Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (17 page)

“As I told you,” said Simon staunchly, “he’s mad with grief. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.” He was silent for some moments. “I’ll go after him.”

“What?”

“I’ll go to Scotland, talk some sense into him.”

“Don’t be a fool.”

“What’s foolish about it? Don’t you want him to come back?”

“What makes you think you could persuade him when I couldn’t?”

“Isn’t it worth a try?” demanded Simon, rising to face the knight.

Robert stared at Simon’s dogged expression. He smiled slightly, but it faded quickly. “How can you leave without arousing anyone’s suspicions?”

“You can get me posted to Balantrodoch. I don’t even have to go to the preceptory, just send me with the papers. I’ll find Will and convince him to come back with me and you can make sure I’m transferred back here. You can do this, Robert,” pressed Simon, when the knight didn’t answer. “I know it.”

“Oh yes, very easily,” retorted Robert. But he saw the look of determination in Simon’s face. “It would be dangerous. The war.”

“He’d do the same for us.”

“And if he doesn’t want to come back?”

“He will, if I tell him Rose needs him.”

After a long pause, the knight exhaled. “I’ll think on it.”

Leaving Simon to head to the stables, Robert continued toward the offi -

cials’ building. His mood, which had lifted briefly with the groom’s stubborn optimism, dampened again. For the past few months, he had gone over and over that conversation in the New Temple, wondering if he could have done more, said something that would have made Will change his mind. He had come to the conclusion that he couldn’t have, but he still blamed himself for not acting more decisively as he watched Will’s descent into darkness after Acre. Had he said or done something earlier, then perhaps Will would never 92 robyn

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have gone this far. Will wasn’t just a comrade, a brother-in-arms: he was responsible for the Anima Templi. His desertion from that cause rendered Robert’s own pledge and sacrifices for the Brethren somehow meaningless. But Will and Simon had been close since they were boys in New Temple, and he knew the depth of the groom’s feelings. If there was a chance Simon could succeed where he had failed, shouldn’t he let him take it?

“You’re late,” said Hugues, as Robert entered the solar. He rose from behind his desk, briskly rolling up a scroll. “Shut the door.”

Robert pushed down an urge to retort. He didn’t think Hugues would take kindly to his mocking these days.

“I had an audience with the grand master this morning,” said Hugues. “He intends to leave for Cyprus in the next few weeks to begin planning his Crusade. He hopes the support the leaders of the West have promised him will materialize in time for a move east by the spring of next year.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“You’ve seen how entangled in their own conflicts they are. Once King Edward has subdued Scotland, he’ll lock horns with Philippe over Gascony again, no doubt using the support he’s managed to obtain from the count of Flanders, who is desperate to stop Philippe attempting to annex his territory. King Philippe meanwhile seems intent on making an enemy of the Church with these new taxes he has been demanding from the clergy. I hear a priest was killed in a skirmish with royal guards. Apparently, they tried to take his collection box and he refused to allow them. The royal household has sent out criers to dispel the rumors, saying the priest attacked one of the guards, but only the most gullible Parisians will be convinced by that.” Hugues set the scroll on the desk and moved over to him. “Which is why I have asked the grand master to allow you to stay here with me when he returns to Cyprus.” He placed a hand on Robert’s shoulder. “These are troubled times.”

“The grand master agreed to this?”

“I was persuasive. I need someone I can trust to help me in my capacity as head of the Anima Templi, as well as in the day-to-day running of the order.”

“You’ve made yourself head?” murmured Robert, staring at his old comrade, who seemed more and more changed from the man he thought he knew.

“Someone needed to fill the position. It was vacant after all.”

“What if Will returns?” ventured Robert.

Hugues scowled. “Campbell gave up any right to hold that position when he deserted. He chose his family over the Brethren.” He hesitated. “But if he the fall of the templars

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returns and makes amends for his disobedience, he may assume a position under me.”

