Knights Templar - Temple And The Crown Part 3

May, 1306.

IT TOOK A WEEK FOR BARTHOLEME TO ORGANIZE HIS departure for London, by way of Calais. He had expected the buzz of gossip at the Channel ports to be focused on the resurgent rebellion in Scotland, and preparations for King Edward's coming departure for the North-and, indeed, he gleaned a great deal of valuable intelligence pertaining thereto, especially once he arrived in Dover.

Of more immediate interest than the coming war, however, was news of a more domestic nature: that King Edward ?rst planned to celebrate Pentecost at Westminster Palace, with a feast of unparalleled magni?cence. This celebration would also honor the knighting of the king's son and heir, the Lord Edward of Caernarvon, together with almost three hundred young men of n.o.ble birth whose names thereafter would be added to the king's retinue.

Nor, according to a garrulous royal butler overseeing the unloading of ?ne wines at the port of Dover, was any expense being spared to mount this royal extravaganza.

"I tell you, it's going to be bigger than anything I've ever seen-and I served the king's father before him,"

the man said, as servants secured crates and barrels on a succession of carts. "When I ordered this lot, I thought it would be plenty-but then I saw the guests arriving as I rode down from London. There's just enough time to get another shipment in-and if you don't already have lodgings secured, you might just as well get back on the boat and return to France, for you'll ?nd no bed here."

Upon hearing that Bartholeme had, indeed, made adequate domestic arrangements, the butler went on to elaborate on the formidable logistic requirements for accommodating so many guests. Food and drink of every kind was being requisitioned to garnish the tables in the king's banqueting hall. Cartloads of timber, paint, and canvas had been diverted from the shipyards to construct stages and backdrops for a parade of court pageants. Warehouses were being emptied to provide furs and ?ne fabrics for new robes of livery. Acrobats, jugglers, and musicians were being recruited in droves for the entertainment of the royal guests.

With the event but a week away, evidence of these preparations became increasingly apparent as Bartholeme rode into London at the head of his own modest retinue. He had been to London many times before, and knew it well, but he had never seen it so crowded. Riding past the Temple's complex near the Lud Gate, where he was told the buildings had been requisitioned to house many of the guests, Bartholeme saw that temporary tents and pavilions had even been erected in the gardens there-adequate lodging in May for the spillover from inside.

Bartholeme made his way through the bustling city streets to a handsomely appointed town house in the vicinity of Lincoln's Inn, its use secured for him by one of his most trusted agents. Dismounting in the stable yard, he surrendered his vicious Andalusian charger to a wary groom and brie?y beat dust from his sleeves, then left his servants to unload the sumpter mules and baggage wagons while he proceeded indoors to inspect the accommodation.

The ?rst member of the household to greet him was the resident chief steward, who showed him to the princ.i.p.al apartments with uneasy deference.

"Yes, these rooms will serve," Bartholeme acknowledged coolly. He brie?y drew aside a heavy drape to glance into the courtyard below, where a particular trunk banded with iron was being unloaded from one of the sumpter mules. "Where is my servant, Mercurius?"

The steward's placid face did not change expression, but a gleam of resentment ?ickered in his hollow eyes.

"I believe Master Mercurius is supervising the installation of new wall hangings in another of the guest chambers, my lord," he said stif?y. "Do you wish me to summon him?"

"Inform him of my arrival," Bartholeme replied, "and bid him attend me when he has ?nished. In the meantime, fetch me some wine and see that a hot bath is prepared for me. I do not propose sitting down to dine with the dust of these English roads still reeking in my nostrils."

The steward departed with a bow. Wine came at once, followed shortly by a brief ?urry of activity as members of Bartholeme's traveling retinue transferred his personal baggage upstairs. Among the items deposited in his sitting room was the trunk he had looked for in the yard below, but he waited until the porters had left before opening it to remove a small, bra.s.s-bound medicine chest.

