By Claire Hines, Year 12
A lone raven cried mockingly overhead as it glided through the air over the heads of two lonely riders. Percival de Molay rode beside Thomas de Vitry with a faint smile on his lips. A smile of triumph. Suddenly, a warning cry from the raven made them turn; the sound of the drumming hooves of pursuit was heard around the bend, and the two Templars turned to one another silently. Then without a word, they galloped down the path through the valley; there was no turning back now, for they had done it. Shouts behind them told them they had been spotted, and their terrified mounts sped up frantically; they understood what it meant to be hunted.
De Nogaret sat up in his stirrups and peered ahead, one of the young men turned their head and he recognised him as Percival, the Grand Master’s nephew. Philip would be pleased indeed. He urged his mount forward and shouted orders to his crossbowmen: “Aim for the horses, the king will want them alive!” Obediently his man brought their deadly weapons to their shoulders and aimed carefully but quickly.
Percival and Thomas galloped onward neck and neck along the path, but the mud slowed their destriers down. Pines and thick gorse sprung up on either side of them and a soft drizzle started to fall from above that was gently blown into their faces by the morning breeze. A loud twang was heard as the crossbowmen let fly, and a terrified fox sprang from the undergrowth in front of Thomas’ mount that reared up in terror. As a result, the cross bolt meant for his horse buried itself into de Vitry’s back, and the young Templar fell from his horse with a cry and crumpled to the ground. The other bolt killed Percival’s horse, and sent the latter flying from the saddle. He braced himself for the shock and rolled over on the wet grass and mud. He sat up gasping for the air that had been knocked out of his lungs and winced at the pain in his ribs. Slowly he turned to Thomas, but one look was enough. He had seen dead men before. “It was a good hunting, my brother.” He whispered. “A good hunting.”
He got to his feet and drew his sword mechanically, turning to face the oncoming pursuers. The breeze swelled into a wind and blew his cloak out behind him as he murmured: “Lord Almighty. Into your hands I commend my spirit.” De Nogaret waited on the ridge as his men galloped down to meet him. As the first horse leapt up in front of him, Percival raised his sword calmly, jumped to one side, and sliced the arm off its rider with speed and strength it took years to master. The man fell howling from his horse, and the next man raised his sword to meet him. Their weapons clashed with the screech of steel on steel as his assailant hailed blows on him from the saddle. A crossbowman at the rear took aim and Percival gave a faint cry of surprise as his bolt buried itself in his right leg below the knee. He fell to the ground as his assailant, taking advantage of his disadvantage, struck him on the head with the butt of his sword. Blessed unconsciousness swept over Percival as he lay prone on the ground in the mud and blood. Nogaret rode down to survey their work. “Well?” He demanded. One of the men at arms was leaning over Percival. He rose and nodded. “He is still alive.” Nogaret smiled mirthlessly. “I am glad, for your sakes. Hurry, we must take him to the Temple without being seen.”
Philip woke up in a dark cell, dimly lit by the light of a guttering torch that lit up the stony walls dripping with damp. His leg had been freshly bandaged, but that was all. He lay a moment looking at the moldy ceiling and remembered. No more would he go hunting with Thomas in the forests of Versailles, no more would they laugh and train together. But they had succeeded. “It was a good hunting brother.” He whispered and forced himself, with clenched teeth to sit up on the stone bench on which he lay. Fiery pain stabbed up his leg and rang about his ribs, making his head whirl. He closed his eyes and groaned involuntarily. His cloak had been spread out beneath him and he noted indifferently that his hands were chained to a ring in the wall beside him. His chains clanked eerily in the stony room, disturbing the deathly silence. How many men had been here before him? He wondered. How long had he lain here? He sat in silence for what seemed like hours, preparing himself for the ordeal ahead. He listened intently to the silence and absorbed it desperately. Silence was the greatest weapon against questions. He closed his eyes and focused on it. Silence. Footsteps rang in the pathway outside, and stopped outside his door. The keys jarred in the lock and the door was thrown open with an ear shattering creak that echoed throughout the cell. I won’t betray you, he thought. Never. I will make you proud, Uncle.
As de Nogaret stalked into the cell followed by two men at arms carrying guttering torches he prayed: Lord, don’t let me fall.
