The Season of the Beast. Andrea Japp

the cells and dormitory. Reaching the outside, he slipped on his sandals before crossing to the centre of a vast courtyard where the building housing the hospital was located.

      He briskly descended the steps leading to the morgue beneath the infirmary. It was in this cramped cellar that bodies were laid out awaiting burial, their decomposition accelerated by the sweltering heat. On that particular morning, it was empty – not that the Knight would have been disturbed by the sight of a corpse. He had seen so many dead bodies, had advanced among them, stepping over them and occasionally turning one to search for a familiar face, blood up to his ankles. At the far end of the cellar a small postern door led to the carp pond chiselled out of the granite rock. This fish farm, inspired by a thousand-year-old Chinese tradition, provided additional food for the residents of the citadel and represented an economy since the carp lived on chicken excrement. His ablutions in the icy water of the deep pond, and the carp – rendered blind by years of darkness – brushing against his calves, did nothing to dislodge the profound unease he had felt since he awoke that morning.

      By the time he entered the chapel to join the prior, who also occupied the position of Grand-Commander, dawn was just breaking.

      Arnaud de Viancourt, a small slim man with light-grey hair and an ageless face, turned to him smiling, and folded his hands across his black monk’s habit.

      ‘Let us go outside, brother, and make the most of these few hours of relative coolness,’ he suggested.

      Francesco de Leone nodded, certain that the early-morning air was not the reason for the frail man’s proposition. He was afraid of the spies Lusignan had placed everywhere, perhaps even within their order.

      The two men walked for a while, their heads bowed and the hoods of their cloaks raised. Leone followed Arnaud de Viancourt to the great stone wall. His relationship with Guillaume de Villaret, their current Grand-Master, was founded upon the loyalty that bound the two men, as well as their intellectual complementarity. And yet the prior was unaware that this mutual trust had its limits; Guillaume de Villaret was well acquainted with the fears, hopes and motives of his Grand-Commander – as was his nephew and likely successor, Foulques de Villaret – but the reverse was not true.

      Arnaud de Viancourt stopped walking and looked around carefully to make sure they were alone.

      ‘Listen to the cicadas, brother. Like us they wake at dawn. What wonderful stubbornness they possess, do they not? But are they aware of why they sing? Surely not. Cicadas do not question their lot.’

      ‘Then I am a cicada.’

      ‘Like all of us here.’

      Francesco waited. The prior was given to these preambles, to speaking in metaphors. Arnaud de Viancourt’s mind made him think of a gigantic universal chessboard whose pieces were constantly moving and never obeyed the same rules. He wove such a complex web and it was easy to lose sight of the individual threads. Then suddenly each element would fall into place to form a perfect whole.

      The prior said in an almost detached voice, as though he were thinking aloud:

      ‘Our late lamented Holy Father Boniface VIII* had the makings of an emperor. He dreamed of installing a papal theocracy, a Christian empire united under one sole power …’

      The veiled criticism was not lost on Francesco. Boniface had ruled with a rod of iron and been little disposed to dialogue, and his intransigence had won him many critics even within the Church.

      ‘… His successor Nicolas Boccasini, our Pope Benoît XI,* is quite unlike him. No doubt his election surprised him more than anyone. Should I confess, brother, that we fear for his life? He wisely pardoned Philip the Fair for attempting to murder his predecessor.’

      The idea that Benoît’s life might be threatened filled the Knight with silent dread. The new Pope’s purity of vision, his spiritualism even, was a cornerstone of the century-old combat which Leone had devoted himself to. He waited, however, for the other man to continue. The prior proceeded with customary caution:

      ‘It … It has been brought to our attention that Benoît intended to excommunicate Guillaume de Nogaret,* the monarch’s ubiquitous shadow, who only played an accidental part in that abomination, although rumour has it Nogaret insulted Boniface. Be that as it may, Benoît must be seen to respond, to hold somebody to account. Complete absolution would undermine the Pope’s already wavering authority.’ He sighed before continuing. ‘King Philip is no fool and he won’t stop there. He needs a compliant pope and will have him elected if necessary. He will no longer tolerate any forces of opposition that might interfere with his plans. If our fears are justified and the Pope’s succession is imminent we could find ourselves on very uncertain, not to say dangerous ground. We are no less in the firing line than the Knights Templar. I need not go on – you know as well as I.’

      Francesco de Leone gazed up at the sky. The last stars were fading. Was the newly elected Pope’s life really in danger? The prior digressed:

      ‘Are they not miraculous? We might fear they will fade forever, and yet each evening they return to us, piercing the blackest night.’

      Arnaud de Viancourt glanced at the taciturn Knight. The man never ceased to amaze him. Leone could have become one of the pillars of the Italian-speaking world – as admiral of the Hospitaller fleet or even a Grand-Master of their order. The noble blood that flowed in his veins, his bravery and his intelligence predisposed him to it. And yet he had refused these honours, these burdensome responsibilities. Why? Certainly not for fear of not measuring up to the task, even less so out of immaturity. Perhaps it was simply pride, a gentle pure sort of pride that made him long to give his life for his faith. An implacable, terrible pride that convinced him that he alone was capable of following his mission through to the end.

      The old man observed his fellow Knight once more. He was tall, his features delicate but well defined. His honey-blond hair and dark blue eyes betrayed his northern Italian origins. The shapely sensuality of his lips might have suggested a carnal nature, and yet the prior was in no doubt as to his complete chastity – imperative in their order. What most astonished him was the extraordinary versatility of his brilliant mind, a strength that sometimes frightened him. Locked behind that lofty, pale brow was a world to which no one possessed the keys.

      Leone was filled with foreboding. What would become of his quest without the private, not to say secret, backing of the Pope? He sensed that the drawn-out silence of his superior required a response.

      ‘Are your suspicions about this … threat to our Holy Father related to the names Nogaret or Philip?’

      ‘It is hard to tell the difference between the two. The critics abound: no one knows who governs France, Philip or his counsellors Nogaret, Pons d’Aumelas, Enguerran de Marigny, to name but a few. Do not be misled by my words. Philip is a stubborn, hard-hearted man and well known for his ruthlessness. Even so, to answer your question: no, King Philip is too convinced of his legitimacy to stoop to commit murder against God’s representative on earth. We believe he will do as he did with Boniface and demand his removal from office. As for Nogaret – I doubt it. He is a man of faith and of the law. Moreover, were he to conceive such a plot without the endorsement of his monarch, he would be forced to commit – or have someone commit – a devious abhorrent form of murder, and I do not see him as a poisoner. However …’ Arnaud de Viancourt accentuated his pause with a slight nervous gesture of his hand ‘… a zealous follower might interpret and carry out their desires.’

      ‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ avowed Leone, feeling a frisson of horror at the idea.

      ‘Hmm …’

      ‘Should we stay close to the Pope, then, in order to safeguard his life? I would willingly defend it with my own.’

      As he spoke, the Knight was certain that the prior had been leading up to something else. The palpable sorrow in the man’s eyes as he stared at Leone told him he had not been mistaken.

      ‘My friend, my brother, you must know how difficult, nay, impossible it is to prevent this horror, and do we still have time? Of course Benoît’s life is our first