The Fall of the Templars

by Robyn Young

  “Need to know?” snapped Nogaret, turning on her. “I am almost certain it is because of you that Campbell isn’t rotting in our cells! Did you warn him?” He grasped hold of her shoulder, his thin fingers pinching. “Did you?”

  Rose stared in shock as the king turned away and unhurriedly picked up a goblet from the table. She gasped as the minister’s grip dug into her.

  “Let her go, Nogaret,” Philippe said, after taking a sip. “She didn’t betray me. She knows what I would do if she did.” He drained the goblet and looked down on her. “Don’t you.”

  Rose touched her bruised shoulder as Nogaret stepped reluctantly away, but her eyes didn’t leave the king’s. “I wish I had,” she whispered, struggling to her feet. “I wish to God I had warned him. I hate myself for what I did.” The words were out before she could stop them. “And I hate you for forcing me to do it!”

  Nogaret started forward, but the king held up his hand. “Forcing you?” His mouth twisted. “You were champing at the bit.” He moved to the table where the scrolls were piled high. There must have been dozens of them. Turning his back on her, Philippe gestured to Nogaret. “I want these delivered to the seneschals of France tomorrow morning.”

  “What about your child?” Rose shouted, her hand clutching her stomach. “Do you not even care for it?”

  Philippe spun. “Child? That thing inside you is no child!” His voice lashed out. “It is grief, swollen and putrid. It is a boil. A cyst!” Rose stumbled back as he tossed his goblet aside and strode to her. “By God, it should have been lanced when it was made, rather than allowed to grow into this monstrosity, paraded before me as proof of my sins!” He thrust her toward the door. “Get out, before I decide to do it myself!”

  Rose staggered into the passage as the door slammed shut. She struck the wall with painful force and slid down, feeling the baby writhe blindly inside her.

  38

  The Temple, Paris

  SEPTEMBER 14, 1307 AD

  It was past midnight and the city was a watery smudge of darkness, obscured by bands of rain. Here and there, flickers of torchlight in the windows of the taller towers winked out of sight as the downpour worsened, lashing the air in solid sheets.

  Will crouched close to the roadside, the rain on his leather hood like the rapid drum of fingers. He blinked water from his eyes as he focused on the preceptory gate, visible through the swaying trees. Atop the gatehouse tower, the Temple’s black and white banner twisted limply. Will made out the shadows of two men guarding the entrance, mail coats glimmering in the guttering flames of a torch. Keeping low, he crept into the tangle of bushes that ran rampant around the walls. The Paris preceptory was immense and it would usually take fifteen minutes to walk from the main gate to the servants’ entrances at the back. In the gusting rain and dark and mud, it took Will almost an hour to negotiate his way through the undergrowth. By the time the brambles opened onto a path that led to a small gate in the sheer walls, he was exhausted.

  After leaving the Scottish border, he had made it to London, surviving on berries, nuts and river water. In the city it took him almost a fortnight to beg passage on a vessel headed for France. This was the hardest part of the journey. The docks were crawling with whores, beggars and thieves, all trying to make a penny, feed themselves or escape the city. Without the fruits of the fields free to him, he was forced to pick through rubbish-strewn alleys outside inns and brothels to find food.

  Finally, after a rough, uncomfortable crossing on a horse-carrier, he landed at Honfleur and followed the broad curves of the Seine to Paris. He hadn’t shaved in weeks and his beard was as full as it had been when he was a knight. Crouching to cup water from a stream that morning, he had been struck by his reflection: crinkled green eyes staring up at him, hair, almost all gray, hanging raggedly around his sun-dark and battle-pitted face.

  Ignoring the weariness dragging at his limbs, Will made his way up to the gate. He paused outside, listening, but only heard the roar of the rain. It was the dead of night, between midnight and Matins, and most men in the preceptory would be asleep. After trying the door, locked as expected, he crossed to a gnarled chestnut, the thick branches of which stretched over the wall. He was relieved to see it was still there. Once, many years ago, returning late from an errand for Everard, he had found himself locked out of the preceptory and, not wanting to be challenged by the guards, had shinned up the tree and down the other side. But he was sixty now, not sixteen.

