The Hidden Keystone, page 6
“So much rests upon his efforts.” Godefroi shot a sharp look at Hugues.
“Have faith,” Hugues murmured.
“Messire,” Gaston said, “with your permission, I’ll oversee his efforts.”
“Go.” Godefroi waved him out and turned back to the table. “Count Raymond’s tower is also in position. I’ve heard the Saracen Governor was sighted directing the defences before the Sion Gate. If that’s true, then Raymond’s troops will face stiffer opposition than ours. We’ve reason for optimism.”
“You have reason for optimism.” Baldwin stood. “The rest of us must clutch at your stirrups in the hope of keeping up.” He stalked out of the tent.
“Another reason to be careful,” Hugues said in a soft voice. “If you fall Godefroi, Baldwin can’t be trusted with our mission. The Salt Lines won’t allow it.”
Godefroi leaned back in his chair, which creaked dangerously. “I couldn’t disagree with them in all honesty.” He ran a calloused hand across his face. “I’m weary. Leave me to rest.”
“There’s one other matter we must attend to first.” Hugues strode to the back of the tent, lifted the canvas, and called out in a low voice. Moments later, a hooded figure crawled through the gap. Achambaud gripped the hilt of his dagger. The stranger was lightly built and shorter than Hugues, and the cowl of his black habit concealed his face.
“What’s this?” Godefroi demanded.
Hugues led the stranger to the table. “Godefroi, I told you there were five sacred points. Three are known to you and stand in this room. The fourth is Etienne and this is the fifth. His name is Gondemar.”
Godefroi rose from his chair. “I don’t understand.”
Hugues gestured to the stranger. “All five of us must be present when we enter the Holy Sepulchre. Otherwise, the way will remain closed.” Hugues knelt before the lay brother. “In front of your peers, I beg forgiveness for how I’ve treated you.”
Gondemar placed a hand on Hugues’ head. Even for a member of the clergy, his skin was soft and pale. “There’s nothing to forgive.” Gondemar’s voice was high for a man.
Hugues looked up at Gondemar. “Thank you, yet I fear you’re being too charitable.”
“What are you two talking about? Show your face,” Godefroi demanded.
“You already know me, Godefroi.” Gondemar drew back his cowl to reveal a thin, beardless face with brown eyes framed by dark lashes. Long braids of brown hair had been wrapped into a tight bun.
Godefroi took a step back in astonishment. “Godwera?” he whispered. “But…you’re dead. Baldwin…he said—” Godefroi shivered. “This is a dream.”
“No, Godefroi.” Godwera shook her head.
He took a step forward and tried to touch her face. Godwera intercepted his hand and pressed his knuckles to her lips.
“I did die,” she said. “Just not in the way that you think.”
Achambaud concealed his shock. Godwera—Baldwin’s wife—was supposed to have died of a fever after they left Constantinople. Hugues must have concealed her all this time.
“But how? We all thought you dead.” The timbre of Godefroi’s voice was rough with emotion.
“The Godwera you knew is gone. Now you have need of Gondemar, and that is who I’ve become. Don’t speak the name of Godwera again, for she must remain buried.”
She appeared thinner than Achambaud remembered. The gauntness of her face emphasised her lips, which had so often been pressed in a thin line of distaste in Baldwin’s company.
“I don’t understand,” Godefroi said. “Have you been part of the Salt Lines all this time? Does my brother know?”
“He doesn’t, nor must he ever.” Fear flashed across her face at the mention of Baldwin.
Hugues intervened. “The Salt Lines arranged for Godwera to marry your brother, Godefroi. It was all planned long ago.”
“But why?” Godefroi sank back into his chair. His troubled gaze flicked between Hugues and Godwera, perhaps trying to decide who was more responsible for deceiving him.
“It was the safest way to bring her to Jerusalem,” Hugues replied. “And as your chaplain, none would question why I spent so much time with a monk. Although I fear our plan has caused more anguish than it should have.”
