The Seal (22 page)

This place was
familiar to
Julian,
he had lived and played within
these walls for seven springs after arriving in France as a foundling from
Acre. It was here
among
the snorting and neighing of
the warhorses that he had grown a boy’s hope of becoming squire to a grand and
gallant knight, of following the Beauseant wherever it would lead him. Now he
remembered the day the bishop’s monks came to take him from the knights in
their armour and the ordered metre of life at the Temple, to live a different
existence among the luxuries and caprices of the bishop’s house – that
night had been windy like this, and he had not thought on it for a long time,
until this evening.

The long-legged
monk moved rapidly on through a maze of corridors and Julian found himself
lagging behind. In his haste he managed to glimpse a suggestion of stonework,
the wide gaping mouths of vast vaulted rooms lurking with secrets behind arched
shadows. Everywhere a faint smell of incense and, to his profound concern,
peril. He shuddered; why should peril lie shallow beneath the quiet?

There was a sound,
a woeful desperate sound.

‘What is that?’
he said, startled.

‘Devils,’
answered the monk.

‘Devils?’

‘Quiet!’ the
monk said. ‘I should keep that mouth shut, for it is through the mouth that
devils enter into the souls of lustful, useless boys, and this place is full of
them! You will see soon enough . . .’

Julian thought
he could smell blood, and forced himself to calmness. Surely he was imagining
it?

‘Will you not
tell me why I have been sent for?’

The monk halted
abruptly before double oak doors and turned around. From behind his cowl came
the mocking voice, ‘To record the corruption and heresy of these sorcerers!’ He
pushed the doors open. ‘Look for yourself!’

W
illiam of Paris, Inquisitor General of France, entered the circular
room, the secret chapel of the Order of Knights Templar in Paris, and looked
about him. The first thing he saw was Nogaret, the King’s henchman, gazing
about the inner Temple, made known by the spies Noffo Dei and de Floyran. A
moment later his eyes moved upward and around. The sight took his breath away.

William had
spent the night at the monastery of St Jacques, where many years ago he had
entered the Order of the Dominicans. This morning before dawn he had been
shrived and received communion and it had left him exhilarated. Free from sin,
his soul cleansed, he had never in his life felt as well. Even his indigestion
had improved, but it was doomed to be short-lived. All things had returned to
normal after his meeting with the Bishop of Paris.

The bishop had
refused to sanction the list of questions given to inquisitors. He did not, he
said, believe the accusations and would not condone the arrests. Moreover, he
had accused the King of avarice and William of collusion and had gone so far as
to suggest that the questions were only necessary because, in his words, ‘How
else shall they confess to crimes they have not committed?’

Now he wondered
what the bishop would say if he saw the spectacle before him. ‘Spawn of
Satanus!’ he muttered under his breath, with a sense that his former
exhilaration was returning so that it made him fall at once to one knee in a
state of con¬centrated piety. ‘Protect me, oh Lord, from this depravity!’ He
took the cross from around his neck and held it to his forehead, gazing over
the windowless chapel.

The secret chamber was lit only by candles on high pedestals
; its walls were painted with strange symbols and designs over a
high vaulted space to a star-studded ceiling. On one end there was a throne,
elevated on seven steps, supported by the figures of four lions and four
eagles. The effigy of the moon and likeness of a sun was painted over the two
pillars flanking it. On the floor he recognised the Hebrew six-pointed star and
the pentacle placed within a circle around which appeared necromantic symbols.

Nogaret, languid
of eye and yawning, looked at the inquisitor with passive boredom. ‘The Grand
Master has proved stubborn,’ he said, wiping his brow with his sweat-soiled
cloth. ‘He is outside.’

The friar looked
up. His ritual interrupted, he stood and moved to the altar where he called out
in a voice full of restraint, ‘Bring him in!’

Jacques de Molay
was dragged into the room and thrown at the feet of the inquisitor.

