Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (50 page)

A figure, clad in a gray, hooded robe, appeared. He held a blazing torch and was headed for the door they had broken. His cowl blocked his peripheral vision and he didn’t see the two men until Will grabbed him from behind.

The man gave a cry and dropped the torch, which sputtered and hissed as it hit the damp ground.

“Take us to Archbishop de Got,” ordered Will, pressing his blade to the man’s neck, firm enough to show he meant business, but not to draw blood. “Do it!”

The man turned and walked unsteadily back the way he had come. Will moved in behind him, discreetly keeping his sword point in the man’s back. In this way, Robert walking at the other side, they made their way through the passage into moon-washed cloisters, across a lawn and into an imposing building. It was late and most of the cathedral’s chapter were sleeping, ready to rise before dawn to sing in the office of Matins. They saw one other fi gure, passing the end of a corridor ahead, but when their captive hesitated, Will nudged him with the sword point, convincing him to keep quiet. Eventually, they came unmolested to a set of ornate carved doors on the upper storey.

“Please,” begged the man, hesitating outside. “Do not do this.”

“Go on.”

With a trembling hand, the man reached out and grasped the handle.

Turning it to flick the latch, he pushed open the door.

The chamber beyond was dark, filled with frankincense and dislocated whispering. His gaze moving over the shapes of furniture, a crumpled bed, chests, tall silver candlesticks, Will’s eyes came to rest on a set of black drapes, embroidered with hundreds of gold crosses. As he approached, the whispering the fall of the templars

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grew louder. Leaving Robert to guard their captive, Will went forward and swept one of the curtains aside.

There was a shout of alarm and a figure spun to face him. It was Bertrand de Got. He was kneeling in front of a small altar, draped with a white cloth, upon which were a smoking censer and a black Bible. A shaft of moonlight slanted into the recess from a pointed window, gleaming on the archbishop’s tonsured head. His shocked gaze went from Will to Robert.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” moaned the captive, sinking to his knees. “These knaves made me bring them to you.”

Bertrand rose. He was dressed for bed in a long white shift. A large cross, encrusted with gems that sparkled darkly, hung against his chest. His hand went to it. “Take this,” he said, holding it out to Will. “It is worth a fortune.

Take anything you want!”

“We’re not thieves,” said Will gruffly. “We’ve come to speak to you. We mean you no harm.”

When Bertrand’s face remained full of fear, Will sheathed his sword. “Have you had a visit from King Philippe recently?”

The archbishop’s brow creased. “What is this? Who are you?”

“Friends who do not wish to see the king take advantage of you.”

Bertrand swallowed. Finally, he turned to their captive. “Leave us, Pierre.”

The man got to his feet. “Your Grace?”

“I will be all right.”

As if to confirm his words, Robert sheathed his blade. Needing no further encouragement, the man left the chamber. They heard his footsteps padding away down the passage.

“I expect he will raise the alarm,” said Bertrand, going to his bed and snatching up a velvet robe, which he pulled around his thin shoulders. “Explain yourselves. How do you know of the king’s visit?” He peered at Will’s face in the blue moonlight. “Do I know you?”

“I was in a council you attended in the London Temple about a decade ago and I’ve seen you a few times since then in the royal palace in Paris, where I have been a guest of the king for some years.”

“Are you one of Philippe’s men?” questioned Bertrand, drawing his robe tighter around him, his voice hoarse. “Is this some trickery?” He shook his head. “What more does the king want from me?”

“You misunderstand me, Your Grace. I am not the king’s man, nor an ally of his. I am here to help you, if you will let me.”

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Bertrand pressed his lips together, then turned away. “I don’t know what to do,” he murmured. “I don’t know.”

“Just answer me this: did the king tell you what he wanted? His plans for you?”

After a long pause, Bertrand nodded. He sank onto the bed. “He told me I will be pope,” he whispered. “That he has agents in Perugia at this moment, organizing my election.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“He said he had five obligations he wanted me to fulfill when I was crowned.”

“What were they?” pressed Will.

“That I would lift the excommunication order on Guillaume de Nogaret.