  Gathering his strength, Will hauled himself up and swung awkwardly onto the lowest branch. The leaves flurried around him as he climbed the next two, hands slipping in the wet. Straddling the fourth branch, he inched forward, until he could slide off and crouch on the top of the wall. As he paused to catch his breath, he sought a soft landing. The ground, a smear of black beneath him, looked a long way away. After a moment’s hesitation, he gritted his teeth and threw himself out into space. As his feet slammed into the ground, he rolled with the impact. Coming to a stop, he lay on his back, staring into the rain and waiting for the scream of broken bones. When he felt no pain, he pushed himself to his feet.

  Will jogged across muddy gardens, past the bakehouse and the fishponds, through the waterlogged orchards and into the servants’ areas. It was all so familiar. Even in the dark, after all these years, he knew where he was going. The main preceptory buildings were rising in front of him. A few torches burned in windows and once he had to flatten himself against a wall as someone hurried across a yard in front of him, head bent beneath the storm. But otherwise the place was quiet and he made it unseen to the stables, the whickers of horses coming to him in the gloom. Just off from the stable blocks were the grooms’ lodgings. Hoping he was right and this building still belonged to the stable master, Will headed for the door at the end. He pushed down the latch and entered.

  The room beyond was warmly lit by a low-burning fire. A stool was set beside the hearth and a pile of bridles lay on the floor, next to a couple of tools. Will made for a set of wooden stairs that disappeared steeply above. He stopped, hearing the creak of a board. It was followed by a sleepy-sounding voice.

  “Gérard? Is something wrong?”

  “Simon, it’s me.”

  There was silence, followed by several heavy footfalls right above his head. Two feet appeared in the hole over the stairs, followed by legs, then the rest of Simon as he clambered down. He halted at the bottom.

  Will couldn’t help but grin at the sight of him. Simon’s thatch of hair, gray like his own, was sticking up on one side where he’d slept on it, a piece of straw poking out of it, his nightshirt rumpled and his eyes wide in the firelight.

  “I thought you were dead,” Simon murmured. He embraced Will fiercely, though he was soaked to the skin and covered in mud. “I sent a message to the palace months ago with one of the grooms, but he was told you were missing. Where in Christ’s name have you been?”

  “England. Listen, I don’t have time to explain. I cannot risk Hugues finding me, but I have to know if Robert is here.”

  “Well, Hugues isn’t.” Simon’s tone was grave. “The visitor and the rest of the officials left five days ago. A few weeks ago we heard the grand master was in France meeting with the pope. Hugues and the others were called to join him in Poitiers. Will, people are saying the king is accusing the Temple of heresy. Does this have anything to do with Esquin de Floyran? Did the prior really find heretics in the order?”

  “Have you seen Robert since May?” pressed Will.

  “No. But I know where he is.”

  “Where?”

  “In the dungeon. I tried to discover why, but no one would tell me. To be honest, Will, the whole place has been in confusion. Now, with the officials gone and the rest of us left without any idea of what’s happening, it’s impossible to find anything out. I tried to contact you, but when that failed there wasn’t much more I could do.”

  Will nodded determinedly. “All right. The first thing is to get Robert out. I’m g
oing to need him.” He met Simon’s gaze. “I’m going to need you too, old friend. Are you willing?”

  “Do you need to ask?”

  “No.” Will smiled slightly. “But you might want to get dressed first.”

  After tugging his black sergeant’s tunic over his nightshirt and stuffing his feet into a pair of boots, Simon followed Will into the yard, splashing through puddles as they made their way to the tower that led down into the dungeon. There was no sign of any guards. Given the hour and the weather, Will guessed they would be in the guardroom or down in the lower levels. Pressing himself against the wall, he waited as Simon ducked in through the entrance, hair plastered to his head with rain. He heard his gruff voice come from inside, followed by that of another man. After a moment, footsteps came closer. A young knight appeared.

  “Are you sure it wasn’t one of the servants you saw, brother?” he asked, stepping reluctantly into the rain.

