by Robyn Young
“He wanted to return to plan for the Crusade.” The cardinal’s brow creased. “Is there nothing we can do?”
“I would suggest,” said the physician quietly, “that you pray for him.”
The cardinal nodded after a pause. “I understand. Thank you.” Before entering the chamber, he waited until the physician had been escorted away down the passage by two black-robed Dominicans. Three other cardinals of the Sacred College were there, lingering around a large bed. They all looked around as he closed the door, their faces expectant. He shook his head.
In the bed lay Clement. The pope was breathing shallowly, his eyes hooded, the lids fluttering. He stirred as the cardinal who had entered moved to his side and took his hand. His face was deathly pale, the skin stretched taut over his bones as if there were nothing left between them; not muscle or blood. The disease he had suffered with for so many years had consumed him, eating away his organs and his strength until he was no more than an empty husk, with all his hopes and plans rattling inside him.
Outside, a bell chimed the afternoon office and doors banged in the distance as the monks filed to prayer. Clement’s eyes flickered open. Staring past the bowed heads of the cardinals, he fixed on a picture hanging on the wall at the end of the bed. It was an image of Jerusalem, embroidered in silk. A tear slipped from the corner of his eye as his vision focused on the white and gold domes, crowned by their eternal sky. “No,” he whispered, feeling his heart murmur uneasily. “Not yet. I must see it done.”
“Your Holiness?” said one of the cardinals, leaning closer to hear that papery voice.
Clement’s head turned weakly to him. “I promised Raoul.”
“Who is Raoul?” questioned the cardinal gently. When the pope didn’t answer, the man glanced at the others, but they were shaking their heads in puzzlement.
As the Nones bell ceased its chimes, the pope’s hand slipped from the cardinal’s, his head sinking back on to the pillow.
CHTEAU VINCENNES, THE KINGDOM OF FRANCE, AUGUST 29, 1314 AD
Philippe urged his horse on faster, not waiting for the others to follow. The green wood ahead promised freedom and he was impatient for it. The white mare plunged keenly along the path that looped through the trees, her iron-shod hooves thumping up dust. The king settled into her rhythm, reins gripped in one gloved hand, the other crooked at his side, bearing a hooded falcon, the leash and jesses looped through his fingers. She was a young lightning-swift peregrine, a gift from his son-in-law, King Edward. Maiden had died the previous year and he hadn’t flown a bird since, but he missed the chase and in recent months found himself dreaming often of the woods and river flats of the royal estate. Sir Henri had trained the falcon and now they were ready, she and he, to test each other’s mettle.
For months, he had been cooped up in Paris, feeling caged and restless. The death of Pope Clement had complicated matters, for while the pope had issued a bull decreeing the wealth of the Templars be transferred to the Hospital, no such document existed to attest to his decision that Philippe should be the new grand master of that order. The king spent sleepless weeks arguing long into the night with Guillaume de Plaisans and Pierre Dubois, desperately seeking some resolution to the problem. Finally, the canny lawyers, in preparing to hand over the Templars’ wealth and property to the Knights of St. John, had drawn up a lengthy list of expenses and legal costs incurred during the king’s seizure and collection of the assets. If the Hospitallers wanted the vast array of estates and small holdings, they would have to pay for it. In the end, Philippe got everything he wanted. Clement’s death freed him from the burden of an unwanted Crusade and the Hospitallers were slowly pouring money into his dried-up coffers.
As the king rode, he felt the sting of the hair shirt against his skin. Preoccupied of late, he hadn’t worn it in quite some time. Above him, through the breaks in the canopy, the sky was tinged rose-gold in the east. It was still early and the sun was only just starting to rise. There was a heavy promise of heat in the air and mist rose from the dew-laden grass, turning the forest into an ethereal world of silver webs and shifting shadows. Birds cast themselves from the trees as the king thundered past. Hearing the barking of dogs somewhere behind him, Philippe glanced back over his shoulder. He couldn’t see the company of courtiers who had been following him anymore. Slowing the mare with a swift pull on the reins, he turned her sharply and cantered back the way he had come. He caught shouts and the bellow of a horn up ahead. Rounding a corner, he saw the company. They were crowded around the edge of the wood, staring into its depths. The huntsmen, who had been jogging on foot some way behind the horses, were straining to keep the barking dogs in check, the beasts pulling at their leashes.