That I would nominate cardinals into the Sacred College who support Philippe and France, provide papal funds to finance any ongoing struggles against Edward of England and the guilds of Flanders, and that I would formally denounce Pope Boniface as a heretic.”

“That is four, Your Grace,” said Robert, when the archbishop drifted into silence.

Bertrand looked up. “And that I would dissolve the Order of the Temple, delivering its assets to Philippe and his heirs.”

“Jesus,” murmured Robert.

Will realized, by the shock in his tone, that the knight hadn’t quite believed this was real until now. “What was your answer?” he asked Bertrand.

“I said no,” Bertrand told them, angry all of a sudden. “I said I would not corrupt the holy office in such a way. I said the Knights of the Temple were the only men left fighting for Jerusalem and I would not dissolve them!” He shook his head. “But they told me if I refused they would kill him.” His face crumpled. “Dear God, they have my son! The bastards have my son!”

Will exchanged a stunned look with Robert, then crossed to the archbishop, who had put his head in his hands. “Where do they have him, Your Grace?”

“Not seven miles from here, in the house I bought for him.” Bertrand stared at Will, despair plain in his face. “I cannot lose him,” he said, clutching at Will’s hands. “My beautiful boy. Please. I cannot!”

“What did they say would happen now?”

Bertrand heaved out a breath. “They made me sign an agreement and told me that when I was crowned with the papal tiara and had fulfi lled my obligations, my son would be returned to me.”

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“We will help you,” Will said, thinking quickly. “But in turn, you must help us. When the time comes, you must not give in to the king’s demands.

You will not dissolve the Temple. You will protect the order. As pope, you would be the only man who could.”

“No!” Bertrand was incoherent with terror, babbling his son’s name. Somewhere outside, a bell began to clang, too early for Matins.

“Listen to me, Your Grace.” Will crouched in front of him, forcing the archbishop to look at him. “Raoul will not be harmed. You will go along with Philippe’s orders. Then, when you are crowned, we will liberate your son, removing the tool the king plans to use to manipulate you.”

“Liberate him?” Hope flashed across Bertrand’s face. “Then you can do this? Do this now?”

“No. Philippe must think he has your support. The point at which we rescue Raoul will be when it is too late and you are already crowned.” Will rose, the archbishop following him with dark, desperate eyes. “This is the only chance you will have to save your son.”

“But Nogaret?” breathed Bertrand, jerking to his feet as footsteps sounded beyond the chamber, followed by voices, calling for the archbishop. Robert hastened to snap the bolt across the door. A moment later, fists began to pound upon it. Bertrand looked back at Will. “I have heard Pope Boniface died of shock after the outrage at Anagni and the minister’s treatment of him. And I have heard darker rumors, rumors that perhaps Pope Benedict didn’t die naturally after all. Nogaret might do the same to me.”

“You have to trust me, Your Grace. Trust me and I will save your son.”

“I will,” insisted Bertrand, as the door burst open. “I will!”

29

Château Vincennes, the Kingdom of France

april 9, 1305 ad

Philippe spurred his horse on, faster now, as they passed into the forest.

The royal guards and advisors struggled to keep his reckless pace. Sunlight flashed through the trees, turning the well-trodden track into a 296 robyn

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path of gold. Philippe knew these woods well. He had grown up here, climbing oaks and chestnuts with his brothers, learning to ride and to hunt. He had flown his first falcon here, years before Maiden. There was freedom in such memories, so far from the burdens of adulthood and kingship, the endless politics and game-playing. Every time he rode this track to the château, leaving behind the chaos and filth of the city, he felt the fetters falling away, felt youth returning.

Today, without the constant burrowing itch of his hair shirt, the joy was complete. He hadn’t worn the garment in almost a fortnight and his skin was starting to heal, the scars of mortification fading into pale webs across his back.

Since his journey to Bordeaux had proved so encouraging, he had allowed himself a brief respite from his daily penance, which, prior to the meeting with Bertrand de Got, had become more frequent and severe. Now, freed from discomfort and worry, he could allow himself to delight in this homecoming.

