneath thy feet.

  “On the count of three,” said Philippe, smiling confidently.

  At the same moment, the two men pulled the hoods from the birds, then cast them from their wrists. The silver bells attached to the jesses jingled, causing the smaller birds in the sky to dart in different directions. The saker went soaring up and left, veering away from the water as the wind lifted under her wings. Henri cursed beneath his breath. Maiden flew up to a nearby tree and settled gracefully on a branch. Philippe watched patiently as she beat her smoke-colored wings and roused herself, settling her feathers, priming herself for the flight. Some moments later, she ascended into the sky. All the party watched as she rose, riding the air currents in looping, lazy circles, towering higher and higher, heading for the base of the clouds and cover. The saker, struggling to gain control, followed in her upward path. The ducks had fallen quiet, sensing danger, but the heron hadn’t yet glimpsed the two predators that were now specks in the wide, racing sky.

  “She is a true joy to watch, my lord,” said Will, moving his horse up alongside Philippe.

  Philippe smiled, but said nothing, his wintry eyes fixed on the peregrine’s distant position.

  “How long did it take Sir Henri to train her?”

  Philippe glanced at him. “I trained her myself. It took me twenty-five days.”

  “The shortest time I’ve ever known an eyas to be tamed,” commented Sir Henri, who was in earshot.

  “I wanted to thank you, my lord,” continued Will, “for introducing me to the sport. I never knew how exhilarating it would prove. The Temple forbade us from hunting of any kind. The only beast we were allowed to pursue was the lion.”

  “A taming of the pride,” observed Philippe wryly.

  “Just one of their many outdated rules.”

  Philippe took his attention from Maiden and fixed it on Will. “I wonder, Campbell, since you are so disparaging about the order, why you remained within its ranks for so long?”

  Will held the king’s gaze, but inside he was concerned by that searching look. For some while, he had been trying to work his way into Philippe’s trust, but the king had spent the first half of the year on campaign in Flanders and there had been scant opportunity for him to do so.

  Having acquired enough funds from the auction of the Jews’ property to equip an army, the king set out to avenge his defeat at Courtrai and, finally, secured a victory over the Flemish. A truce was signed, which was more of a constraint than an agreement, the Flemish belligerent, but finally subdued under the French crown. Philippe, who did not enter the battle himself, returned triumphant to Paris, whereupon he transferred his court to the royal estate at Vincennes, his childhood home.

  “Duty,” Will answered finally. “Family obligations.” He shrugged. “I was brought up by the Temple. The order was all I knew. It can take time to see the truth of what you are closest to, to view it with new eyes, and when I started to realize that I didn’t agree with their ideals and rules anymore, that the order had become diluted, weakened by petty leaders gazing back at a golden past that would never come again, I was afraid to leave it. It took their alliance with Edward against my homeland to give me the courage to do what I had contemplated for so long.”

  Philippe nodded and looked away, seemingly satisfied. “I hear you received word from Scotland last week. I take it our friend, Sir William, is well?”

  Now it was Will’s turn to study Philippe. Was the king keeping a closer eye on him too? “It wasn’t from Wallace. It was from my sister.” He looked away across the water, not wanting to be drawn on the subject.

  Ysenda’s letter, the first he’d received in years, had been a mixed blessing. His sister spent much of it speaking of the marriage of Margaret to a nephew of Ede’s husband. When Will read she was with child, he noticed the letter was dated five months earlier and wondered if his niece had given birth already. David had returned to Wallace in Selkirk for a time, but when the warrior went to ground, his nephew moved back to Elgin, where he entered the household guard of a prominent lord. He had won two tournaments and Alice was courting one of his friends. At th
e end Will read with a pang of envy that Gray had sent Christian to live with them, fearing for her safety as Edward’s bloodhounds continued to pursue the rebels.

  Since Elias’s death, he had felt more alone than ever, tormented by guilt, anger and indecision. The letter’s arrival made him want to leave France and return to his family. He had lost them once, through the passing of years. He couldn’t bear to do so again, a fear that was worsened because of Rose, who still refused even to acknowledge his presence. She was a spirit, a thin, insubstantial figure that drifted past him in the passageways, not turning as he called to her. Gradually, his calls became hopeful smiles, which eventually faded into courteous nods until now they just passed each other in silence.

  But even through Will’s turmoil one thing remained constant, growing stronger with every day that passed: his promise to Elias. The rabbi’s dying words had provoked something unexpected in him, something powerful and compelling. He realized, despite the breaking of his oaths and his desertion, that he still believed in the Anima Templi and its aims, and he still felt like their leader. No one had stripped him of that title but himself, and slowly, tentatively, Will began to pull that mantle back around him, spending nights in the palace lying awake, wondering what Everard and the seneschal, his father and the others would do. After a long, reluctant silence, their ghosts began to crowd in, whispering suggestions. He knew the first thing he must do was find out the veracity of what Elias had heard.

  The courtiers were murmuring excitedly, heads lifted to the sky, eyes shielded from the glare. Will could see the saker, circling the base of a cloud, but there was no sign of Maiden.

  “Have the lures ready,” Philippe called to the squires. “Just in case.”

  “I did hear from Sir William Wallace in your absence,” ventured Will. “There is a rumor that Edward is to begin a new campaign in Scotland this summer. Wallace was keen to have your assurance that we can continue to count on you for funds to defend ourselves and to put pressure on Edward, along with the pope.”