The Wolves of Solomon (Wolves of Solomon Book One)

by R. L. Blackhurst

10th November 1307, Fontainebleau Palace

  De Nogaret was excited. He could not ever remember being this excited, even as a child. He had gone to Fontainebleau to see the King, both to reassure him and alleviate his fretting. Philip was as impetuous as a child and just as spoilt, stamping his feet when he didn’t get what he wanted and demanding the sometimes impossible. Unlike a child though, and more considerably dangerous, he could, in the throes of a tantrum, have you thrown into a dark dungeon and forget about you or have you disembowelled because you displeased him in some way.

  De Nogaret sipped his expensive wine greedily and finished his sumptuous food heartily, feeling as if the Sun shone from every single orifice that it could possibly emanate from. He had found himself in a position of privilege and had become indispensable to Philip. It was a situation that he thrived in and felt he wholeheartedly deserved, as he had worked hard and risked much for it.

  He had pushed the King’s patience while trying to convince him of De Floyran’s revelation of the werewolves of the Temple. It had been a tall tale for the King to swallow and all he had relied on was Philip’s trust in him. But De Floyran’s disappearance to England and the delays in proof had annoyed the King, who was used to getting what he wanted immediately. Despite all this, De Nogaret had persevered and was about to come full circle. Philip was delighted with his work. Now all he had to do was provide the proof, to him and the Pope. Once the Pope rallied to the King’s side, De Nogaret would be untouchable and showered with wealth, status and the glory he had always coveted.

  In addition, there was De Floyran’s promise, the gift he would bestow upon him; the power of the very thing he sought to destroy. It was all rightfully his. This morning he had gotten the news he desired. Galeren de Massard had arrived at the Château de Montlhéry and was secured in its dungeons awaiting the arrival of the King and Pope. The Pope had already journeyed to Paris to speak with the King and had agreed to travel to Montlhéry if important evidence, supporting the charges against the Templars, was to be brought forth.

  It was all falling beautifully into place. Philip had been overjoyed at the news. He had ordered his household to be packed up and ready to make the journey to Montlhéry immediately, with the Pope in tow. The Pope’s ailing health meant that the journey would be slow in order to cater for the comfort of the Holy Father.

  Philip fussed around Clement as if he were a favourite uncle of his and both men conversed easily with each other like old friends, though De Nogaret sensed the distrust felt by both sides. Once the evidence was successfully presented at Montlhéry, Philip would duly return to his usual manner of bossing Clement around disrespectfully. De Nogaret could see that the Pope was wary of what evidence was about to come to light, as if he sensed Philip’s grip tightening around him.

  De Nogaret cared not for such petty wrangling; only that he was proved right and handsomely rewarded. His old rival De Plaisians was to accompany them to Montlhéry as well as Robard Beaumanoir, and he was looking forward to basking in the laurels of being the King’s most trusted councillor. After the event Philip wanted things to move more quickly and for the leaders of Europe to follow suit.

  De Nogaret would almost be loath to see this chapter in his work end, for it had been his best yet. However, there was no point brooding, he would have a new life to embark upon and perhaps greater challenges to occupy his shrewd mind. With that thought he swallowed down the rest of his wine and called his servant in to pack his belongings.

  “Ourri, we leave on the morrow and I want you to accompany me.” De Nogaret said as he left the room to go and speak with the King.

  “Of course, sir.” Ourri said, a deep frown beginning to settle on his brow. He had not expected to be asked to go with De Nogaret and it made him a little nervous. His father had warned him to get out as soon as he felt the heat. Although the arrests had occurred and it seemed sensible to leave now and join his father and the others, something made him hesitate.

  He knew his spying had afforded his brethren time to think and act before the arrests. It had allowed his father and others to go safely to England. Yet he felt he could still help his brothers by remaining in his position. Knowing the thoughts and movements of De Nogaret and the King could serve a purpose and now that Clement was here, he may be able to fathom whether the ailing Pope had either the power or inclination to defend the Temple.

  He sensed danger, but running to England would be of no help and would only leave him frustrated. His father may despair at his decision but would be proud and that was worth the risk. After all, he was a werewolf and had cunning, the likes of which De Nogaret and the King could only dream of.

  11th November 1307, Château de Montlhéry

  “The time has come.” De Floyran said through the bars of the entrance to the oubliette. Galeren looked up at him and shrugged. “For what?”

