Prologue

Marseilles - Tuesday, October 10, 1307

The captain of the king’s guard leaned on the pommel of his saddle, wiped the perspiration from his face, and dropped the reins so his destrier could munch on the sweet grass. October wasn’t supposed to be this hot, but the two days since he and his company had left Avignon had been nothing but sweltering, dusty, humid, and buggy. He turned in his saddle and waited for the strung out line of horsemen to tighten up their formation. He couldn’t even see the rear of the column when he looked back along the road through the narrow valley, and for a unit of only two-hundred men, that was inexcusable.

He would speak to the sergeants. When they arrived in Marseilles the next day, he wanted the company to look sharp. The king’s guard had to look like the king’s guard, not a bunch of louts. And they had to fight like the king’s guard. Besides himself, not a man in the column wore a helmet or had a weapon buckled around his waist. In the heat, they had piled weapons, mail, and helmets on the backs of supply horses, and most rode in just breeches and an open jerkin. True, it was peacetime, they were in France, and the heat was ungodly, but they were still the king’s guard.

Tomorrow he would make his name wiping out the forty Templars in Marseilles. They never surrendered, so what choice would he have? Besides, the Pope’s man in Avignon said, “No survivors.” But would his two hundred men be enough?

He was still turned back toward the column when he felt the slight vibration of hoof beats. Puzzled, he glanced again at his troops and saw all the horses moving at a slow walk to tighten up the line.

“Sergeant, do you hear that?” the Captain asked the man behind him.

“Hear what, Sir? Oh, God save us!” The sergeant pointed east.

Fifty knights in full charge crested the top of the low hills to the east and made straight for them at top speed. Red crosses blazed on the white tunics of fifty charging Templars. Fifty lances pointed at them and thundered closer every second. The captain’s horse spun around and he saw his startled men dragging shields off pack horses, struggling to pull swords from the bundles tied to the backs of their own horses, and looking for lances on the pack mules. The captain drew his own sword, ordered the sergeants to set up a defensive formation, and rode back along the line.

He looked west for a place they might defend and froze at the sight of another fifty red Templar Crosses charging from that direction. There was no time. Both lines of charging knights smashed into the disorganized column at the same time. The unit from the east hit the front of the column and the unit from the west hit the back half of the column.

The two groups of attacking knights passed each other as they crashed through their prey, neither stopping when they hit the enemy, but riding straight through and over their victims, then wheeling around and coming back for another attack.  But this time they stayed in the midst of the carnage, hacking, slashing, and stabbing with swords, axes, and maces until they finished their bloody work.

“That was vile work,” said the Marshall of the Knights Templars. “I’ve seen many battles, but I don’t count this as a battle. It’s hardly a victory I want to remember.”

He looked with disgust at the Templar priest moving among the wounded administering last rites. The priest was followed by a knight who efficiently and mercifully dispatched the wounded.

The Marshall rode with the commander through the flies, the stink, and the gore where the Templars were piling weapons and supplies on the backs of the uninjured horses from the king’s guard. Dead men’s horses would serve new masters.

“Vile times,” replied the commander. “A vile king and his vile Pope. They can’t expect us to play any different. You know why these vermin were riding to Marseilles. It’s to roast our arses at the stake and steal our fleet. At least the fleet’s safe now.”

“Yes, fleet and arses are both safe for a while. You finish this mess. I’m heading back to Marseilles.” The Marshall turned his horse and left the valley at a trot, with his squire trailing behind him.

*     *     *

The previous night, the Templar Admiral and Marshall both hunkered over a chart on a wooden table while the Admiral traced his route with his finger. “Conditions can’t be any better. Clear skies, tide going out, and an offshore wind are gifts from God. A sailor can’t ask for any more.” The admiral drained his pewter mug and called to the landlord for more ale.

“I wish you fair winds, my friend. And just ask God for luck. Don’t ask for anything else. It’s too confusing. See, if he grants you good luck, that covers everything else.” The Marshall looked down into his ale and swirled it around. “You know what this means.”  He drained the mug.

The admiral nodded, but said nothing.

“I don’t like it. A retreat is still a retreat, no matter what you call it, even if you call it a ‘strategic redeployment of forces.’” The Marshall spat on the sawdust floor of the tavern.

“Bernard, let it go. The ships are loaded, the men are ready, and we’re going to do this.” He pointed toward the harbor. “And I’m going to take that fleet, that one right out there, through the Pillars of Hercules, out of the sunny Mediterranean, and up to that godforsaken place they call Britain.” He grinned and laughed. “Been there once, swore I’d never go back, but I do remember the way. We’ll be ready on Friday morning. We leave with the tide.”

