The Seal (14 page)

Now he regarded
the Grand Master with a dull eye. In the soft light the strong bones of the
browned face, the eyes grey, friendly, unguarded, the grey hair, the beard
trimmed neatly to a point, all gave him a look that was almost regal. The man
was proud, thought Clement, and it seemed to him strange that pride should sit
so well upon the face of a renegade, a fugitive without country, living by his
wits.

At the same
moment he was struck by a realisation that sent a shudder from his fingertips
down to the manicured toes in his soft-soled shoes. I too am a fugitive, in
peril of my life! Then, because he was filled with a sudden vexation, he
clapped his hands and shouted at his attendant, ‘More fuel! More fuel!’

Clement watched
the servant leave and, having calmed himself, pushed his plate aside and stood,
gesturing to a chair placed before the hearth. This interruption afforded him
the opportu¬nity to construct his face into an agreeable mask.

The Pope’s chair was augmented by cushions
and upon these he sat with regal consideration, arranging his robes
and smoothing the garments over his middle. Glancing upward from this preening
he found Jacques de Molay staring at him with a strange wildness. The Pope
shifted. Why, he thought, the man knows that he was summoned not for a
discourse on a union of Orders. He knows and there is . . . what? Resignation?
Hatred? What is written into the lines of that face?

Clement’s own
went blank and he chose a friendly tone. ‘What do you think of my prison?’

The Templar was
silent and took to watching the fire.

Clement arranged
his face into a smile. ‘The Italians hate me and drive me from Rome, you know,
and Philip loves me so well he should like me at his side in Paris.’ His mouth
turned upward on one side with cynicism. ‘Such extremes of love and hate! Such
extremes have made me twice exiled. Neither here nor there . . . I should think
that on this matter, Grand Master, we speak the same language, you and I.’

Jacques de Molay
observed this with a rising of the brow. ‘The language of the exiled, your
Holiness?’

‘Quite so.’

‘Permit me to
say that our Order is only exiled from its duty until a Crusade is called to
regain the Holy Sepulchre of our Lord.’ He accentuated it with a significant
look. ‘If your Holiness would endorse one, perhaps the princes would look upon
it.’

The Pope smiled
deferentially. ‘Quite so.’ He was preoccupied for a moment with the neatness of
that beard which caught the light from the fire and seemed to throw it back.
‘And there lies the problem precisely,’ he added.

The Grand Master
sat back, stiff, so it seemed, like a fox. It was a moment before he spoke. ‘You
will not call for a Crusade?’

‘Oh, you know
the answer to that, Jacques!’ Clement moved forward, and once he had made his
voice low and confidential he continued. ‘The feeling is . . . that a Crusade
is out of the question.’ He let this remain loose in the air between them.

The Grand Master
nodded. ‘I had thought as much.’

The Pope
narrowed his eyes. ‘Well then, do you know what awaits you in Paris?’

‘Enemies, my
lord?’

‘Enemies, yes .
. . when you are among the princes of the royal blood of France, be vigilant,
Jacques. In the same way Philip would have me at his side, he would have you at
his. And it is not for love but for advantage.’

Jacques de Molay
nodded. ‘The princes of the blood do not recognise the sovereignty of the Order
. . . I am awake to that.’

Clement raised a
plucked brow. ‘Good! Then you know that Philip is in league with . . . others,
who in no way less vehemently plot against you . . . The rumours are circulating
regarding spies . . .’

‘Certainly,’
Jacques said in a tone that Clement thought easier said than felt. ‘But, my
Lord Pope, I am used to plots and intrigues.’

The Pope smiled.
Inside he was furious – a cat despoiled of his rat. He tried another approach.
‘Well you may be used to plots and intrigues, my dear Jacques, but these are
hatched by members of your own Order.’

‘The bankers are
nervous,
they do not know which way I shall go.
Perhaps they wish to encourage me this way or that . . .’ Jacques de Molay’s
eyes flickered and his mouth moved in an odd smile. ‘They mean to turn the
Temple into a bank, and I mean to stop them.’