As Hugues turned away, Robert saw the look on his face and wasn’t so sure Will would be welcomed. He thought of Simon’s comments about the visitor being a stickler for the rules. He hadn’t spoken his mind to the groom, who was unaware of the Anima Templi, but privately thought he knew why Hugues had agreed to let Will’s desertion go unchallenged. The visitor wasn’t used to sharing power and it was clear that he had his own vision for the future of the Brethren and the order; a vision that ran counter to Will’s. Robert’s fears were compounded as he recalled Will’s belief that Edward had played them for fools all these years and his concern over how easily Hugues had fallen into bed with the king.

“I have need of good men with me here, Robert. Together, we must do everything possible to ensure that the order retains its authority.” Hugues returned to his desk. “When Jacques has gone we can begin looking to a new future, one in which the Temple can survive beyond his outdated war.”

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Bertrand de Got had to hurry to keep up as the cleric marched through the square toward the main palace building, past the entrance to the Lateran Church. It was a dazzlingly bright day and, to the west of the palace, the city of Rome sparkled like a gem, elegant towers and voluptuous domes of churches thrusting above the rooftops. Beyond, the Tiber was a blue ribbon, curling languidly around newly built palazzos and the crumbling remains of the ancient civilization that once ruled the earth.

Bertrand found himself short of breath and sweaty inside his traveling cloak as the cleric escorted him up the wide marble steps, into the cool shade of the palace’s interior, bustling with officials from the papal curia.

“I have to warn you, Bishop, you may find His Holiness to be troubled of spirit.” The cleric exhaled sharply. “The death of Celestine has caused him some unexpected diffi culties.”

“Celestine is dead?”

The cleric frowned at Bertrand’s expression. “You had not heard?”

“I have only just arrived.”

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The cleric halted, glancing around. Bertrand was relieved at the chance to catch his breath.

“Celestine died in his prison cell a fortnight ago,” continued the cleric in a quiet voice. “No sooner had his body been brought out than Giacomo and Pietro Colonna were demanding an investigation. His death was declared to be the result of natural causes, as of course it was.” The cleric dropped his voice further. “But that didn’t stop the Colonnas spreading vicious rumors that His Holiness had been the architect of Celestine’s demise.”

“The Colonna cardinals have accused the pope of murder?” said Bertrand, astonished.

“Not openly, of course, but there is no doubt in the minds of many that these rumors originated with Cardinal Giacomo. He has been an enemy of the pope ever since His Holiness imprisoned Celestine for abdicating the papal throne. He even once charged him with persuading Celestine to step down so that he could take the papal tiara. But Giacomo was not concerned for Celestine. It was himself he was thinking of. He has always been bitter that Boniface was elected over—” Two black-robed officials from the chancery swept past and the cleric broke off abruptly. “Come,” he said, after the offi cials had passed, “but I advise you to refrain from saying anything that may vex His Holiness.”

Bertrand thought of the news he had brought with him and had a sinking feeling as the cleric led him up several curving stairways and along a stately corridor toward a set of colossal doors. The cleric rapped smartly and pushed them open.

The expansive chamber was crammed with sumptuous furnishings, all arresting in their opulence, and it was some moments before Bertrand, scanning the room, caught sight of its occupant. Pope Boniface VIII was seated in a large, cushioned chair by an arched window. Behind him, a barber worked an ivory comb through his hair. At sixty-two, Boniface still had a full head of it, although it was dove-white and thinning at the edges of his neat tonsure. His dark eyes fl icked to Bertrand, who glanced around as the cleric shut the doors behind him.

“Bishop,” Boniface said in greeting, in a voice laced with self-assurance.

“That will do.”

Bertrand halted, then realized the second address had been to the barber, who took the cloth Boniface pulled from his shoulders, bowed deeply and padded across the rugs to a smaller door on the other side of the chamber. As the fall of the templars

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Boniface rose and extended a hand, Bertrand went toward him, feeling a tingle of color in his cheeks. He’d forgotten how the pope always managed to make him feel like a clumsy acolyte. Steeling himself, he bent, his lips brushing the gold ring.

Boniface withdrew and strode to a marble table, his robes, blood-red Venetian silk, whispering across the floor. “I thought you might have come sooner,”

he remarked, picking up a jewel-encrusted tiara and placing it on his head.

“I apologize, Your Holiness. I was kept from my diocese for many months and I desired to see that all was well with my people before making the journey here.”

