Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (47 page)

Will felt Nogaret’s gaze on him. He knew the minister didn’t trust him, but in Philippe’s scrutinizing stare he also saw uncertainty, suspicion even. Perhaps the king didn’t trust him either. Perhaps this was a test. He felt certain that, if he failed, he would be killed. He could almost sense Nogaret’s hand curling around the hilt of his sword, ready to strike the life from him. All at once, something settled inside him. It was the same sensation he got whenever he was about to go into battle; the same resolve, grounding him. For years, he had been drifting from one place to another, different masters, different causes.

Now the path ahead was clear.

Simon had been right, all that time ago in Selkirk: the war for Scotland wasn’t his war; it was Wallace’s and Gray’s, his nephew’s. The fight for the Temple, the Anima Templi, the struggle to protect both from enemies within and without, as the oaths he swore had instructed, this was his confl ict. The ghosts inside him quieted, falling into an expectant hush, as he put his foot 274 robyn

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out and stepped onto the path from which he had strayed for so long. “You will need the pope to support you for this,” he told Philippe. “The only way you could secure the order’s wealth would be through him.”

“Does this not make you uncomfortable?” asked Nogaret quickly. “No matter that you left them, you were a Templar for many years, brought up by them. You must have friends within their ranks still?”

Will turned to look at him. “Whatever loyalty I owed to the order vanished when they allied themselves with Edward. Why do you imagine I deserted?”

“You may be able to help us,” said Philippe. “As a former member, who knows the workings of their organization: details of their defenses, resources, assets. Would you be willing to aid us?”

Will took his gaze from Nogaret and focused on the king. “On the condition that you end this truce with King Edward. In return for helping you bring down the Temple, I want you to protect Scotland.”

As the last of the suspicion died in Philippe’s eyes, Will knew he had won the king’s trust.

“As I have told you, Campbell, my peace with Edward was only ever temporary. You have my word. When the Temple falls, Scotland shall be free.”

the temple, paris, november 20, 1303 ad

Robert knocked again and waited. Still there was no answer from within the solar. He glanced at the faint glow of candles glimmering beneath the door.

Perhaps Hugues had forgotten to extinguish them? It was a risk to leave them burning. Snapping down the latch, he entered.

The fire had turned to embers in the hearth and the only light in the drafty chamber came from Hugues’s desk, where the flames of three candles switched and fluttered in the wind threading its way around the cloth covering the windows. The visitor’s desk was a chaos of scrolls and parchments, some of which had slipped off to scatter the floor around it. Robert took a step forward, then stopped. Half-hidden behind the papers was a figure, head on the desk, one arm flung out in front of him. By the thinning gray hair, he could tell it was Hugues. For a shocked second, he thought the visitor was dead, then he heard a grunt and saw Hugues’s back rise and fall.

Smiling to himself, Robert crossed the chamber. He saw maps among the strewn papers on the table. One, partially unrolled, was of Prussia. Lying next the fall of the templars

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to it was a parchment decorated with a white cross on black: the mark of the Teutonics. There was another with the insignia of the Hospitallers and a whole stack adorned with the great seal of the Temple, showing two knights on a single horse. Robert caught a mention of the island of Rhodes and something about future intentions, before his foot crackled on a stray parchment and Hugues jerked awake.

“Christ,” growled Hugues, scrabbling to set the desk in order.

“Sorry,” said Robert, moving to help. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Hugues paused, his gaze flicking over the maps. “What were you doing?”

“I needed to speak to you.” Robert was surprised by his comrade’s tone and the intensity of his stare.

“It is late.”

“I realize that, but I saw the light in your window and thought you were awake.” Robert watched as Hugues began stacking the papers facedown on his desk. “I hoped I might take the opportunity to speak to you while you weren’t in a meeting or away on business.”

As he picked up the pile of parchments decorated with the Templar seal, Hugues glanced at Robert. “Some days I feel I am running this order single-handedly.”

“You’ve had word from the grand master?” questioned Robert, his eyes on the skins.

“I prayed, when Ruad fell, that would be the end of his fruitless Crusade.”