The sight of the
man, half-alive and half-dead, stirred an emotion that, by way of communication,
spoke to him with the voice of an angel. ‘Babylon the great is fallen,’ it
said, ‘and is become the habitation of devils and the hold of every foul spirit
and a cage of every unclean and hateful bird . . .’

The inquisitor
made the sign of the cross over the man and walked around him, then leaning low
said, ‘Keep me, O Lord, from the hands of the wicked.’ Then close to the man’s
ear, as if blowing kisses, ‘For they have hid a snare for me!’ He bent lower to
stare into the face. ‘Oh . . .’ he moaned, ‘Son of Satan . . . thou shalt not
escape the wrath of God!’ He looked upwards to the heretical symbols carved
onto the walls and his mind clouded over and tears flowed over his cheeks.
‘They have sharpened their tongues like a serpent; adders’ poison is under
their lips!’

Jacques de Molay
opened his bloodied eyes. From above, the inquisitor noticed this and he
smiled.

‘Ahh . . . he is
awake!’ He went down on one knee. ‘Your poor misguided soul has been taken by
the evil one in a dreadful union . . . You must listen to me now,’ he whispered
in a tone reserved for errant children. ‘You have mocked our Lord, you have worshipped
Satan, you have desecrated the cross! All these things are true, and in this
chamber of darkness . . .’ He raised a hand in order to take in the room.
‘.
. . In this pit of Mammon have you induced others to
commit such foulness, heinous beyond comprehension . . . and now, this night,
Grand Master, I shall be forced to wreak havoc upon the carcass that holds you
to this miserable life . . . Do you understand? For I must be commanded by the
power of the Holy Spirit to root out and destroy the evil that has taken up
abode in your heart, and in order for this fine work to be accomplished, you
must first confess.’

William of Paris,
Inquisitor General, waited.

Jacques de Molay
looked up to that face and his mouth, broken and raw, found these words: ‘These
are they which came out of great tribulation . . . and have washed their robes
and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.’

The inquisitor’s
face hardened
and inside him he was cold. He shook his
head and made a resolve. With his hand he made a sign for the tormentor to lift
Jacques de Molay from the floor and to drag him to the great oaken doors
leading out of the room. Another guard joined him and together they lifted the
Grand Master and stretched both his arms outwards, forcing them upon the wood. This
triggered a cry of agony.

Nogaret became
agitated. ‘What will you do, William? Remember, he must not die before he
confesses!’

The inquisitor
turned to the lawyer with a look of disdain. He felt it offensive in the
extreme that his ritual should be interrupted by one who was not aware of its
significance, so he said these words with a certain emphasis that was meant to
cause a chill in the lawyer from head to foot: ‘The Lord hath accomplished his
fury, he hath poured out his fierce anger and hath kindled a fire in Zion, and
it hath devoured the foundations thereof. The Kings of the earth, and all the
inhabitants of the world, would not have believed that the adversary and the
enemy should have entered into the gates of Jerusalem! He shall suffer the
wounds of our Lord!’

On this command
the tormentor drove a nail first into one wrist and then into the other. There
was blood on the floor and a sudden wave of shock and nausea seemed to run
through the hanging man. When the sense of it reached him he howled, and the
sound of it echoed through the chamber.

The assistant
held the man’s torso while the tormentor took hold of both feet and, having
fettered them, one over the other, took a nail and tried to drive it into the
flesh. This proved difficult and there were gasps and wails from the Grand
Master as the man held him steady while the other attempted to keep the nail straight.
With a final and thunderous blow of the mallet, the bones of the feet parted
and the nail pierced the oak on the other side. The body was let go and it hung
two spans from the ground. When the Grand Master’s wide eyes took a look at his
impaled limbs he let a gasp escape from his mouth and he fell out of his head.

