Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (63 page)

The tent was sumptuously furnished with all the luxuries a king might require while on campaign: a bath, a couch, a table to dine at, servants and mu-sicians to attend and entertain him. Despite this, the place seemed subdued, 374 robyn

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the lively confidence of the camp not reflected within the cloth walls, the attendants quiet and worried-looking. Will had time to sense this and to wonder what it meant, before he was led into a private compartment within the pavilion, filled with a large bed, the four carved posts of which stretched up to the undulating red roof. Two braziers gave off heat and smoke, but very little light. There was a figure in the bed.

King Edward was almost seventy and wore his years like a faded mantle, hanging heavy around his shoulders. Will heard his breaths crackle like parchment, smelled piss and stale sweat. Gone was the arrogant expression, the forceful stare and regal bearing. In place of the king who had haunted his life was an old, incontinent man.

“Have you seen my army, Campbell?”

The voice still had power and Will heard something of the king’s former self in that mocking tone. “You cannot exactly miss it,” he responded, and received a punch in his kidneys from one of the guards for his insolence.

“You should look well upon it,” croaked the king, his bloodshot eyes gleaming. “For it is the last thing you will see. Tomorrow I will do to you what I did to that bastard, Wallace. Then, with your entrails still reeking on the fire, I will lead my army into Scotland and—” Edward broke into a fit of coughing. One of the guards moved forward, but the king raised a trembling hand to halt him. He retched into a cloth, then drew a breath and fixed his watery stare on Will. “The traitor, Bruce, and his ragged band will rue the day they ever thought to stand against me. They will be hauled from their horses and trampled in the fi elds, cut down in the hundreds, nay the thousands! Cut down to their sons and their daughters, down to the unborn children inside their whores. The soil of Scotland shall be cleansed with their blood and noble English towns set up in place of their mud huts and tribes. Your own family, Campbell, will share this fate.” Edward leaned forward. “I want you to know that before I execute you. I want you to know how they will suffer for your treachery. I want you to . . .”

Edward continued, but Will was no longer listening to the words. All he could see was the king’s twisted face, the spittle flying from his gray lips. All he could feel was the hatred coming off him. It poured from every part of the king, black and bitter as pitch, stinking of frustration and impotence. Edward was bowed under with the weight of it. Will was filled with a rush of clarity as he realized that despite everything—the deaths of those he loved, the confusion and deception—he hadn’t lost his soul. He could feel it inside him, blaz-the fall of the templars

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ing before Edward’s choking, malevolent form. However strong his need for revenge, he hadn’t let it poison him slowly over years. He knew, all at once, with absolute certainty, that even if Edward succeeded in Scotland, he would never now find peace. He had gone beyond that possibility a long time ago.

Edward’s tirade ended in a violent outburst of coughing that had attendants rushing in with fresh cloths for him to hack phlegm into. “Tomorrow, Campbell!” he was wheezing. “
Tomorrow!
”

Will was marched into the sultry night, struck by his revelation. Edward’s coughs faded behind him as the soldiers returned him to the cage.

Most of the army was asleep, resting before the march into Scotland and the battle to come. Stars blinked, mirroring the low-burning campfi res. Brushing aside the questions of his fellow captives, Will knelt and bowed his head.

He prayed for his daughter and that she would learn he hadn’t abandoned her, prayed she would go to Simon and he would help her escape Philippe. He prayed Hugues would see sense and Clement would hold his nerve, and prayed that Robert was still alive and Jacques de Molay’s Crusade would fail. Once this was done, he lay down on the warm grass and closed his eyes. Even though he was afraid of what was to come, he knew the pain would only be transitory and in the end it would lead to something else, something far, far sweeter.

Tomorrow, he would see his father again and his mother. He would be greeted by Everard and Hasan and Elias, would clasp the hands of Kalawun and Owein. Tomorrow, he would be with Elwen. He would see them all with peace in his heart, knowing that in the end his path had been true.