“Please.” Godwera held up her palm. “Let’s not speak of it again. I’ve endured the marriage and moved beyond him, as he clearly has of me.”
“You asked her to marry Baldwin so she would come to the Holy Land?” Godefroi’s tone turned the question into an accusation.
Hugues shook his head. “Not personally, although I agreed the decision made sense.”
“I see.” Godefroi’s expression remained hard. “And what need have we of a woman in battle?”
“Taking the city is only the first step,” Hugues replied. “I’ve no doubt other trials will follow. Not every test can be overcome with a sword.”
Godefroi’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know what to expect, do you?”
“I know that what we seek is well hidden.” Hugues spread his hands. “Only the five sacred points may tread the path of righteousness. We’ll fail without Godwera. That much is certain.”
“More evasions and vague claims.” Godefroi pointed to the entrance. “Out. All of you. I wish to speak with my…sister-in-law. In private.” Hugues made a noise of protest, but the look Godefroi directed at him was so fierce it brooked no argument.
As Achambaud left the tent, he saw Godefroi take Godwera’s hand and murmur something to her. She listened attentively, her expression stiff and polite. To Achambaud’s eye, she resembled a cornered deer.
CHAPTER 8
13 October 1307
The Commanderie
Roustan’s charger shifted impatiently beneath him as he scowled at the closed, iron-bound gate of the Commanderie. A score of the King’s Guard, each mounted and heavily armed, waited on the muddy road behind him. The jingle of tack punctuated the stillness of the dawn.
Mist hovered over the fields that surrounded the Commanderie. Trees jutted from the fog, their bare branches resembling agonised fingers clutching at the sky. The coming day would be overcast and foreboding. Roustan grinned. How appropriate.
The soldiers nearest to him shifted uncomfortably in their saddles. On the far side of the wall, the chapel bell tolled in the distance. The deep, reverberating sound sent a prickle of anticipation down Roustan’s spine.
“You heard the call to Matins,” Roustan said to the soldiers. “The brothers will be too busy with their devotions to open the gates.” His observation drew a ripple of tense laughter.
“Captain, send your most agile man over the wall.”
The captain of the King’s garrison in Troyes hurried to obey. Roustan paid no attention. The guards were a necessary encumbrance. Later, if all went according to plan, they would become inconvenient witnesses. Why bother courting the respect of men who were as good as dead?
Roustan licked his upper lip. After searching for her for so long, it was excruciating to be this close. She was inside this pathetic little Commanderie. He knew that beyond any doubt. A skilled hunter always knows when its prey is within striking distance. Roustan felt the end of the chase in his gut, and he craved the release that it offered.
“What’s taking so long?” Roustan snapped. Sensing its master’s mood, his charger stamped its hooves.
“Guerin has just topped the wall, sir. See.” The captain pointed.
Roustan wheeled his horse around with a savage jerk of the reins. A wiry soldier was indeed clambering over the lip of the wall.
Guerin dropped out of sight on the far side. Moments later a chain rattled. No cry of alarm or challenge greeted the noise.
This Commanderie was not even defended properly. Perhaps she thought anonymity might prove a more effective defence than seeking sanctuary in one of the Templars’ great castles. If so, then she had badly underestimated the network of informants available to his master, Guillaume de Nogaret, Keeper of the Seals and the true power behind the French throne.
A bolt was drawn inside the gate. A second and third followed. The scrape of metal on stone, the press of eager soldiers, and the rapid pulse in his throat summoned memories of Guillaume’s dungeon. He remembered…
…the horrified expression on his mother’s face as Roustan bolted the door of her cell…Guillaume insisting that Roustan remain just outside the door, even when his mother’s pleading turned to screams when she discovered that she was not alone. Meeting Guillaume’s questioning gaze without flinching…earning the silent nod of approval…and God save his soul…the flush of pleasure at being acknowledged thus.
