The Seal (19 page)

The King was
thoughtful. ‘Yes . . . I am! Good answer. So we shall have no more talk of
piety and I shall tell you how this excellent thing is accomplished! Now then,’
he warmed to his subject, ‘where were we?’

‘You were
inducing a stupor, sire.’

‘You were
listening! Well, well, there are some surprises to this day!’ Then, ‘I told you
how you must induce a stupor in your victim and ask the questions afterwards .
. .’

‘Stupor first,
then questions,’ the lawyer said.

‘That is what I
said.’ Philip shot him a frown. ‘Now with that in mind, tell me, what tortures
are available to us?’

The lawyer
straightened, and to Philip’s mind he seemed more at ease when things turned
practical. ‘In my opinion, the foot oven, sire, is an effective instrument
since it is cheap and quick to make – a platform, a brazier and a little
oil . . .’

‘Is it painful?’

‘It melts the
skin from the bones of the feet, sire.’

‘Interesting . .
. and?’

‘The rack is
useful but costly . . . There are other methods . . . tedious affairs but cheap
enough.’

‘Go on . . .’

‘Hanging by the
arms or the testicles . . . slow drowning.’

The King turned
thoughtful. ‘I have heard of that . . . you pour water continuously down a
man’s throat.’

‘Yes, sire.
There are also spikes through the nails . . . the pulling of teeth . . .
etcetera . . . etcetera . . .’

‘Do not forget,
Nogaret, blood! There needs to be blood . . . that is the important thing . .
.’ Then something occurred to him. ‘It would be propitious to extract a
confession from . . . what in the devil is his name again?’

‘Who, sire?’

Philip took a
nut and threw it at his lawyer. The animals lifted their glossy heads from
their front paws. ‘The Grand Master, Nogaret! What is his confounded name?’

Nogaret, having
ducked awkwardly, now grasped at his back and with a wince answered, ‘Jacques
de Molay, sire!’

‘Yes . . .
Better to get a confession from him before our impatient Dominicans are
blooded.’

‘I shall do my
best, sire.’ The lawyer straightened.

‘Oh, one thing,
Nogaret, the banker . . . John of Tours . . . we shall keep the hounds from him
until the last, at least until he sees to the books of the Order and to our riches.’

There was a nod.

The King looked
on his lawyer, expecting more from him.

Nogaret, sensing
this, said, ‘If I may say so, sire, this intrigue shall be a fine achievement.’
He cleared his throat. ‘Not the ruination of the Lombards, not even the burning
of the Jews shall rival it for profit and advantage.’

‘Yes . . .’ The
King’s eyes lingered on something not there but absent, a picture in his mind.

Profit and advantage.

‘All that gold,
Nogaret, think on it!’ He became lost for a moment in an imagination that lit
up his eyes and filled him with excitement. ‘My treasury vaults shall glow with
the light from gold Byzantines, and Paris shall be black with smoke from pyres!
Light and dark, Nogaret! Light and dark – from which all things are
created . . . Gold and blood!’ He became grave as his soul filled to the brim
with a cold excitement. Then as easily as it had come it was gone from him and
he slapped both knees.

‘Good . . . I
shall make you the Keeper of my Royal Seals at the Abbey of St Martin of
Pontoise. It was at Pontoise that my grandfather made a solemn vow to embark on
the seventh Crusade, and that is where I shall make my own vow.’

‘To embark on a
Crusade, sire?’

‘Yes!’ he said
casually, ‘
My
own Crusade! Against those con-founded
Templars who once kissed the hems of my grandfather’s skirts.’

Nogaret nodded
as if he were already somewhere else.

The King noticed
it and was full of annoyance. ‘Schedule the arrest for late October. Passing
winter in a dungeon is good for chilling the blood and loosening the tongue. I
shall leave the luring of the Grand Master to you!’

‘Yes, sire.’
Nogaret took a bow.

But Philip
punished him by ignoring it and the lawyer left with an air of incertitude,
which suited Philip well, since it redressed the balance.

He remained upon
his throne, caressing the ears of his animals with a pensive turn, feeling full
of obscurity.

Out loud he
recited a line from his favourite philosopher, Boethius: ‘
The
hour of gloom had well-nigh overwhelmed my head. Now has the cloud put off its
alluring face, wherefore without scruple my life drags out its wearying delays
. . .’

The dog he
called Prince whined then.

Philip looked
down at his animal and realised with a curious numbness that his thumbnail had
been digging into the flesh of the animal’s ear.

B
eneath a canopy of blue
and gold stood Philip of France, pale-faced and bored, hugging his royal robes
against the frigid air. Next to him his brother Charles sneezed into a lace
cloth and sniffed and coughed and feigned grief while at the same time
contemplating the voluptuous curves of his next wife, Mahaut de Chatillon.
Behind the two brothers and all around were the princes, their wives, Nogaret,
Guillaume de Plaisians the Royal Lawyer, Marigny the Co-adjutor, nobles and
lesser nobles. Among this shivering and sorry lot stood the Grand Master of the
Sovereign Order of Knights Templar, Jacques de Molay, whom the King had
personally invited to be pallbearer at the funeral of his brother’s wife
Catherine.

Just when things
were becoming tiresome, and the body was about to be laid solemn and steady
into the frozen ground, the wind picked up its heels causing three things.
Firstly, the bishop who presided over the service lost the little book from
which he read and was sent chasing it; secondly, one of the attendants lowering
the coffin slipped on the muddied snow and the ornate box fell into its hole
with an unceremonious thud to a chorus of gasps and wails; and thirdly, the
gust swept the canopy that protected the mourners from snow upwards and from
its tethers, dragging it like a sail over the little hill outside the abbey,
scattering the party and making fly the lilies that had been waiting to be
dropped into the grave.

