The Fall of the Templars

by Robyn Young

  Rose stumbled up the flight of shallow stairs at the end that led to a door. As she shoved it open, fighting against the wind, an icy shock of rain struck her. After slipping on her shoes and pulling up the hood of her mantle, Rose halted on the steps. She had already memorized what she would say to the guards, but although there was a light in the guardhouse, she could see no sign of anyone by the gate that the tradesmen used and it was with a burgeoning sense of freedom that she hastened across the rain-drenched courtyard. She drew back the bolt, then snapped down the latch. One tug and the gate was open. The narrow streets of the Ile de la Cité stood before her like the entrance to a labyrinth, but she knew her way through the maze and splashed assuredly toward the street that led to the Grand Pont. Emerging on the riverbank, however, she was brought to a halt.

  The Seine, surging high and fast through the night, had burst its banks and was a gray sea, wide and open before her, the chestnut trees that lined the river swaying like tall ships anchored in the churning waters. The flood was creeping outward from its rushing center, the waters lapping up to where she stood, the street disappearing ahead under the flowing tide. Rose bit back a cry of frustration at the sight of the bridge rising in the distance, where the ground sloped up again. Was God punishing her? Testing her? Flashes of biblical scenes went through her mind: the Red Sea parting before Moses, Jesus walking on water, Noah gathering his animals. But they were men with powers. She was a pregnant woman with a head full of fear and a heart full of guilt, her only hope of redemption the helpless life inside her and the scroll in the bag, lying heavy on her back.

  Rose looked over her shoulder. She could return to the palace, slip the scroll back into the king’s chamber somehow. Crawl into her bed. But even as she thought it, she remembered the rage in Philippe’s face. Lanced like a boil! Get out before I do it myself! Do what? But she knew, deep down she knew. She had been a vessel into which the king had poured his anguish and despair. Being so empty, she let herself be filled by his blackness. To him, the child that kicked and dreamed within her was nothing more than a seed he had planted by mistake, a weed that needed to be pulled, but as it grew and she found herself nourishing something other than grief and anger, it had become something real. Something wonderful. She had found herself hoping for a boy. If it was she would name him William, and he would not have a life like hers. But if that was to be, she couldn’t go back.

  Rose turned and stared at the drowned streets before her, dark in the sullen dawn. The last thing her father said to her before leaving was that he would speak to Robert and Simon, ask them to get her out of Paris. The Temple lay beyond the flood. Hope lay beyond. Steeling herself, Rose stepped into the freezing water and struck out for the bridge.

  The water deepened quickly, reaching coldly up her legs to her thighs as she waded in. She gasped when the wind tossed back her hood and rain lashed her cheeks. Her mantle flowed behind, dragging her down and her gown mushroomed around her, making it hard to move. The Grand Pont loomed ahead, the water dangerously high beneath it, racing between the tops of the piers. Branches and debris swirled around her, catching in her skirts and whipping past her legs. Several times she stumbled on something hidden underfoot and almost dropped the bag. She could see a couple of people on the bridge, looking worriedly over the water. One man yelled at her to go back, but she carried on, almost swimming now, the bag perched high on her back. As she approached, panting with exertion, the man who had been yelling plunged down and came toward her, hands outstretched.

  “Foolish girl!” he was shouting over the rush of water and the creaking bridge timbers. “You could have drowned!”

  As she grasped hold, he pulled her up onto the boards. Thanking the stranger through chattering teeth, she hastened along the Grand Pont. The banks were higher on the other side, the water only ankle-deep, and she quickened her pace as she entered the streets of the Ville, twisting through alleys, past squat churches where torrents of water spewed from the mouths of gargoyles. By the time she reached Temple Gate, her whole body was aching and she could do little more than lope awkwardly along. It was still early and the gates weren’t due to be opened for another half hour, but she pleaded desperately with the city guards and eventually, out of pity or impatience, they let her through.

