Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (12 page)

Philippe pulled away. “Guillaume de Paris believes it necessary.”

“Your new confessor seems to be a difficult man to please, more diffi cult perhaps than faith demands?”

“I am king, Jeanne. God demands much of a man in my position.” He scowled. “As does this kingdom. My grandfather has not even been canonized, yet the people proclaim him a saint. Can I command such respect?”

“Give them time. Once they know you as I do, they will love you as they loved Louis.”

Philippe looked over at the desk, littered with the parchments Flote had given him that morning. They were rolls from the treasury, listing his expenses in Guienne and his treasurer’s estimations of what it would take to keep his army in the duchy over the coming months. Everywhere he turned another lord was trying to keep him from consolidating his kingdom: Edward, rapa-cious dukes in the south, stubborn counts in neighboring Flanders. If he couldn’t fi nd the funds to control them he might as well just call himself king of the Ile de la Cité and be done with it. “The people will only see my greatness in deeds, Jeanne. To be seen as a great king, I must act as one.” He kissed her brow. “But, here.” He picked up the blue spool of silk and placed it in his wife’s hands. “Do not burden yourself with my worries.”

Leaving Jeanne to take up her embroidery, Philippe moved pensively through the grand passageways of the royal apartments, servants bowing as he passed. He headed through a set of doors and stepped out onto a covered balcony that ran around to an ornate portal, leading into the upper level of the Sainte-Chapelle. Below, in the courtyard, courtiers and offi cials hurried about their business, not noticing their king come to a rigid halt before the chapel doors and stand there, eyes on the stone Christ that guarded the threshold.

Philippe’s gaze moved over the statue to the pier above, which depicted a scene from the Last Judgment. A seething mass of men and women were cut out of the stone, each blow of the masons’ chisels carving another expression of anguish or horror from their writhing forms, while in their midst the angel, Michael, weighed their souls. If he looked at them long enough, they seemed to move. His heart quickened as he stepped toward the doors, swallowing back 62 robyn

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the rising dryness in his mouth. Reaching out, Philippe placed his hands on the wood. Steeling himself, he pushed. The doors opened into a vast, empty space, filled with glass and echoing silence.

“My lord.”

Philippe started at the voice. He turned, angry to be caught unawares, to see Flote behind him, but his anger thawed, replaced by eagerness, as his eyes flicked to the figure at the chancellor’s side.

Guillaume de Nogaret bowed. “I bring news from London, my lord.”

With greater relief than the two men could know, Philippe grasped the chapel’s doors and pulled them firmly closed, shutting off the sight of the cavernous space beyond. He crossed to his ministers, pulling his fur-lined cloak tighter around his shoulders. “Well?”

“Edward did make an alliance with the Temple, as you feared,” answered Guillaume, “but against Scotland, not you. According to the queen mother, the meeting was initially called to discuss the pope’s proposition to merge the Temple and the Hospital, but Edward’s designs on Scotland took precedence.

She sends her regards to her daughter,” Guillaume added, when Philippe remained silent.

“I will pass them to Jeanne,” replied Philippe distractedly. He looked at Flote. “What are your thoughts?”

“I would say this is good news, my lord. Your fears that Edward would ally with the Temple against you have been assuaged.”

“But that they would ally with him at all still concerns me.” Philippe toyed with his lower lip, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. “Did you manage to find out anything else, Nogaret? Edward’s plans for Gascony? Troop movements?”

“Unfortunately, Blanche hasn’t been privy to any reports her husband has sent to Edward. It seems the king is wary of her presence in his household and has kept her under close scrutiny since his brother left for Gascony. Edward is more intent on his plans for Scotland at present; that much was plain. From what I could ascertain, he intends to put down the rebellion under King John before making any further move in your territory. We could use his distraction to step up our own efforts in the region.”

Philippe was nodding, but Flote quickly interjected. “My lord, if you had a chance to study the rolls I sent to you this morning, you will see that we simply do not have the revenue for any extension of our forces in the area. We are already stretched to the limits. Perhaps a temporary truce with Edward might the fall of the templars

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be the best way forward, at least while he is preoccupied in Scotland? This will allow us time to consolidate our resources and—”

“No,” argued Nogaret, “the king must show his strength. Any display of weakness at this point could prove fatal. The English must not know how precarious our situation is.”