  “To reveal the glory that is your other self.”

  “Where is Catherine?” Galeren asked brusquely, refusing to be drawn into De Floyran’s puzzle of words, “I thought I would see her.”

  “And you will, but first you must do me a favour.” De Floyran smiled as Galeren looked at him through suspicious, hate filled eyes. “Change into a wolf for me.”

  “Go to hell you whoreson! Do you think me stupid?” he growled. “I will not be part of your show.”

  “Stubborn.” De Floyran shook his head. “I hoped you would acquiesce immediately to save yourself pain but then again I didn’t, as I wanted to cause you it.”

  “You think to torture me into wolf form? Then do your worst! I will not betray my brethren.”

  “We will see.” He opened the gate and three of his men jumped down to Galeren’s level. “I will be back shortly to see if you’ve changed your mind…and your form.” De Floyran smiled and left, making his way back across the dungeon room and up the steps to its exit. He paused at the top of them to listen to the sounds of his men laying into Galeren. A good beating would bring him to his senses, though he knew Galeren would not be easy to break.

  Under torture his werewolf brothers had impressed even him as to the trials and agonies they had withstood, merely in order to protect the honour and good name of the Temple. He had heard no horror stories of men turning into wolves in the throes of their agony, which was often the case with their kind. The mayhem and confusion that occurred on a battlefield could allow them to change, if required. But this was a different situation. In the confines of a torture chamber they could not risk the truth being discovered, and none wanted to be the cause of their betrayal.

  But Galeren would be different. De Floyran’s men knew how far to take it and he didn’t expect him to change during a beating. It would be his trump card, Catherine, which would cause Galeren to change for the King’s pleasure. Smiling, he left the dungeon behind him and went to meet his soon-to-be grateful audience in the main hall for an early supper.

  The hall was bustling with the King and Pope’s entourages. On the dais table sat Philip and Clement, side by side. De Nogaret sat the other side of the King, his beady eyes darting furtively about the room as if unwilling to miss out on anything. Other men sat on the table around them, talking amongst themselves, but De Floyran noticed a seat free beside De Nogaret and took the liberty of assuming that it had been reserved for him.

  The hall was rammed with trestle tables full of the King’s men, all enjoying the gluttonous feast and plentiful drink that De Floyran himself had ordered for them on the King’s coin. De Floyran may have spent many years in the wilderness but he still knew how to feast like a Lord and he knew that De Nogaret and the King would be pleased with the reception that he had had prepared for their arrival.

  The Pope’s smaller retinue sat apart from the King’s and as loud as the King’s men were, they were, in complete contrast, eating and drinking modestly and showing pious disapproval on their pinched faces. De Floyran was not ignorant to the fact that the Pope’s health was fragile. He knew that Clement’s dedicated followers ob
jected to the journey they had been made to undertake, even though they had made numerous stops for the Pope to rest, and now they frowned on this raucous feasting.

  De Floyran moved across the hall smoothly and with a haughty smile upon his face, he tipped his head at De Nogaret who spotted him immediately. He then stepped up to the dais table and Philip looked up at him, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. De Floyran bowed graciously at the King.

  “Your Majesty,” he said and quickly turned to look at the Pope while remaining low in his bow and said, “Your Holiness,” in the same breath.

  “Well ex-Templar,” Philip began sharply, “I am pleased, if not surprised to see you again. I was beginning to think you were leading us a merry dance.”

  De Floyran stayed bowed until Philip waved him up. He smiled at the King.

  “It grieves me to think that you had reason to doubt me. I assured Guillaume that I would return and it was important business, your Majesty. Business, that in fact, has led us to this very day.”

  Philip’s expression stayed neutral, he only moved to pick up his goblet of wine from which he took a large gulp.

  “Be that as it may De Floyran, I hope it was worth your efforts and you should pray that it has been worth mine and our Holy Father’s.”

  De Floyran noted the shadow of mistrust in the King’s eyes and he nodded his head, “I can assure you that it will be worth all our troubles.” He looked at the Pope and sensed his nervousness but though Clement was weak, he was still not to be underestimated.

  “It must be quite a thing to cause you to denounce your brothers, or is it a grievance? Tell me, what were the circumstances surrounding your departure from the Temple?” the Pope asked perceptively.