  She slowed her pace as she headed along the road, the preceptory before her. The slash across the eastern sky had widened and a dull gold light was hemorrhaging from it. The rain was easing. Rose grasped her side and came to a halt, wincing as the baby struggled. She was standing there, trying to catch her breath for the last slog to the preceptory’s gate, when she heard a shout. It came to her faintly on the wind and it wasn’t until it came again that she realized the sound was familiar. It was her name. She turned and saw four figures running along the road, the city walls rising behind them. Three were in scarlet and blue cloaks that billowed behind them. The fourth, sprinting at their head, was all in black with a white coif.

  For a moment, Rose stood rooted to the spot. Realization squirmed up through her shock and it suddenly seemed obvious that they would know where to find her. Where else would she go in this city for help? The shout came again, harsher now. It galvanized her. Turning, she launched herself forward, lungs and legs screaming. The Temple was coming up, slowly. Clinging to the bag, throwing a look over her shoulder, Rose was horrified to see how much the men had gained on her. She could pick out Nogaret’s features in the seeping dawn. The minister’s face was a mask of fury. She tripped on a rock, dropped the bag, snatched it up. The stitch in her side was a slice of agony.

  The gate was ahead. Twenty yards. Fifteen. Ten. As she reached it, she threw herself against it, hammering both fists on the wood. “Let me in! Please! God please, help me!”

  “Get her!” came Nogaret’s shout.

  “Help me! ”

  A small door in the gates opened and she fell forward. Strong arms took hold of her. She saw the faces of two knights, surprised and concerned, then she was through. One of the men, seeing the soldiers come running, threw the door shut and swung a heavy bar across it.

  The Templar turned to Rose as the soldiers banged on the gates. “Who are you? Why are royal guards chasing you?”

  “Please,” she panted, “I have to see Sir Robert de Paris.” With trembling fingers she untied the bag and pulled out the scroll. “He has to read this.”

  The hammering came again. It was followed by Nogaret’s voice.

  “Open up in the name of the king!”

  One of the knights started toward the door.

  Rose shrank back. “Please,” she whispered. “He’ll kill me.”

  The knight’s gaze went from the scroll to her belly, arching through the folds of her mantle. She raised her hand to her mouth in despair as he moved to the gate, but instead of opening it, he snapped up a board that covered a hole cut into the wood.

  “What do you want?”

  Rose heard Nogaret answer. “The woman you have is a fugitive from the palace. She stole something that belongs to the king.”

  “Do you have proof?”

  “Proof?” spat Nogaret. “I need no such thing! You will hand her to me at once or suffer the consequences!”

  “I’m afraid, without an official warrant, I cannot do that. You see, the woman is on our property now and as our territory lies outside royal jurisdiction so does she.”

  “Have you not heard me, damn you? She stole from the king!”

  The knight paused, his face filling with dislike. “King Philippe is very fond, it seems, of making unfounded accusations and so until you can bring us proof of this woman’s crimes, I see no good reason to hand anything to you. Good day.” With that, he pulled down the board and crossed to Rose, ignoring the banging that started up behind him. “Now, as I’ve just disobeyed a royal order, you had better tell me who you are.” He pointed to the scroll. “And what that is.”

  Rose pressed her lips together. “I must give it to Sir Robert.”

  “Sir Robe
rt is in prison.”

  Rose saw something pass across the knight’s face. She thought it was anger, but it was gone too quickly to be sure.

  After a pause, he nodded to his comrade. “Stay here. I’ll send you some reinforcements in case they try anything foolish. I’ll take her to the officials’ building.”

  “There’s no one there,” said his comrade, raising his voice above the shouts of the soldiers.

  “I know,” replied the knight gruffly, “but she cannot stay out here. The brothers will be waking for Matins any minute.” Gesturing for Rose to follow, he headed for a grand building.

  They were almost at the entrance, Rose struggling to keep up with the knight’s stride, when three men came barreling out of a tower on the other side of the courtyard. Rose’s face bloomed with hope as she saw Robert. The expression froze on her face as her gaze alighted on the man behind him.