How could the
man have figured it all out? The Pope smiled brightly. ‘But while you have been
away, at Cyprus, Grand Master, a bank is precisely what your Order has become.
How is that to be stopped?’

The firelight
grew low then and the Pope hugged his robes and mumbled under his breath,
‘Where is that wretched servant, the flame dies!’ Then, ‘There is wine on that
buffet, Jacques, pour some for the two of us, and bring me those chestnuts. I
like chestnuts but they do devilry to my guts.’

The Templar went
to the buffet. When he returned he handed a cup of spiced wine to Clement and
at his behest threw the chestnuts into the fire. He sat down in his chair,
observing the Pope, and took a thoughtful taste of his wine.

‘See how I
pamper
myself ?
’ Clement said. ‘Venison, quail, spiced
wine and chestnuts . . . all the foods appropriate to the colder months.’ He
set the glass down and glanced a long moment at him. ‘You see this luxury, this
finery and you think me a man of power, Grand Master, but you must remember
that like you I am in exile, living opposite the King’s palace, with enemies
ensconced in the hems of my robes. Like you my adversaries are everywhere! My
servants, my advisers, my subjects, they are even in my own curia! All you eat
here has been previously tasted, the wine, the food . . . I dare not close my
eyes when asleep, Jacques, for fear of assassination. We cannot forget that
once a pope was assaulted in his own palace by a king’s man!’ He threw Jacques
de Molay a look. ‘Such a man, such a pope, as I am forced to be, can do little
to support you . . . it is all I can do to prevent the downfall of the Church!’

The Grand Master
went once more to the buffet, filled his cup with wine and drank it down in one
gulp.

The Pope sipped,
glancing over the rim at the Templar. ‘What will you do?’

‘Do, your
Eminence?’ asked de Molay, torn from his thoughts.

‘With the gold
and the titles, the archives?’

The Grand Master
blinked.

‘What shall I do
with them?’ he repeated.

The Pope gave
him a paternal grin. ‘I suggest you hand them over to the Holy See for
safekeeping, we don’t want Philip to get his hands on them.’

The Grand Master
set down the glass and stood before the fire. ‘I cannot, your Holiness, I am
pledged to their safekeeping for the Holy Land.’

‘The Order shall
not endure.’ Clement was trying to hide his vexation. ‘You are released from
holding to your pledge by this very fact.’

‘With respect,
if it is the will of God that the Order not endure, then, your Holiness, the
gold shall not outlast the Order.’ He hunted down Clement’s eyes. ‘It shall be
used for no other purpose than for the recovery of our Lord’s Sepulchre.’

The Pope moved
forward with a spontaneity that barely kept him from toppling out of the chair.
‘What arrogance! What are you implying, Grand Master? Of course it shall not be
used for any other purpose! We shall keep it safe until, well, until a
favourable time! Anyway, in what sense do you mean it shall not outlast the
Order?’

‘In the sense
that it shall be delivered into God’s hands.’

‘What?’ He lost
his temper. ‘Are you planning some mischief, de Molay?’

At that moment
the attendant returned with more wood and made smoke fill the room until the
logs were adjusted and began to burn with determination. The Pope waved his
servant out impatiently and waited for a response. He pondered that face full
of devotion, hope and faith. He was full of disdain for it.

‘Answer me,
Jacques!’ he said when they were alone.

Jacques de Molay
took in a breath. ‘The good gold of the Order shall be safely stowed away, your
Holiness. That is what has been agreed to by the hierarchy of the Order in
Cyprus.’

Clement’s face
reddened and moved with scorn. ‘Your folly will allow the gold to fall into the
pit of Philip’s coffers! Or into the hands of the Hospitallers, whose tempers
are impatient for your demise! They are here in Poitiers waiting . . . and in
Paris . . . waiting. They have spies . . . nothing you do goes unnoticed!’

‘Yes . . . the
Order of Hospitallers is no friend to the Temple, and, your Holiness, what has
been decided is decided.’

‘Without
consultation with the dignitaries in France?’

