by Robyn Young
“But who else would know this? You told me Everard burned the Book when you retrieved it. The priest has been dead for decades, and since your desertion the Brethren have been reduced to a handful.”
“There are one or two,” said Will, watching as Robert moved away. “One specifically.”
Robert turned back abruptly. “I’ve known Hugues since I was a boy. As have you.”
“I sent him Everard’s writings before the fall of Acre. He could have gleaned things from those pages.”
“I cannot believe you would think him capable of murdering an innocent man and locking away another.” When Will didn’t respond, Robert let out a sharp breath. “You didn’t see Merlan, Will. The man we know would never do that.”
THE CASTLE, CARLISLE, MARCH 11, 1307 AD
Hugues de Pairaud followed as the page led him into the chamber. It was dark, the painted shutters closed over the windows, and it took the visitor a few moments to see the figure propped up in the large bed, illuminated by the flames that billowed in a hearth. At the figure’s nod, the page backed out of the door, closing it quietly behind him.
“My lord king,” Hugues said in greeting, bowing to Edward, whose face was feverish in the firelight. He was stunned by how old the king appeared. How old and frail. In the years since Hugues had seen him last, Edward’s white hair had become thin and wispy on his crown, the bald patches creased and mottled. His cheeks were hollow and gaunt, his eyes sunk in their sockets, and he looked far beyond his sixty-seven years.
“Closer,” demanded Edward, his voice, although faint, still commanding enough to make Hugues step forward promptly.
“I am sorry to hear that you have been ill, my lord.”
“A fever, Visitor de Pairaud,” responded Edward tersely, “nothing more. So, you received my summons eventually?” The criticism was plain.
Hugues inclined his head. “I apologize that it took me so long to respond, but I have been occupied visiting the Temple’s holdings in Britain.” He went nearer, feeling the ferocious heat of the fire. “But I was glad to get your message, my lord, as I did wish to speak to you before I returned to Paris.”
Edward stared at him from out of the puckered folds of his pale eyes. “Oh?”
“These past years have laid heavy burdens on us both, my lord: your struggle against the rebels in Scotland; my attempts to secure a base for the Temple. I know, when we first agreed to aid one another in our respective endeavors, that neither of us would have imagined we would be in the same position after all this time. However, I would remind your graciousness that I have kept up my side of our agreement. The Temple fought for you in two campaigns, during which we lost one of our most dedicated masters.” Hugues’s voice tightened. “Grand Master de Molay is still encamped on Cyprus and despite my repeated requests that he return to administer to the order’s growing needs in the West, he is adamant he will remain there until support for a new holy war is forthcoming.” He went closer to the fire, holding out his hands to the flames. “I recently received word that Pope Clement has endorsed the Hospitallers’ planned conquest of the island of Rhodes that they might secure a permanent base for themselves. Their grand master has pledged to embark on a Crusade once the island is under their control.”
“I fail to see what any of this has to do with me,” said Edward, his voice dispassionate.
Hugues gritted his teeth, angered that Edward seemed inclined to make this as difficult as possible. “I had hoped, my lord, we could discuss the terms of our earlier agreement and your promise to aid the Temple in establishing a suitable headquarters.”
“I lie here on my sickbed with my coffers draining and my men spilling their blood on battlefields as we speak and you have the temerity to ask this of me?” Edward sat forward, his face strained. “Who do you think you are talking to, de Pairaud?”
Hugues stood his ground. “We made an agreement, my lord.”
“Bah!” Edward sank back against the pillows, his labored breaths rattling in his throat. “That agreement was made before my kingdom was blighted by that whoreson Wallace and his bastard followers. Now, with Robert Bruce arrayed against me, I have neither the time nor the inclination to aid you.” His eyes narrowed as he stared into the fire. “I will have the Scots on their knees before me if it is the last thing I do in this life. My wife and most of my children have died around me during this campaign. I am left with a son whose arm is as feeble as his wit. Who will wield the Hammer I have forged against the insurgent north when I am dead? I can leave the task to no one. I must finish it. I have not wasted eighteen years of my reign on this endeavor for nothing.”
