The Wolves of Solomon (Wolves of Solomon Book One)

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  The main hall had been emptied of its revellers and the remainder of the feast was being cleared away by the servants. The King sat on the dais table and dismissed them with an impatient wave of his hand and began to pick at the scraps that remained. He then poured himself some wine.

  De Floyran stood with his arms folded, staring intently at Robard Beaumanoir who chewed on his finger nails nervously. De Nogaret joined the King and got himself some wine, while the Pope paced the length of the dais wringing his hands. Brother Michael shadowed him anxiously, as if expecting him to collapse at any minute from the shock. For a while nobody said anything and even De Plaisians, who usually had some clever remark to make, remained tongue tied.

  De Floyran had no comment to make on the evening’s events. He had done his job and wanted his reward. However, he was very keen to speak to Beaumanoir and find out how the hell he knew Catherine. It had only been a moment’s recognition and two words exchanged, but it was enough for De Floyran to deduce that they had, at some point, known each other well. It vexed him and he longed for a moment alone with the man so he could find out.

  De Nogaret’s beady eyes shot from the King, to the Pope, to De Plaisians, to Beaumanoir and back to the King again. He was eager to know what was going through their minds but all remained speechless. De Nogaret was elated, impressed and delighted with the performance that De Floyran had put on. It had been worth the painful wait and he knew that the King must be jubilant with the proof that would now silence the Pope and get him to do as he wanted.

  The Pope could not, would not deny the King now, not faced with this diabolical truth. Protecting the Templars now would only condemn him to their fate and surely he would not, not if he were truly a man of God. His face was ashen with shock and his body language told De Nogaret that he was both uncomfortable and afraid.

  The King picked up on it too and broke the silence. “Still wish to defend the Temple, your Holiness?” he said derisively. The Pope stopped his pacing and shot him a venomous look.

  “Of course not!” he spat and then shook his head violently. “Do you expect me to take this lightly? You mercilessly had a man murdered tonight and have revealed that the Templar order is comprised of monsters, changelings, devils! Do you expect me to smile gratefully and carry on with apathy? This could destroy the Church!”

  “Exactly!” Philip agreed, “and ’tis why I took such decisive action, though you may have at first disapproved of it.”

  “You may have forewarned me!” the Pope said, swooning from the force of emotion that emanated from his weak body. Michael leapt forward to steady him and hurriedly led him to the table and seated him. He poured a cup of wine for him and the Pope greedily drank it down as if it were Holy water.

  “Come now Clement,” Philip said, refilling his own cup, “would you have believed me if I had come to you with such a tale? You could barely swallow the heresy story.”

  The Pope looked at him and narrowed his eyes, “The charges against the Templars, are they false?”

  “Are they false?” Philip chuckled, unsure of how to answer. He looked at De Nogaret and hoped the councillor’s smooth tongue would intervene, but De Nogaret’s gaze was fixed on De Floyran.

  “After what you have just witnessed the charges laid against them concern you?” Philip said, pulling a bemused face.

  “What I have just seen condemns the Temple and all who dwell in it,” the Pope said and Philip was flooded with relief, “I still wish to know if they are guilty of heresy.”

  “They are monsters!” Philip cried. “You have just seen it, is that not heresy enough? They do not march for God and the faith. They are practitioners of dark magic brought with them from the Holy Land. The charges against them fit! In any case, we cannot let the truth out into the public domain but people must believe they are guilty of something.”

  The Pope turned and looked at De Floyran with scathing contempt and said, “What are you?”

  De Floyran curled his lip thoughtfully, “Men that become wolves, wolves that become men . . . and women.” He smiled. “Creatures that have cheated nature, or perhaps, were created by it.”

  “You were not created by God!” the Pope said resolutely. “How can such come to be?” he shook his head.

  “It is what it is. I cannot explain our origin but it is ancient and very powerful.”

  “Then it must be destroyed for the good of man. The truth must not escape us Philip,” the Pope said and looked around the room at the others to bolster his point.

  “If you trust your man then have a trust in mine. If any here betray what they have just seen to others, then they will burn with the Templars.” He quickly looked around the room and smiled as he saw everyone nodding their allegiance to him.

  “And what about you?” the Pope said, looking straight at De Floyran.

  He shrugged casually, “I was promised impunity. I just want my reward and I will be on my treacherous way, never to bother you again.” He smiled.

  “You will have what you want.” Philip confirmed.

  “Good, because I also want the woman and to have final say on Galeren’s fate.”

