The Fall of the Templars Read online

  Will scratched at a mark on the table, preoccupied by the news of his homeland’s involvement in the conflict. There was so much he didn’t understand about what had been happening here. All he knew was fragments; scraps of news that filtered through to them back in Acre and conflicting and incomplete information received on the road. He realized how foolish it was now, but he had imagined everything would have remained much the same in his absence. When he was out in the deserts of Palestine and Syria, rocked by war and political convulsions, the thought that he could one day return to solid ground had kept him strong for years. It was disconcerting to find it wasn’t so solid after all. He realized Elias was waiting for a response. “I haven’t seen Rose yet. I was planning to go to her after I visited you.”

  “Then I will not keep you from that reunion.” Elias got to his feet. He held out his hand. As Will took it, Elias placed his other hand firmly over Will’s. “Do not forget the things that are important to you, William. Do not forget who you are, what you are capable of.”

  THE ROYAL PALACE, PARIS, DECEMBER 21, 1295 AD

  The grass in the royal gardens was brittle with frost. It crunched under Guillaume de Nogaret’s riding boots as he crossed the lawns, past fruit trees and clipped yew hedges. Two men were sweeping dead leaves from the pathways. They stopped to let him pass as he headed for an arched opening in a high wall. Moving through, he entered a quadrangle, which formed the end of the palace complex at the very tip of the Ile de la Cité. Several buildings bordered the yard, but most of the space was taken up by a row of wooden huts, fashioned to look like miniature houses, with painted shutters fixed to the front of each. A fence ran around them forming a pen and outside each hut was a perch, occupied by a bird.

  Dozens of tiny, glinting eyes followed him as he passed down their line. There were goshawks and sparrow hawks on bow-shaped perches, merlins, a hobby and a pair of lanners. The huts became more ornate as he reached the gyrfalcons. There were twelve in total, perched on wooden blocks padded with linen. One, her speckled feathers brilliant white in the sunlight, bated suddenly, darting toward him, the silver bells attached to her legs chiming madly. Nogaret stepped back. She strained at her leash, wings beating the air, then settled back gracefully onto her perch, talons sinking into the linen. As he moved on, the gyr gave a shriek that sounded like scornful laughter. Nogaret picked up his pace, his gaze on a group of men ahead. A young man with light brown hair, who stood head and shoulders above the others, turned at his approach. On his wrist, poised on a leather glove, was a peregrine, her powdery gray wings folded back behind her. As Nogaret halted and bowed, two pairs of eyes, one black and ringed with gold above a steel-sharp beak, the other ice blue, set wide and deep in a striking face, fixed on him.

  “What has taken you so long?”

  “I apologize, my lord, the roads were treacherous with snow.”

  King Philippe paused, as if considering the worthiness of the excuse. The other men had fallen silent. One, dressed in the same well-tailored black robe Nogaret himself wore under his traveling cloak, regarded him cagily, lips pursed. Ignoring the disapproving stare of Pierre Flote, king’s chancellor and keeper of the seals, Nogaret waited.

  After a moment, Philippe smiled slightly and the tension dispersed. “Maiden broke a feather, but it has been mended perfectly.” He raised his fist, causing the peregrine to cry and unfurl her wings in expectation of flight. “You can scarcely see the join where the new feather was imped. Come now, Nogaret, you’ll have to get closer than that. She won’t bite. Will she, Flote?” Philippe laughed and the chancellor joined in.

  Nogaret tried not to scowl. He still had the scar on his neck where Maiden had plunged that razor beak into his flesh. Philippe had given her a treat, pleased with her fierceness.

  “Sir Henri has outdone himself,” said the king, glancing at the man next to him, who wore a spray of dove feathers in his cap.

  Sir Henri, the Master Falconer, smiled. “We’ll fly her well this week, my lord, get her strength up.”

  “I want her ready for the hunt after the Christ Mass,” said Philippe briskly, passing the bird to Henri, who lifted her expertly onto his glove, grasping the jesses. Sliding off his gauntlet and passing it to one of the squires, Philippe gestured to Nogaret and Flote. “Come, both of you, we will talk in my chambers.”

