Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (21 page)

He stared at Duncan in disbelief as he sagged sideways, his face screwing up in agony. Before he even hit the ground, Duncan was hurtling at the soldier. At the same time, the other soldiers went for their weapons and David raced toward Tom. There was a scream from the house as Ysenda came rushing out to see Tom go down and her husband running at the man who had struck him.

Duncan ducked under the sword as the soldier lashed out, then barreled into him with a roar, sending him flying. The sword sailed from the man’s hand and his helmet strap snapped as Duncan crashed down on top of him, the impact on the parched soil winding them both. As the soldier’s helmet went rolling away, Duncan, deaf to the screams of his wife and the shouts from his son, grabbed the man’s hair in his fists and slammed his head into the ground with all his strength, his only thought to disable the soldier long enough to seize the fallen blade. As the man went limp, Duncan hauled himself forward and snatched up the sword. He rolled off him as one of the other men came at him. Blocking the first strike while still on the ground, Duncan launched himself up at the second soldier. The force of his blow caused the man to take a few stumbling steps back. When he lost his footing on the 116 robyn

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uneven ground, his sword went wide, only for a moment, but it was all the time Duncan needed to run him through. He pulled the sword free, hearing hoofbeats behind him and a harsh shout from his son, then felt something punch into his back, between his shoulder blades. His fingers went dead, the weapon slipping from them to thump on the ground. Duncan saw his wife freeze, her arms rising into the air, as if she were about to dance, or pray. Then he felt pain like he’d never imagined driving through him, propelling him to his knees, down into the earth.

The tax collector, towering above Duncan on the horse, withdrew his sword, streaked red. “Kill them!” he was yelling. “Kill them!”

David fell back in terror as one of the soldiers came at him, but as he turned to run, his feet caught in the legs of the man his father had felled and he went down hard. The other soldier made for Ysenda, who was sprinting toward her son.

A shout tore through the air.

Will was coming around the house, David’s bow in his hands. The arrow was aimed at the tax collector, who had turned in his saddle at the shout. His sword was aloft, Duncan’s blood running down to the hilt, and his horse was stamping, agitated. Beneath the hooves, Duncan lay prone, sprawled on top of the man he’d knocked unconscious. The two remaining soldiers paused, eyes flicking from Will to their master.

Snarling, the collector kicked the horse at Will, who let the arrow spring free.

The collector threw himself sideways in the saddle to avoid it, but Will wasn’t aiming for him. He caught the horse in the neck, the tip ripping through the soft tissue. The horse reared up, then fell, taking the collector down with it. The beast landed on top of him, crushing his leg, still caught in the stirrup.

He let out a scream. The soldier going after Ysenda checked himself and raced back to help him. Will yanked another arrow from the quiver on his back, fi tted it and fired at the man who now turned on David, still sprawled on the ground. It missed, driving into the soil a few feet away. Will cursed and dropped the bow. Wrenching his falchion from its scabbard, he began to run.

David twisted away as the soldier’s sword hacked down at him. Scrabbling onto his hands and knees, he threw himself forward and snatched at the arrow embedded in the ground. The soldier lunged in. Ysenda screamed. Turning, seeing the sword come stabbing toward him, David curved his body and thrust the arrow up into the man’s groin, above the padding protecting his thighs. He the fall of the templars

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shouted in rage, feeling the barb slice through flesh, going deeper as he pushed.

The soldier howled and dropped to his knees. Will came charging up behind.

As the soldier tried to lift his sword, he rammed the point of his falchion through the man’s neck, sunburned and dirty beneath the lip of the helmet.

David recoiled as the tip punched out of the soldier’s throat and he coughed a spray of blood. Will kicked the soldier in the back, yanking his sword free as the man fell forward, then went for the soldier who was trying to haul the tax collector out from under the horse. Wrapping his arm around the man’s head, pulling it back, he ripped the short blade across his neck.

“No!” the collector shouted as Will loomed over him. “Please! I—”

But his words cut off as Will stabbed him through the throat, the blade plunging into the earth beneath him. Afterward, he strode to the unconscious soldier lying under Duncan and, carefully rolling his brother-in-law off him, ran the man through. Lastly, he dispatched the horse, still thrashing and snorting in pain. It was the only kill he felt any remorse for.