Time lay unswept
in the chapel. The inquisitor sat upon the throne like a hen upon an egg. He
was learned in the science of physiology, having made it his business to know
the human body intimately, its weaknesses and its strengths, and he knew,
therefore, that as the man’s weight sagged downward and the body slumped, the
rib cage was drawn upwards and the lungs became narrowed, preventing breath.
The Grand Master would have to push down on his impaled feet to raise his body
to take a breath and this would incur unbearable pain. Soon a paralysis of the
will would ensue, from lack of air, and this was always the most fortuitous
time for confession.

But confession
did not come.

When the blood from
Jacques de Molay’s wounds had congealed and nigh three hours had passed, the
Templar was seized by terrible spasms and woke briefly only to sink once again
into oblivion.

The inquisitor
waited. In one corner the tormentor snored, drooling. Nogaret had left, making
some excuse about a conference in the morning. Alone now, with only the notary
for company, he paced the room and watched his own shadow.

‘All my life,’
he heard his voice as distant and resonant, ‘I have struggled against the
Devil, de Molay.’ He bent his eye upon the Grand Master’s unconscious body.
‘And you?’ he said to it. ‘You have warred against the infidel all your life,
and now your fight is lost to you, for you have given yourself up to evil and
its designs.’ He leant forward and shook the man until one eye opened and they
were staring eye to eye. It was the eye of a wild animal, shaking and shivering
and taking rapid breaths.

The inquisitor
was pleased to finally have his attention. ‘You have ceased to struggle, my son,
and when one ceases to struggle with the Devil one is doomed, as you are, to
struggle with heaven!’ He gave him one last look of fixed eloquence and continued
pacing with his hands behind his back, his black robes showing the white
beneath now and again. ‘It is certain that death is there upon that door
waiting, Grand Master. On the pinions of violated organs, broken bones and torn
muscles, upon the carcasses of brothers long dead and unremembered do you rest
your wicked soul . . . but you must now listen to me!’ He stood like a painter
examining his handiwork. ‘This pain, this dreadful union of blood and sinew
that is your body impaled upon that door, is not hell. Oh no, Grand Master! Not
hell but a prelude of what dwells in the vast empty spaces where the soul weeps
in eternal torment. Do not hope for death. Do not pray for it, for there are
worse things than this suffering. There are worse agonies to come, and so I
urge you to confess your sins to me.’

He was now
looking earnestly for some response from those hitherto receptive eyes and saw
that the man’s face was now downturned. He stared at him with the utmost force
his spirit could command, but it was becoming poignantly clear that the Grand
Master was in no mind to accept the logical message he was imparting to him and
he knew then – with distinct certainty– that he must restore their
communication.

He sighed and
removed his long knife from its scabbard. He took it to the Grand Master’s
flesh, and let its sharp edge move over the ribs one by one, leaving behind
thin channels of blood. ‘I sorrow for you, Jacques de Molay, though you are an
iniquitous creature, a spawn of the Devil, an idolater, heretic and necromancer!
It is my task to sorrow for you and prevent you, if I can, from burning in the
everlasting fires from which there shall be no salvation.’ His eyes were full
of tears and he said in a whisper, ‘Confess and all will be forgiven . . . you
shall find peace.’

Something he
said had reached the Grand Master and a voice came from that tortured mouth,
‘Peace?’

The inquisitor
was full of hope. ‘Of course, my son! Do you doubt that I am your loving
father? God speaks through me and gives me the sanction to absolve you and to
purify you, so that you shall once again enter the temple of the righteous.’

‘The Temple?’

William nodded.
‘Yes, my son, you shall enter it.’ He let the point pierce the skin. ‘When you
make your confession.’ He made a cut.

The Grand Master
gave a sharp cry and came back from out of the dream and tried to speak, but
nothing came.

The inquisitor
turned the knife to the right, making a well of blood. ‘Come, and we shall
share in this vanquishing of evil, you and I. Yes . . .’ he said, ‘we shall
share it as much as two men might share an achievement from which both men
shall profit.’