Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (19 page)

Taking his eyes from the failed stone, Will went back to help the others prime the engine once more. A stone flew up and smashed through the walkway a few yards away, taking the archer crouched behind the wall down into the enceinte with a thundering hail of rubble. Will set his jaw as the beam of the engine pivoted and the shot sailed off. Moments later, a shout rose.

Two soldiers wearing the colors of the sheriff ’s men were sprinting along the walkway.

“Cease your fire!” one of them was shouting. “Cease!”

The soldiers with Will paused, two of them letting the stone they were heaving fall back on to the pile.

“Sir?” called the engine’s commander in confusion.

One of the sheriff ’s men paused, but the other ran on shouting for the men at the rest of the engines to hold their fire. “We’re surrendering.”

Will stepped in front of him. “What? We can’t.”

“It’s already done. The sheriff has gone out to negotiate terms.”

The other men were moving back from the engines, looking around at one another. Somewhere, a trumpet was sounding. Archers were downing bows, peering through the slits.

Will went to the wall as the soldier headed off. He saw a mounted company riding from the English camp toward the castle. The royal banner was 104 robyn

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raised above them. He caught sight of a figure riding in the center of the group, not a helmet on his head, but a gold circlet. Turning, Will crossed to the pile of stones. “Help me!” he shouted to the others, who stared bemused as he grasped one and tried to lift it. His arms strained and veins stood out on his neck. His teeth were bared with the effort.

“Stop,” said the commander. “You heard the order.”

Groaning with the weight of it, Will hauled the stone to the engine and dropped it with a shout into the cup. Pushing past the men, he grabbed one of the ropes now trailing loose from the beam.

The commander crossed to him. “I said stop!”

Will shoved him back. As he hauled on the rope, he felt a hand grabbing his shoulder, pulling him round. A fi st flew in and struck him in the face. As Will reeled backward, his foot caught on part of the mangonel and he went down.

The commander was above him. “If I give you an order, you’ll obey it.”

Will pushed himself up, swiped at his bloody mouth and moved in, en-raged. He was stopped by Duncan.

“What the hell are you doing?” growled his brother-in-law, slamming him up against the rampart wall. “Let me deal with this, sir,” he said, turning to the commander.

“We can’t surrender,” Will said, seething. “Not to him.”

“The sheriff and constable are in agreement. We’ve lost over a hundred men.”

“If we surrender then he has won!”

“But we can keep our lives and maybe our lands too.”

“Father?”

Duncan glanced around to see his son coming up behind him. “Stay back.”

Will faltered at the worry in Duncan’s voice. His eyes focused on his nephew, who was bleeding from a cut on his forehead. “I will not let him win.” His face twisted as he looked back at Duncan. “I
cannot
!”

“You have no choice.” Duncan took his hands from Will’s chest. “Not today.” He stepped back, leaving Will to slide down the wall and slump amid the rubble.

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outside the castle walls, edinburgh, june 8, 1296 ad

As Edward looked into the water, his reflection stared back. Truly, he was a man in the winter of his life. Snowy hair hung down, framing a face that was becoming gaunt. The lines were carved across his brow, webbing thickly around his eyes. He could count a new one for every year since the death of his beloved wife, Eleanor. He had outlived her and most of his children.
You
don’t have much time,
a quiet voice said.
Not much time left to consolidate your
rule, subdue those who oppose you, make a strong kingdom for your son.
Be remembered. His reflection distorted into ripples as the page holding the silver basin shifted on his knees.

“Keep still,” ordered Edward irritably, leaning forward to dip the white linen cloth he held into the water. He withdrew it and dabbed at his face. It was uncomfortably humid, the tent seeming to have collected the heat of the past few days. He had told the pages to light incense to mask the smell of sweat and steel that clung to the air over the encampment, but even so the place still reeked. Edward glanced over at John de Warenne, who was reclining on a cushioned stool tearing greedily at a chicken leg. There were brown sweat rings under his arms, staining his tunic. Edward had a sudden urge to have the page toss the basin of water over the earl, who must be a primary source of the stink.