  Will came to a stop in the courtyard. He saw the knight first and alarm flooded him, but before he could get his feet moving again he registered the woman. She was staring at him, sinking to her knees on the wet ground, her ashen face crumpling in shock. Her coif was stuck to her head, hanks of wet hair coiling free around her shoulders, and her mantle was drenched and black with mud. But she was here. And unharmed. A faint prayer released itself from his lips. He took a few steps toward his daughter then faltered, his eyes on her distended stomach. Simon pushed past him, going quickly to where Rose had collapsed, something clutched in her hand.

  Robert flicked the sword he had taken from the dungeon toward the knight, who had drawn his own blade and was pointing it at him and Will. “Brother Laurent,” he called. “I don’t want to fight you. But I have to leave.”

  Slowly, the knight lowered his sword. “I’m not going to stop you, brother.”

  Robert crossed to him, relief etched in his face. “Thank you.” He clasped the knight’s hand. “I know you petitioned Hugues for my release.”

  “I wasn’t the only one.”

  Will hardly heard their exchange as the shock drained from him and he rushed to his daughter. Simon had coaxed her out of the mud, but she raised her hands, dropping the object she held, as Will came toward her.

  “No,” she was weeping. “Please don’t. Don’t touch me. I betrayed you. I betrayed you.”

  Not heeding her protests, Will enfolded her in his arms, remembering with piercing clarity the moment he pulled her to him at Acre after he thought he had lost her in the fire. It was the same wrenching love he felt now as he held her. Robert had bent and picked up the scroll case she had let fall.

  “She wanted to give that to you, brother,” Laurent was saying. “She was being pursued by royal guards. They demanded we hand her over.” He glanced at the main gates, where the hammering had ceased. “I think they’ve gone.”

  Will watched Robert pull the scroll from its case, but didn’t relinquish his hold on his daughter. “There’s writing on the side,” he said, as the knight turned it over in his hands.

  Robert held it up, squinting in the gloom. “To be opened by the Seneschal of Troyes on the evening of Thursday the twelfth day of October, and not before, on pain of death.” Glancing at Will, he broke the wax seal and began to read out loud.

  A bitter thing, a lamentable thing, a thing that is horrible to contemplate, terrible to hear of, a detestable disgrace, a thing almost inhuman, indeed set apart from all humanity. This is the very essence of the matter that has been brought to our attention. I, King Philippe IV, have heard the testimony of upstanding and virtuous persons who accuse the men of the Order of the Temple, sorrowfully but truthfully, of the foulest of crimes. Like a wolf in the appearance of a lamb, these so-called warriors of Christ have sinned against God and deceived all of Christendom.

  The brothers of this Order, it has been discovered, practice heresy and idolatry within their secret ceremonies and Chapters. More sickening still, they deny Christ and spit upon the cross. They engage in vile sorcery and devil-worship, and, eschewing the company of women, are encouraged to engage in the most obscene acts with one another. The Knights of the Temple defile the land with their filth, remove the benefits of the dew and infect the purity of the air. It is thus, with heavy heart, but firm hand that I, Lord of this realm, ordained by God, must act.

  By my order, I command you forthwith to muster the officers under your authority for the arrest and detainment of all knights, sergeants, priests and retainers of the Temple, who reside within your territory. This is to be done at dawn tomorrow, Friday the thirteenth day of October, the year of our Lord 1307.

  Once the Templars have been imprisoned, you will install guards in their preceptories and holdings. All treasures, relics and records are to be collected and held securely until such time as they can be transferred to Paris. The Temple’s property and all assets will henceforth be considered part of the royal treasury. After this is done, you will await further instruction from the crown.

  Scribed, on behalf of our gracious king by Sir Guillaume de Nogaret,

  First Lawyer of the Realm and Keeper of the Royal Seals.