“What is it?” Philippe called, approaching.
“They must have caught a scent, my lord,” replied one, whipping the hound with his stick to silence it. “Deer, I reckon.”
“This close to the château?” questioned Philippe’s son Louis doubtfully.
Philippe steered his horse to the line of trees and peered into the green gloom.
“What say you, my lord?” asked Henri, moving in alongside him. The old falconer smiled, his weathered face wrinkling. “Shall we have our sport here or at the river?”
Philippe nodded to the huntsmen. “Let the dogs go.”
The courtiers murmured excitedly, moving into position, as the huntsmen unleashed the hounds. The dogs streaked into the undergrowth, barking furiously. The chase was on.
Philippe went first, hurtling down the grassy bank that slipped from the track into the woods. Turning his horse skillfully, he ducked under low trailing branches, pulling his knees in as the mare whipped past the trees. The company followed, fanning out, each man finding his own path. Once again, Philippe left the rest behind him, none of them able, or daring, to match his wild pace. As he rode, the mist swirling in his wake, he grinned savagely, filled with the thrill of the hunt. He was power personified, the master of all things: his horse, the killer on his wrist, the ground upon which he rode. He was king, worshipped and feared. He had beaten his enemies and watched them fall before him. He had expanded his kingdom and filled his coffers. God could not fail to notice him now. There was no one more powerful, or famed in all of Christendom.
Ahead, the barking of the dogs seemed to separate. He caught movement as the pack split and the animals sped in different directions. “We have two scents!” he shouted, following the three dogs that had veered to the left. He rocked in the saddle as the horse vaulted a shallow stream. The woods behind and to his right were filled with the calls of the others as they spread out, each man wanting to be the first to catch sight of the quarry. The sounds were distorted, echoing through the maze of trees. Up ahead, the dogs’ barking was louder, more urgent. Philippe slowed his mount with a tug on the reins as he entered a clearing. He couldn’t see the dogs, but he could hear them, growling and snarling. Between two oaks the undergrowth was thrashing. Wondering if they had caught a boar, Philippe swung over the saddle and jumped down, still holding the peregrine poised on his left glove.
With his right hand, he drew his sword and went forward, cautious now. A cornered boar could be lethal. His horse circled behind him, snorting. Golden light was flickering through the trees as the sun rose. The forest was alive with horns ringing and men shouting. It sounded as if the dogs had led them around in a circle. Philippe’s brow furrowed in disappointment. Had he followed the wrong trail? He went closer to where the hounds were scrabbling. Parting the bushes he saw a dead deer, the dogs’ faces buried in its guts. He was about to shout to the huntsmen, when he caught sight of a hole in the dead animal’s side. It looked like an arrow wound. He straightened, his frown now one of anger. Poachers? On his estate? The undergrowth behind him rustled. The king turned.
Rising up out of the green and the mist were three figures. In the first rays of sun, their white mantles seemed to glow, the cross over each of their hearts as red as blood. One held a bow primed in his hands. It
released, the arrow springing forth. Philippe watched its rapid trajectory, the nerves in his body firing into life, ready to send him lunging to one side. But the arrow was quicker. As its barbed tip plunged into his chest, the king hurtled back, his arms flinging wide. His sword with its golden pommel flew from his hand as he fell. The falcon shrieked, her wings beating the air and her leash pulling free. Philippe hit the ground and lay on his back, his breath shuddering between his lips, watching her soar into the blue air above him. Her small form spiraled up, moving farther and farther away, while he remained pinned to the earth, sinking farther inside himself into nothing.
