by Robyn Young
He cleared his throat and moved away, all at once fearful of looking into those dark, unblinking eyes, lest he see something greater and infinitely more terrible looking out at him. He now cursed himself for sending Nogaret back to Paris after the ceremony, but unrest over his recent taxes had erupted into violence in the city and he had wanted the minister there to help quell the situation. “I accept your apology,” he said tautly. “But now you are well, I want you to begin implementing the obligations you promised to fulfill upon your election.” Philippe paused to recall the advice Nogaret had given him. “First, and most importantly, you will recall Grand Master Jacques de Molay from Cyprus. We will need the head of the order if we are to bring down the rest of it. Upon de Molay’s arrival in the West, we will hold a council in Paris, attended by the three estates, who will all have been briefed prior to the assembly. You will announce that the Temple has outlived its usefulness and that it has overburdened the people and the papacy in its futile attempts to reclaim the Holy Land. You will point out that the vast sums of money within the Temple would be better spent on creating peace in the West than on foreign shores, that the people of France will benefit greatly, that taxes will be lowered and our borders strengthened. You will then, as is your God-given right, dissolve the order of the Knights Templar, transferring all its assets, possessions and funds to the French crown.”
Silence followed his words. Philippe frowned and went to speak, wondering if Clement had even heard him. But the pope spoke up, before he could ask.
“Are you finished, my lord?”
Philippe’s frown deepened at that stilted tone. “Yes, I am finished, but—”
“That is good, my lord, because I too am finished. I am finished being tormented by you and that poisonous serpent, Guillaume de Nogaret, finished being coerced and compelled, finished being threatened. I am pope, vicar of Christ and God’s voice upon this earth, and I will be your pawn no longer. I will not meet your obligations and I protest against the validity of your agreement, which was signed under duress.” Clement’s tone was rising, growing bolder. “I will, under no circumstances, recall Jacques de Molay, when he and his knights are the only men fighting to uphold the dream of a Christian Holy Land. Did your sainted grandfather fight and die on those foreign sands for nothing? Will we surrender that dream so easily?” The pope shook his head. “I will make it my mission to give as much aid, spiritual and financial, as possible to the Templars in Cyprus in order that they can continue this holy struggle.”
Philippe stared at him, stunned. “You are gravely, gravely mistaken, if you think I will not do what has been threatened.” His hand jerked to the pommel of his broadsword. “Do you forget, Clement? I have your son! I swear by God, I will kill him if you refuse me in this!”
“You will not,” breathed Clement, his eyes on the sword at Philippe’s hip. “My son is no longer in your custody. I received word this morning that he has been taken to safety. You will never find him and if you try I will do what my predecessor, Boniface, had no chance to and excommunicate you.” He crossed to the king, seeming to grow with every step, until Philippe was forced to back away. “You can say he existed to try to ruin me, but I will deny it and your word is not enough these days, my lord. The people, your people are growing dissatisfied with your rule and your liaisons with that murderer, Nogaret. Already they are turning against you. Do you imagine the men and women of Guienne have so quickly forgotten your brutality? The arrests of the nobles and theft of their property? I know you have not the money or the support to quell another uprising there, my lord. If you attack me, you will regret it.”
Philippe was shaking his head, but he couldn’t speak. He felt his back come up against the wall. Those dark flashing eyes of the pope’s were boring into him, filled with accusation and wrath. Filled with God’s displeasure. It was all he could do not to put his hands over his face to shield himself from that righteous glare.
“You have been infected by those around you. You have become as faithless as that heretic minister of yours! You who have attacked two vicars of Christ!”
“No,” Philippe groaned. “No. I was doing your bidding!” He slumped to his knees, holding up his hands and clasping them together in supplication. “I was doing it for you! For your people!”
Clement faltered at this answer. “For me?”
But Philippe wasn’t listening. He had closed his eyes, his hands upraised. “Lord, forgive me! Forgive me my sins!”