“Are you saying you will not help me, my lord?”
The king was silent. A log shifted in the hearth and a burst of sparks crackled into the air. “I am saying I cannot. Not now.” He paused. “But if I crush Bruce and his supporters, I will give you what you want.”
“Territory?” asked Hugues quickly.
“I would be willing to discuss the offer of a small area of Scotland as a benefice to the Temple, should this campaign prove successful. But I have a condition. It is, in fact, the reason I summoned you.”
Hugues waited.
“If I am to win through in Scotland I will need all the help I can muster from my subjects. I require the support of the barons to mount an effective campaign, the approval of my people whose taxes will pay for it and the endorsement of the Church from which I intend to levy further funds. This last requirement is proving to be difficult. William Wallace had the backing of Pope Boniface, who was my staunchest detractor in earlier campaigns. This past year his successor, Clement, has begun to take on a similar role. When I sent messengers to His Holiness, replying to his letters of protest, my men discovered something very interesting. The pope, it seems, has formed an alliance with an old enemy of mine. The details of their acquaintance elude me, but the whys and wherefores are not important. What is important is that it is ended. That is where I require your help.”
“You want this enemy destroyed?” said Hugues, frowning.
“No. I want him captured and brought to me.”
“My lord, I am sure someone with your capabilities could find and detain this man quite easily without the need for my—”
“He is currently in Paris as a guest of King Philippe, where he has no doubt stirred up other trouble for me.” Edward’s eyes bored into Hugues. “The man is William Campbell.” When the Visitor didn’t respond, the king nodded. “I can see by your face that this comes as a surprise to you. I had wondered if you knew.”
“I thought him dead,” murmured Hugues.
“I had him in my custody in Stirling years ago, but he escaped. In the past Campbell has been little more than a wasp, an irritation. Now, his sting is starting to wound me. I want him destroyed. But by me, you understand?” Edward pointed a bony finger at Hugues. “Bring me Campbell and you can have your piece of land, Templar.”
34
Franciscan Monastery, Poitiers
APRIL 8, 1307 AD
Guillaume de Nogaret smoothed back his thinning hair in the mirror and pulled on his coif. He paused for a moment, staring at his pallid reflection with a small, satisfied smile, before shrugging on his freshly laundered traveling cloak. There was a knock at the door. When Nogaret opened it, he saw an acolyte outside holding a basket covered with a cloth, through which drifted a strong smell of cheese.
“His Holiness said you required provisions for your journey back to Paris, Minister.” The acolyte held out the basket expectantly.
“Give it to my squire.” As the man nodded and turned to leave, Nogaret called to him. “And while you’re at it, make sure he has my horse saddled and ready. I wish to leave right away.” Having closed the door, the minister finished packing his few belongings into a leather bag. When he was done, he made his way out.
Striding swiftly along a gallery that looked down over an inner courtyard, he heard faint chanting coming from the chapel, rising beyond th
e rooftops of the friars’ lodgings. Guessing it must be for the morning office, he halted to listen, the sun warming his face. His smile deepened and he wondered at the pleasure he felt at a sound that would usually grate on his nerves. After a moment, he realized that his satisfaction wasn’t at the friars’ prayers; it was at the fact that, for the first time, the Church had given him something other than torment. His smile was one of victory, long awaited.
The feeling passed quickly, however, and by the time he made his way out into the courtyard, the lines on his brow had settled into their well-worn furrows. He had mistakenly believed he had succeeded before in pursuit of his aim. That the pope had listened with mounting concern to Esquin de Floyran’s testimony when Nogaret had brought the former prior to him was one step. That Clement had then, with some persuasion, written the letter to the grand master of the Temple was another. Now the message was winging its way across France and Esquin de Floyran was safely hidden, all Nogaret could do was return to Paris, and wait to see if the next step was taken.