“Well, load all the cargo and supplies you want, but you’re not going anywhere until that shipment arrives. A rider said it will be here tomorrow night, but not before the king’s guard arrives. So, they have to go.” The Marshall slowly drew his finger across his throat. Neither man would mention out loud the cargo they waited for was the Templar treasure.

“You can bet it won’t be early, and probably late, so we still have to deal with the king’s men tomorrow.” The Marshall tugged at his white tunic, emblazoned with a red cross. “And when we meet them tomorrow, that may be the last time this cross sees battle. Two-hundred years of honor and now we go sniveling into the night.”

“Cheer up, my friend.” The admiral laughed and jabbed the air with his mug as he talked. “All the other Templars will vanish before king and Pope strike on Friday. Gone. Disappeared. Shazzam! At least you get to kick some ass on the way out.” He lowered his voice and leaned closer. “If the special cargo had been on time, the fleet would already be gone, you’d be on the way to Zurich, the king’s guard would get here and find no Templars to roast and no fleet to steal, and,” he slapped the table, “you’d have no ass to kick. Now, I’d say that’s lucky for you.”

Marseilles - Friday, October 13, 1307

Eight knights, six mounted sergeants, and ten squires sat quietly on their horses watching the Templar fleet leave the Port of Marseilles for the last time. Each ship moved into line in turn and slowly glided toward the mouth of the harbor. Galley oars flashed in the morning sun and spray, well-wishers cheered from the docks, and the ships eased away from their home port for the last time. Those merchant men and fighting ships were the Mediterranean’s most powerful naval force and the Marshall commanded them, as he commanded all the military units of the Order, but he knew he would never see this command again.

He silently watched the lead ship clear the harbor and hoist its sail. The huge red cross on the white sail snapped and billowed in the breeze. For a hundred years Turks, Saracens, African pirates, and all the scum of the sea turned tail and ran when they saw that sail bearing down on them. The fleet protected convoys and took pilgrims, rich pilgrims who could afford it, to the Holy Land. But now the fleet was leaving the Mediterranean, leaving it to whatever ragtag bunch of floating fools wanted it.

The Marshall turned to his squire and sat up straight in the saddle. “Pay attention, you. This is something you’ll not see again. Observe the price of success, honor, gallantry, and courage.” He paused and considered for a moment.  “Or, perhaps it’s the price of arrogance, greed, and stupidity?  We grew from nine penniless knights in Jerusalem to the most powerful force in Europe over the last two-hundred years. Military, banking, and commerce were all ours. And now? Now we are engaged in what the Templar Council calls a ‘strategic redeployment of forces.’ Pretty words. Very pretty.”

The Marshall pointed to the fleet. “We’re splitting the Order, lad. They go to Britain where our British Templars have Roselyn waiting for something like this. And we and the rest of the Order in Europe go to the mountains in Helvitia. Zurich, where the snow is over the horses’ heads, mountains touch the sky, and there’s not a flat space for a good battle for miles. Find a warm cloak, my young friend. Find it before you need it.”

The Marshall knew today was the day King Philip of France and Pope Clement would strike at the Templars everywhere. The king would use the sword, and the Pope would use his power as head of the Church to dissolve the order and brand them all as heretics, apostates, idolaters, and necromancers. The king’s guard had been sent to Marseilles to both ambush the Templars this morning and keep their fleet from sailing.

When the Templar Council first learned about the treachery of the king and Pope, they determined to fight them. They haggled for a week, but cooler heads had convinced them they could beat the king, or they could beat the Pope, but they couldn’t beat both of them at the same time. So, now they would shed their identity as Templars, disappear from their fortresses and estates before king and Pope could strike, and reorganize themselves under different names and different banners. Never again would the world know who they really were or what they could really do.

But the treasure, thought the Marshall, it’s always about treasure. And now it’s sailing away. The king wants it. The Pope wants it. Every duke, earl, bishop, and stable boy in the land wants it. And now it’s sailing away, and a pox on all of you. Choke on your gold and die.

“Don’t worry,” the Grand Master of the Templars had told him weeks earlier. “This will all work. Just make sure the men and treasure get where they need to be. We move slowly, don’t let on we know, throw a bunch of parties, live large, and pretend we are best friends with Pope and king. Business as usual right up to the final days. Then the fleet sails with men and money, all the other men capable of getting to Zurich take off, and I stay here entertaining the king. The king can send his soldiers, and the Pope can send his bishops and guards, but we’ll be gone. Vanished.”

The Marshall had slumped into his chair. “So, you’re just going to stay here in Paris with the guys too old to travel and wait for the king to come in here and burn your skinny butt at the stake?”

“Don’t be an ass. Of course not. We’ve paid off the captain of the king’s royal guard. He comes and arrests me and a few others, throws me in the dungeon, and declares a great victory over the forces of evil. Then the captain lets me escape a few nights later and I show up in Zurich for Christmas goose. Everyone gets what they want.”