46
Argyll, the Kingdom of Scotland
NOVEMBER 2, 1314 AD
The calls of the children echoed sharply, catching in the wind and filtering back to the adults, who were wending their way slowly up the hill. Closer, the sea whispered and sighed, unfolding itself across the sand then dragging back. Will paused on the crumbling cliff edge, the raw breeze flurrying around him, whipping the stiff grasses against his legs. The sun had set, but the western sky was still glowing, the tumbling line of islands that shaped the horizon black against the gold.
Some days, he would sit out here for hours. After so many years of uncertainty to be able to see everything before him was a comfort. Yet within those confines, change was a constant. The sea could shift from green to gray in an instant and mists would roll in unexpectedly over the bracken hills to cast a white net across the lochs, some of which were so deep they cradled mountains in their depths. The summers were glorious, the nights light and mild, but the winters were brutal. Community meant something here, unlike the anonymous sprawl of London or the twisting labyrinths of Paris. It reminded him in some ways of Acre, the same barren beauty and white sugar sands, people clinging together on a rocky strip of coast, reliant on one another for survival. Everard would have liked it here, as would Elwen.
Will felt a hand on his arm.
Ysenda smiled at him. “Are you coming inside? It’s going to be cold tonight.” She glanced around as her husband put his arm around her.
John Campbell nodded to Will. “It was a good service, I thought.” He looked up hearing his name, and his brown face crinkled as a young boy came racing down the hill toward them.
The boy came to a breathless stop, tossing his hair from his eyes. “Can we get some more apples from the store?”
“What for?” asked John, groaning as he hoisted him into the air.
The boy was whip-lean, but tall for his age. Sometimes, Will saw glimpses of Philippe in his face, which for a time had disturbed him, but the more he had come to know his grandson, the more those fears had dissipated, since he couldn’t have been more unlike his father in temperament.
“For the lamb’s wool. Christian says I’m to make it.”
John’s smile broadened. The drink, made of roasted apples, ale and nutmeg, was a favorite in the household. “That sounds like an important task for one so young.”
“I can do it.”
“I’m sure,” said John with a chuckle, letting the boy down. “Perhaps your grandfather can help?”
Will nodded as the boy’s eyes darted hopefully to him. “I’ll be up soon, William.”
Ysenda caught his eye. Taking the boy’s hand and with her husband’s arm still slung around her waist, she led them toward the house, following the rest of the children and adults up the darkening path.
“You’ll soon not be able to do anything without him, you know.”
Will didn’t turn. A cold hand threaded through his and he closed his eye as his daughter rested her head on his shoulder. For a time they stood there, neither of them speaking.
Finally, she gave his hand a squeeze. “I had better help prepare the feast.” Rose paused, wrapping her cloak tighter around her as the wind snatched it back. “I’ll set the place for them.”
Will stared out across the sea as his daughter followed Ysenda and the others.
It was a night of celebration. Tonight they would drink to the close of the year and thank God for their blessings. But it was also a night of sadness, a feast for the dead, when all souls were remembered. In chapel that evening they had said prayers for the departed and an extra seat would be set at the table in honor of those who had gone before. Tonight, the air was thick with their memories. Here on this cliff edge, with the gold light fading to blue, he could feel them thronging around him: his mother and father, Elwen and Owein, Everard and Elias, William Wallace, Jacques de Molay, even Garin. He stayed there for some time before heading up the track, his stick tapping the ground.
As he neared the house, Will heard David’s voice, clear and strong, coming from inside. His nephew had arrived a week ago, alive with stories of King Robert. There had been further skirmishes with England over the past few years, but Edward II wasn’t the warrior his father had been and in a decisive battle at midsummer, Robert Bruce had driven the king and his men back across the border. These events seemed a long way away to Will, out here on this remote coast. It was a time for younger men to forge out histories for themselves, to become legends. For him, it was a time of reflection. Last year he had started to add his own words to those begun by Everard, the old yellowed parchments eagerly soaking up the ink from his quill. It didn’t seem important these days to keep the secrets of the Anima Templi so closely guarded, indeed it felt more appropriate that he finally tell the truth, and so he wrote freely about the Brethren, about the men of the Temple, and its Soul.