This he set on the counterpane of the canopied bed, unlocking it with a small key from around his neck.

Opening it, he quickly examined its contents: diverse vials and philtre bottles, each carefully labeled with an alchemical glyph, all organized within the cushioned niches of a cunning array of compartments. False panels concealed several more compartments, and their contents the Frenchman also inspected, satisfying himself that everything was in order before relocking the chest. This he stowed next to the bed, within reach of his hand, just as a knock at the door heralded the entrance of an outlandish ?gure scarcely taller than a six-year-old child.

Hunchbacked and grotesque, the newcomer was garishly arrayed in parti-colored silks of peac.o.c.k splendor- turquoise and vibrant rose and poison-green; his stubby legs were clad in silken hose of sapphire blue. A shock of coa.r.s.e orange hair made a bristling frame around a lumpy face like the mask of a malignant goblin, though the eyes were of extraordinary beauty: a pure, crystalline blue fringed with lush, dark lashes. Bartholeme greeted this apparition with a raised eyebrow and a sardonic grin.

"My compliments on your powers of transformation, Mercurius. You have managed to render this house tolerably habitable."

"The work is not yet complete, Master," Mercurius demurred in a reedy voice. "These English servants are sullen and inept. If we were at home, I would have them all beaten and then dismissed."

"You have borne a great deal in my service," Bartholeme said. "One day, that debt will be repaid in full.

Meanwhile, I bring you a small token of my grat.i.tude."

From an inner pocket of his tunic he drew out a disk-shaped gold medallion the size of a walnut, trailing a spill of heavy chain like molten gold. The engravings on the disk were nearly worn smooth with age and polishing, but the gold glowed pure in the light from the room's one window. This Bartholeme dangled before the dwarf's bright blue gaze.

"Unless I am much mistaken," he drawled, "this is an heirloom you have been coveting for quite some time."

Mercurius gaped in recognition, the goblin face contorting in what pa.s.sed for a grin of delight.

"The Crusader Besant!" he croaked excitedly. "Saint Louis bestowed it on the founder of my family, after the storming of Damietta! But, how did you get this away from my brother?"

Bartholeme let the medallion and its chain fall into the dwarf's greedy hands, smiling thinly as the little manikin caressed it and devoured it with his gaze.

"I bribed a servant to leave me alone with his corpse on the night before his burial."

"Etienne is dead? How did he die?" Mercurius demanded eagerly.

"He contracted a sudden fever of the blood," Bartholeme said in a voice devoid of expression. "It caused his heart to swell until it burst. I am told he died screaming in agony. Regrettably, that agony was all too brief."

Breaking brie?y into a spontaneous jig step, Mercurius gave a cackle of malignant glee.

"Hee-hee! So much for his fair face and his tall, straight limbs!" he crowed. "The Devil take him-and my father's soul likewise, for casting me aside to set my brother in my place!"

"All that was theirs shall be yours," Bartholeme promised, "on the day that the Stone of Destiny comes into the hands of the Brotherhood of Ten."

"The Stone of Destiny?" Mercurius hardly batted an eye. "Do we steal it from the Abbey, Master?"

"No, we ?nd its hiding place in Scotland and use its power to defeat the man who now calls himself King of Scots," Bartholeme replied.

The ident.i.ty of that man was as the Decuria had surmised. In the fortnight since their meeting, the name of Robert Bruce of Annandale had become the focus of a storm of debate and speculation throughout the courts of Europe, as news of his crowning at Scone became known. Brie?y Bartholeme reviewed for his servant some-though not all-of what he had learned.

Mercurius screwed up his face. "But, if the Stone is in Scotland, Master, then why are we here in London?"

"Because we need allies," Bartholeme answered, "preferably unwitting ones. We are not the only ones interested in this artifact. Certain highly placed Knights of the Temple have already secretly attached themselves to Bruce's cause. It is probable that they were instrumental in setting him on the throne, however unsteady that throne may be. If we are to stand any chance of s.n.a.t.c.hing the Stone from under their noses, we are going to need an army to keep the Scottish rebels occupied. I propose borrowing King Edward's, since he stands to bene?t from our labors."