  As Robert finished reading, Laurent moved away. He looked stunned, as did Simon.

  Robert met Will’s gaze. “He doesn’t have the power to do this, surely? The pope would have to authorize such an action.”

  Rose turned her head, her cheek resting on Will’s chest. “The king was planning to send the messages today. There were many more of them in his chamber than the one I took. He intends to deliver them to all the seneschals of the kingdom.”

  Will stroked her hair distractedly, feeling a mixture of pride at her bravery and disquiet over the danger she had put herself in. He was still reeling from the revelation that she was pregnant and it was hard to concentrate his thoughts, but he managed to marshal them after a moment. “I think the king must be so assured he will have public support that he doesn’t feel he needs Pope Clement’s consent. In truth, if enough people demand an investigation into these charges the pope will have little choice but to endorse the king’s actions. Remember, more than half the cardinals in the Sacred College are allied with Philippe. They can bring a great deal of pressure to bear on Clement.”

  Laurent was frowning at Will, a stranger to him, but with a bemused shake of his head, he addressed Robert. “The visitor, the grand master, all the officials are in Poitiers with the pope, attending to these very charges. I don’t understand why the king is moving against us when an investigation has already begun.”

  “A distraction,” said Will, before Robert could answer. “They want to separate the officials from the rest of the knights. The dawn assaults will minimize the effectiveness of any resistance and without commanders to lead them the men will be cut off, disorganized.”

  “Then is the pope part of this?” questioned Robert.

  “I do not believe so. I think they are using Clement to keep the Temple officials occupied. I do not think it matters what the outcome of that assembly is, or whether the pope feels the grand master has answered the charges satisfactorily. The king plans to move against the order whatever, and such a bold action will not be easily undone. Once the Templars are in his custody it will be very difficult for them to muster any effective defense. I think, if it comes to that point, a full public trial will be inevitable.”

  They fell silent.

  “We’ve got four weeks before they come for us,” murmured Simon. “What do we do?”

  “There isn’t time to warn everyone,” said Laurent. “Not in every preceptory, but maybe if we gathered the knights who are here in Paris, perhaps fled to . . . ?” He trailed off. “But we cannot. Not without the consent of the marshal or the visitor. I remember a story about a garrison of knights in the Holy Land who fled their preceptory when the Saracens came for them, leaving it undefended. They were stripped of their mantles. We cannot run.” His brow furrowed. “I will not.”

  “We need to warn the pope,” answered Will. “I planned to go to Poitiers anyway.” He glanced at Robe
rt. “Once there I can speak to Jacques de Molay. The grand master must be the one to decide the best course of action. Your brother here is right: it will be chaos unless the chain of command is observed.” Will frowned, thinking quickly. “There is one thing we can do now. We know the king’s charges are based on Esquin de Floyran’s testimony, but if they find no evidence to support that, no judge could possibly pass sentence against the order on one man’s accusations alone. We know Hugues conducted the initiations here, so we need to destroy anything in this preceptory that might implicate the order. We can make Philippe’s task as hard as possible.” Will paused, a grim smile spreading across his face. “And we can make his potential reward as uninviting as we can. I realize we cannot safeguard the assets contained in all Templar strongholds.” He spread his hands to take in the shadowy courtyard and the buildings around them. “But we are standing in the richest preceptory in the world.”

  “What are you saying?” questioned Laurent. “Brother Robert, who is this man?”

  Robert, however, wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at Will, that grim smile mirrored in his own face. “We take the treasury.”

  “We’ll need a ship and enough men to crew it,” said Will, ignoring Laurent’s protests. He nodded to Simon. “I want you on it. And you, Rose,” he added, looking down at his daughter.

  “There are men in this preceptory I can rely on for that task,” replied Robert. “Men outside Hugues’s influence.” He turned to Laurent. “Will you aid us?”

  Laurent was staring at him in disbelief, but after a long moment he hefted his shoulders. “We could perhaps have a ship ready by this evening, but—”