Ysenda, who had run to David and was hugging him to her, turned as Will wiped his blade on the soldier’s tunic. Her face crumpled as she saw Duncan on his back, arms splayed on the dry grass. She crossed to him and crouched, clutching his face in her hands, crying his name. When he didn’t move, her cries became louder; an incoherent torrent she let loose at the sky. David, white-faced and blood-splattered, went to her and grabbed hold of her.

Will sheathed his sword and pushed his hands through his hair, slick with sweat. It dripped from his nose into his beard. “Sweet Jesus,” he murmured between breaths. “Sweet Jesus.” It was all he allowed himself.

He crossed to the house. Margaret was hunkered down in the doorway, her palms pushed against the frame to either side of her. Her lips were moving, but no sound was coming out. Will coaxed her up, gently but fi rmly. She didn’t resist, but her eyes remained staring past him at her mother and brother draped over her father’s body.

“Margaret, listen to me, you have to fetch whatever money Duncan has here, also blankets, food and waterskins. Get Alice to help you. Don’t let her come out here.”

She wasn’t listening.

Gritting his teeth, Will shook her. “Margaret!” She focused on him. “Do it!” he ordered, turning her forcibly and marching her into the hall. As she stumbled away from him, he headed back outside and went to Ysenda and David. He took hold of his nephew.

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David lashed out and struck him on the chin.

Will rolled with the punch. “I need you to be a knight now, David. Do you understand?” David was panting hard, but he had stopped struggling. “You’re going to saddle both the horses and get your bow and your father’s sword and shield. Then you’re going to help me get these bodies into the trees.” Will nodded down the hill to the copse. “Can you do that?”

David pulled roughly away. “Yes.”

Will waited until his nephew began to walk to the house, then knelt by Ysenda, still crouched over Duncan. His sister’s cries were ragged. Unbearable.

He knew that grief all too well. It pierced him as he pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her. “We have to leave,” he murmured. “Those men will be missed and others will come looking. There will be no fair trial for this.

They’ll come down hard.”

“I cannot leave my husband,” wept Ysenda, her words muffled against his chest. “
I cannot!
”

“For the sake of your children, you have to.”

“Where will we go?” she sobbed. “Oh, dear God, where will we go?”

“We’ll go into Selkirk,” said Will, after a pause. “It’s not far. We can fi nd shelter there until the dust settles. With any luck, the English will have more than enough to worry about than the death of some bureaucrat.”

She looked up at him, her eyes swollen. “Kincardine. Sir David Graham. I want to go to him.”

“They can track us too easily there. It’s the most likely place we would go.”

Will rose and looked south across the hills, which faded into a green haze.

“We go into the forest.”

the tower, london, july 6, 1297 ad

“Send word to Earl de Warenne immediately.”

“Certainly, my lord king,” said the clerk, struggling to keep up as Edward strode along the passage.

“He’ll be at his Yorkshire estate no doubt,” said Edward sourly. “If he imagines he can play at lieutenant from the comfort of his manor, he has another think coming. Order him to meet Cressingham at Berwick. They will lead a force from there.” The king’s face was taut. “If these rebels want a war, by God I will send one their way. Tell the earl I want their uprising crushed and the ringleaders’ heads on London Bridge by the time I return.”

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Dismissing the clerk, who scurried off, Edward continued along the passage and down a long set of steps, wincing as his joints creaked. The news of the rebellion in Scotland, which had been joined by some of the nobles he had freed earlier in the year, had vexed him greatly. But he had more pressing matters to concern himself with. While he had been preoccupied north of the border, Philippe had strengthened his hold on Guienne. Some of the barons were growing restless with the flagging war in France and had refused to fi ght in his service. They were gaining support within the royal court and he knew how dangerous mutinous barons could be. Simon de Montfort had taught him that.

Heading into the stifling heat of the afternoon, Edward was met in the courtyard by two of his advisors.

“Your ship is ready, my lord,” said one, as they fell into step beside him.

“We can leave when you wish.”