"Borrowing Edward's army," Mercurius mused. "That will be quite a coup."

Bartholeme's faint smile was one of cunning rather than of pleasure.

"Tell me," he said, pausing to pour himself a measure of wine, "what is the state of the king's health at present?"

"Rumor has it that he has been somewhat ailing," Mercurius said promptly. "Some say it is an attack of spleen engendered by this latest Scottish uprising. Those who fear it might be something more serious con?ne their opinions to a whisper."

"But plans for the Pentecost Feast are still going ahead? Good," Bartholeme said, at the dwarf's nod.

"That's all I need to hear. Tomorrow we shall go to Westminster Palace to seek a royal audience. As delegates of the King of France, we are a.s.sured of a prompt reception. And I have a gift for King Edward that cannot fail to win me the royal favor."

"A gift, Master?" Mercurius said eagerly. "What kind of a gift?"

"It comes in two parts," Bartholeme replied, pausing to sip at his wine. "The ?rst is a book of.

illuminations. A pretty thing-and one I daresay he has never seen the likes of, though I myself ?nd its wrappings far more interesting. It will be your task to ensure that those wrappings disappear after the book is presented. Very shortly after that," Bartholeme went on, "King Edward will swiftly discover that he has an urgent need for my services."

The following morning, with the help of Mercurius, Bartholeme de Challon arrayed himself meticulously in a short coat of crimson silk over a close-?tting undertunic and breech hose of ?ne black wool. Over this he donned a sumptuous mantle of crimson velvet trimmed with sable. Shoes of soft black chamois, gloves of crimson-dyed doeskin, and a cap of quilted black velvet completed his court dress. Adorning the cap was a brooch of nine rubies set around a larger one in the center, securing a fanned c.o.c.kade of black swan feathers.

"Eminently suitable, Master," Mercurius commented, after adjusting a fold of the crimson cloak. "We cannot fail to attract admiring glances." His own garments had been fashioned to match, though his cap was plain.

"Which is the point of the exercise," Bartholeme replied. He tugged critically at a gauntlet-cuff as Mercurius angled a looking gla.s.s before him. "It is well-known that the Prince of Wales, unlike his father, has a taste for eccentric conceits of fashion. It will do us no harm to pique his interest now, in the event that he ascends to the throne before our work here is done. Yes, this will do nicely."

The illuminated book had been placed in a richly gilded box specially constructed to hold it. Consigning the box to the dwarf's care, Bartholeme unlocked his medicine chest and plucked out a twisted bit of parchment, which he secreted in a pouch at his waist.

"I believe that concludes our preparations," he observed to Mercurius, when he had locked the chest again. "Now it's time we were off to Westminster."

It was customary for the English king to hold court in the lavishly decorated hall known as the Painted Chamber. In preparation for the coming feast, however, the Painted Chamber had been turned over to an invading host of carpenters, drapers, and scene-painters, so King Edward was holding court instead in one of the lesser halls.

Bartholeme sent a liveried manservant on ahead to announce his coming. Consequently, when he and Mercurius arrived, they received the preferential distinction of being ushered into the royal presence after only the briefest of delays.

As they approached across the expanse of polished ?oor, Bartholeme took the opportunity to study the man seated on the dais at the end of the room, coolly noting the ravages that age and ill health had in?icted on the English monarch's once robust frame. Now sixty-eight years old, Edward Plantagenet was gaunt and sallow, his thin lips drawn tight over yellowing teeth. The sunken cheeks were bracketed with lines, but time had not quenched the cold, acquisitive gleam in the depths of the brooding eyes.