The tent flaps parted and a portly man in black robes entered. It was Hugh Cressingham, the senior clerk. “My lord,” he said, greeting the king in his shrill voice, “the last of them are coming down.”

Edward dropped the cloth in the basin and rose. Pushing past the page, he strode outside. In the distance, beyond the siege platforms, which were being dismantled, a line of people were filing down the steep hill from the castle gate. Shading his eyes, Edward could just distinguish the garish colors of his guards’ uniforms from the dreary dress of the locals. He looked beyond them to the castle walls where plumes of smoke curled.

“Bishop Bek is making sure the place is searched for any stragglers,” Cressingham informed him, as John de Warenne came out to stand beside them.

Tossing the gnawed chicken leg to a hound sprawled in the sun, the earl wiped his greasy fingers on his robe. “Bek is becoming quite the little emperor,” he remarked, belching.

Cressingham, who always kept himself impeccably neat, frowned disdain-fully, his chubby chin dimpling as his lips pursed.

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Unaware of Cressingham’s disgust, de Warenne swiped viciously at a fl y.

“Well, just as long as he’s making them hurry. The sooner we leave this dung heap the better. God damn these flies! Why do they torment me?”

Cressingham looked as if he wanted to answer, but glancing at the king seemed to think better of it. “Are you going to let all the survivors go, my lord?”

Edward clasped his hands behind his back as he surveyed the men, women and children trudging down the hill. “Of course. Who else will plow the fi elds and mill the grain and collect the wool that will help to fill our coffers? We must leave a labor force.”

“A good point,” said de Warenne.

Edward kept his eyes on the survivors. “From here we continue to Stirling.

It is the last obstacle.”

“The last?” asked Cressingham.

“Stirling is the key to the north,” de Warenne answered. “Its castle guards the crossing over the Forth. If we take Stirling, we take Scotland.” He smiled contentedly.

“Before the feast of St. Michael I want this kingdom on its knees before me.” Edward turned to them. “When it is subdued I shall make a progress through the towns and cities so that every man will see their new lord and do me honor. Our laborers from Northumberland will soon be fi nished building Berwick’s fortifications. When the town is rebuilt it will serve as our headquarters here in the north. I want both of you to take up chief positions.”

John de Warenne’s smile faded. Cressingham, however, looked like an eager schoolboy who has just been told he has passed his examinations.

“We will talk more when . . .” Edward trailed off, seeing two royal guards approaching. Between them they were holding a man. He had a leather bag over one shoulder. “What is this?”

“A messenger, my lord,” said one of the guards. “He says he has come from Balliol’s camp.”

Edward studied the messenger, who was looking at him grimly. “What is the message?”

The guard handed over a scroll. As Edward gestured, Cressingham stepped forward to take it. He read the text.

“Well?” said Edward impatiently.

“Balliol says he will renounce the treaty he made with Philippe.” Cressingham looked up at the king. “He offers unconditional surrender.”

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A smile twitched at the corners of Edward’s mouth. “By St. Michael’s Mass did I say?” He glanced at the earl. “I think it may be sooner. Write a response immediately,” he said to Cressingham. “Tell him we accept his surrender.

Once I have stripped that rebel of his crown I will have every man of noble birth in this kingdom come to pay homage to me.”

“And then, my lord?”

“Then I will return to England,” replied Edward with a frown, as if the answer was obvious. His gaze moved back to the grim-faced messenger and now the smile spread full across his face. “Truly, a man does good business when he relieves himself of shit.”

11

Midlothian, Scotland

july 5, 1297 ad

The forest was cool and shaded, its dense canopy an effective barrier against the midday sun. Insects hummed in an air drowsy with the sweet smells of summer. In a clearing, a hart was grazing. As it lowered its head to the grass, antlers smooth as bone, Will edged his horse closer.

The lymer, tethered to the horse’s crupper by a long leash, gave a barely audible whine. Silencing the hound with a tap of his crop, Will checked the hart.