‘These things
are always decided in the Holy Land, in this case Cyprus.’

Something, a
spark, jumped out of the fire, bounced onto the hearth and turned black. Clement
leant over and picked up the chestnut, juggling it from one hand to the other.
‘Well.’ The man sat back, peeling it until his fingers were charcoal, then he
popped it into his mouth and his eyes grew cold. ‘It appears that our interests
are opposite, Grand Master. I had hoped,’ he said chewing, ‘to salvage
something from your Order, but I see that you are determined on your own
destruction and the obliteration of everything . . . Will you have me order you
to hand the gold over to the Church?’

Another chestnut
shot out of the fire and rolled over the hearth, landing near the Grand Master,
who caught it in his hand not noticing how it burnt.

‘You will need
to consult with your cardinals, your Holiness,’ Jacques de Molay said with a
bow but there was defiance in his voice.

Clement was
furious now for he knew the man to be right – he was a pope with more
enemies than friends. His brow furrowed. ‘Let us see . . . I shall think on it.’
Then, ‘Tomorrow we shall meet with Grand Master Fulk of the Hospital, it shall
be a long day and you need your rest after your tiresome journey, I will bid
you a good night.’

He gestured for
the Templar and offered his ring. The Grand Master went down on one knee before
him and pressed his lips to the jewel, remaining with head bowed for a time. He
stood and was about to leave when Clement called out to him.

‘Wait!’ he said.
‘Wait . . .’ Then in a whisper, ‘Come closer . . . I will tell you something .
. .’ When he was satisfied that Jacques had come close enough he continued,
‘Something I know concerning the spiritual secrets of the order . . .’

‘Secrets?’
Jacques de Molay took in a sharp breath.

Was that fear
caught in his throat? Clement was suddenly full of satisfaction. ‘It was
vouchsafed to me by Pope Boniface, his knowledge comes from an Inquisitor, a
Rainerio Sacconi . . . If you are not careful, Jacques,’ he said, ‘Philip will
soon have other designs besides taking the Temple’s gold . . . the temporal
goods of the Order shall become secondary to him. Think for a moment of the
consequences. He shall seek most vehemently and most violently . . . he shall
desire with all his heart the spiritual goods that you so heroically guard.
Mark what I say.’ He stared cold and grave into that Templar eye. ‘These he
shall covet most of all!’

The Grand
Master, the Pope knew, would not easily recover from this new and sudden fear
and he sat back satisfied. ‘Firstly, he shall appropriate what you hold so
tight to your heart, and secondly, he will exterminate your Order until nothing
of it exists . . . do you understand me?’ His black eyes held those pale ones.
‘He will stop at nothing to destroy even the smallest remnant so that in times
to come no man shall remember the Order of the Temple of Solomon save what
history tells, namely, that it was guilty of heresy.’

Jacques de
Molay’s mind seemed held fast by that word as if through its utterance an
unspeakable picture began to rise in his eyes. He stared, the Pope fancied,
like a child that is stabbed by his own father.

‘Now you understand
me perfectly, Jacques . . . These last months Philip has been scheming, asking
questions, raising doubts about the Order’s doings . . . all of it a prelude to
one thing: the complete extermination of the Order and the appropriation of its
goods! Now.’ He paused. ‘Is there nothing you would tell me?’

To Clement an
invisible membrane descended over Jacques de Molay’s eyes at that moment. ‘All
that is left to us is faith in our Lord and hope for His Kingdom. If I may,
your Holiness, bid you goodnight . . .’ He bowed.

Clement’s face
darkened and he was once again full of anger. He felt no sympathy for the old
man standing before him with his shoulders square and his eyes sunken and
sleepless. Clement could see in his mind’s eye what lay in store for him at the
hands of Philip the Fair and he felt an impatience for it to begin.

‘God bless.’ He
made the sign of the cross with a blackened hand and stifled a burp with the
other.

‘Maktub,’ said
the Grand Master and, seeing the question in the eyes of his pope, elucidated.
‘It means: it is written.’