But the next morning, no soldiers came to take him to a gallows. The hours after dawn crawled by and the army roused itself, men tending to their horses, breaking their fast. Gradually, the calm Will had felt in the night faded into tension. He wanted it over. The waiting was pointless, maddening. But wait he did, all through that day and into the next, the sky above him turning from pink to gold to blue. The following afternoon, Will sensed a change in the mood of the camp. None of the Scots was taken for questioning and the guards who tossed in their scraps of food were tight-lipped and silent. There were no songs around the campfires, no coarse jokes and laughter. And still he waited.

On the morning of the fourth day since he was brought before the king a storm drifted in across the plain. He was sitting there, soaked to the skin, licking the rain from his lips, when he noticed movement in the camp.

Will crawled to the bars and watched as a few companies headed off into the 376 robyn

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downpour, water plinking on helmets and shields. Over the next hour, more men began to move out. Some looked downcast, but others appeared relieved, neither of which seemed much like the bearing of soldiers about to head to war.

In the distance, Will could see a huge crowd gathered around the royal pavilion.

Some time later, when the rain had moved north and the exodus from the camp had become a flood, all the companies threading their way southward, a soldier came to the cage. He was dressed more plainly than the royal guards, their keepers until that morning. Opening the door, he motioned outside.

“You can go.”

The other Scots glanced at one another in astonishment, then scrabbled quickly out.

Will remained inside. “Who let us go?” he called, as the man went to head off.

The soldier glanced back. “The new king. He didn’t want any extra bag-gage to take with him.”

Will felt his breath leave him. “Edward is dead?”

“He passed this morning,” replied the soldier gruffly. “His son succeeded him and ordered the retreat. He will not fight his father’s war.”

As the man moved off, Will sank to his knees on the damp grass. He stayed there for some time, while around him the English Army trundled slowly from the plain. Finally, he pushed himself to his feet and climbed the shallow hill, avoiding the red tent, where a crowd was still gathered. As he reached the top, he saw the fi elds falling away to become marshes and then a wide estuary. Beyond the water, dark gold in the storm-bruised light, the hills of Dumfries rose up. He thought of his family, beyond those hills. Given a second chance at life he wanted to see the living: Ysenda and David, Margaret and Alice, beautiful, red-haired Christian. The lure was tremendous. But he allowed himself only a moment’s pause before he turned and, leaving Scotland shrouded in veils of summer rain, headed south.

37

Franciscan Monastery, Poitiers

august 18, 1307 ad

Your Holiness.” Jacques de Molay’s harsh voice echoed in the Chap-

“

ter House. Going down on one knee, he took Clement’s proffered hand and kissed the papal ring.

Clement smiled graciously. “Master Templar, it is I who should be kneeling in the presence of the few brave men who still toil for the liberty of Jerusalem.” He lifted his gaze to the knights ranked behind the grand master.

There were around forty of them, all erect and austere in mail armor, broadswords slung at their hips, helmets clasped under their arms. Most were high officials or commanders in the order. Clement recognized a few of the older members: the master of France was close behind de Molay and at his side was the master of Normandy, a flint-eyed, hook-nosed man named Geoffroi de Charney. The knights had been given the option of washing and resting before speaking with him, but had declined, preferring to meet him upon their arrival at the monastery. As a result, they looked as though they had all come straight from a battlefield, mantles stained, faces sun-browned and scarred.

Clement felt a twinge of regret that he had given in to Nogaret’s demands and called these men away needlessly from their duties. But he was glad to see them. Their presence simply confirmed his own desire to ensure the continuation of the struggle for the Holy Land, flagging due to the dearth of enthusiasm from the rulers of the West. Perhaps now he would get the response he had so eagerly sought. Shuffl ing over to the cushioned seat the monks had set out for him, the pope gestured to the servants at the sides of the chamber.

“Bring our noble guests food and wine.”

The grand master’s broad face, framed by coarse, iron-gray hair, retained its grim expression. “Your Holiness, my men and I have traveled long to answer your summons. In your message you said there was a grave problem within the order. I myself know nothing of any trouble and so before I break bread 378 robyn

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with you I am anxious to hear what urgent matter has called me and my offi -

cials the many hundreds of miles from Cyprus.”