The beast had raised its head and stood poised, scenting the air. One of its dark eyes fixed on him, positioned a short distance upwind by a patch of nettles. He sat still in the saddle, letting his horse graze, his green tunic and hose making him one with the trees, his face masked by leaves strung from a circlet of bound twigs on his head. A faint breeze rustled the undergrowth and the leaves fl uttered against his forehead. The hart returned to the grass, but it was wary now, muscles tensed. It had caught Will’s scent on that breeze. As he inched the horse nearer with gentle nudges of his knees, the hart began to move slowly downwind, in the direction Will intended. It was troubled, but had no face for its fear, just another four-legged beast that moved close by and showed no sign of aggression. Will, all his attention on the hart, his peripheral 108 robyn

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vision obscured by the mask of leaves, didn’t see the trailing branch until it switched past his face. He raised his hand instinctively and in so doing knocked off the circlet. The hart’s head jerked up at the movement. Then it was off, hurtling through the trees.

Will swore and kicked his horse after it. “It’s heading straight for you!” he shouted, narrowly avoiding smashing his kneecap into a tree trunk, as his horse cantered on through the wood, the lymer streaking excitedly behind.

David, some distance downwind, his back pressed against a tree, glanced to his left at the shout. The hart was charging toward his hiding place. He set his jaw as he drew the yew bow, which curved taut with a soft creak, the arrow fixed and ready. Suddenly, the hart veered off its course and headed right. David drew in a breath and turned, the bow, almost six feet in length, swinging round in front of him. Narrowing his eyes, his vision fixing on a point just ahead of the animal, he let go. The arrow sprang forward, straight into the hart’s path as it careened through the undergrowth. The barbed tip plunged into its side, punching through its rib cage. It bellowed and reared up, then crashed down on to its side, twigs snapping beneath it. David ran across, drawing a dagger with his free hand ready to dispatch the animal, but the hart was dead, its hind legs twitching spasmodically.

“A clean kill,” he said, rising and stowing the dagger in its sheath as Will pulled up alongside.

Dismounting, Will shook his head admiringly. “You shouldn’t have even hit it the way it came at you.”

David shrugged, but flushed with pride.

“It was my fault,” Will admitted, as they trussed the animal’s legs and, together, heaved the carcass over the saddle. “I’m afraid I’m still more of a hindrance than a help.”

David reached into a leather bag strung from his belt and brought out a piece of soft yellowed cheese, which he fed to the lymer, ruffling its long ears.

“It just takes a while.”

“A while? You’ve been teaching me for a year.” Will laughed.

David grinned. “Well, I suppose you are a bit slow, being so ancient.” He shouted and tried to duck as Will cuffed him about the head.

“This old bag of bones could still best you in a fi ght, boy.”

David’s laughter faded. As he turned away, Will cursed inwardly.

“We should get home,” murmured his nephew, taking the hound’s leash.

Leading the horse, the hart’s head swinging lifelessly, Will followed him the fall of the templars

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through the trees. “Did I ever tell you I was kept back from my knighthood?”

he said, after they had been walking for a while.

David glanced over his shoulder. “What?”

“When I was your age, I was kept back.”

David stopped walking. “Why?”

“I pilfered the Eucharist,” said Will with a half smile, remembering Everard kicking him awake as he lay curled in the sacristy of the Paris Temple, the priest’s wrinkled face glowering down at the empty chalice and crumbs of the host scattered around him.

David didn’t return the smile. “Then it was a punishment?” He shook his head, a hank of blond hair falling into his eyes. “It isn’t the same. I’ve done nothing wrong.” He carried on walking, pulling hard at the leash as the lymer tried to launch itself after a rabbit that went bolting off between the trees.

“It will happen, when things change.”

“When will that be?” David demanded. “When are things going to change?

How?”

Will didn’t have an answer for him. They lapsed into a taut silence broken only by twigs splintering under their feet and the startled chirping of birds.

As they made their way out of the forest into the languid heat of the afternoon, Will was struck again by how strange it was that everything around them seemed so peaceful; the hills bathed in golden light, tall grasses swaying, flowers dusting their clothes with pollen. It was all so markedly at odds with the events of the past year that it felt almost offensive for the landscape to carry on as if nothing had altered. Yet the seasons still turned and the days flowed by, and it was only in Scotland’s people where the changes were etched.