  Beaumanoir grimaced and De Floyran smiled. Philip raised his eyebrows at De Floyran to prompt him for an explanation.

  “We have a history and I owe him a death. I would like to decide how it ends for him.” De Floyran answered simply.

  Philip sighed. “I suppose you deserve that, just as long as you do kill him. He must never leave this place.” The King tapped his chin thoughtfully, “I am not sure about the woman though. Women can be tricky, especially if they don’t like you.” He raised his eyebrows at De Floyran.

  De Floyran shrugged, “Well, I like her and she is bound to me.”

  “What do you mean bound to you?” the King frowned.

  “I bit her. She is a werewolf because I made her one. She bears my mark and is bound to me.” De Floyran said, looking at De Nogaret casually. De Nogaret said nothing and kept his look neutral.

  “Saints preserve us!” the Pope cried, crossing himself several times as he tried to take in what he was hearing.

  Philip shook his head doubtfully but nevertheless said: “If you are sure you can keep control of her then do as you will. As it is, she is the only female of your kind that we have captive, make sure she stays that way.”

  “Death will be her only escape from me.” De Floyran said assuredly and smiled at Beaumanoir.

  The Pope shook his head disapprovingly but Philip waved his hand dismissively and said, “And what is our next move to be Clement?”

  Clement sighed long and hard. “First, I wish to speak with the Grand Master. He is still being held here, is he not?”

  Philip frowned, “Is that wise?”

  “It will not change my opinion but I have known De Molay for many years and I must look him in the eyes and hear what he has to say. This has been a shock, I deserve some explanation.”

  “If you wish,” Philip said unenthused by the notion, “but it can wait for the morrow. I am tired and I think we have all had enough excitement for one evening.”

  The Pope nodded in agreement and Michael helped him to his feet and escorted him from the main hall to his private chambers. The King waved at the others to leave him. As they all dispersed and wandered their own ways, appearing distracted by their thoughts, De Floyran waited for his chance to corner Beaumanoir. He slipped into the shadows to avoid De Nogaret and watched as the councillor looked for him. When De Nogaret finally gave up and made his way to his chamber, De Floyran picked up the scent of Beaumanoir. He caught up to him near the kitchens and when he was sure that they were alone, he advanced on him and gripping his shoulder he spun him round to face him.

  “Hey!” Beaumanoir said and made to shrug off the offending hand but froze when he met the cold stare of De Floyran. He did not forget what he had just seen and that he, like the man in the pit, was a werewolf; a creature that could kill him effortlessly and with
out mercy.

  “What do you want?” Beaumanoir said, trying to disguise the fear in his voice.

  “How do you know Catherine?”

  “Catherine?” Beaumanoir said acting confused.

  “Don’t insult my senses, boy.” De Floyran snarled menacingly.

  Beaumanoir sighed. “It was from long ago,” he said.

  “Long?”

  “A year or so.”

  “So not that long. How do you know her, I ask you again.”

  “We were betrothed.”

  “Betrothed?” De Floyran sounded almost horrified.

  “Well, it was such between us, but nothing official. As it was, her father disapproved and had me marry her sister instead while she was –”

  “Put in a convent.” De Floyran finished his sentence for him.

  “Yes. I have not seen her since then. Who is the man in the pit?”

  “Nobody, just like you.” De Floyran jeered and saw Beaumanoir’s face twitch uncomfortably.

  “What will happen to her?”

  “Don’t concern yourself with that.” He grinned.

  “Will she die?”

  “No,” De Floyran said, “not if I can help it.” He scrutinized the handsome young man for a while and then said, “Happy were you to abandon her to life in a convent? You did not question her father’s decision?”

  “I had a duty to my family.”

  “Of course.” De Floyran said derisively. He wondered why he despised him so much for his honest, but pathetic answer; was it because of Catherine? He turned on that sentiment immediately. No, it wasn’t that. It was because Beaumanoir was a weak man and De Floyran despised weakness, not the reason for, or consequences of it, but the very trait itself.

  “Why do you care? You have just betrayed your whole brethren and yet you look at me as if I have no honour.” Beaumanoir said defensively.

  “I care not about honour.” De Floyran scoffed.

  “You could let her go instead of keeping her against her will.” Beaumanoir said.

  “And you could have kept her, instead of letting her go. Perhaps if you had, she wouldn’t have found herself in this predicament. She has been cursed by me and now must suffer me. Sleep on that.” De Floyran said, enjoying how spiteful it sounded. “Oh and stay away from her. If I see you anywhere near her, I will skin you alive.” He stepped closer so that Beaumanoir was backed up against the wall. “Do you understand?” he breathed sourly into his face.