  The king led the way out of the enclosure and back through the gardens. The walkways through the lawns were narrow, with room for only two abreast. To Flote’s visible irritation, Nogaret maneuvered himself so he could walk at Philippe’s side. “Your brother sends his regards from Bordeaux, my lord. He will shortly be delivering the funds we have secured thus far.”

  “How has our plan worked?” inquired Philippe, his long-legged stride causing Nogaret, who was several inches shorter, to quicken his footsteps. “How much have we acquired through the arrests?”

  “By our estimates, enough to keep soldiers in Guienne until late spring next year.”

  Philippe halted abruptly and faced him. “That is all?”

  “Much of the wealth in the region is bound up in the estates themselves: properties, vineyards, townships. Monies from these fixed assets will obviously take us longer to garner.”

  Philippe set off again. “I was hoping for better news from you, Nogaret. I need more than this if I am to dislodge that contumacious old crow from my kingdom. There have been significant problems with the building of the fleet. The shipwrights are asking for more funds to complete their work.” As Nogaret started to speak, Philippe raised a hand. “No, I need to think.” He scowled as he climbed the steps to the royal apartments. The guards at the top pushed open the doors to let him through. “This is not what I wanted to hear.”

  “We could cut back in other areas, my lord,” suggested Flote, moving in to walk at Philippe’s left as they marched down a wide passage.

  “Are you offering up your own salary?” asked Philippe sourly, heading up the winding flight of stairs that led to his private solar.

  “We need to think of ways in which to replenish the royal coffers, not how to limit or, worse, damage the good works we have already started,” said Nogaret, with a glance at Flote. “Expansion cannot continue without adequate funds, and without expansion, without a forceful exertion of royal power in this kingdom, our lord will be as impeded by willful vassals, bishops and princes as his predecessors before him.” As they reached Philippe’s solar, Nogaret went forward to open the doors.

  Philippe was nodding as he entered the sunlit chamber. “Nogaret is right. Expansion is paramount. Under my father the Capetian dynasty lost its potency. In order to regain the authority wielded by my grandfather, I must continue to exert myself.”

  “With all due respect, my lord,” said Flote, “King Louis didn’t attain his authority through the purchase of townships and bishoprics. It was through Crusading that he earned his people’s respect.”

  Nogaret smiled inwardly as Philippe turned to stare at the older minister.

  “People say lawyers talk too much. Be careful, Flote, that you do not prove them right, or it will not be your salary that is cut.”

  “I am sorry, my lord. I meant no offense.”

  Passing a desk that was carefully arranged with parchments, quills and ink pots, none of which looked used, Philippe shrugged off his winter cloak, edged with cloud-soft ermine, and handed it to Flote. Sitting back on a couch that overlooked the gardens, he crossed his long legs. “While I wish to discuss the matter of Bordeaux further, I have received some disturbing news that requires my immediate attention.” Philippe’s blue eyes fixed on Nogaret. “The grand master of the Temple arrived in the city two days ago. Shortly before this, we discovered he has been requested to attend a meeting at the London preceptory with King Edward and a representative of Pope Boniface, a man named Bertrand de Got.”

  “The bishop?”

  “You know him?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I met him in Bordeaux.” Nogaret told the king how the
bishop had interfered with one of the arrests. “He could make things difficult for us, especially if he elicits the support of the archbishop, as he threatened.”

  “Bertrand doesn’t worry me. I’ve had dealings with him before. All that interests him is filling Church offices with members of his family. The man is an avaricious little leech who has spent most of the past year since his appointment trying to worm his way into the pope’s favor. I doubt he will cause us any real trouble, but if needs be, a well-placed bishopric for one of his nephews will keep him pliant. No, it is the reason for this meeting that concerns me. I fear Edward may try to use the Templars against me.”

  Nogaret’s brow furrowed. “I do not see how. Edward cannot command them. The Temple answers only to the pope.”