  De Floyran laughed confidently. The Pope was a wily old fox but De Floyran knew that he had something to lose if the Temple were found guilty of the charges brought against them. Clement would quickly have to hasten to the King’s side, to prevent himself from becoming tainted by association. For now he was biding his time and reserving his judgement.

  “Your Holiness, all that will soon become clear. Now please enjoy the food, you may find it difficult to stomach later.” With that De Floyran bowed, and the King dismissed him. Taking his leave, he made his way around the table to join De Nogaret.

  “Brother, this is truly a feast to foretell a great victory!” De Nogaret said elatedly, and raised his cup in a toast. De Floyran obliged him and raised his own cup. He gave him an animated smile, irritated as he always was when De Nogaret referred to him as brother.

  De Floyran used the term ironically when referring to, or addressing one or other of his former Templar brethren. He hated the way De Nogaret used it, as if they were sworn brothers forever bound by blood and honour. He knew that he had given De Nogaret plenty of cause to believe this was so and fortunately for him he had swallowed it. However, he despised the little man and would be glad when the need to endure his company was over.

  “Indeed brother,” De Floyran said, knocking back his wine, “I am expecting such a victory.”

  “I was flooded with relief when I received your letter, not that I mistrusted you brother but,” De Nogaret leaned closer to De Floyran’s ear, “Philip was becoming anxious.”

  “Well, we can all relax,” De Floyran said, clapping De Nogaret on the shoulder and pushing him away.

  “What do you have planned for us?” De Nogaret swayed into him again. It was clear he was in his cups and De Floyran was not relaxed enough to be patient with him. He was confident with his plan but would not enjoy the moment until it had come and gone. A sumptuous array of food lay before him, roasted fowl, meat and potato pastries, thick slices of ham, poached peaches and flagons filled with ale, mead and the finest wine from Gascony, but he did not have a passion for any of it.

  “I don’t want to spoil it for you,” De Floyran said absently, his mind turning to Catherine. He had avoided visiting her in the chamber he had confined her to these last few days, there was little point and he did not trust that he was strong enough to resist her. Avoidance was the best strategy.

  However, his purpose here would soon be over and he had to think of his next move. He could have her and be done with it and then pass her on to De Nogaret or whoever, but the thought of that was somehow abhorrent to him. He reached for his wine and gulped deeply and then the sight of Armin de Merle deferred his thoughts. The man entered the room and shook his head ominously.

  “Damn it,” De Floyran cursed for De Nogaret’s benefit. He was pleased that an excuse to leave had materialised.

  “What is it?” De Nogaret said.

  “I have business to attend to.” De Floyran said, standing up abruptly.

  “I’ll come too, brother,” De Nogaret started.

  “No,” De Floyran said sharply, “stay here and enjoy the feast, but don’t get too deep in your cups or you will spoil seeing all you have worked for.”

  He made a shallow bow to the King and Pope and quickly joined De Merle at the door and left the hall with him.

  “No change?” De Floyran said, pleased that this was the news.

  “No, sir.” De Merle said sheepishly. De Floyran looked at him and saw a smear of blood, across grazed skin, on his left cheek. He shook his head irritably.

  “Don’t fret man, I didn’t actually expect him to roll over and play dead for us. I thought you’d enjoy the opportunity to give Galeren a good beating, after what he did to Sacquerville and the others. He’ll change, mark my words.”

  They made their way down to the dungeons and De Floyran’s face erupted into a visage of fury when he entered the oubliette and saw the state of Galeren.

  “I didn’t tell you to beat him to a bloody pulp though, did I?” he screamed at his men.

  Galeren lay crumpled on the floor, his stripped body covered in mosaic of bloody fist marks, his face was swollen and already turning a dark shade of purple. He wasn’t moving.

  “He is no good to me dead!” De Floyran raged.

  “It was not meant to turn out this way,” Huguard Parry defended, “the bastard fought back. He broke Botolf’s nose for Christ’s sake and –” he discontinued when he saw that De Floyran’s expression of displeasure was not diminishing, rather it was becoming more animated.

  “Bad luck.” A voice full of irony spoke up from the floor and De Floyran looked down to see Galeren looking up at him through swollen eyes. There was a painful smile on his face. De Floyran crouched down beside him.

