Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

“Feed them now, then, if you will, and tell them I am pleased to hear of their arrival. Explain that I am held in conference here but will join them as soon as I am able. And give my thanks to the Sergeant of the Guard for heeding them.”

As soon as the guard had left, the Baroness returned to her seat. “Very well, Admiral,” she said with great dignity. “Tell us these mighty tidings of yours.”

The admiral stood up and turned to face them all, his back to the fire. “Mighty tidings they are, my friends. Grave, momentous, and well nigh incredible. Our Master, Jacques de Molay, sent warning and instructions to us today with Sir William here. He has been advised, he tells me, that this day that has now passed might well have been our last day of freedom in France.”

He looked from face to face—his sister-in-law the Baroness, Edward de Berenger, and Richard de Montrichard.

“Master de Molay believes the King wishes to be rid of us, us and our Order. There is no simpler way of putting it. Word came to him at the Commandery in Paris, from a source he trusts implicitly, that King Philip has issued a mandate for every Templar in the realm of France to be arrested at dawn tomorrow, taken into custody, and held prisoner. The plans were laid in place by William de Nogaret, chief lawyer of France, acting upon the King’s personal instructions.”

“But that is ludicrous!” Montrichard was on his feet in a single bound. “Why would the King do such a thing? How could he do it? It would be impossible. This makes no sense.”

“It might, Sir Richard, were you Philip Capet.”

All five men turned to stare at Jessica Randolph, astonished that she would speak out so boldly to contradict a man among a gathering of men, but Jessie remained unruffled, raising her hand, bidding them wait.

“Philip Capet rules by divine right, does he not? Of course he does. All men know that, since he has made no secret of his conviction on that matter. He is King by God’s will. And he has ruled now in France these what, twenty-two years?” She allowed the silence to stretch now, knowing that she had their attention. “Aye, he was crowned that long ago. Two and twenty years. And he is now thirty-nine, so he has spent more than half his lifetime as King of France. But what do we really know of him, after so long a time?”

She left them waiting, then asked again, “What does any man know of Philip Capet? They know his title: Philip the Fourth.” She looked around the group. “They know his unofficial name: Philip the Fair. But what more than that?

“And what does any woman know of him, for that matter? His wife, Queen Jeanne, died these two years ago, after being married to the man for one and twenty years, and all she had to say about him on her deathbed was that she once wished he might have warmed to her.”

Again she allowed the silence to linger, then added, “Once, my lords. She had once wished it. But she no longer cared.”

Sir William stirred, as though preparing to speak, but Jessie waved him to silence almost unconsciously.

“I know you are thinking that I am a mere woman and have no right to speak up here like this, addressing you on men’s affairs. Well, sirs, I know whereof I speak. This King knows no curb to his wishes—never has and never will. He will not be withstood, in anything to which he sets his mind. He rules, in his own eyes, by divine right, and considers himself answerable to God alone. Philip Capet, this monarch without a soul, a King without a conscience, slew my husband merely because he was displeased with him. Philip the Fair …” She looked around at her listeners once again, her eyes moving slowly, knowing no one of them would interrupt her now. “I have set eyes on him but once, but he is fair. Fairer by far to look at than my late husband was. Fair as a statue of the finest marble.”

Now she stood up and moved to the front of the fire, and as she did so St. Valéry stepped away and sat down again. She acknowledged the courtesy with a brief nod, but she was far from finished speaking.

“A statue, my lords. That is the extent of this King’s humanity. A statue rules in France—beautiful to look at, perhaps, but stone cold and lacking any vestige of the compassion we expect in mankind. Aloof in all respects, completely unapproachable and unknowable, devoid of human traits or weaknesses. This man surrounds himself with coldness and with silence. He never smiles, never invites or shares a confidence, never permits a casual approach to his presence. No one knows what he thinks, or what he believes, other than that he sees himself as a divinely ordained King of the Capet dynasty, as God’s own regent on earth, superior to the Pope and the Church and any other human power.

“And of the few human attributes we do know he possesses, none are admirable, none commendable. He is capricious, grasping, cunning, and ambitious. The lives of other people mean nothing to him. And he surrounds himself with creatures who will do his bidding, no matter what that bidding be.

“William de Nogaret reigns over all of those, the King’s favored minion. De Nogaret, who will stop at nothing to carry out the King’s wishes. Four years ago, you may remember, he rode with a band of men from Paris to Rome, eight hundred miles, to abduct a reigning pope, Boniface IV, on the eve of a pronouncement of excommunication for the whole of France. It was the most blatant crime against the papacy ever carried out, and he did it with impunity.

“The Pope, as we all know, died within the month, too old at eighty to survive abduction and outrage. And when his successor, Pope Benedict, dared to condemn de Nogaret publicly, and through de Nogaret the crowned King of France, he too died, of excruciating belly pains, and also within a month. He was poisoned, my lords. We all know that, but no one speaks of it because no one dare speak out and no one can prove anything. In the aftermath, though, thanks to his minion’s work, Philip had eighteen months to arrange the election of a French pope of his own, this Clement.

“And thus de Nogaret proved his daring, his brilliance, and his loyalty to Philip. And his reward was to be appointed the King’s chief lawyer. A man of brilliant mind and abilities—none will deny him that. But a thief, a murderer, a blasphemer, and an abductor of popes … The chief lawyer of France.”

“The Jews.”

The voice, dull and strangely lacking in resonance, was de Berenger’s, and all eyes swung to him.

“The Jews,” he said again, more strongly this time. “Last year, last July. It’s true, what Master de Molay says about tomorrow.”

St. Valéry sucked in his breath. “What about the Jews, man? What are you talking about?”

De Berenger shrugged. “Unannounced plots, my lord. Last year, on the morning of the twenty-first of July and without warning of any kind, every single Jew in France was arrested and imprisoned, then expelled from the country within the month, their holdings and possessions confiscated by the Crown for the good of the realm. I had forgotten it until now, and few people paid any attention at the time, for those arrested were Jews, after all, and our empty Christian coffers needed their Jewish money. But think you, my lord Admiral, that there might have been as many Jews in France that day as there are Templars now?” He looked at Jessica Randolph before his eyes moved on from man to man, engaging each of them in turn as he continued speaking.

“The planning and the execution of that coup against the Jews, with all the secrecy and coordination that was involved, was the sole responsibility of William de Nogaret. The same William de Nogaret, I must now remind you, whose parents are reputed to have burned at the stake in Toulouse as Cathar heretics, under the scrutinizing eyes of the Knights Templar, when we presided there as invigilators for a time, at the behest of the Dominican Inquisitors.”