  Will grabbed him from behind, locking his arm around the man’s throat. The knight flailed and choked, trying to pry him off as he was dragged back into the tower. Finally, as his face began to turn purple, Will shoved him forward and cracked the knight’s forehead against the wall. He dropped like a stone.

  “Christ,” muttered Simon.

  “He’ll be all right,” said Will, grabbing his wrists. “Get his legs, will you.” Between them, they maneuvered the unconscious knight into the guardroom.

  “What happens when Rainier wakes up and remembers I was here?” asked Simon, as Will crouched down and removed the knight’s white mantle.

  Shrugging off his muddy cloak, Will pulled the mantle around him, drawing the hood over his wet hair. “Then he’ll know there really was an intruder,” he said, taking the knight’s broadsword. Will went first, heading down stone steps that spiraled into dank darkness. Soon, the way was lit by torchlight and a passage stretched before him. “Wait here,” he whispered. “I need you to watch my back. But try to stay out of sight. Your presence down here will be harder to explain away if anyone sees you.”

  Simon hung back in the stairwell as Will strode purposefully down the passage, sword in hand.

  He passed a recess where a few men lay curled on pallets, their snoring forms lit by a single night-light. Ahead, at a trestle and bench, sat a sleepy-looking sergeant, head propped on his hand. Beyond, the passage continued on, with gaps cut out of the stone, each one covered with iron bars. The sergeant looked around at his approach. His face in the torchlight showed surprise.

  “Sir Rainier? Is something wrong?” His gaze went to the blade in Will’s hand, then back to his face, shadowed under the white cowl. He stood, reaching for his own sword, but Will sprinted the last few yards and slammed him into the wall.

  He pushed his sword up against the sergeant’s throat. “Unsheathe your weapon,” he said, beneath his breath. “Slowly.”

  The sergeant did as he was told.

  “Place it on the table.” When the sergeant paused, Will pushed the blade into his skin. The man winced and set his blade down. “Now, take me to de Paris’s cell.” Letting the sergeant edge away from the wall, Will moved in behind him, the blade poking firmly into the man’s back.

  At the third cell, the sergeant unhooked a set of keys from his belt. As he twisted one in the lock and pulled open the iron bars, a figure huddled on the floor of the cell sat up.

  “So it’s Merlan for me then, is it?” came a rough voice.

  “Not yet,” Will murmured back, forcing the sergeant into the cell with a prod of the sword.

  Robert stepped into the torchlight, his face filled with astonishment. Raising the sword, Will cracked the pommel into the back of the sergeant’s head, and as the guard slumped, Robert followed him into the passage. He paused to snatch up the sword on the trestle and caught Will’s shoulder. “Will, I’m sorry. The moment I confronted Hugues he had me imprisoned and forced me to tell him where we were meeting so he could get you. I tried to hold out, but . . .” He looked away. “I wasn’t strong enough.”

  “I understand. Now, come on.”

  They went quietly by the sleeping guards in the recess, one of whom grunted as they flitted past. Simon loomed up in the stairwell, looking tense.

  “Where’s Hugues?” whispered Robert, as the three of them ascended. “How did you get in?”

  “I’ll tell you when we’re on the road to Poitiers.”

  “Poitiers?” muttered Simon, glancing up at Will as he climbed. “I would think that’s the last place you should both be going.”

  “The pope swore he wouldn’t let the Temple fall into Philippe’s hands,” responded Will, breathing hard as they neared the top. “But I want to make certain he keeps his promise.”

  “How do you plan to do that?” panted Robert.

  “Somehow, we have to get Nogaret to confess to murdering Pope Benedict. I know it’s a near impossibility, but it might also be the last chance we’ve got.”

  THE ROYAL PALACE, PARIS, SEPTEMBER 14, 1307 AD

  Philippe opened his eyes and sat up, uncertain what had awoken him. The candle on the table by his bed was shifting unsteadily in a draft coming from somewhere. He could hear rain falling in a torrent outside. Swinging his legs over the bed, he put his feet on the icy stones and walked across the chamber to pull aside the drapes. There was a slash of gray in the eastern sky. It was almost dawn.