  “I can’t believe you’re still so smug,” De Floyran said, relaxing a little. “This makes matters very dicey for Catherine,” he continued with venom, “for if you do not change forthwith, I will have her brought down here. My men will tear her to pieces, but not before we’ve all had our turn with her. Me first, of course. Then there are the torturers and they are always eager for a fresh bitch to play with. Would you like to see that?”

  De Floyran watched Galeren shake with rage and his desire to kill him. He smiled, “Agonise all you like, Galeren. Betray your kind or betray her.” He looked at him through malicious eyes. “I will do it, don’t think that I won’t.” He stood to leave. “So be it.”

  “No!” Galeren growled through clenched teeth, “wait . . .”

  De Floyran turned back, his eyebrows were raised expectantly. He knew that Galeren believed he was capable of it and he was, though he would be a little reluctant in this case.

  “Leave her out of this. I will do as you ask.”

  “I will,” De Floyran lied, for Catherine did have an important part to play in this. He smirked at Galeren and then saw his visage change.

  “Get out!” De Floyran screamed to his men, as Galeren’s form disappeared and his wolf half materialised instantaneously. His white fur was bloodied, evidence of the beating he’d taken but his lips curled back and his teeth were bared in preparation for the strike he was about to make. De Floyran dived out of the small entrance and slammed the grill shut just as Galeren’s muzzle snapped thro
ugh the bars after him.

  “Christ on the Cross!” he swore, staring at the raging wolf that was just inches from him. He had taken a foolish risk getting into the pit with Galeren and provoking him thus, knowing as he did that he wouldn’t have been able to change quick enough to defend himself. He looked up at his men.

  “Fools!” he spat and got to his feet, though he knew he was at fault here. He had forgotten about Galeren’s strength and speed. Having his men in a confined space with him was one thing, but having himself was another. His desire to torment Galeren had made him careless. He would have to be more careful. De Floyran knew that Galeren had let the others beat him and refused to change simply to remind him of how strong he was. His only weakness was Catherine and De Floyran thanked the heavens that he had her for leverage.

  “Where is Caradas?” he snapped, brushing the dirt once again off his tunic.

  “He guards her.” Huguard Parry answered, wiping his nose. “He waits for your instruction.” De Floyran shook his head in disgust at the state of his men.

  “Clean yourselves up! You are a disgrace to me and your race. Meet me in the guard room as soon as you look respectable.” He looked back at the wolf that still had its muzzle strained through the bars of the gate. The eyes of Galeren stared coldly at him, reminding him that it could still end differently if he did not mark his caution.

  “Stay as you are,” he said, the warning dark in his voice, “or I will make good my threat.”

  Galeren’s teeth remained bared and a guttural challenge emanated from his jaws. De Floyran nodded as if to accept it and then left.

  “The time is near.” He said to Raymond Caradas as he approached him. He moved past him and opened the doors to Catherine’s chamber. She was sat on the edge of the bed but stood up immediately when she saw De Floyran enter. He took a moment to admire her in the gown he had provided for her several days ago.

  The gown of grey wool was worn over an underdress of striking royal blue, giving the grey a silvery hue. It hugged her lithe figure and accentuated the curve of her generous bosom. Catherine’s black hair was uncovered and clung to her head like a cap, wisps and silky tendrils curled around her ears and down the nape of her neck. Her ghostly grey eyes made her seem like a fey spirit and De Floyran was struck by her once again. Strangely, he felt both regret at the pain he would cause her and a spiteful need to cause it.

  “It is time for you to see Galeren.”

  “Is he well?”

  “Shut up.” De Floyran said, going to her and grabbing her arm, “I am in no mood for your questions. Keep silent and obedient and you will do fine.” He pulled her from the room and passed her to Caradas.

  “Keep her here and bring her to the guard room when I send Armin for you.” Caradas nodded his understanding and De Floyran left them. He made his way back to the main hall and straight up to the dais table. The food had been more or less demolished, though the wine and ale still flowed freely. De Floyran bowed at both the King and Pope and then went to speak to De Nogaret. The councillor had halted his drinking and the shine had returned to his eyes, he looked at De Floyran expectantly.

  “Bring them and meet me in the guard room.”

  “Everything’s ready?” De Nogaret asked, almost breathless with anticipation.