The King, always
happy when observing the folly of men, stood therefore amongst this chaos as if
it had been created for his own amusement, since it very nearly made him smile to
see the fat bishop scurrying over the countryside and Nogaret falling in a
tangle as he tried to retrieve the canopy, yelling out curses and holding his
back.

Tomorrow he will need that twisted spine of his,
he mused, and the wicked thought of it added to his good mood.

Not far from Philip
stood Jacques de Molay meagerly attended by a knight companion and two grooms.
He too seemed to be observing the spectacle with a fond eye.

Philip took a
glance at him and immediately the Grand Master met his stare. It was open and
friendly and unguarded, that eye of his.

Philip nodded.
‘Perfect weather for a funeral, Grand Master,’ he called out over the wind as a
drift of snow swept them nearly off their feet. ‘Tell me,’ he shouted again, ‘does
it snow in the Holy Land?’

The Grand Master
shouted back, ‘
In
some places, your Majesty, but it
smells different this snow.’

Philip thought
that the Grand Master’s inordinate pride must feel a certain elevation at the
honour so personally bestowed upon him. Certainly he appeared serene, like a
man who knows that he is esteemed and loved. How could such a man ever suspect
the fate that awaited him?

‘Come, Grand
Master,’ the King said with exuberance, patting his sides, ‘we shall go to the
abbey where there is a brisk fire in the hearth and the abbess has a good spiced
wine to warm our blood.’

‘I thank you, my
sovereign.’ The Grand Master bowed. ‘I fear I am sorely needed at the Temple
this night since there are some things I must attend to before tomorrow.’

The King was
struck by a sudden uncertainty and he looked into those eyes with his heart
hammering in his ears.
Before tomorrow?
The smile
froze on his face. ‘What could be more important than taking a glass of wine
with your king?’

Jacques de Molay
hesitated, made another low, respectful bow and joined the King at his walk,
side by side, to the abbey.

Philip looked
behind him to Nogaret who was following in their train holding some lilies,
which he threw into the grave without ceremony while bracing the small of his
back.

‘Get that seen
to, Nogaret!’ the King called at him and turned his attention to the Grand
Master. ‘Soon his spine shall need the rack to set it straight.’

The Grand Master
gave a
small restrained
smile and Philip gazed out at
the afternoon. The sky had turned the colour of rose and the pale light of the
setting sun poked through a narrow margin of cloudless sky.

‘
Winter
has come early!’ said the King and clapped a hand over
the Grand Master’s shoulders.

FIRST
NIGHT SECOND DAY

Y
ou are going to the
concert tonight?’ the old shopkeeper said, startling me from the story and the
dream.

I realised that
the sun had long since settled beyond the castle walls, making a dark nave of
the avenue of lime trees, and that there were no tourists walking this way and
that. The only sounds were night sounds, cicadas and crickets.

I told her it
promised to be a good concert, and that I had some tickets if she would like to
come with me.

She shook her
head as if the thought of it was utterly pre-posterous to her. ‘Oh goodness no!
I never go to that village!’ She stood and collected her cards. ‘Come back
tomorrow and if I am not dead I will tell you the worst part of it. Before
that, I will need to rest.’

Her milky eyes
met mine and in them something stirred, something soft and full of pain. Then
it was gone.

She gave a nod
and took herself through the door to her shop and I was left sitting alone in
the falling night.

That evening I made
a half-hearted attempt to enjoy the concert in the village church. Sitting
beneath the great rococo dome I could think of nothing but the story of the
Templars. I tried to concentrate on the young musicians, playing their
masterful rendition of a piece by Vladimir Martynov, then a lone cellist who
played a Bacri, but the music only served to put me in a melancholy mood. I
could guess what might be in store for me tomorrow and I wondered if perhaps
the old woman was not the only one who needed rest before the next part was
told.

Afterwards, I
decided to walk back to the castle. The evening was cool, the air was damp and
fog was descending over the village. The caterers were packing up: three men
were pulling down the fold-up tables and a waitress from the little Heiling
cafe across the road carried a garbage bin full of serviettes and paper plates.

Earlier, while
eating dinner at the cafe, I had asked that waitress about the old woman of the
‘bourg’ and she had told me the villagers rarely saw her. ‘She’s a witch, a
heretic, that’s what the priest says. No one goes near her except tourists who
don’t know any better.’

I took the short
cut through the trees and climbed to the avenue lit by lamps. Beyond the portal
the great donjon stood illuminated by floodlights, stark against the night. I
thought of the old woman again as I passed her dark little shop, and felt
strangely despondent. I tried to recall her face, to reconstruct in my mind’s
eye wrinkles and grey skin tones, but in that space where her face might
clearly hang before my vision I saw only outlines, vague and indistinct, only
the essence of the steel-like angularity of soul, softened by a calm, thoughtful
quality of inner expression.

The next morning
I woke early with a slight headache over my brow.

I had breakfast
and went out to the portal to look for her.

It was still
early, the air smelt of dew on grass and the hazy sky was crowded with birds.
There were no tourists about and the buses loaded with visitors and musicians
would not start arriving for another hour.

She was waiting
with her cards once more spread out over the table, and as I came down the
flinted path she looked up without a smile. I noticed a look of exhaustion in
the lines around her eyes and the paleness around her lips. I felt a perplexing
concern, and also a little guilt.