The Wolves of Solomon (Wolves of Solomon Book One)
Page 64
October 18th 1314, Forest of Halatte, Pont-Sainte-Maxence, France
Philip was in good spirits. It was a crisp autumn day, the sky was clear and the sun shone brightly. He laughed and joked with his small hunting party, which consisted of three noble friends, five of his Royal guards and several hounds, having filled up with plenty of spiced wine before setting off.
It had been seven months since he had seen his goal finally achieved. De Molay had perished at the stake. Clement had dissolved the Order and all Templar estates and assets had been handed over to the Hospitallers. Though most of the Templars had escaped, Philip had still managed to achieve, in principal, what he’d set out to; he had smashed the Order of the Temple. His only regret was that he had not destroyed all the monsters that had been its beating heart.
Geoffroy de Gonneville and Hugues de Pairaud had perished in prison and only Geoffroy de Charney and the Grand Master had remained at the end. Clement had wanted to impose a sentence of life imprisonment on them but Philip wanted flames. He need not have been concerned, for De Molay and De Charney played into his hands once again by retracting their confessions and professing that the Order was innocent, having been betrayed by the King and his greedy advisors.
Weak as ever, Clement had caved in to Philip’s threats and let him impose what sentence he deemed fit, so the last two masters burned. It was a shame that De Nogaret had not lived to see it and Clement did not live long after it, finally succumbing to his long illness just a month later. It was a victory, Philip told himself time and again and so he went back to enjoying the pleasures of being King.
Philip’s horse jolted nervously as if spooked and the three hounds suddenly took off into the thick of the forest. One of his friends shrugged and pulled a perplexed face at him but then all their expressions swiftly froze as the hounds’ painful yelps suddenly pierced the serene atmosphere. A chilling silence followed, which was even more disconcerting.
“What is going on?” Philip demanded edgily, motioning to one of his guards to go ahead and investigate. He was easily rattled these days and he looked around as if expecting an ambush. It was then that he saw it, just a flash, so quick that he wondered if he’d seen it at all. A beast in the undergrowth, it was a dog surely, one of the hunting hounds come back, but something deep within him told him that it was something else.
“I’ve had enough, let’s go back!” he snapped impatiently.
“But we’ve only just got out here!” one of his noble friends remarked.
“I don’t give a shit!” Philip spat, his heart beginning to pound in his chest. “This is my estate and the hunt is over!” he turned his horse and spurred it into a gallop away from his friends.
“Hold up Philip!” another cried after him, but as the King looked back he saw them; wolves, dozens of them, coming out of the cover of the trees. Their attention seemed fixed on his party whom he heard cry out in shock and warning. Ignoring them, he hastened to make his escape. He spurred his mount onwards, faster, creating greater distance but as he turned his gaze back to the road ahead, he saw one in front of him, blocking his path. It was standing there, as clear as day, looking at him, waiting.
“No, please God no!” he said in a whisper, almost to himself.
He drew on the reins of his horse so sharply that his mount reared up and he nearly toppled from it. Managing to stay on, he turned the beast around and made off in the opposite direction back to his party. He couldn’t prevent himself from looking back and to his horror saw that the wolf pursued him. He kicked his horse viciously in the flanks, trying to outrun the monster and once again looked over his shoulder.
The wolf was relentless in its pursuit and effortlessly kept pace with the King’s stallion. Philip turned his attention back to the road, but too late to see the low hanging branch of a tree in front of him. He struck it at speed with his head and came to an abrupt stop in mid air, while his horse continued to run at full pelt. He fell to the ground with a tremendous thud, feeling his back crack against loose rocks. He cried out in agony, as the blood gushed down his face and he realised that part of the branch was sticking out of his head.
The wolf padded casually over to him and bared its teeth, moving its jaws close to his face. Philip could not move, he could not speak and he was numb with fear. Bertrand changed and studied the wound to Philip’s head. He would not last long, if God was merciful. He looked into the King’s terrified eyes.
“The punishment fits the crime,” he said and smiled. “Remember, we may be hiding but we are still watching.”
Philip could only blink at the former Templar who then changed back into wolf form and slowly walked away from him. He could feel the agony of his injury return and was blinded as blood began to spill into his eyes. He was paralysed and could feel no pain beneath his neck but the pain in his skull was excruciating. He could hear his party calling out for him and then they saw him. Philip did not care, he merely lay and waited for death to claim him and release him from his suffering.
He waited six weeks.
finis
About the Author
Rebecca Blackhurst was born in Essex in 1972 but grew up in the Middle East and southern Spain. Possessing an incurable wanderlust, she travelled for years before settling back in the UK to complete a degree in Earth and Planetary Sciences and PhD in Astrobiology. Growing up on a diet of science, science fiction and fantasy, she has scribbled down stories and ideas for years and carted a huge “dinosaur” of a word processor around with her on her travels.
Rebecca currently lives in the wilds of Southland, New Zealand with partner Andy and their German shepherds, Marshal & Ripley and rats Zeb & Starbuck.
Wolf
Connect with me online
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Acknowledgements
Huge love and appreciation goes to my partner Andy, for his unwavering support and encouragement, even when I was incapable of doing any housework or cooking.
A big thank you must go to my parents, for blessing me with a curious mind and wild imagination, and for always telling me to do it. Thanks Mum for giving me a love of history and Dad for howling up the stairs at me when I was a child after I’d developed my obsession with werewolves.
Cheers to all my friends out there, old and new, who have always indulged my fantasies and will all buy a copy of this book!
A special thanks to my readers, Rebecca Ellis and Jude Breese, who freely gave their time and whose fantastic comments helped improve this book.
I must mention all my buddies at the Queenstown Creative Writing Group, who have listened diligently to my plans and schemes with regard to getting this book published. Special thanks to those who read, and gave comments on, the first chapter during our writer’s retreat on Pigeon Island.
Last, but by no means least, a massive thank you goes to the incredibly talented Kirsty Bowden who put the book cover together. Her ideas and computer wizardry really blew my mind and the final product outweighed all my expectations. I also had great fun doing it with you!