  “Yes.” Beaumanoir said quickly.

  “Good,” De Floyran smiled and patted him twice on the face. Satisfied he walked away, leaving Beaumanoir to catch his breath and his nerves.

  It was early in the morning when the Pope requested to see the Grand Master. He had been awake half the night trying to come to terms with the incredible revelation about the Knights Templar. He had been shocked, there was no doubt about that and even amazed and he had sung the song that Philip had wanted to hear, but things were never that simple for him. He was an intelligent man and wanted to know more about these unnatural knights, who had served the Church for over a century.

  For Clement there was always a fine line between God and the Devil, a line that was often blurred. That which was different or not understood was often feared and labelled diabolic, when in fact it was not. In the same vein that which was known, trusted and protected by the Holy Cross could in truth be diabolic. But which were the Templars? He had long known of their fearsome reputation and of their bravery in the face of peril. Crusades were not picnics and blood had often been spilled in God’s name but, as far as his knowledge extended, the Templars had always been fair and had even played mediator between Frank and Muslim. They had in turn been accused of fraternising with the enemy and exchanging knowledge with them.

  But what they actually were? It was almost too difficult to comprehend, men that could physically change into a beast and one, which was itself mans’ most dreaded foe, the wolf. Rationale would deem that it could be nothing less than evil, but Clement was unsure and this was why he wished to speak to De Molay.

  Several of Philip’s guards accompanied Clement down to the dungeons. The guard room above, from where they had witnessed De Floyran’s show the previous evening, had reeked of the cruelty that emanated from the dungeons below. But now the Pope could not only smell the acrid depravity of the acts committed, but could also see them. He covered his nose and tried to keep his eyes from looking into the barred dungeons in which the Templars were kept. He deplored torture but knew that any power he might have had, had now been taken from him.

  The guard unlocked and opened the door to the enclosed room that housed De Molay but the Pope stopped short before going in.

  “I wish to speak to De Molay alone.” He said seriously.

  “With respect, it is too dangerous your Holiness.” The guard said.

  “I have known this man for many years. He is no threat to me. I will speak to him alone.” His voice was unwavering.

  “But –” the guard began.

  “There are no buts,” the Pope said, “you will be just outside. I will not argue with you about this. Just grant me my request.”

  The guard frowned, unsure of what to do. However, the Pope’s expression remained resolute so he finally acquiesced, albeit reluctantly.

  Clement entered the room and saw De Molay lent up against the wall opposite. The two men looked at each other, their weary faces testament to the fact that neither of them had gotten any sleep the previous night. De Molay was well aware of what had happened. He had heard Galeren’s beating and the show that De Floyran had put on. He could do nothing but listen, powerless to do anything about it, just as he had been when his brother knights had been tortured.

  Clement’s face grimaced when he saw the conditions that the Grand Master was being kept in and he shook his head shamefully. Just seeing De Molay and the look in his old friend’s eyes confirmed what he knew in his heart.

  “I am sorry Jacques. I truly am.”

  De Molay’s face took on a look of surprise. “I expected scathing rhetoric from you, Clement, not an apology.” He flexed his hands. “For what do you apologise? My imprisonment, mistreatment, the torture and murder of my men and my son, or our pending doom?”

  “Are we not friends?” the Pope asked.

  “Still?” De Molay queried sounding surprised, “after what you know.”

  “I don’t know what I know, only what I saw.”

  “You saw my son. Yes, my son, turn into his other form. A wolf!” De Molay reaffirmed. “We are exactly what you saw, us all. Some of what De Floyran told you is true, but we are not monsters and you must know that if nothing else.”

  “I believe that, Jacques.” Clement said, “Popes have had a special relationship with the Temple for near two centuries. You may have hidden your true face but you did not hide your deeds.” De Molay raised his heavy brows at the Pope, surprised at his reaction.

  “Actions speak louder than words,” Clement continued, “and if you want to know the truth, right now I would prefer the company of wolves to the jackals that I am surrounded by.” He sighed and taking a cloth from within the folds of his robe, he mopped his brow.

  “I thank you for your insight. I misjudged you.”

  “’Tis easy to do, Jacques. I have endeared myself to nothing less. So tell me, how did you and your kind come to be? I ask out of genuine interest.”

  “We are as old as the forests or some of them. It is said that that is where the first of us came from. They say it was the spirits of trees that made us become werewolves. Magic and mystery Clement, there is much in this world that your God cannot explain.”

  “Or perhaps does not wish to.”