Hugues’s tone was bitter. “Yet still he lingers on Cyprus and every month, it seems, demands I send more knights, more horses, more funds for his campaign.” The visitor’s voice was rising. “I have told him, time and time again, that I need men here. Does he not see this? England and Scotland are still at war and France has become increasingly unstable, with uprisings and border skirmishes, and trouble with Rome. All this, I have told him, yet he bleeds our order dry of the very things that will safeguard it in these uncertain times. I need men. I need resources. Why does he not understand this?” Hugues seemed to realize he had said too much, for he stopped short, then tossed the rest of the papers on the desk. “It is late, brother,” he repeated wearily. “What do you want?”

Robert hesitated, reluctant to add to Hugues’s burden. But he had been waiting for answers for months. “I was wondering if you looked any further into that matter I brought to your attention earlier in the year? The rumors surrounding the initiations?”

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Hugues sighed roughly. “I told you then, it was most likely just idle gossip among the sergeants.”

“All the same, I believe it warranted our attention. The rumors were disturbing and even if there was no substance to them it would be best they ceased. There has always been a certain mistrustful speculation, both in and out of the Temple, about what goes on at the inceptions of knights, especially given the secrecy that surrounds the ceremonies. It could be damaging to the order’s reputation if outsiders were somehow given the impression we are up to no good.”

“Well, I am grateful for your vigilance, but I looked into it and found nothing.”

“Nothing at all? No clue even as to the source of the rumors?”

“Brother, I really have more than enough to concern myself with, without picking through the furtive imaginations of our younger members for absolutely no good reason I can think of.” Hugues lifted his hand as Robert went to speak. “That is the end of it. I have work to fi nish.”

“But perhaps if I—”

“I said that is the end of it!” snapped Hugues, banging his fi st on the desk.

“Now, leave me!”

Gritting his teeth, Robert bowed and left the chamber. If Hugues did not want to continue the investigation then there wasn’t much more he could do.

By the time he stepped out into the chill night air, he had more or less convinced himself that the visitor was most probably right. The rumors were nothing more than sergeants’ stories.

26

Outside Bordeaux, the Kingdom of France

february 11, 1305 ad

The soldier knuckled the water from his eyes as the wind whipped through the undergrowth, stinging his face. On that wind, he could smell the Garonne, salty and sour.

“How much longer, Gilles?”

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“Get down,” growled the soldier, thumping his comrade in the thigh, making him drop with a wince. “Do you want to be seen?”

“They can’t see us all the way up there, surely.”

“Not them, Ponsard, you idiot.” Gilles frowned irritably and pointed to a distant clump of trees where two horses were cropping the frost-bitten ground.

There was a man with them. He was stamping in a circle, presumably to ward off the chill. “Him.”

Ponsard’s gaze moved from the man up the hill to the little white house on the brow. “The others are getting restless. We’ve been here for hours. Perhaps it’s some distant relative he’s here to see?” He hefted his broad shoulders. “He’s got enough of them round here.”

“Then why all the secrecy? The altered accounts? Why does no one we’ve asked know where he goes on these journeys?” Gilles’s face was set as he looked back at the house. “There’s something up there he doesn’t want anyone to fi nd out about.”

A grin crept across Ponsard’s face as he studied Gilles’s intent expression.

“You’ve got an idea what it is, haven’t you?”

“I have my suspicions.”

“Here,” said Ponsard, nudging Gilles. “Is that him?”

Gilles squinted into the distance. “I think so,” he murmured, watching a man step out of the front door, robes flapping. He spoke momentarily with someone on the threshold Gilles couldn’t make out, then descended the track toward the trees, bent against the wind. “Get the others,” said Gilles, watching as the man was helped into his saddle by his squire. “Let’s go and see for ourselves what the archbishop is so keen to hide.”

The five soldiers waited until Bertrand de Got disappeared from view, heading back the way he had come, toward Bordeaux. Then, keeping low to the rushing grasses, they crept up the hillside.

Gilles drew his sword as he approached the house, ducking under the windows. “Stay outside,” he mouthed to two of the men, “guard the perimeter.”

They nodded and backed up against the whitewashed walls, where moss sprouted green from cracks in the stone. Gilles went to the front door, Ponsard and another soldier close behind him. He paused, checking they were all in position, then rapped on the door.