Roustan shivered in his saddle. Whatever sins he had committed had all been justified. Guillaume trusted him now and had even shared his plans with Roustan. Plans that would finally break the shackles the Papacy had wrapped around France.
Roustan fought down the sick feeling rising from the pit of his stomach. He was no longer the reviled son of a lowly merchant but the instrument of a king. A price had to be paid for such elevation, did it not?
The heavy timber gate groaned as it swung open. Roustan urged his charger through the gap. Guerin grinned at Roustan in triumph, perhaps expecting a word of praise. Roustan was tempted to kick the fellow in the teeth but refrained. He needed the soldiers’ undivided support for what lay ahead.
After a short canter, Roustan and the column of guards entered the Commanderie’s tight cluster of buildings. The courtyard was empty. No doubt the brothers were crowded inside their ugly little chapel.
“Set guards at each door of the chapel,” Roustan told the captain. “No one enters until I’m ready. Search the remaining buildings. Bring anyone found to me. Use whatever force is necessary, although make sure they can still be questioned. Understood?”
The captain nodded and hurried off. Guards dressed in the tabards of the Capetian kings of France—gold fleur-de-lis on a field of royal blue—spread out through the courtyard.
Roustan dismounted and threw his reins to one of the soldiers acting as his bodyguard. This was a small Commanderie by Templar standards. Where would she hide? He stroked his beard in thought. The Preceptor’s Lodge was the most likely place. After all, where else would you hide a woman amongst men who were sworn to celibacy?
Roustan sized up the building. The high, narrow windows resembled arrow slits. As for the main door, the heavy oak timbers were bound in iron. He did not doubt that it was well secured.
The captain strode over to Roustan. “No sign of anyone in the stables or the refectory. I’m just waiting for a report from the dormitory.”
“What about the chapter house and cellar?” He couldn’t afford any mistakes. Not now, with her finally in his grasp.
“The chapter house is connected to the chapel, so we didn’t enter as you ordered.”
“And the cellar?”
“Locked.” The captain frowned. “From the inside, apparently.”
Roustan stilled. “Are you sure?”
“I’ll check.”
Another guard raced over to report. “The dormitory is empty, sir.”
Warning prickled the back of Roustan’s neck. Something was wrong. Their arrival should have been noted by now. This determined silence felt deliberate.
“Leave a pair of guards outside the cellar,” Roustan ordered. “Deploy the rest of your men at each entrance to the chapel. We’ll enter via the chapter house.”
The guards hurried into position. She was slipping away somehow. He could feel it.
Roustan ground his teeth together in frustration. Guillaume’s messenger had been adamant that she was here. Had she outmanoeuvred him again?
Roustan ordered the guards inside. The captain and his men burst into the chapter house. Roustan touched the scroll case hanging from his belt for reassurance and drew his sword. A wail of protest erupted from inside the chapel. Something crashed onto the tiles. Men shouted in alarm. Roustan raced up the short flight of steps, strode across the muddy tiles of the chapter house and entered the chapel.
The King’s Guard had forced the congregation back into a loose semi-circle about the altar. “What do you think you’re doing?” a serving brother cried out.
An older priest pointed an accusing finger at the guards. “How dare you invade this house of God?”
The majority of the brethren stood in frightened silence. Roustan searched for the white cassocks of the chevaliers and found none. It was all the confirmation he needed.
She had slipped away with an escort.
Frustration boiled through Roustan. His knuckles cracked around the hilt of his sword. Yet another part of him silently applauded. Guillaume’s best agents had been unable to catch her for almost a decade. She had eluded every snare and trap set for her. Why should now be any different?
Roustan exhaled slowly.
The truth was he wanted this chase to continue. Each near miss brought him one step closer. The gap was narrowing. He was certain of that. And each disappointment, each thwarted capture, would only sweeten his eventual triumph.
He moved into the centre of the chapel. The protests faltered and fell silent. Ignoring the brethren, Roustan grounded the tip of his sword and knelt on the tiles. Facing the altar, he made the sign of the cross and bowed his head.