  “Whatever you want to believe,” De Molay sighed.

  Clement shook his head. “Why would you defend the faith if you do not believe in it?”

  “I did not make the rules. De Payens and his brothers sought absolution for what they saw as a curse, so they did
God’s work. The Temple has evolved since, to do good, but not necessarily the work of God.”

  “It matters not what you have or haven’t done,” Clement said, his eyes showed regret for what he could not do, “I cannot help you, you know that. Before this, I would have. I condemned Philip’s actions, I threatened him with excommunication! But now . . .”

  De Molay nodded his head slowly, knowing that this would be the case.

  “Philip is zealous in his intent and he has clever advisors, they are ruthless. I have no cause for defence given this revelation. He will use it against me. He went after Boniface with less. I am powerless and can do nothing but show support for him.”

  “So the charges in De Nogaret’s indictment will stand?”

  “Yes, they have to. Philip doesn’t want the truth revealed. He wants to keep it out of the public domain.”

  “Why? What is he afraid of?” De Molay asked. “That people won’t turn against us?”

  “Perhaps,” Clement considered. “He doesn’t want people’s faith in the Church shattered.”

  “And you?”

  “These are difficult times.” Clement observed, “Faith must be maintained. Your secret is dangerous.”

  “But we are not. I would rather be tried as a werewolf than a heretic.”

  “Some would see it as one and the same.”

  “And that is the problem with the world.” De Molay said angrily.

  “Magic and mystery are seen as evil Jacques, you know that.” Clement reasoned.

  “That has been enforced by the Church! You have made people afraid. You condemn what you do not understand. The faith you are so eager to protect has been murdering innocents for years.”

  “The line is often blurred.”

  “Blurred?” De Molay raised his voice and Clement quickly put his finger to his lips to silence him, motioning to the door and the guards on the other side of it.

  “Let’s not argue this point. It is the French King who sought to destroy you, not the Church. I have supported you as far as I can. I even agreed with your argument against a merger with the Hospitallers, though now I can see why you were so against it.”

  “Even without our supernatural blood I would never have considered joining with those sanctimonious bastards.” De Molay said passionately.

  Clement smiled half amused, half saddened.

  “What is it?” De Molay asked.

  “The nature of the Templars. There has always been something about you, something that no other group or organisation has ever possessed. It is something magical, though I am loath to use that word. It has been envied by all. It has brought you respect and adulation and has inspired resentment and jealousy.”

  “And now we are to be destroyed for it.”

  “I may never see you again after this day Jacques and though I cannot help you, I will do my best to see that you are treated fairly.”

  “Until put to the stake.”

  “It may not come to that. I can only do what I can, Philip –”

  “I know, has you by the bollocks.” De Molay finished for him. Clement lowered his eyes.

  “I ask of you a small favour.” De Molay ventured.

  “Of course, if it is within my power.” Clement said.

  “Have the dead Templars removed from here. Surely it is un-Godly to leave them to rot on the floor of putrid dungeons next to their living brothers, werewolves or not.”

  “I can have them removed, but they cannot be buried. We will have to burn the bodies, but I will say a prayer for their souls.”

  “Thank you.” De Molay said.

  “Anything else?” the Pope asked.

  “Perhaps,” De Molay considered. “The girl thrown into the pit with my son, is there any chance you could get her out of here?”

  “There is none, I fear. That treacherous swine of a Templar, De Floyran wants her.” Clement paused as he saw De Molay’s face grimace. “Philip has given her to him and also the decision on the fate of your son.”

  “I see,” De Molay said thinly. He turned away from Clement to hide his pain.

  “I am sorry Jacques.” Clement said, feeling the acidity of his ineptitude rise as bile in his throat.

  “So you keep saying,” De Molay said.

  The room turned cold with the realisation that any further words were pointless. Clement’s heart sank with regret, knowing that the conversation was over. However, he felt that there was much that had been left unsaid. He searched for the words but could not find them and the best he could have done was to say I am sorry once again. He turned to leave and then pausing, turned back and met De Molay’s gaze for the last time.

  “I am not long for this world, Jacques. I wonder how I will be remembered?” he asked contemplatively. “Not wise or merciful, perhaps only as weak.”

  “You will be remembered as the Pope who brought down the Knights Templar.” De Molay said without emotion.

  “Yes, of course,” Clement smiled bitterly, “what an accolade.” He turned quickly and rapped on the door to alert the guards. He left the dungeon and allowed himself to be escorted back to his private chambers, with his head bowed low to hide his tears of self loathing.

  Chapter Twenty