LYONS CATHEDRAL, THE HOLY ROMAN EMPIRE, DECEMBER 1, 1305 AD
“It is done.”
“Do you believe the king will accept it?” Will watched as the pope crossed to the window seat. The man looked exhausted and seemed to have aged rapidly in the time since Will had last seen him in Bordeaux. His red silk robes dwarfed his small frame as he sat, folding his hands in his lap.
“I do not see that he has much choice. If I refuse to dissolve the Temple, he cannot fulfill his ambition.” The pope looked up suddenly. “My son was unharmed?”
Will nodded impatiently. Clement had already questioned him rigorously on the boy yesterday morning. “My men took him south to the village as you instructed, with Yolande and Marie. Philippe will not be able to find any of them.”
“Good.” Clement gave a tentative smile. “My sister will take care of them.”
“So it is over? We have done what we need to secure the Temple?”
Clement glanced up, his brow furrowing. “No. It isn’t over. Not while Minister de Nogaret continues to poison the king’s mind, turning him against the Church.”
“The king knows what he is doing, Your Holiness. Yes, Nogaret may be the one with the vision, but Philippe isn’t a fool or a man of weak will.”
“Perhaps, perhaps,” said Clement, waving his hand as if this were unimportant, “but nonetheless, I believe the king will be much less aggressive without that snake’s influence.” He rose. “I cannot touch Philippe, even my powers do not extend that far, not without causing terrible conflict in this kingdom. But Guillaume de Nogaret is a different matter. I could bring him to justice for his crimes against my predecessors, but rumors will not be enough. I need evidence.”
“I know for a fact that the king and Nogaret conspired to murder Pope Boniface. The king admitted it in a conversation with me, where he confessed his intention to bring down the Temple.”
Clement’s face remained grave, but he shook his head. “Your word isn’t enough, not against these men. A Templar turned mercenary? The king has surrounded himself with men of the law, men of cunning. We will need more than the word of a deserter to confront them with.” He was pacing now. “Besides, it is evidence of the truth behind Pope Benedict’s death that I am more interested in finding. However despicable the act against him, Boniface made many enemies in the Sacred College; enemies who perhaps wouldn’t be overly concerned to know he was murdered. Remember, half my college is made up of French cardinals who support Philippe. Benedict is another matter. He was liked by many and the rumors surrounding his untimely death are filled with anger and calls for justice.” Clement looked up at Will. “Find me unequivocal evidence that Guillaume de Nogaret murdered Pope Benedict and I will move against him. With his removal from Philippe’s circle, I believe we will all be safer.”
“I will have to be careful. As I told you, one of the royal guards escaped from the house.”
“You said he didn’t see you?”
“I don’t believe so, but this is a dangerous game. Nogaret has never trusted me. But I will do what I can to give him to you, if Your Holiness will continue to safeguard the Temple.”
“You have my word.” Clement crossed to a table where a jug of wine and two goblets had been placed. “Now, let us talk of the order. You said you were using Templars to help protect my son. Did any of them mention the grand master? His plans for a new campaign in the Holy Land?”
Will shook his head. “The last we heard was that Jacques de Molay was trying to secure funding and support for
a new Crusade, but that he hadn’t met with much success.”
Clement looked disappointed as he poured the wine. “Well, perhaps we might yet hear better news.”
“Yes,” murmured Will, “perhaps.”
31
The Royal Palace, Paris
DECEMBER 21, 1305 AD
“I cannot imagine how this happened, my lord.” Nogaret followed as the king pushed open a low door, half-hidden by trailing ivy. Ducking through, the minister found himself in an unfamiliar place. They were on the very tip of the Ile de la Cité, the wall surrounding the royal gardens towering behind them. Ahead, the muddy riverbanks tumbled away to disappear beneath the Seine, swollen and gray after the winter storms. Three small islands rose out of the water, one after the other, like the humped back of some enormous beast submerged in the middle of the river. There was an old wooden footbridge that spanned the choppy water to the nearest island. Nogaret had seen the structure from the right and left banks, but hadn’t known about the door in the palace wall.