Clement faltered, taken aback by Jacques’s terseness. After a pause, he nodded to the servants. “Leave us. Tell the brothers we will eat later.” As the door closed he shifted on his chair and tried to recover some of his authority, discomforted by the dour silence of the knights lined up in front of him. He felt like an inept commander, being judged by his troops. “Do you know of a knight named Esquin de Floyran?”

Jacques shook his head. “I have many knights under me. I do not know them all by name.”

“That is the name of the former prior of Montfaucon, my lord. I was given a report by the visitor some years ago detailing his arrest for heresy. He was imprisoned in Merlan.”

Clement glanced behind Jacques as the master of France spoke up. “That is correct. However, earlier this year de Floyran escaped the Temple’s custody and was taken into royal protection. He protests his innocence and accuses the knights of the Paris preceptory who sent him to Merlan of heresy and murder.”

”Royal protection?” The grand master’s brow furrowed. “Why would de Floyran be offered this?”

Clement was careful in his reply. He hadn’t yet decided how much to reveal to the Templars of Philippe’s intentions for them. The last thing he wanted was to dash his hope for a new Crusade by causing the knights to turn from their efforts abroad in order to challenge the crown. “The king was concerned and wanted to make certain de Floyran’s accusations were unfounded. He is keen to see that the Temple’s reputation remains untarnished. Both Lord Philippe and myself felt it necessary to recall you and your officials from Cyprus in order to conduct an investigation into this matter. After all, we do not want the people of the West to have any doubts over the honor of the warriors of Christ. They have been concerned enough since the fall of Acre.”

Jacques’s frown deepened and the men behind him shifted restlessly, their expressions affronted rather than perturbed. The grand master, however, nodded to Clement. “This is a serious allegation and will be examined to the fullest extent. I will speak to this de Floyran personally and judge his words for myself, then meet the men responsible for his arrest and hear their testimonies.”

“I am sure we can endeavor to make that a possibility.” Keen not to lose the confidence of the knights and heartened by Jacques’s staunch response, the fall of the templars

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Clement turned the subject to one of his choosing. “The other reason for my summons, Master Templar, lies in my eagerness to hear of your progress in the East. There has been frustratingly little word from Cyprus of your endeavors, or plans for a new Crusade. Everyone I speak to seems adamant that this is still your priority, but they can tell me nothing else.”

At this, the grand master seemed to relax slightly, although his expression remained somber. “Since the fall of our last base on the island of Ruad to Mamluk forces, our progress has been hampered by the lack of support from the West. Even our own order has been able to send us only the minimum of men and supplies, something I intend to rectify now I am here. As I told the rulers of the West when I made my progress through their kingdoms, a new Crusade will only succeed if everyone is behind it. Small armies without uniformity of purpose or the agreement on a clearly defined target will fail.”

Clement was unable to hide his disappointment. “Then you are saying it will not be possible? I had hoped to hear better news, for I am determined to aid you, Master Templar.”

Geoffroi de Charney spoke up at this. “We are grateful to hear your support, Your Holiness, but we remain certain that only by a coordinated move east can we push back the Saracens and regain the territories lost to us. We have been trying to secure the assistance of the king of Cyprus as well as help from the Mongol empire, but it takes time to bring about such alliances.”

Jacques nodded his leonine head at de Charney’s words. “What is needed is the wholehearted alliance of a powerful king of the West. Have one such ruler take the Cross and inspire the people again, have him lead our war and I believe we can succeed. Perhaps the Lord Edward? Or King Philippe?”

“Alas, King Edward died in July. We received word of it barely days ago. He has been succeeded by his son, the Prince of Wales.” Clement’s lips pursed. “A man who I hear is more interested in feasts and unsavory frivolities than holy war.”

The pope sat back as the knights took in this black news. He felt sunken.

All his hopes of Jacques and his army of warrior knights making their plans, gathering their might, dwindled to this proud, yet worn-down band of men before him. The moment the cardinals of the Sacred College had placed the papal tiara upon his head in the Cathedral of Lyons, Clement had known, clear as a vision, that he was the pope to call Christendom to a new Crusade.