  “Exactly,” said Philippe, rising suddenly. “Which is surely why Bertrand de Got, as Boniface’s representative, will be in attendance? My forces can hold against the English at present, but against the full might of the Temple?” He shook his head grimly.

  “Even if the English Templars joined forces with Edward, the French would not, neither would those in the Maritime States, or Germany, or Portugal. They rely on kings and princes across the West for donations and privileges. They wouldn’t want to jeopardize that.”

  “I have to agree with Nogaret,” interjected Flote.

  “What purpose do the knights have now the Crusades have ended?” demanded Philippe. “What are they if not an army looking for a war? As a unified force they could take Guienne in a matter of weeks.”

  “They aren’t a unified force,” responded Flote. “Half their order is camped out on Cyprus, the other half dispersed throughout Christendom. Since the fall of Acre, they have spent most of their energy increasing their monopoly over the wool trade, and from what we know, Jacques de Molay has come seeking support for a Crusade, not to fight someone else’s war.”

  “Nonetheless, I would know for certain that I have nothing to be concerned about. Perhaps the Temple would not fight a war for Edward, but he might persuade them to support him financially. I know he is struggling to maintain a strong presence in Gascony and the revolt in Wales must have taxed him heavily.”

  “And if they do support him?” ventured Nogaret.

  “Then I will have to find the money for my fleet from somewhere. I may have to bring my plans for an invasion of England forward.” Philippe turned to Nogaret. “You will go to London. I will arrange for you to leave as soon as possible in order that you are there ahead of Jacques de Molay. You will discover the purpose of the meeting.”

  “Surely, my lord, one of our usual sources would be better equipped for such a task,” said Nogaret, affronted by the idea that he, king’s lawyer and a former professor of one of the finest universities in France, would be trailing about London like some common sneak. He looked at Flote, wondering if he had suggested this. But the chancellor didn’t meet his gaze.

  “No,” said Philippe. “I want this information quickly. When you arrive go directly to the royal palace at Westminster. Say you are there to visit my mother-in-law, that you have an urgent message from her daughter. This should allow you to avoid the formalities of an official visit, although I doubt anyone will know who you are and become suspicious in any case. Have her find out whatever she can.”

  “With King Edward’s brother leading the English in Bayonne, that could be difficult. The queen mother may not know anything.”

  “She is a woman in a royal court, Nogaret. Her husband will not be her only source of information, certainly.”

  Before Nogaret could answer, there was a knock at the door. A clerk appeared. “The Scottish envoys are preparing to leave, my lord.”

  “I will be there shortly.”

  “Scottish envoys?” questioned Nogaret, as the clerk closed the door.

  “They arrived while you were away, seeking an alliance against Edward for his continuing interference in their realm. Two months ago I signed a treaty agreeing to aid them.”

  “The Scots are a nation of barbarians,” said Nogaret derisively. “Still living in mud huts and warring with one another over who will be chief.”

  “That they may be, but they are enemies of Edward and that makes them allies of mine. They will keep him occupied on the borders of his kingdom, while I continue to beat back his forces here. With his army divided in such a way, I expect he will not be able to hold out much longer in Gascony. Edward will almost certainly have learned of this alliance by now, which may be precisely why he has requested this meeting with the Templars, and which is why this matter now takes precedence over your task in Bordeaux.” Philippe drew a breath. “Now leave me, both of you. I wish to change before bidding our barbarian friends farewell.”