“And your mission in England?” The pope straightened the tiara in an ornate mirror. “How did you fare?”

“Not as well as I had hoped,” admitted Bertrand. “After I wrote to King Edward to suggest the merging of the knight orders I heard nothing for some time, then I received a message asking me to join him in London for a meeting with Jacques de Molay.” Bertrand was aware of the peevishness in his tone, but couldn’t help it; he wanted Boniface to be as angry at the English king as he was. He was still sour over Edward’s change of face and his own naïveté in not seeing it coming. “In this message, the king seemed keen to discuss my proposition, but no sooner had the meeting begun than he commandeered it for his own purposes.”

Boniface’s reflection frowned. “His own purposes?”

“He wanted the Temple to aid him in his war against Scotland. I warned him how unhappy you would be at the prospect of him warring with another Christian nation rather than with the Saracens, but he would not listen.”

“I’m glad you felt free to speak my mind,” said Boniface, looking round.

His eyes locked on the bishop, who shuffled under his gaze.

“Your Holiness, I . . .” But he didn’t continue; the pope’s stare wasn’t getting any gentler, and besides, Edward had promised to get Bertrand’s nephew a more profi table benefice when he regained his lands in Guienne, if Bertrand complied with his wishes. Swallowing his anger, he met the pope’s gaze. “Edward did, however, say that he would lead a new Crusade as soon as the trouble in Scotland was ended and Jacques de Molay is still determined to head east. Our hopes for regaining Jerusalem are not ended.”

“Well, those hopes may have to wait for now. Pass me the
ferula
.”

Bertrand followed the pope’s finger to a long, ornate chest beneath the window. Crossing to it, he opened the lid. The papal cross was lying on a white 96 robyn

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cloth inside. As Bertrand’s fi ngers closed around the shaft and he withdrew it, the gold caught the light coming through the window and glittered. “Wait?”

he echoed, handing the
ferula
to the pope.

“I have received disturbing reports from the clergy in France, telling of recent tax demands by King Philippe. The king and his ministers have employed increasingly violent means. Priests who have protested against his intolerable demands have been robbed, beaten even. I warned Philippe of making an enemy of the Church when he did this last year. It seems he did not take my warning seriously. This time, I will not let it go unchallenged.”

“What will you do?”

“I have already done it. I have drawn up a bull,
Clericis laicos
. In it I have forbidden the taxing of the clergy by laymen, without papal permission. Any who engage in this activity shall be pronounced excommunicate.”

Bertrand was unable to cover his surprise. “But the kings of France and other nations have always drawn monies from the Church with which to fund their military engagements.”

“And now they shall be subject to my will in such matters and must ask for aid, at which time I will be the judge of whether it should be given or not.”

“Do the cardinals know of this?” asked Bertrand, wondering how the pope’s rivals in the Sacred College had taken the news. The Colonna family, he knew, were supporters of France, and Bertrand doubted they would have remained quiet at the proclamation of this provocative bull, especially not in light of what the cleric had told him.

“Most of them know,” said Boniface staunchly. “And those that don’t will in the next hour. I am making an address in the consistory.” He studied Bertrand’s worried expression. “Do not fear, Bishop de Got,” he said coolly. “My will shall prevail. I am the successor of St. Peter, acting under the direct authority of God. Philippe will learn this soon enough.” Wielding the papal cross in both hands, Boniface appraised his imposing reflection. “As shall all who oppose me.”

10

The Royal Castle, Edinburgh

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Will came awake with a start to see his nephew looming over him.

“What is it?” he groaned, pushing the youth away. He had been on watch on the walls of the castle for two days straight without sleep and had collapsed on his pallet barely an hour earlier, not bothering to take off his boots. He sat up, massaging his face.

David sat back on his heels. “It’s Father. He’s returned.”

Will’s tiredness faded at David’s expression. Kicking off the rough blanket, he stood. As he pulled on his hauberk and cloak, David reached down and picked up his falchion. Without a word, he handed it to him. Will pulled the belt tight around his waist as he followed his nephew out of the dormitory and down into the courtyard.