“What do you suggest we do?” countered Flote. “Bankrupt the realm?”

“Tax the clergy again, my lord,” said Nogaret to the king.

Flote shook his head. “We cannot make an enemy of the Church. The taxes were extremely unpopular when they were levied last year. Many bishops simply refused to comply.”

“Then use force this time,” said Nogaret harshly. “The clergy are rich and greedy. When did you last see a poorly dressed bishop? Or a thin cardinal?”

“The Franciscans,” snapped Flote. “The Dominicans.”

“Formed because their founders felt the Church’s use of its own wealth was abhorrent!”

“Enough.” Philippe nodded. “It is a good idea. Chancellor, you will draw up a proclamation immediately.” He spoke on as Flote went to protest. “The clergy will come to thank me in time if this kingdom is made stronger by their sacrifices. You are dismissed, both of you.”

Nogaret bowed and headed off, but Flote hung back.

“What is it, Chancellor?”

“My lord, this idea will only work in the short term. We need to put other strategies in place.” Flote’s voice lowered. “Nogaret is young and ambitious, but his lack of faith or respect for the Church perturbs me. I advise you most strongly against listening too closely to his counsel. We both know the hatred that drives him.”

“This has nothing to do with that. Nogaret sees how the balance of power is shifting. The Church is the mother: the teacher, the consoler. The state is the father: the law-giver, the protector. Let the bishops worry about the souls of my people and I will worry about the defense of their country.” Philippe began to walk along the balcony toward his apartments. “The world is changing, Flote. It is the men of the law who are taking control now. I would have thought this would please you?”

“It does, my lord. But that should not mean we become Godless.”

Philippe stopped.

Flote halted, frowning at the king, who was staring at the closed chapel doors. “My lord?”

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‘No,” murmured Philippe. He glanced at Flote. “Draw up that proclamation.” Turning, he forced himself to walk back toward the chapel.

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It was late afternoon and the light was fading fast. He drove the horse on relentlessly, whenever its pace began to flag. The beast’s hooves sank into the boggy ground with every stride and kicked free with a spray of muddy slush that splattered its flanks and his legs. Once or twice, the horse splintered through a layer of ice and plunged into a pocket of black mud, threatening to jolt him from the saddle. Still he didn’t slow. He was almost there. Just a few more miles and he would see it.

It was thirty days since he discarded his mantle and stole the palfrey from the stables at New Temple. Thirty days since he deserted.

Leaving London by Ermine Street, Will had made good speed through the sprawling forests of the hunting shires, traveling by day from hamlet to hamlet, keeping a wary eye out for robbers and cutthroats, aware of the attractive target he made: a lone rider on a well-bred horse, the glint of mail beneath his cloak a tempting challenge. The days were short and gloomy under the canopy of trees, and even when the forests gave way to rolling miles of crop fi elds, it rarely got light, the sky growing grayer and heavier, until finally it opened and the first snows began to fall, leaching the last of the color from the land. The wide road was treacherous with wagon ruts and potholes that were soon concealed beneath the rising drifts, and he went from covering twenty-odd miles a day to barely fi fteen. Coupled with this, he had to take several detours to ford rivers, avoiding the tolls on bridges. As a Templar he was exempt from such taxes and could have found free lodgings all along the route, but he was a knight no longer and had no proof that he had ever been. Cursing himself for not having had the foresight to keep his mantle, the bold gesture now seeming foolish, he was forced, on the second day, to sell the only thing of value he owned, other than his sword.

He sat for a time on the steps of a church in the town of St. Albans, cold-numbed fingers rubbing at the tarnished pendant. Beneath the layers of grime, the figure of St. George gradually appeared. Elwen had stood on her toes to put it on. He could still recall her breath, warm on the back of his neck, as she fastened the chain. He thought it might break his heart to sell it, but in truth it was a relief to hand the pendant to the trader. It was one more burden to the fall of the templars

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be rid of, one more memory to release. In return he had been given enough coins, so long as he was careful, to see him in food and board all the way to Edinburgh.