“My father had it built,” said Philippe at his side, his eyes on the bridge. He pointed to the nearest island. Its yellow hump was windswept and bare, except for a few scraggly trees and a couple of river birds wading near the water’s edge. “He planned to fish from the Ile des Juifs.”
“My lord,” ventured Nogaret, trying to steer the king back to the matter at hand.
“I don’t believe he ever did. The struggles of his reign prevented him. He was a feeble man, my father, led this way and that by the men he surrounded himself with and by his family, never thinking for himself, never doing what he wanted. He is hardly remembered at all by the people of this kingdom. All they recall is that his father was a saint.” Philippe turned to Nogaret. The cold wind lifted his hair. “Is that what they will think of me when I die? That I foolishly and weakly let my ministers govern me? That I never did anything of consequence? Will I simply be the grandson of a great man?”
“You will be remembered as the man who united France,” said Nogaret adamantly. “The man who led his kingdom into a new age of prosperity and order, an age ruled by men of reason, not blind faith.”
“I underestimated our new pope,” murmured Philippe, looking back at the forlorn island. “Can the soldier tell us nothing of those who mounted the assault?”
Nogaret’s expression tightened. “He didn’t see them. When he realized Gilles and the others were losing the fight, he fled. What the fool should have done was hide out near the house to get a clear look at the attackers. Now I fear we will never know who they were.”
“I expect they were just mercenaries Clement paid to save his child.” Philippe wandered down to the bridge, the hem of his black cloak trailing in the mud. “He had more backbone than I anticipated.” The king grasped the wooden handrail, but didn’t step up onto the moss-coated boards.
“We could go after the child?” offered Nogaret, rubbing pensively at his chin. “I am almost certain someone in Clement’s circle will know where the boy has been taken.”
Philippe was shaking his head. “No. It is over. Without the pope’s support we cannot bring down the Temple.” He stared out across the bridge. “My plans for the conquest of new territory will have to remain just that: plans. Without funds I can do nothing more.” His brow furrowed. “Perhaps if we raise the taxes again?”
“It would be risky. The mood in the city and the rest of the kingdom is dark, my lord. The riots have only just been put down. The situation remains volatile.” Nogaret sighed roughly. “The Temple is—”
“The Temple is lost to us,” interrupted Philippe, turning from the bridge and heading up the bank toward the door in the wall. “That is the end of it.”
“There will be another way, my lord, I am certain.” Nogaret followed swiftly. “We just need to think of it.”
“I have done enough thinking. My head is so full of thoughts it feels like it will burst. Just leave me.”
Nogaret went to say something, but fell silent, dropping back to let the king stride off through the royal gardens alone. Now wasn’t the time to push Philippe. He would have to wait for the dust to settle before he tried again. This was a disaster. Bertrand de Got had seemed so ripe, so ready to be picked and pressed. But they had elected the wrong man again. Nogaret made his way into the palace, seething with frustration over the incompetence of the royal guards and the pope’s sudden change of attitude. The Temple remained their best chance of securing and strengthening the kingdom, but Philippe was right: without the pope’s support they couldn’t use the order for their own gain.
The minister was so wrapped up in these thoughts as he made his way down the passage to his chambers that he didn’t notice Will until after they passed each other. He stopped short and turned, eyes narrowing. “Campbell?”
“Minister de Nogaret,” Will said to greet him, inclining his head.
“You’re back sooner than I expected. I always imagined the journey to Scotland to be an arduous one.”
“I didn’t have to go that far. I met with one of Wallace’s generals in England.”
Nogaret’s gaze moved to a square of parchment in Will’s hand. “A message?”
“From my sister by the hand,” replied Will, holding it up so Nogaret could see his name, scrawled on the front. “It was waiting for me when I returned.” He smiled. “I expect it will be a lengthy note on how many words my niece’s child can now say and how many teeth the young one has. But I doubt any of it will interest you, Minister. How was the ceremony in Lyons?”