“That is just about the most stupid-arsed thing I have ever heard in my life.” The Marshall stood up and began to tick off items on his fingers. “We can get the fleet to Britain and set up there with our British Templars, and we can get our people from all over Europe to Zurich and set up there, and we can establish communication between the two. We can do all that.” He pointed at the Master. “But you? You are doomed. Doomed.” He threw up his hands.  “I know what you’re doing. You’re sacrificing yourself so the rest of us can get away. Pay the captain, my arse. But I’m not going to fight you on this anymore. If you want to smell your own sizzling carcass cooking at the stake, then bon appetit, you old fool. But I have my orders, and by God, I’m going to carry them out. Zurich and Roselyn. Consider it done.”

The ships had cleared the harbor, all sails were set, and it wouldn’t be long before they disappeared over the horizon.

He turned and looked at the knights and sergeants behind him. “Line abreast! On me!” he thundered. A line formed on both sides of the Marshall. “Sword Salute!” They all drew their broadswords, pointed them to the sky, brought the hilts to the level of their faces, paused a few seconds, and angled them down off their right sides.

Then they removed their Templar tunics and dropped them in a fire a squire had been tending. The red Templar Cross would never again be seen in battle. The visible face of the Templars had vanished.

“Let’s get out of here!” shouted the Marshall. “Column of battle march! Keep it tight, weapons ready, and I want four outriders looking for the Pope’s holy soldiers. He knows what we did to the king’s guard by now.”

He rode off to the side of the column and faced the men. “We’re dressed up like a free company of mercenaries, and I know we’re not wearing the Templar Cross. But, never forget, we’re Templars, first, last, and forever. That doesn’t change. That doesn’t ever change.”

He rode to the front of the small column, shouted, “Death in Battle,” and spurred his horse toward Zurich.

Later that morning, Friday, October 13, 1307, Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of the Knights Templar, was arrested with half a dozen older knights at the Templar headquarters in Paris. On March 18, 1314, he was burned at the stake as a heretic. That same night, the captain of the king’s royal guard who betrayed de Molay was found hanged by his own intestines from the gate of the king’s palace.

Nocera, Italy - Thursday, February 18, 1385

The haggard man in the tower window waved bell, book, and candle at the laughing and jeering soldiers below. “Anathema! Heretics! Excommunication! Damnation! Interdict! Yes! Damnation on all of you and all of your children! All of you! For ever and ever you will burn in the cauldrons of the damned! I speak for God! For God! Bend the knee to me or lose your immortal souls! I have the power! I have the power!” He stood up on the ledge of the window, raised both hands and whipped them down toward the soldiers like he was throwing handfuls of pebbles. “I damn you for all eternity! I damn you by the power of the Church! I damn you by the power of the Risen Christ! I damn you by the power of almighty God!”

The Master of the Knights Templar looked up at the castle window and turned to his Marshall. “Think he means us? We’re really not part of the army here.”

“Humph, I’ve never seen a Pope before. The man’s a lunatic. We came all the way from Zurich to make a deal with a madman?”

“We did, indeed. The Pope’s the Pope.” He pointed up to the castle window. “And that’s why they call him the Mad Pope. Doesn’t matter if he’s lost his mind. That’s not a requirement for Popes or kings. What he can do is bind the Church and every Pope who comes after him if he says this is what God wants.” He grinned at the Marshall. “Think I’m going to argue the fine points like sanity?”

The soldiers had rigged a small catapult, and a great cheer rose when it sent a load of manure arcing toward the Pope’s window. But it didn’t have the range and the clumps fell short. So, they switched to real arrows, and sent a volley at Christ’s Vicar on Earth. Every arrow missed, some possibly aimed off a bit by an archer hedging his salvation.

“Arrows! Puny weapons of man! I am protected by God! By God himself! I wield the weapons of the Risen Lord!”

The twenty Templars wore the ensign of a German free company, mercenaries who fought for the highest bidder. They had pitched their camp behind the small army besieging the Pope at Nocera, just south of Naples, where he had taken refuge from his enemies.

Just after midnight, a Templar spy in the castle dropped a rope and the Master and Marshall scrambled up to an arrow port. The two Templars had covered themselves with mottled brown cloaks, slipped through the attackers’ lines, and crawled on their bellies across the wet ground to the castle for the last hundred yards.

The Marshall held a dagger up each sleeve as they followed the spy’s dim oil lamp through the damp hallways and up a narrow stone stairway until they reached a door guarded by two men. One of the guards nodded and held the door for them.

Only two small lamps lit the room, both on a rough writing desk near the far wall. A shadow moved behind the lamps and the Marshall spun to cover their backs while the Master crouched, drew a short sword, and took the front.