There were footsteps on the other side. A bolt slid back and the door opened, revealing a pretty young woman. Gilles grinned, his suspicions confi rmed. Her eyes went from the scarlet and blue tunic, visible beneath his riding cloak, to the sword in his hand. Even as her face was registering surprise 278 robyn

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and the first jolt of fear, Gilles kicked in the door, knocking her backward. She sprawled on the floor and let out a scream as he pushed his way in. Reaching down with his free hand, Gilles grabbed the front of her dress and hauled her to her feet. Turning her in one rough movement, he wrapped his arm around her throat, pinning her to him. “I’ll bet he knows a new heaven with you,” he growled, then stopped as another woman appeared, this one bulky and ugly.

Gilles thrust his sword toward her.

“Who are you?” The woman had planted herself in the passage, but she looked terrified. “What do you want?”

“Answers to questions,” responded Gilles. “Such as why Archbishop de Got makes his way so frequently to a house in the middle of nowhere? Which one of you is he swiving?”

The large woman’s face reddened. “How dare you! Archbishop de Got is an honorable man! He has been a close friend of my family’s for years. I have been ill for some time and fi nd it hard to get to church. He comes to hear my confession.”

Gilles laughed. It was a cruel sound. “Been practicing that lie, crone?” His muscled arm squeezed the young woman’s throat. “Tell me who he sees out here. The truth! Or I’ll snap her neck.”

“Lady Heloise!” blurted his captive, her thin voice constricted. “It was Lady Heloise!”

“Quiet, Marie!”

“No, Marie, continue,” insisted Gilles, tightening his hold. “Where is this Heloise?”

“Dead, sir. Dead for years now!”

Gilles frowned. He was about to question her further, when Ponsard let out a shout.

“We’ve got something!”

Twisting his head around, Gilles saw one of the guards he had stationed outside coming toward the door. He was carrying two struggling boys, one under each arm.

“Found these two trying to sneak away down the hill, sir.”

“No!” The bulky woman started forward, her face filled with horror.

Gilles turned back. “Why does de Got come here? Answer me!” he shouted, as the hallway filled with the boys’ cries.

“To see his son,” blurted the woman, dropping to her knees. “Please!” she begged. “Please don’t hurt them!”

Gilles studied the yelling children. His eyes quickly dismissed the stocky, the fall of the templars

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older boy, who looked distinctly like the fat woman and went instead to the smaller of the two, who had dark hair, a feeble chin and, now he looked closer, a startling resemblance to the archbishop. Gilles felt a surge of triumph. “You will go to Paris immediately,” he said, turning to two of the guards. “We cannot waste any time in this matter. Tell Minister de Nogaret we have found what he’s been looking for.”

the royal palace, paris, march 2, 1305 ad

Nogaret hastened through the palace corridors, ignoring the respectful nods and greetings his presence drew from servants and officials alike. He wanted to grin; this had been long in coming, and even though he hadn’t given up hope of finding something useful, he never expected it would be so advantageous, or, indeed, quite so . . . delicious. But, despite his satisfaction, he made sure his face was set with solemnity as he approached the royal chambers.

Philippe was seated at a table, nursing a steaming bowl of soup. His nose was red where he had been wiping it, his eyes bloodshot. He had been affl icted with the fever for several weeks and his mood was increasingly sour because of it. He glanced up as Nogaret shut the door.

“We have found it, my lord, at last we have found it. The key that will un-lock the Temple.”

Philippe set down his spoon. “What?”

“The companies of men we sent out to look for evidence of corruption.

Tools of manipulation. One of them has uncovered something on a potential candidate.”

“Who is it?”

Nogaret had to clamp down a renewed urge to smirk. “Bertrand de Got.”

“The archbishop of Bordeaux?” Philippe rose, pushing his soup aside, virtually untouched, and went to the hearth, where the fire was roaring. He shivered. “What has he done?”

“Conceived a child.”

Philippe turned quickly. “This is certain?”

“Our soldiers have imprisoned the boy in his house. De Got was apparently involved in a tryst with a young noblewoman seven years ago. She died in labor, but he has been providing for the child ever since. All out of Church funds,” added Nogaret, with relish.