Every eye was fixed upon him.
This was power. The fate of every single man in this chapel hung from the scroll that swung at his belt. Each breath they took was at his sufferance.
Roustan rose to his feet. Serving brothers and chaplains trembled beneath his stare. “Strip them,” he ordered.
The captain motioned to his soldiers. One group levelled their spears while a second group seized the nearest brethren and tore off their clothes. Despite a fresh round of protests, the task was completed with brutal efficiency.
A sneer nestled in Roustan’s mouth. He let the silence draw out, knowing that their leader would emerge eventually.
Never strike at a snake without knowing where its head lies.
Guillaume’s words, yet Roustan had never truly understood their meaning until this moment.
An elderly priest emerged from the knot of terrified brothers. He was lean to the point of emaciation. Stringy muscles sagged from his protruding bones. The little hair that age and tonsure had left him was white like snow. Some of his brethren tried to hold him back but the old priest brushed them aside. Judging from the deference shown to him and the small iron cross that he held in one hand, this was probably their head chaplain.
Roustan cocked his head and waited. Someone in this room knew where she had gone. That someone was unlikely to be this pious old fool.
“By what right do you invade this house of God and treat His servants so roughly?” The old priest’s rasping voice was even and unafraid.
Roustan gestured and his bodyguards allowed the chaplain to approach. Roustan unclipped the leather cylinder from his belt and withdrew its contents. He lifted the scroll that bore the King’s seal over his head so that all could see it. “This is a warrant from Guillaume de Nogaret, Keeper of the Seals and chief adviser to King Philippe.”
He pitched his voice so that it filled the nave. “It empowers me to place all assets and members of your Order in the custody of the King of France, as agent of Pope Clement, until such time as your leaders answer the charges of heresy levelled against them.”
Murmurs of surprise swirled through the congregation. Their astonishment seemed genuine.
Roustan waited until the whispers died down. He offered the scroll to the priest with a flourish.
The chaplain ignored the gesture. “The King has no authority here. Our Order is only answerable to his Holiness.”
Roustan had expected defiance and outrage, not disdain from a priest with one foot in the grave.
“His Majesty, long may he reign, is acting on behalf of Pope Clement in this matter.” Roustan offered the scroll again with an impatient shake.
“Then such an order would’ve been delivered by members of the Inquisition, not by a lackey of Guillaume de Nogaret.” The chaplain gazed at the soldiers that hemmed in his brethren. “I say again, you have no jurisdiction here. Leave us in peace or risk the Lord’s wrath upon your immortal souls.”
Fear flickered across the faces of the more pious guards. Roustan slid the scroll back into the leather cylinder and refastened it. “Twice you’ve refused to follow the instructions of your sovereign king, who is acting on behalf of the Holy See. You stand accused of heresy and your current actions only demonstrate the validity of this charge. I ask you a third time, will you yield to this warrant, validly enacted and served upon your Commanderie?”
“My son, we answer to God first, the Pope second, and to our conscience last.” The priest closed his eyes, as if in pain. When he opened them again, he blessed Roustan with the iron cross. A calmness had settled over the chaplain, as if he knew what was about to happen and had accepted it. “I pray that one day you may come to realise the error of turning aside from that holy trinity, as will your masters.”
The old priest had refused him three times. Any resistance had to be crushed, no matter how harmless it might appear. Roustan drew his knife, took a short step forward and thrust the blade up under the chaplain’s ribcage.
The priest gasped and clutched at Roustan. The old fool’s fingernails clawed at his chainmail. Someone cried out “Laurent”!
Blood bubbled from the old priest’s mouth, robbing him of any final words. But Roustan had caught the shape of them: “I forgive you”.
Bile rose up Roustan’s gorge, which he quelled savagely. Yes, he had killed an old, unarmed priest. The chaplain probably didn’t even know of her existence, but he had questioned Roustan’s authority. Guillaume had taught him respect and fear were far more valuable tools than compassion.