  “Yes. Try not to delay. The sooner this is over the better for both of us.” He smiled briefly and added, “Your moment of glory is almost upon you, King’s favourite.”

  “And your reward awaits you, brother.” De Nogaret replied.

  De Floyran nodded and gracefully left the hall and then quickly made his way to the guard room. Inside, he walked over to the top of the oubliette and looked down to see Galeren pacing the floor. Galeren looked up sensing the motion of someone above him and saw the figure of De Floyran peering down. He wondered what De Floyran had planned, merely showing the King a wolf trapped in a pit would not convince him of De Floyran’s claim and he was certain that no one had observed his beating or change.

  He had let them beat him of course, with a strike of his own here and there for his own satisfaction. He could have changed. He could have changed at any moment and savaged De Floyran’s men, before they had a chance to change themselves. Though all werewolves, the man was no match for the wolf. He could have killed De Floyran too, but that would not have been wise, not now. He knew that De Floyran wanted to use him in his show for the King. Galeren’s threshold of pain was high, even for a werewolf. He would not have changed for anything, but his high threshold of pain did not extend to Catherine’s suffering. That he would yield to immediately. As he paced, he wondered how the hell he would get out of this and how he could get Catherine away from De Floyran before he really did hurt her.

  De Floyran smiled at his trapped quarry feeling confident in his plan. He looked up suddenly as he heard a snort and saw a man slumped over a table in the corner of the room. He had not noticed him, being so focused on Galeren as he had been. There was a flagon and cup by him and the man’s snoring was the result of a drunken slumber.

  De Floyran knew from the man’s drab dress and black leather hood, which clung tightly to his skull, that he was one of the torturers. The existence of a torturer was bleak and routine. When they weren’t breaking bones they dulled their senses with ale and plenty of it. The suffering they inflicted was often in the haze of a hangover and perhaps it helped them with their gruesome tasks. De Floyran was suddenly struck by a sinister thought and he smiled with cruel cunning as the man’s snoring continued to annoy him.

  The door opened and Armin, Huguard and Botolf entered cautiously. It pleased De Floyran that his men were afraid of him. He had given them reason aplenty to be. He looked over them with deliberate scrutiny.

  “Better,” he said with little real care for their hasty clean up, “Armin, go and fetch Raymond at my signal.” Armin de Merle nodded his head in obedience and they all looked round as the door opened once again. De Nogaret entered, followed by Guillaume de Plaisians, Robard Beaumanoir and the Pope’s scribe Brother Michael.

  They stood aside and De Nogaret gestured for the King and Pope to enter. All bowed respectfully as the two dignitaries entered the tawdry guard room. The King’s nose wrinkled in animated disgust at the smell of the room and the Pope covered his mouth and nose with his hand and made a sickened sound. The King soon forgot his displeasure and opened his hands in an expectant gesture at De Floyran. Despite his irritation at the vile smell of the room he was not surprised at the choice of locality where the proof was about to be revealed. He had been told about the Templar werewolves; however the Pope was completely unawares and seemed uncomfortable and somewhat angered.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the Pope asked, airing his displeasure. He was no fool; he smelt death and knew that the Templars that were imprisoned here had been tortured. He looked at Philip and pointed an accusatory finger at him,

  “This will be noted. First you arrest these men without papal authority and now I fear that you have tortured their confessions out of them!”

  Philip’s face grimaced nervously but De Nogaret quickly jumped to his defence.

  “It was not without just cause, your Holiness.” He said and then added, “Esquin de Floyran is about to make you see that we have had no choice.”

  “If I am to be witness to more torture then I will take my leave now and make my report which you will not like.” Clement knew that Philip thought he had a hold over him, but where matters stood at present the King had acted illegally and so was himself in a precarious position.

  “Trust me, your Holiness.” De Floyran said evenly, “You need to trust me, for what you are about to witness will make you see that the King has acted justly to eliminate an evil scourge that if left unchallenged, could damage the foundations of the Church and shake the faith of the masses.”

  “The Templars’ heresy? I doubt that, and in any case I have yet to have proof of it.”

  “I am not talking about heresy, your Holiness.”
He motioned to his men to remove the grill that covered the top of the oubliette.

  “Take a look inside.” De Floyran said invitingly.

  Both King and Pope were hesitant, neither trusting the treacherous ex-Templar. But Philip took the lead and casually walked over to the edge of the pit and looked down. He smiled and looked back up at De Floyran.