“I want to be in Flanders by the end of the week.” Edward looked back at the Tower rising above him, white and imperious. “Let us see what my dear cousin’s enemies are willing to do to end France’s dominion over them.”

12

Selkirk Forest, Scotland

july 20, 1297 ad

Will brushed the sweat from his face with the crook of his arm as he reached the top of the incline. He turned, offering a hand to David, who was scrabbling up behind him. His nephew paused, looking at his outstretched hand, then grasped it, allowing Will to haul him the last few feet. The swollen waterskins sloshing against their legs, they made their way back through the trees, the bubbling of the stream at the bottom of the gully fading behind them.

As they approached the clearing, Will felt his spirits, lifted by the practical task of fetching water, begin to sink again. They had been camped there for only three days, but already he had come to loathe the stuffy space, enclosed by pines and thorny bushes. Ysenda was fussing over Alice, who had been 120 robyn

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crotchety following a fall several days earlier. It was a shock more than anything. Her ankle had been sore and inflamed, but although it soon went down, Will using his spare undershirt to make a compress, she complained about it more and more bitterly, until finally she sat down in tears, refusing to walk another step.

Ysenda glanced around as they entered the clearing, then returned her attention to her daughter. Tossing the skins by their packs, David threw himself down in the shade of an enormous red-trunked pine, where his lymer was curled, panting in the heat. Close by, the horses switched their tails at the fl ies that plagued the air, sticky with the pine smell. Margaret was hunched on a log by the dying fire, jabbing at the embers with a stick. She had lost her coif and her hair hung loose and ratty around her shoulders. Will noticed, with a stab of annoyance, that she hadn’t fetched the wood he’d asked her to.

“I need some water,” Ysenda called.

When David didn’t stir, Will gritted his teeth and crossed to her. Alice was sitting with her back against a tree, her face screwed up. Ysenda had removed the compress and was holding her foot carefully. Handing his sister the waterskin, Will saw that his niece’s ankle was unblemished.

As Ysenda poured some of the icy water from the skin on to it, the girl gasped. “Does that hurt?” Ysenda asked worriedly.

“It’s just cold,” said Will, harder than he meant to.

Alice looked up at him, and her pained expression, which turned instantly to one of petulant dislike, told him all he needed to know.

“How would you know?” the girl challenged. “It isn’t your foot that’s hurt.”

“Neither is yours, Alice.” He tried to keep his voice gentle, though irritation made him want to shout. “Not anymore. It wasn’t even a sprain.”

Alice’s hot little face flushed a brighter shade of red. She went to speak, then burst into tears.

“How dare you!” Ysenda rose to face him, her cheeks streaked with sweat and grime. Will noticed a line of bites running under her collarbones like a necklace. Some of them were weeping where she had scratched them.

Since entering Selkirk Forest, they had all suffered with the midges and ticks, but Ysenda had fared the worst. “If she says it hurts, it hurts! You’re not a physician.”

“She says it hurts because she doesn’t want to go on,” retorted Will, raising his voice over Alice’s sobs, “and if you hadn’t pandered to her tantrums we the fall of the templars

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would be miles away by now.” He had wanted to say this for days, but they had hardly spoken since leaving the estate and he hadn’t wanted to break the leaden silence with argument. It was too late for that now.

“Miles away!” Her voice became a yell. “Miles away where?” She fl ung a hand at the dense trees that hemmed them in on all sides. “You’ve been leading us blind for two weeks. Where are we supposed to be going, exactly?” Will went to speak, but she drove on, not wanting to hear an answer. “I said we should go to Sir David Graham for help, but you forced me to leave everything I owned and flee into the forest like some outlaw!” She whirled away from him and began stomping around the camp. Margaret had dropped the stick and was holding her head in her hands. David was whistling a loud, jaunty tune. The lymer had sat bolt upright and was barking. “You let me think this was our only choice, but it wasn’t!” Ysenda crouched and began stuffing blankets into one of the horse panniers.

“I told you, Ysenda, if the English want justice, Sir David Graham’s lands are the first place they’ll seek us.”

“We’ll go north to Elgin then. Ede will shelter us gladly. By God, you turn up out of nowhere after all these years and I’m fool enough to listen to you!”