By contrast, Edward's queen was young and fresh: Margaret of France, the half sister of Philip IV and Edward's second wife, a plump blond woman with the pouting lips and protuberant blue eyes of her Capetian forebears. Behind and around them were ranged various courtiers and ladies-in-waiting, all of them richly garbed.

Dof?ng his cap with a ?ourish-which also showed off the c.o.c.kade of black swan feathers-Bartholeme made a sweeping bow before addressing the royal pair.

"My lord, I bring you greetings from my royal master, Philip of France-and to you, madame, I bring the loving affection of your good brother. He trusts that both of you are in good health and spirits, and wishes me to convey his felicitations in honor of this season of Pentecost. By the same token, he offers congratulations on the fair prospects of the Lord Edward. May the achievement of his knighthood be auspicious for the whole kingdom."

"The knighting of my son," the king said, "signi?es his coming of age." His tone was one of bitter rancor.

"He will prove himself my worthy successor when he has crushed the rebels of Scotland under his heel and brought Robert Bruce before me in chains."

"When that time comes," Bartholeme responded smoothly, "all your friends and loyal subjects will rejoice. Until then, I pray you to accept this modest gift to lighten the days until your ?nal victory."

Taking his cue, Mercurius stepped forward to present the ornamented book box with a ?ourishing obeisance. The calculated clumsiness of his performance elicited t.i.tters of laughter from the queen and her ladies, and grim amus.e.m.e.nt plucked at the king's mouth as well. Beckoning the dwarf closer, Edward leaned down and took the box from Mercurius's stumpy ?ngers.

"Knowing that you soon will be setting out to war, Sire," said Bartholeme, "it seemed appropriate to present you with a copy of the books of the Maccabees. I have always found that they speak eloquently of the honor to be won in an honorable cause."

Edward's grizzled brows lifted as he opened the box, itself a work of art, and folded back the silken wrappings in which the book nested. When Mercurius had helped him remove the book, the king turned a few pages at random, his lip curling within his beard. No one noticed the dwarf wad up the wrappings with gloved ?ngers and tuck them into a hidden pocket in one trailing sleeve.

"This is a fair gift," Edward acknowledged, turning another page to admire the color and gold leaf adorning an illuminated capital. "I accept it with pleasure, and send thanks to your master. I, too, admire the heroic exploits of these ancient Hebrew kings. This will remind me of the virtues of warfare when I am far from my own halls." His gaze shifted back to Mercurius as he closed the book, a thumb caressing its cover. "And is this manikin of yours also part of the gift, Lord Bartholeme?"

"If you wish it, Sire," the Frenchman said lightly. "But perhaps you might ?nd my own services more useful."

"Indeed?" said the king. "In what way?"

"My poor Mercurius is nothing but a jester," came Bartholeme's response. "I, on the other hand, am a knight well schooled in the arts of war. Though I have fought in many engagements, no opponent has ever bested me, either on the tilting ground or the battle?eld. If you have any use for a seasoned warrior, I would esteem it an honor to place my sword at your service."

"Indeed," Edward said, looking vaguely uncomfortable as he shifted slightly in his chair. "And why should you, a subject of France, wish to hazard your life on behalf of the English crown?"

Bartholeme shrugged elegantly. "When a nation rebels against its rightful overlord, as the people of Scotland have done, it is an offense against all other sovereign monarchies."

He might have said more, but at that moment an expression of extreme discomfort came across the king's face, and he caught his breath with a gasp. As an involuntary grunt of pain burst from his lips, his face went suddenly ashen, and he doubled over in his chair. The queen bounded up with a gasp of alarm, and cries rang out across the hall.

"The king has been taken ill!"

"Call his physician!"

Edward shuddered and groaned aloud. As the book slid from his lap, Mercurius caught it in gloved hands and returned it to its box, glancing back at Bartholeme in feigned dismay. As courtiers ?uttered about the throne, the king slumped lower in his chair, gasping now and trying unsuccessfully to sti?e another moan, both ?sts pressed hard against his lower abdomen.