Will was approaching the door when he heard the thud of hooves. Turning, he saw a horse moving swiftly up the cliff path toward him. Brow furrowed, he squinted into the gathering gloom, trying to make out the rider. His frown deepened as he heard his name come to him over the rumble of hooves. Suddenly, he knew who it was.
As Robert reined in the horse and slid stiffly from the saddle, Will called over his shoulder through the open door and went to meet him, flooded with relief at the sight of his old comrade.
“It is done,” said Robert quietly, when Will greeted him.
John was in the doorway. “Set another place!” he bellowed, as Will and Robert followed him into the house, one of the servants hastening to take the knight’s weary mount.
“I brought these with me,” said Robert, hanging back in the doorway and holding out the pack he was carrying to Will. “It didn’t seem right to burn them.”
Will took the pack and looked inside.
His grandson’s face appeared around the kitchen door. “Christian says you’re to help us.”
“Did she now?” Will smiled. “Tell her I’ll be there shortly.” He gestured Robert to an empty room off the hallway. As they passed the kitchen, Will caught a glimpse of his grandson climbing up on a stool to reach the table, where Christian and Rose were slicing up a pile of wrinkled apples. Ysenda was crouched before Ede by the hearth and Simon was talking with David, who was pouring out two jars of ale.
“Will you tell him?” asked Robert, as they entered the empty room. The servants had stoked the fire and the flames roared in gusts of wind, filling the chamber with the peppery smell of burning wood. “Your grandson?”
Will closed the door. “About his father?” He turned to meet Robert’s gaze. “In time, yes. He deserves to know where he came from. There have been too many lies in this family.” He crossed to a chest by the window. Opening the pack, he withdrew the three folded mantles and placed them inside the chest, next to Everard’s book and the hilt of his father’s broken sword that Rose had saved from the palace.
“It doesn’t seem like much to be left with, does it?” murmured Robert, looking over Will’s shoulder. “Not after two hundred years.”
“It isn’t all.” Will glanced at him. “We still have the treasury.”
“Have you decided what to do with it yet?”
“I’m not certain that is for us to decide,” answered Will, after a pause.
“Who then?”
“Those who come after us.” Wi
ll stared into the chest at the broken sword and the white mantles. “Those of the future.”
“And us? What will we do now?”
Will shut the lid and stood. “Let us speak of that tomorrow.” He put a hand on the knight’s shoulder and smiled slightly. “Tonight we feast.”
The two men left the room side by side, Will leaning heavily on his stick. Together they entered the warmth of the crowded kitchen, enveloped by a host of welcoming voices and the ring of laughter.
Author’s Note
Back in 1999 I was sitting in a bar listening to two friends discussing the Templars. I’d never heard of them, but was instantly intrigued by the idea of these warrior monks. Some months later, I came across The Trial of the Templars, by historian Malcolm Barber, which detailed the downfall of the order. I read it in one afternoon and by the time I had finished I knew I had to tell this story. I initially embarked on a stand-alone novel, but the more research I did into the knights, the more I discovered of the richness of the period: the Crusades, the rise of the Mamluks, the politics, the courtly dramas, and before long the book became a trilogy. Starting The Fall of the Templars last year, it felt as though I had come full circle, the Templars’ end being the story that inspired it all. I was exploring the voices of characters who had been in my mind for almost a decade, but I was also writing what is perhaps the best known of the three periods covered in the trilogy.
As with Brethren and Crusade, I have made slight changes to the history, mainly chronological, but as much of the narrative in The Fall of the Templars is based on real events and people I thought it useful to note some of the places in the story where fact and fiction meet. Most of the alterations are in the form of the simplification of events that either went on for much longer or were more complex than portrayed. As a historical novelist you often have to make a judgment call as to whether to keep the history exactly as it was or to change it to make it more interesting or accessible. This becomes even more necessary when you’re covering nineteen years in one novel.