  When the ministers had gone, Philippe crossed the chamber to a full-length silver mirror. He removed the gold circlet from his head and placed it on the desk. Next, slowly, deliberately, he unfastened the belt embossed with silver that pulled in the wine-colored robe at his waist. Drawing the folds of the robe over his muscled torso, he took it off and draped it on the arm of the couch. All the while, he kept his eyes on the dazzling surface of the mirror, watching himself with cool detachment, as if he were observing someone else. Beneath the robe, Philippe wore a hair shirt. The tight-fitting garment was fashioned from coarse goat hair and gave off a repugnant odor, which worsened when he sweated. He noticed the weave was looking a little flat and reminded himself to have his tailor make a new one. He wore it most days, and the stiff hairs tended to lose some of their abrasiveness over time, smoothed by the movements of his body and the constant rubbing against his skin. As he unlaced the leather thongs, the garment loosened, coming away from his chest with a feeling of such intense relief that it took all his effort not to tear the thing away. Undoing the rest of the ties, he removed the hair shirt and laid it carefully beside his robe. In the mirror, Philippe examined the results of the day’s penance. His skin was irritated a feverish red. As he turned to one side, a fresh line of welts showed where he had been bitten by the lice that tended to breed in the garment. On his back, scars made patterns of his skin. Some were old and silvery white, others were newer, scabbing wherever the flagellum had drawn blood. The mortifications were vivid in the daylight, running down to disappear beneath the line of his hose and up as far as his shoulder blades. There they stopped. From the neck up, Philippe’s skin was pale and smooth, all the way to his unblemished face. The contrast was startling. It was as if the face and the body belonged to two different people.

  For a moment, he allowed himself to stand bare-chested in the window, the cold air numbing his flesh. His gaze wandered over the gardens, where men were working. It gave him a sense of satisfaction, watching them. Ascending the throne at seventeen, Philippe had worried that the household staff wouldn’t obey him as readily as they had his father or stalwart grandfather, and even though he had been king for ten years he still sometimes wondered if they respected him enough. It was one of the reasons he had surrounded himself with ministers like Nogaret, men nearer his own age. With them, he felt superior.

  Movement directly below caught his eye. A woman was heading through the yard, toward the servants’ gate in the palace wall. She was walking quickly, her skirts bunched in one hand to keep them from trailing. Something about the way she kept looking back over her shoulder focused his attention. As Philippe watched, intrigued, the woman slipped through the gate and was gone. She vanished for a minute, hidden by the high outer wall, then reappeared on the riverbank beyond. She had removed her coif and her tawny hair hung loose around her shoulders. Philippe frowned as he saw a man waiting on the narrow bank that tumbled down to the water. The man approached the serving girl and they embraced. As she pulled away, glancing back at the palace, Philippe’s keen eyes picked out the features of her face. Turning from the window, he locked them in his mind. He would speak to the steward, have the woman expelled for improper behavior. A servant who flouted the rules was an infection, sowing seeds of disobedien
ce throughout the household. It was something his father had told him. Philippe hadn’t taken to heart much of what his father, a weak, directionless man, had said, but that piece of advice had stuck in his mind. The royal household was an extension of himself. Whatever his staff did reflected on him and he would allow no one to tarnish his reputation. He was the grandson of Louis IX. His subjects would know only his greatness. Going to the couch, Philippe picked up the hair shirt. He drew it back on, ignoring the stinging discomfort as he pulled the thongs tight.

  THE BANKS OF THE SEINE, PARIS, DECEMBER 21, 1295 AD

  Over an hour had passed since he had crossed the Grand Pont onto the banks of the Ile, and Will was beginning to wonder if the servant had delivered the message. The palace walls loomed over him, sheer and impassive. Dramatic changes had occurred within them. There were two new towers a short distance upriver from the bridge, flanking an impressive gateway. Beyond the walls, along with the gray steeples of the royal apartments and administrative buildings that he recognized, a tight jumble of structures had sprung up, the sharp angles of rooftops carving the spaces between soaring turrets, adorned with colorful flags. On the far side of the complex rose the majestic Sainte-Chapelle. The chapel, built by Louis IX to enclose a fragment of Christ’s crown of thorns, lent beauty to a place that, to Will, appeared more imposing and fortresslike than it ever had before.

  He looked around, and saw a girl heading down the muddy banks toward him. Will’s breath caught as she came closer and he saw his mistake, for she was no longer a girl, but a woman. The white tunic she wore over a linen gown was drawn in at her waist, accentuating her height and the slimness of her figure. Her gold hair whipped about her in the breeze coming off the water and she pushed it back in a swift, impatient movement. Her face was pallid and a little gaunt, prominent cheekbones emphasizing a strong chin. The sight of that face hurt him; both in its strangeness and familiarity, it hurt him somewhere vital.