He could relish the warmth of the sun on his face and the fresh smell of the trees to either side of him, stretching into verdant shadows, thick with adven-ture. These were the woods his brothers and he had quested through, searching for boar and deer. These were the trees that had shaded him and Jeanne as they lay together, awkward in their first, tentative explorations, the trees he had watched his own children climb, their voices shrill with fear and exhilaration on the higher branches.

Catching a glimpse of the gray turrets of the château, Philippe slowed the horse to a canter, wanting to prolong his enjoyment. The day was breezy and bright, ideal for a hunt. He decided he would organize one tomorrow, just for himself, Sir Henri and a few handpicked courtiers. He craved that sense of conclusion he felt at the end of a successful chase; the climax of the thrill when he loosed the arrow or the bird that would end it, sealing his victory. Politics so very rarely gave him that same satisfaction. Everything was so drawn out and convoluted. He felt, as king, that things should move when he wanted them to; people should bow and obey, fall to his will and bend to his whim.

The protracted, shambolic business with Rome, the belligerence of Boniface and truculence of Benedict, had exhausted him beyond belief. Now, at last, it seemed as though he had got his way. Nogaret was abroad, making sure enough pressure was put on the cardinals in Perugia to get de Got elected; so long as there were no unexpected delays, he was finally on course to securing his realm and, more importantly, his own salvation.

Philippe smiled as he rode up to the château, not noticing the troubled looks the guards on the gates shared as he passed through, or the subdued the fall of the templars

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manner of the squires who hastened from the stables to take his weary mount.

It wasn’t until the royal steward came out to greet him, along with his closest advisors, that Philippe halted, his smile falling away. He stared at their solemn, sorrowful faces and something clutched, icy tight, around his heart.

The king thought first of Isabella and Louis: his favorite and his heir. He must have spoken the children’s names out loud, for the steward was now shaking his head and coming toward him.

“My lord,” he was saying. “My lord, I am so very sorry. The queen—”

But the steward didn’t get to finish, for Philippe was running past him, sprinting down the passageway, not hearing the calls at his back as he raced madly toward his wife’s chambers.

the royal palace, paris, april 12, 1305 ad

Water poured in streams from the rooftops, turning the grime that caked the streets to a gray sludge. The sky was leaden, clouds drifting heavy and low, swollen with rain. The towers of Notre Dame were lost in the murk, and beneath, the city lay trapped, people’s heads bowed under the endless curtain, faces pinched with cold. Shop doors and shutters were closed against the chill, and just a handful of traders in the marketplace were hunched under the canopies of their stalls, calling listlessly to those who hurried past. The blue skies and burgeoning warmth of the past few weeks felt like a season ago. Winter, it seemed, had returned.

Will dismounted in the palace courtyard and looked around for a squire to take his horse, but other than a couple of distant guards the yard was empty and so he led the beast to the stables. He was sodden and splattered with mud from the hard day’s ride, but discomfort wasn’t foremost in his mind. He had spent the past few days perfecting the excuse he planned to give the king for his absence, but each time he played it through in his mind it sounded more and more like the lie it was. Before leaving for Bordeaux with Robert, he explained to Pierre Dubois that he’d received a message from William Wallace, ordering him to Lyons to meet a potential financier for the war. Dubois had noted this with preoccupied disinterest, but Will knew Philippe would be more inquisitive about his departure. For that reason he had been hoping to return to the city before the king. He might have, if not for events in Bordeaux.

When the canons of the cathedral broke into Bertrand de Got’s chambers, 298 robyn

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he and Robert were seized and taken to a cell, where they were detained for several days. The chapter had persuaded the bewildered archbishop that they must be punished for their trespass, and it wasn’t until de Got came to his senses and managed to regain his authority that they were released without charge. With this delay and the rain that had swept in to hamper their journey, Will was certain the king would have reached Paris before them and would no doubt question him rigorously on his absence and the reasons for it.

Approaching the stables, Will found some grooms sheltering from the rain.

They were huddled on bundles of hay, talking quietly. A couple of them jumped to their feet as Will ducked through the streams of water pouring from the eaves.