“There was some unrest,” responded Nogaret, studying Will’s face and feeling suspicious, without knowing why. “Twelve people were killed when a wall collapsed, but the pope was unharmed.”
“I presume the king will continue with his plans now?”
“There have been some unforeseen developments,” said Nogaret, after a pause. “But this is not the time or the place to discuss them. I imagine the king will send for you in due course. I am sure he will want to hear any news you bring from England. We have heard very little from our neighbor of late.”
“I will be happy to oblige.”
Nogaret watched Will head off, before moving in the opposite direction, feeling his frustration building, a restless hum in his mind.
Philippe walked numbly down the passages of the royal apartments. Somewhere in a nearby room, he heard a young girl’s laughter and guessed it was his daughter. The sound pierced him. He moved on, faster now, heading for his private chamber and solitude. The air in these gloomy corridors was icy, but he hardly felt it through the emotions that boiled inside him: a furnace of rage, despair and humiliation. He paused outside his room, palm pushed against the door, assailed by the memory of himself on his knees before the bewildered pope. He knew he had felt nothing but terror at the time, but almost immediately after he left Clement to make his way, defeated, back to Paris, he had felt a rising, flaming shame. How could he have let himself be cowed so easily? He opened the door roughly, then halted, his eyes on the woman who rose from his bed.
Rose stood in silence. Anger was scrawled across the king’s face, drawn sharply in the lines that knotted his brow, etched in his taut mouth and jaw. She went to move, almost hearing him command her to leave, but stopped herself when she realized he hadn’t spoken. Pushing the door closed, he turned back to her. It seemed like far longer than three months since she had seen him last. He had returned from Lyons the day before, but had been occupied in meetings.
“What are you doing in here, Rose?” Philippe asked, taking his gaze from her and removing his cloak.
As he tossed it on the bed she stared at it, wondering where he had been. The hem of the garment was coated with mud. “I wanted to see you.” The words came out in a whisper. She had meant them to sound stronger. Philippe’s blue eyes were wintry. She shook her head, realizing how dangerous this was; how great a trespass. “I . . . I apologize,” she said, stumbling over the words as she crossed the room. “I will leave you.”<
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“Wait.”
She faltered, reaching for the door.
“Stay.” Philippe kicked off his boots and sat back on the bed, leaning up against the silk pillows. “Sit with me.”
Rose moved slowly back, keeping her eyes downcast so he wouldn’t see her emotions caught within them, naked and exposed. She perched awkwardly on the large bed, close to one of the carved wooden posts at the foot. His cloak, she noticed, was dripping mud on to the floor. Philippe had closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall. Unlike hers, his breathing was slow and even. As she watched, he moved a hand to the space beside him.
“Sit here.”
Rose bent to slip off her shoes. He moved his hand away as she slid over onto the place where it had been. She could feel every part of her: the blood in her cheeks, the trembling in her hands, the rapid pulse of her heart. She didn’t think she had ever felt so alive or so terrified as she lay back against the pillows, as stiff as a board. She jumped, feeling something icy against her knuckles and realized it was his finger. His eyes remained closed as he brushed it unhurriedly, lightly up her hand, over her wrist and under the sleeve of her black gown. She tried to close her own eyes, but the feel of his dislocated touch in the darkness made her feel giddy. His breathing had shifted its rhythm. All at once, he sat up. Removing the gold circlet from his head, he placed it on the table by the bed and turned back to her. He leaned over, planting his hands to either side of her. Finally, she closed her eyes as his mouth came down to press against hers. She could smell the river on him. After a time, he raised himself again. They stared at each other, unspeaking, as he unlaced the ties at the sides of her gown. Rose shivered as he pulled it from her. The air was freezing against her skin and she crossed her arms self-consciously about her chest, one resting over the other to cover the burn marks.