private secretary sat down. His long journey from Paris had left him with dark shadows under his eyes. His coat was covered in the whitish dust of the roads.
‘I came as soon as I could, Your Eminence. Please excuse my dishevelled appearance.’
‘You are excused, Clair. Do you bring important news?’
‘Indeed. Far too important to entrust to any messenger. I must leave again without delay. My absence might arouse suspicion and alarm my master, Monsieur de Plaisians.’
‘Have you some names at last?’
‘Oh, I have better than that! A single name.’
‘Quick!’ cried Honorius, unable to contain his excitement.
‘Monseigneur de Troyes.’
‘Renaud de Cherlieu?’
‘Yes. After much hesitation between Monsieur de Got,* Archbishop of Bordeaux, and Monsieur de Cherlieu, Cardinal of Troyes, Guillaume de Nogaret and my master have decided in favour of the latter. From a purely mercenary point of view, I am not sure that they have chosen wisely, for de Got would have brought the Gascon vote with him. However, Monsieur de Got seemed ill disposed to the idea of a posthumous trial of Boniface VIII, who was his friend, although he proved more amenable over the matter of the order of the Knights Templar.’
Clair Gresson confirmed what the camerlingo’s spies had told him about a list containing two names. Even so, considering the support he would receive from the Gascon prelates, Honorius would have backed Monsieur de Got’s candidature as the winning one. However, his political intelligence notwithstanding, if the archbishop had refused the King’s demands in exchange for his covert support, he had de facto lost the Holy See.
The camerlingo felt a sense of relief that was almost unsettling because it was so unusual. At last he knew whom he must fight. He had no lack of means at his disposal. Spreading rumours at the right moment of Nicolaism, dealings with the devil, heresy or tolerance of religious deviance would defeat Cardinal de Troyes’s candidature. Honorius would be elected. Not that the papal crown held any attraction for him, but he was prepared to resign himself to it if necessary in order to further his mission. In addition, Renaud de Cherlieu’s influence was not far-reaching enough to pose any real problem. Even so, Honorius would have to dig deep into his war chest, dole out promises, threats even, liberally, while pretending to be as meek as a lamb, if he had any hope of being elected. He would see to it that he was.
He felt a warm affection for the young Clair Gresson, who had been won over by his arguments without any need for remuneration. He was pure. Pure in the way Benedetti was pure, since purity has many faces.
‘My friend, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. How strange, I utter that word “friend” twenty times a day without ever meaning it. I needed to say it to you in order to rediscover its wonderful significance. Go and rest. Thank you. Thank you for having brought me this reprieve from anxiety.’
‘I must leave again at once, Your Eminence.’
‘Very well.’ Embarrassed suddenly by the oft-repeated gesture, Benedetti took a purse from the drawer of his magnificent desk, pausing before handing it to the other man. ‘I … Take this. It is neither payment nor reward, it is simply …’
Gresson’s face flushed, and he stood up, declaring abruptly:
‘You insult me, Monsieur. I may be poor, but I am not for sale. If I wore out my hired horses in order to arrive here as quickly as I could, it is because I believe in your vision. Men are incapable of governing their lives. Without our guidance they would live in turmoil. Does the wish for peace – or at least a practical approximation to it – require payment? That being so, I will accept the cost of my journey, which I can ill afford. But nothing more. The satisfaction of working for the future is the only reward I need.’
Benedetti knew it, and had expected, counted on Gresson’s refusal. Perhaps the camerlingo had needed this rebuff in order to convince himself that he was not entirely alone.
‘Truly … your visit will be the only pleasant experience in my entire day, or should I say in a series of very long days,’ he commented, accompanying the young man to the door leading out of his study.
Alone once more, Honorius gave in to a brief surge of emotion. That exhausted young man had no idea to what extent his visit had calmed the camerlingo. Of course, the information he had brought was of the utmost importance. But aside from this clever piece of espionage, Gresson’s integrity, his scrupulous honesty, vindicated Benedetti’s struggle. Power and intelligence were so isolating that it became easy sometimes to lose sight of the measure of what was at stake. And the camerlingo was occasionally plagued by doubts, by the fear of being mistaken, of having sold his soul for the wrong cause.
Gentle Jesus, I too wish to save them. To save them from themselves, to save them for You. Like You I wish to save them from their lust for murder, villainy and cruelty. But I am a mere man, not the Son of God, and I fight with the weapons of man. They are corrupt, I know. But I have no others.
Clair Gresson crossed Saint Peter’s Square with a heavy step. A flutter of pigeons accompanied his passage, their wings brushing boldly against him as they took noisily to the air. He scarcely noticed them.
Honorius Benedetti would range his impressive forces against Monseigneur de Troyes, who would never recover. The path of Bertrand de Got, Archbishop of Bordeaux and the King of France’s true choice, would be open. Generously aided by Philip the Fair, his election to the papacy was almost guaranteed, thanks in large part to the Gascon vote. And Bertrand de Got would never abandon the military orders, certainly not the Hospitallers. Behind his rather nondescript appearance he was a skilled diplomat who knew how to keep his head down and weather the storm. He was an expert at inaction, continually promising, never delivering until he was absolutely certain. The elaborate game of hide and seek that he would soon be playing with the King would not change this.
Arnaud de Viancourt, the Grand-Commander of their order, would be relieved. Viancourt was by no means glad to turn his back on the order of the Knights Templar. They were enemies yet brothers. Brothers in spirit. Brothers in battle. Blood brothers. However, he would go to any lengths to save the order of the Hospitallers.
Clairets Abbey, Perche, December 1304
Francesco de Leone scaled the steep abbey wall adjacent to Notre-Dame Church. His coat tails flapped around him like two great black wings.
Gripping the rough surface of the stones, the agile figure advanced a few feet. When he was a yard from the top, the joyous prospect of seeing his aunt brought a smile to his face, despite his exertions.
The sky, heavy with the promise of snow, was his unwitting helper, obscuring the moon; if anybody spotted him he would be hard pressed to justify his nocturnal presence in a Bernadine abbey.
He reached the top and lay flat on the broad stones for a moment, catching his breath before jumping down the other side. He hugged the wall of the abbey church, preferring to cut around the back and through the kitchen garden, where he was unlikely to bump into anyone at that time of night. All he needed to do then was slip between the side wall of the library and the scriptorium and he would reach his aunt’s chambers.
He hoisted himself up onto the ledge of one of the high, narrow windows in his aunt’s study and whistled to her as softly as possible. No reply. Could she be sleeping so soundly? He whistled again, louder. The window opened. A tall, heavily built woman stood facing him. Francesco’s surprise was shortlived. The woman urged:
‘Quick, knight! If one of my sisters sees you, all is lost.’
He jumped into the study, bewildered:
‘Who are you, my sister in Christ? Where is your Reverend Mother?’
The woman’s face became tense as she replied: ‘Annelette Beaupré, the apothecary nun.’
Francesco