“Don’t you gentlemen know it is a capital offense under Canon Law to draw a weapon in the presence of the Pope?” A gray-haired man wrapped in a simple wool cloak stood behind the desk, put a candle in the lamp flame, then held it to his chest.  “Come in, gentlemen. Please come in. Allow me to light a few more lamps and candles.” He stopped and sighed. “But, perhaps I should let you inspect the room first? It’s difficult to communicate while worrying about daggers in the dark.”

The Pope waited for the Marshall to check the room, then closed the large book in front of him. “Let me throw another log on those embers. It’s not so much the cold as the dripping dampness here. I think all these places were built wet and never dried out.” He rose and went to the woodpile and grabbed a log. “Sit, please. I assure you I am capable of putting a log on the fire.”

Pope Urban VI went back to his seat at the desk. “Welcome to Nocera.” He looked around the room. “I can’t offer you much in my present situation, but we do what we can. I may be guest, prisoner, or hostage here. I’m not sure. It’s difficult to tell, and I probably shouldn’t push the question.”

It was difficult for the Master to believe this was the same man they saw screaming in the window that afternoon.

The Pope threw back his head and laughed. “I suppose you expected a madman? That’s to be expected. I try hard enough to act like one, but that’s all part of the struggle. Two Popes have Western Christianity split between them. England and France support Clement, and Germany and Italy support me. Now it’s all plots, murders, and betrayal. It has taken on a life of its own, and makes one yearn for the simple life.”

“Yes, Holiness.”

“Now, to business,” said the Pope. “That Concordat you proposed? I’ve taken the liberty of making a few changes.”

The Master frowned as the Pope reached behind him, grabbed two parchments, and handed one across to the Master.

“What you proposed, Sir,” said the Pope, “is essentially an alliance between the papacy and the Templars. Now, the world thinks the Templars were destroyed seventy-five years ago in 1307. But when the Master and Marshall of the Templars are sitting right in front of me, that’s obviously wrong.”

The Master tried to scan the Latin on the parchment while listening to the Pope. What had he changed?

“You’re looking for what I changed. Let me elaborate.” He motioned the Master over to the table, moved some oil lamps, leaned close to the table, and pointed at the parchment.  “You suggested an alliance. I amended that to an alliance at the discretion of each Pope. If a particular Pope wants an alliance with the Templars, he enters into it at the beginning of his papacy.

“If the Pope doesn’t want an alliance, then both Church and Templars agree to leave each other alone, and not meddle in the affairs of the other for the reign of that particular Pope. When the next Pope is elected, he makes the decision for his own papacy. So, we may help each other if a Pope chooses, but will not harm each other even if he does not choose an alliance. It’s either alliance or nonaggression.”

The Master squinted and carefully read the lines the Pope indicated. “Holiness, when you asked for our help in dealing with your enemies and your current situation, I believe you suggested an alliance between the papacy and the Templars, an alliance that would bind both groups forever, not an alliance only if the reigning Pope likes it.”

“True. True. But upon reflection, I can’t commit the Church to an alliance with any organization forever, since I can’t predict what that group will do in the future. That would betray my duty to the universal Church. Even with my own perplexing situation here,” he waved toward the besieging army outside, “I still can’t trade the Church’s future for my own.”

Crafty old fox, the Master thought. He wants the Church to turn the alliance on and off with each Pope. “I understand what you say, Holiness, and I have to say it prompts me to wonder the same thing. Do the Templars want to be beholden to an alliance with some Pope who may be less honorable than yourself? You do have a point, and I guess it works both ways. Perhaps we should add that both the Pope and the Templar Master must agree to an irrevocable alliance for any particular papacy?”

To be expected, thought the Pope. He slowly nodded several times. “Yes, I think we can do that. Yes, I think we can.” He made some notes on another page.

The fire consumed several more logs as both men quibbled over small, meaningless changes to the wording of the agreement. When dawn crept around the edges of the window sack cloth, they sat back, each satisfied he had bested the other.

“I think we have a Concordat,” said the Pope, “a Concordat that will bind both Church and the Templars forever. I do not take this step lightly, but the dangers faced by the Church justify it.”

“I think we do have a Concordat, Holiness. I think we do. And I assure you, it will bind all my successors as Templar Masters.”

The Pope squinted at the Master and gave a lopsided smile. “Now, if you will forgive me, gentlemen, before I say my morning prayers and get some sleep, the Mad Pope has some curses to hurl.” The Pope walked over to the window, pulled aside the sack cloth, stepped up on the ledge, and poured damnation down on the army below.

Three days later, with identical signed, sealed, and witnessed Concordats, the Templars smuggled the Pope out of the castle and onto one of their waiting galleys that took him up the coast to Genoa.