Read Online Requiem: The Fall of the Templars by Robyn Young - Free Book Online
Authors: Robyn Young
Ads: Link
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 34 robyn
young
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 disobedience 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 the fall of the templars
35
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
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 34 robyn
young
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 disobedience 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 the fall of the templars
35
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
Similar Books