"Help him!" the queen cried, wringing her hands. "Someone, please, help him!"

Calmly Bartholeme shouldered his way to the fore, easing next to the queen, whose anxious glance registered vague recognition as he addressed her softly and urgently in Norman French.

"Madame, I have seen attacks of this kind among Crusaders in the Holy Land. If these spasms grow worse, the king could suffer a fatal rupture of the bowels. I have a medicinal powder about me which will relax the gut-I use it myself-but you must give me leave to administer it."

A fresh paroxysm wrenched a hollow cry from the king's lips, to the dismay of his servants. Slowly, despite their attempts to ease his pain, he slid out of his chair and curled in on himself, still clenching his abdomen as he was lowered to the ?oor. His face was contorted in a grimace, his eyes screwed shut, his skin cold and clammy. Margaret of France hesitated no longer.

"Help him!" she begged in a tight voice.

Instantly Bartholeme rounded on the other courtiers pressing in from all sides.

"Stand back, all of you!" he ordered. "And you," he added to Mercurius, "fetch some wine-quickly!"

The dwarf disappeared, returning within seconds with a br.i.m.m.i.n.g goblet, half of which his master instantly dashed onto the ?oor.

Meanwhile, Bartholeme had retrieved the twist of parchment from his pouch. Deftly, after handing the goblet back to the dwarf, he made a show of opening the twist and spilling its contents into the cup. It would, of course, counteract the drug impregnating the wrappings of the book.

"We must give him this immediately," he informed the queen, swirling the contents of the cup to dissolve the powder. "Have them sit him up, so he can drink it."

At a signal from their royal mistress, two gentlemen of the court hastened to haul the stricken king vaguely upright, though he still was clawing at his gut. Kneeling beside his patient, as all watched anxiously, Bartholeme bade Mercurius hold the king's head while he tipped a small measure of the potion between the stricken man's bluish lips and stroked the wattled throat to induce him to swallow, repeating the procedure several times until the goblet was drained.

Setting it aside, he then took the king's hand in his and gently chafed its back, watching.

The change, when it came, was dramatic. Within only a few minutes, an almost beati?c look of relief stole over Edward's taut features and his breathing began to ease, the tension starting to drain away. As Bartholeme watched the color return to the king's face, he released the royal hand and bade Mercurius withdraw. A moment later, Edward roused to his senses with a sigh, eyelids ?uttering.

"It is almost like a miracle!" the queen murmured.

The king's gaze was feverishly bright-that intense Plantagenet blue-but he appeared otherwise in command of himself as he allowed his courtiers to a.s.sist him fully upright and then back to his chair, beckoning Bartholeme to approach.

"I owe you a debt of grat.i.tude," he said a little thickly. "What was the medicine you gave me?"

"An opiate powder made by the Arabs," Bartholeme answered. "I would be happy to instruct your own physician as to where he can obtain the necessary ingredients. I myself sometimes suffer from the same malady, which is why I carry the remedy always with me."

Smiling, Edward held out his hand to Bartholeme in thanks, his overly brilliant gaze gravitating to the Frenchman's signet ring as their hands clasped.

"An interesting ring, my lord," he observed. "I do not believe I have seen that insignia before."

"It is the Cygnus Hermetis, the black swan," Bartholeme said casually. "Among scholars of alchemy, the cygnus or swan denotes the triumphant culmination of the alchemical work. In heraldic terms, it is a symbol of victory. Perhaps," he added, "that is why the men of my family have always been fortunate in battle."

"A black swan." the king repeated. He paused for thought, then asked abruptly, "You will attend our Pentecost revels?"

"With the greatest of pleasure, Sire."

"Good," Edward said. "Your coming here today was a.s.suredly fortuitous. Perhaps my son and I should adopt your bird of good omen. With this insignia as our rallying sign, perhaps this time our armies will secure a ?nal lasting victory."