  “What is it?” Clement said nervously.

  “Come see for yourself.” De Floyran said, offering the Pope his arm for support. Clement did not take it.

  “Michael,” he called and took the arm of his scribe instead. Slowly, he moved over to the edge of the pit and cautiously looked over the side.

  “A wolf?” he said in bewilderment, seeing the creature lying calmly in the centre of the pit. He looked at Philip whose eyes were fixed on De Floyran.

  “I did not travel here for guessing games. Tell me what is going on.”

  De Floyran walked over to the slumbering torturer who in his drunken state was still oblivious to their presence. He grabbed the man under his arms and raised him to his feet. The torturer was beefy, as they mostly were, but De Floyran barely noticed his bulk. The man woke up immediately but was confused in his waking sleep and began to protest to his handling in a semi- conscious babble of words.

  “Shut up!” De Floyran said with such menace in his voice that the whole room fell cold. He dragged the man over to the pit’s edge and nodded to Armin de Merle who immediately left the room.

  “What is going on?” the Pope demanded, feeling ominous apprehension course through him. He looked at the King whose eyes looked apprehensive too, yet also glistened with anticipation. He looked at the others in the room, De Nogaret’s expression was similar to the King’s and the other councillors looked on with nervous concern upon their faces. De Floyran appeared calm but the torturer, whom he held teetering on the edge of the pit, appeared to have sobered up with fear as he stared down into the darkness.

  “What do you mean to do to him?” the Pope said with a shaky unease in his voice as he looked around the room for support.

  “To give you proof.” De Floyran said casually.

  “Proof of what?” the Pope said hurriedly.

  “The wolf you see in the pit is a Templar Knight.”

  The Pope shook his head in disbelief. “This is madness!” he looked at Philip, “are you listening to this?”

  “Yes,” the King replied calmly, “but I have heard this tale before and I am merely here for proof of it.”

  The Pope looked at the King as if he had just sprouted another head.

  “You believe this nonsense?” Clement continued, shaking his head.

  “With respect, your Holiness,” De Floyran said, “it is not nonsense. The Knights Templar are a race of werewolves. Humans that are able to change into wolves at their whim. They care not for God’s rule. They are heretics that practice dark magic and have an esoteric power that, if not stamped out now while we have chance, could destroy faith and mankind. I know this because I am one of these creatures and seek to absolve myself of our crimes by denouncing my race to the Church.”

  “I cannot believe this! This is just a wolf.” The Pope reasoned, staring back into the pit. The wolf now stood and stared back up at him. He shook his head, “I’ve had enough of this.” He said and made to turn.

  “Wait!” De Floyran said, “The wolf in the pit is a Templar called Galeren de Massard, he is the son of the Grand Master, Jacques de Molay.”

  “Madness!” the Pope reaffirmed, his eyes were almost wild with anger at what he was hearing.

  “Galeren!” De Floyran called down into the pit. Beaumanoir and De Plaisians now moved to the edge of the pit, both fascinated with the culmination of the wild yarn they had heard and slaves to their burgeoning curiosity. They stared down to see the wolf’s piercing blue eyes fixed upon De Floyran and his captive.

  “This man tortured your brothers with no mercy.”

  “What are you doing?” the Pope asked frantically.

  Esquin de Floyran ignored him and continued, “The ones who died, Guibert Ravenot, Sagard le Blond, Guillaume le Masson and Rannulf de Pardieu had the bones roasted from their feet and every one of their limbs broken. ’Twas a mercy really that they died. But they died in the agony of their stubborn refusals to confess to their sins.”

  Galeren could not control his emotion, for he knew there would be no reason for De Floyran to lie and he had smelt the lingering scent of seared flesh in the dungeon when he had first arrived and the death it had caused. He began to snarl and rage like the wild creature he was and the torturer began to whimper in fear.

  “De Massard has a vicious temper.” De Floyran smiled.

  “Sweet Jesus, save me!” the torturer begged, struggling to get out of De Floyran’s grasp, but De Floyran restrained him with little effort and held him over the edge. The Pope’s eyes widened in horror and he looked at the King.

  “Stop this Philip!” he cried, but the King shook his head in refusal and continued to watch De Floyran. He knew that if De Floyran had lied, then he was in serious trouble. But it had come too far now and he understood the renegade’s desire for the dramatic and he himself was eager to see the rest of the show.