Crossing the cloisters and entering the building on the far side, he was making his way down a wide, sunlit passage when he saw three men coming toward him. They were some distance ahead and engrossed in conversation. The first was a friar in a gray hooded robe. The other two wore riding cloaks. Nogaret recognized one of them immediately. There was a second’s indecision, in which he almost called out. But something stopped him. Instead, he slipped in through one of the doors that lined the passage and entered an empty chamber filled with writing desks. Standing close to the door, grasping the handle, he listened intently as the men’s footsteps came closer. He caught a snatch of conversation.
“. . . but you are welcome to wait . . .”
The words faded into murmurs and the footsteps continued on. Nogaret eased open the door and saw the backs of the men moving away. His eyes lingered on the one in the center, before they turned a corner and were gone from sight. Deep in thought, Nogaret almost knocked into an acolyte hurrying in through the cloisters. It was the young man who had brought him the basket of provisions. He grabbed the acolyte’s arm. “The two men with one of the brothers,” he said, pointing in the direction the three had gone. “I want you to find out who they are and why they are here.”
“But—”
“Now,” demanded Nogaret. He held on for a second longer, his pinching fingers causing the acolyte to wince. “Do it with care. I don’t want either of them to know anyone was asking. Do you understand?”
The acolyte nodded quickly. “Yes, Minister.”
“I’ll be in the stables.”
As the young man moved off, rubbing his arm, Nogaret made for the yard.
His squire was there with their horses, the panniers filled with food and blankets, donations from the monastery. Curtly telling his squire to wait, Nogaret ducked into the shade of the stables. A couple of grooms were removing the saddles of two weary-looking horses. Nogaret knew the piebald stallion. The other was a powerful-looking destrier, with plain, but well-made trappings. He questioned the grooms on their riders, but neither boy knew anything. As the minutes crawled by, Nogaret’s impatience hardened into a tight knot. The sound of chanted prayers had ended and the monastery was bustling into life.
Finally, a door in the building across the yard opened and the acolyte hurried across.
“Well?” demanded Nogaret.
“I spoke with Brother Alain, Minister. He said the men were asking if Esquin de Floyran was here. When they were told he had left, they requested to speak to His Holiness.”
“Did you learn their names?”
“William Campbell and Sir Robert de Paris.”
“De Paris?”
“Yes. Did you want anything else before you . . . ? Minister?”
Nogaret was striding to his horse, not listening. He gestured to his squire and swung up into his saddle. “Do not tell them I asked,” he told the acolyte, turning his horse roughly. “That is a royal order.”
“Of course.”
As the young man hastened to open the gate, Nogaret glanced back at the monastery buildings. No doubt Campbell would soon discover he had been here, but that didn’t matter. By the time he did, Nogaret would be on the road to Paris. He expected the men would be delayed for some while. Clement had taken ill several days earlier and was refusing all visitors to his private chamber in the monastery.
The minister dug his heels into the sides of his horse and rode through the gate, relieved he had trusted his instincts and hadn’t called out to the Scot. He had initially thought the king must have sent Campbell, possibly with new instructions. But the second man, the one he didn’t recognize, had stopped him, that and his distrust of Campbell.
Now that distrust seemed more vindicated than ever. It blazed in his mind, fiery and righteous. Robert de Paris was the name of the Templar who freed Esquin de Floyran from Merlan. The way Campbell had worked himself so keenly into the king’s trust, the unexpected appearance of the knights protecting Boniface in Anagni, the escape of Clement’s child and the murder of the royal soldiers, these events were like arrows on a map all pointing toward the same place. Toward the Temple. Toward Campbell.
FRANCISCAN MONASTERY, POITIERS, APRIL 23, 1307 AD
“You have until Vespers.”
The friar shut the door behind Will and Robert, leaving them in the chamber, alone but for the ashen-skinned, emaciated man propped on a chair by the window.