  Letting the drapes fall back, Philippe shrugged on his ermine-trimmed cloak and went to where a basin and jug of water had been set out. He was washing his face when a knock sounded at the door and Nogaret entered.

  “My lord.”

  Philippe straightened, patting his brow dry with a cloth. “It is early,” he remarked, frowning. “Why are you here?” His gaze went to a large bag that was slung over the minister’s shoulder.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord, but I wanted to collect these.” Nogaret headed to the desk where the scrolls were piled high. “The sooner the messengers leave the better. This weather will slow them enough as it is.”

  Philippe paused, nettled by Nogaret’s eagerness and feeling the minister was taking control again. But he forced back his irritation, knowing the lawyer was right. For their plan to work the seneschals of all the principal cities in France must have received the order by the time the appointed day came. It was a delicate operation indeed. One slip here or there could mean the difference between success and failure and, when it came to the Templars, he’d had more than enough of the latter to contend with. “Very well.” Philippe watched as Nogaret stowed the scrolls in the bag. As he took up the last, the minister frowned and muttered a curse. “What is it?” asked the king.

  “I must have lost count.” Taking the scrolls out, Nogaret totted them up out loud. “No,” he said, looking up as he removed the last. “There’s one missing.”

  “I checked them myself yesterday. You must have miscounted.”

  Nogaret shook his head, but set about adding them up once more. Philippe came over as he fingered the last. Impatiently, the king picked through them, but the number remained unchanged.

  Nogaret’s face was troubled in the candlelight, as Philippe walked around the table scanning the floor. “Could someone have taken one?”

  Philippe glanced up. “No one but the two of us knows what they are. Why would anyone take one?”

  In the silence, Nogaret’s eyes flicked to the closed door separating the royal chamber from the handmaidens’ dormitory.

  “No,” said Philippe. But his denial held little conviction. While Nogaret went to the door, Philippe’s mind was filled by the look of hatred in Rose’s eyes as he had pushed her from the room. Now the door was opening and Nogaret was hastening inside, a candle beyond throwing his thin shadow up the wall. Even though the light was dim, Philippe could see that Rose’s bed was empty.

  THE ROYAL PALACE, PARIS, SEPTEMBER 14, 1307 AD

  Rose ran down the corridor toward the Great Hall, her bare feet clapping softly against the marble. The embroidered drapes cov
ering the arched windows swirled in the wind, and in the gaps she could see a faint gray light. In one hand she held her shoes, too loud for these echoing passages. With the other she grasped the strap of the bulging bag that bounced against her back. Inside, her balled clothes muted any sound that might be made by the other contents: either the stiff leather-bound scroll or her father’s broken sword, stolen from the chest in his room after he disappeared. She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving some part of him in this place. If this was all that remained of him then this was what she would bury, when the time came.

  She pushed open the doors of the Great Hall and slipped inside. Without noise and people to fill it, the vast chamber seemed to swell before her, the scores of pillars stretching into shadows like a forest of trees, bathed red in the bloody glow coming from the four massive hearths. Flitting between the columns, Rose made her way across the hall. Halfway across, she froze. To her left a dark shape was moving low to the ground. After a second she realized it was a large dog. Glancing warily at her, the beast slunk toward a fireplace and slumped in front of the embers. The servants must have left a door ajar and it had found its way in.

  Rose continued, her hand clutching the strap of the bag damp with sweat. She had only gone a few paces when she heard a door bang up ahead, followed by footsteps. Ducking behind one of the pillars, she saw someone crossing the hall in the direction she had come from. When the figure passed one of the hearths, she picked out his face. Fear engulfed her as she recognized the pinched, waxy features of Guillaume de Nogaret. The minister had a bag over his shoulder that flopped loosely as he hastened toward the doors that led to the royal apartments. Philippe had been asleep when she crept in to take the scroll, but the only reason Nogaret would have to be going that way was to wake him. She had no idea if they would notice the theft, but when Blanche and the other handmaidens woke in an hour or so they would certainly notice her absence. She waited breathlessly for the minister to push his way through the doors and the moment they thudded shut she was off, moving as fast as her swollen belly would let her.