  “Get on with it.” The King said and with a brief nod De Floyran let the torturer free from his grasp and he descended into the pit. His blood curdling scream was brief and his death sudden, for Galeren had torn out his throat before he even hit the ground.

  “God have mercy!” the Pope cried desperately, looking away from the scene with eyes closed and his hand once again over his mouth. De Nogaret smiled with blood lust and the others in the room appeared rooted to the floor, a look of both horror and disbelief across their faces.

  “There are plenty more torturers to be found and after what he did to those Templars, your Holiness, mayhap he got his just desserts.” De Floyran said pitilessly.

  “Have you all lost your wits? You have just put to murder a man in front of me! How dare you defile the sanctity of life before God’s ambassador!” he cried incredulously.

  “You will soon see that this is for the good of God and will be thanking me.” De Floyran said arrogantly. “This isn’t finished, Caradas!” he called and the door opened and Armin de Merle entered the room followed by Raymond Caradas who held Catherine in front of him. All looked at the beautiful young woman being brought into the room and she in turn looked defiantly at all them.

  Robard Beaumanoir nearly choked when he saw her, the past rolling before his eyes in that instant. Her hair was shorter and her face wiser, but there was no doubt that it was his former love. Her eyes instinctively locked with his as she recognised him and she shook her head with disbelief and shock,

  “You?” she said with scathing sentiment. That he was a part of all this was too much for her to take.

  “No!” he said in defence of her accusation as a sickening realisation of what was about to happen struck him. De Floyran looked furiously at him as if his thunder had been stolen. He frowned in anger and puzzlement at how they could possibly know each other, but there was time to find that out later. He snapped his fingers impatiently and Caradas quickly handed Catherine to him. He held her at the pit’s edge and looked at all who were present in the room with a wicked smile.

  “Do not do what you are about to do, I beseech you or I will damn you for all eternity!” the Pope said, gripping Michael’s arm tightly as if it would save him from what he was witnessing.

  “I already have my place in hell,” De Floyran said indifferently and then casually pushed Catherine over the edge.

  “Catherine!” Beaumanoir screamed and grasped at thin air as he weakly attempted to reach out for her. All watched in horror and fascination as she hit the floor of the pit. However, the wolf’s teeth were no longer bared and its rage seemed to have disappeared as it rushed at her. Catherine landed on the dead torturer who broke her fall, but she still cried out as she landed on her left side and felt her hip connect with the
dead man’s bones.

  “Galeren!” she said with relief as he pounced upon her, licking her face as a desperate form of contact. He could not help but show his relief and affection, though he knew their forms were conflicting. She drew her hands around the wolf’s neck and pulled herself up into a sitting position. She held him close and buried her face into his soft fur, recognising his scent and being instantly comforted by it. She then looked up at the faces of the spectators who seemed more horrified at the present scene than they would have been if she had been savaged like the torturer.

  “Are you satisfied?” she screamed up at them.

  “What evil trickery is this?” the Pope said, his heart still in his mouth.

  “No trick.” De Floyran said. “The wolf loves her and she him. He is aware of who she is and so would not harm her.”

  “Witchcraft!” the Pope said.

  “Older than that.” De Floyran replied.

  “This proves nothing.” The Pope said still adamant.

  “Be patient,” De Floyran scolded, “they will not be able to remain in their opposing forms for long. She too is a werewolf. Natural instincts will take over and they will need to be alike, their bond necessitates it. Watch closely.”

  De Floyran was right. Those who were bound to one another as mates could not exist in differing states for prolonged periods and nature took control to right the difference. It was Galeren who changed. Before their eyes the large white wolf seemed to evaporate, leaving behind the form of a man and the two unnatural lovers clung to each other as man and woman.

  “Christ on the Cross!” Beaumanoir screamed and the Pope shook his head in disbelief not bothering to chastise him for his blasphemy. The King stared with delight and looked at the others in the room to gauge their reactions. Every one of them appeared to be stunned beyond words except De Nogaret, who shared Philip’s look of zealous satisfaction.

  “Amazing,” the King said. His mouth was agape as he finally focused on De Floyran.

  “Your proof, your Majesty.” De Floyran said humbly.

  Chapter Nineteen