The land changed slowly, forests and farmlands giving way to towns. Fields scraped bare by the plow, the autumn wheat buried beneath the snow, were replaced by warehouses and mills, and the road grew crowded with merchants.

In the inns he stayed at Will expected to hear much talk of the coming conflict, but other than the odd snatch of conversation, one man saying the English in Scotland were being arrested, another that the Scots were planning to invade, there was no mention of it. Life in the villages and towns of England went on as normal, and if people were aware they were now at war, they showed no sign of it. It wasn’t until he crossed the crumbling wall built by the Romans to imprison the wild north that the atmosphere began to change. It was subtle at first; the men in the taverns were more guarded and conversation was hard to come by, then he began to notice travelers were moving in cara-vans, many with armed escorts. In the windswept uplands of Northumberland, where hills and sky seemed to marry in whiteness, hospitality became positively scarce and he was forced to sleep on the hillside in stone shelters that he shared with huddles of sheep.

A week ago the snows had stopped and a red wintry sun appeared. Four days after that, he crossed the Tweed and the Teviot at Kelso and entered the Borders. Here, the tension was palpable. There was a heavy presence of soldiers in the towns, the gates guarded and often barred. Will was stopped and questioned several times, but his knowledge of the area granted him passage.

Beneath the tension, he began to sense confidence. These men appeared ready for war, some even seemed eager for it, gathered in tight groups outside newly erected palisades, joking about the soft English. Hearing their laughter, Will spurred his exhausted palfrey on toward Edinburgh. Their assurance disturbed him. He knew what was coming.

The earls and barons summoned to the king’s service would be leaving their estates with their knights, marching in armored lines all along the roads of England to converge, in three weeks, on the city of Newcastle. Together, under the banner of the lions, this feudal host would move north as one vast army, the like of which Scotland hadn’t seen in a hundred years. These young men with their wooden clubs and scornful jokes weren’t ready at all.

But despite the pressing need, Will was unable to ignore the strange familiarity of the landscape surrounding him. The closer he came to Edinburgh, following the curve of shallow, stony rivers, the more he felt the pull of home, 66 robyn

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until late that morning, barely seven miles from the royal city, he changed direction, swerving west over the hills.

He urged his horse on, up over a steep bank to join a track pocked with hoofprints and sheltered on one side by a high, snow-dusted verge. After fi fty or so yards, he turned a corner. In the distance, at the track’s end, was the house he had been born in. Part of him had almost wondered if it would still be there, as if, like so many of those who had lived within its walls, it would have faded into memory. It was a surprise to see it in front of him, unchanged, a low wall ringing the main house, several outbuildings and a paddock. Will slowed the horse, its flared nostrils snorting clouds into the air. Limbs rigid with cold, he slid from the saddle and led the horse off the track. The estate had been owned by the Temple since his father had been knighted, his mother and sisters having been delivered to a nunnery near Edinburgh. He doubted news of his desertion would have traveled quicker than he had, but he didn’t want to meet anyone out here if he didn’t have to.

Will clambered down the hillside, heading for the copse his father had used for firewood. Entering the trees, he looped the reins over a branch and crept out of the cover, keeping low as he came up alongside the wall. In the paddock a few goats were grazing, and in the barn beyond he could see the ponderous shapes of cattle. He ducked as a man came out lugging a pail and disappeared behind the house. Will moved along the wall. The herbs in the garden his mother had planted were bushier, but otherwise the place looked the same. He crouched down, assailed by images from his childhood: his mother’s hands filled with sage, the fragrance drifting around her, his younger sister Mary in the paddock spinning around and around, his father lifting him onto his horse, his elder sister, Alycie, singing by firelight. She had followed the others to the grave some years ago.

After a time, his legs began to ache and he went to stand. There was movement behind him. Will turned. He had time to see a young man’s face, fi erce with fear, a snatch of blond hair and a raised hand with something lodged in the fist, before the hand came down and the object in it smashed into his forehead.