The sight of him tempered some of Will’s impatience, burning hot within him for over a fortnight. The pope looked as though he were hovering on the threshold of life, his face so pale it was almost translucent. “I deeply regretted to hear of your illness, Your Holiness,” he said, realizing that he meant it. Clement was his one true ally now.
“The worst has passed,” answered the pope, in a withered voice. He held a cloth pouch, which gave off a tart smell of herbs. “Praise be to God.” He made as if to rise, then sank back with a sigh. “Although I am still weak.” Lifting the pouch to his face, he took a sniff and grimaced. “The infirmarer tells me this is to help the sickness, but I fear it might actually be the cause of it.” His bloodshot eyes focused on Will. “The brothers told me you had come. I assume for the same reason as the king’s minister?”
Will went to him. “Where is Esquin de Floyran, Your Holiness? No one here would answer our questions.”
“Most of them know nothing of this matter. I spoke with de Floyran at length several weeks back, before the sickness gripped me. Nogaret took him after we were finished. He said he was moving him to a safe place, but did not trust me enough to tell me where, despite my insistence. Either it wasn’t far from here or he had men waiting nearby to convey de Floyran, because the minister returned the same day.”
“What did Esquin tell you?”
“That there were heretics within the Temple who murdered his nephew and locked him in prison.”
“Did you believe him?
“He told a convincing tale.” Clement paused. “But it was the testimony of one man alone, a man clearly fired by vengeance.”
“So you dismissed it? Sent Nogaret back to the king?”
Clement rose, using the chair to steady himself. “I had no choice but to act. It was a serious allegation.”
“You know why they have brought this to your attention,” Will pressed, throwing a troubled look at Robert. “This is what the king and his minister have no doubt been longing for; some spurious claim by which means they can steer their plans for the Temple.”
“Spurious?” Clement’s voice sharpened. “You can tell me for certain what de Floyran said is false? You have proof?”
“Whether it is false or not is surely a matter for the Temple, Your Holiness?” interjected Robert. “The order has jurisdiction regarding the discipline of its members. This is an internal matter. It should be investigated as such.”
“Exactly,” responded the pope, “which is why I have sent a message to Cyprus summoning Jacques de Molay.”<
br />
“Did Nogaret demand this?” questioned Will.
“I made my own decision. In matters of heresy the final decision is always mine.”
The pope’s irascible tone told Will he had indeed been browbeaten by the king’s minister. Before he could think through the possible outcomes of this, Clement continued.
“Grand Master de Molay and his officials will be able to help me resolve this matter. Together, we will root out the truth or falsehood of de Floyran’s testimony and deal with it accordingly. The king and his minister may see this as a route to the Temple, but I promise you, unless I deem it necessary, the Temple will not be damaged in any way. Besides,” added Clement, “I dearly wish to speak to the grand master. It is long past time I received news from the East. I want to hear the plans for his Crusade and to see what I can do to support the order.” He smiled faintly. “Indeed, I consider this whole affair to be a blessing rather than a curse.”
Will said nothing, his unease merely heightened by the pope’s assurances. He had always ignored Clement’s evident desire for a Crusade, choosing to hope that the reluctance of rulers such as Edward and Philippe to take the Cross, along with Jacques’s failures in the East, would render the pope’s wish nothing more substantial than a dream. But now it seemed, either way the tide turned, a meeting between the pope and the grand master had the potential to lead to something more ominous. He wondered about going himself to Cyprus to warn Jacques not to attend the meeting, but the two-week head start of the pope’s message was discouraging, and unless he told Jacques the truth, which in itself could damage the order, the grand master would have no choice but to answer the pope’s summons.
“Now, Campbell,” said Clement, his tone signaling the end of any further discussion. “I want to know what you have found out on Guillaume de Nogaret. Have you uncovered any evidence on his involvement in Benedict’s death?”