The Seal (31 page)

The emphasis of
these last words made Etienne cautious and he chewed the remnants of the bitter
herb in silence, tasting heresy.

‘God is in that
herb and in this blade of grass,’ he said, weaving the green things in his deft
hands. ‘My soul creeps into the plants and it sees through them and I become
one with them. In them I see how God rejoices. In the heart he is also to be
found, but there he does not rejoice, he is made sad by sin. When you find God
you find the healing power in everything . . . I have found the healing in
those herbs in your wound . . . God shall work in them and it shall not be the
cause of your undoing.’

His eyes stared
into Etienne’s a moment and in that stare Etienne observed the spirit of the
blade of grass and the spirit of the tree and the spirit of the sky and cloud
and river, and all of it seemed to speak of wide spaces and heavenly distances,
as if his life had only been a dream and only now was he awake and flying up to
the heights to see it. All things lay spread out before him: the waves of cloud
that gathered around the peaks of the high cliffs of the mountains, throwing
their long shadows on the world; the river running, foaming and rolling over
polished rocks; the meadow, covered in purple flowers that stretched towards
the line of fir trees. Scarcely had he time to think on it than he saw himself
a youth full of fresh notions and unspent years. In the old man’s eyes he
observed it, therefore; the young man and the old man who looked upon him as
he, now and again, observed Jourdain.

‘No,’ Etienne
said to him and dropped a speck of a glance, a fidget of the eye, towards the
seal. ‘The wound shall not be my end after all. I thank you.’

The man got up
stiffly, as if his bones were hinged and rusty and creaking. ‘I will go, for
nature is old and revelation is young . . .’ He threw the item he had been
weaving into Etienne’s lap.

It was a cross.

‘The sword will
be forgotten one day,’ the old man said to him, ‘but the memory of the cross
will live, not as it does now, the black cross of death, but a living cross
entwined with roses.’ He looked at Etienne. ‘Some day!’ Then he took himself to
his mule and went on his way and a moment later – it seemed to Etienne as
short as a passing thought – the mercenaries returned with fish and
Jourdain with wood and the world was restored to what it had been.

In his side the
herb worked its potent magic and Etienne, suffering exhaustion of his mind and
of his flesh, was lulled into a dream of Puivert, and the rough-hewn
cross surrounded
by roses outside the old woman’s hut of
stone. He became one with it, feeling it the dead wood of his body and the
roses of his soul.

After that he
fell into a deep sleep.

J
ohn of Tours II leant
over his books in the pale light of a large horizon of vaulted space dissolving
in darkness. The new Temple treasury was vast, labyrinthine, and cold. A fire
had been lit in the hearth but it ill warmed the space where sat the treasurer,
and every now and then he had to stamp his feet and rub his hands to prevent
them from going numb.

It was Sunday, a
day of rest for the Dominicans, and so it was possible to work without the
repertoire of screams and wails that flowed over the winding stairs, around the
vaults of the treasury, and through tunnels filled with strapped oak, beech
boxes, barrels and coffers. These sounds swung around corners and made their
way to his ears, causing him to mislay his thoughts and stain his ledger with
ink blots
. Today there was tranquillity and still his hands
were shaking. He paused a moment to calm himself. How long before he too would
suffer similar horrors? And yet, it seemed to him that this game of show and
tell he played with the King’s assessors was possessed of its own peculiar
torment, since each day drew him closer and closer to that inevitable and
painful end which he could no longer delay. It was the price he would pay for
being the only man who understood the complex workings of the Temple ledgers.

Sounds echoed to
him from other rooms where worked the King’s notaries. He made a stretch at his
back and bent to his work – he must keep himself busy. He must note and
categorise and duplicate, add up, subtract and multiply. Today he would face the
dragon. He would give a report to the King on all revenues from Templar
preceptories and deposits from crowned heads, independent cities and states.
There were donations to the Temple to be accounted for, securities against
loans to be adjusted, papal taxes to be reckoned, and rents collected from the
properties on behalf of rich lords to be reconciled.

The Temple in
Paris was the only lending body in France and thereby the only repository for
moneys, wills, titles, deeds, treaties, charters, and the safe storage of
jewels and other valuables. It proceeded without self-interest and, unlike its
predecessors,
it was scrupulous, honest and efficient. Most
importantly it was impartial and international. Only the Order of Christ could
serve the kings of France and England – who warred with one another
– simultaneously without conflict or suspicion. Surely it was the
greatest bank in the world? Tears came into his eyes and threatened to land on
his books.

He wiped them
away and dipped his quill in ink and continued to describe perfect numerals in
neatly ruled margins. What would Philip say when he found out that the greatest
bank in the known world was not rich – not in the usual sense? He cast
his gaze into the darkened corners and over the coffers that contained the
meticulous records of the Paris Temple.

In truth, in all
his considerable time as treasurer, he had seen very little gold, for it was
possible to transact without it if one had a ledger and some ink. The Temple
collected revenues and credited them against expenses and debts in a system
devised by the Arab merchants called double entry. This method was exceedingly
practical. It meant that very little monies were handled at all.
In all sixty accounts that were currently operating, as few as
twenty needed a transaction in gold.
The Templar wealth
lay
, rather, in common property – castles, manors,
towns and villages, granaries, farms and mills. Some of the wealth came in the
form of donations for the assistance of a donor’s soul, some of it by way of
new entrants into the Order or from returns from rented lands, goods and
services. Also, quite
a tidy
revenue came in the way
of profit from variations in currency. But usury – being an abomination
unto the Lord – was not employed since the collection of interest on
loans was not appropriate to men of God. However, administrative charges could
be made for expenses incurred on amounts lent. After all, any surplus profit
had always been absorbed into the running costs of the Temple or otherwise used
to maintain the Templar forces in the Holy Land.

He continued to
wet his quill with ink, until the great bells sounded nones in echoed
disharmonies. He closed his ledger and said a Pater Noster with devotion, his
head bowed and his heart fervent. He asked God to watch over his fellows who
lay in the King’s prison and he asked that his Saviour might give him courage
when the time came to meet his destiny . . . which he sensed would be sooner
than later.

He looked up
from his prayers and remembered the dream then . . .

Some time ago he
had seen the image of the Grail, the Holy Cup wherein was contained Christ’s
blood, the cup that Joseph of Arimathea had obtained from Pilate, in his
meditations. Since then he had become preoccupied with the ideal, the womb waiting
to be fertilised and filled with an impulse of Christ. It contained, to him,
the seed of a New Jerusalem shining in the most profound illumination. The seed
of a new world funded by a great bank, operated in the name of Christ for His
people. That is, a bank that served all men and not merely the rich and
powerful. In this bank there would be no gold, no security, only numbers in
ledgers, recorded meticulously and with great care, just as he was now doing.
Then gold would naturally lose its value. Never would a florin need to pass
from one hand to another because, in reality, no man had a right to own gold.
Had not Christ rejected Satan’s offer to turn stones to bread? In such a world,
people, filled with hope and dignity, could live free, productive lives. Lives
that sought to find the Christ in every word, in every deed.

Now all was lost
into the King’s hands. The great ideal would never be realised and he gave
himself up to a sigh, his heart full of hopeless longing.

There were
footsteps coming from the halls and his mind was wrenched from his meditation
to the present. His eyes widened and his brows
raised
.
He stood like that, peering into the gloom, like a small animal that smells a
predator.

It was the King.

He straightened
his habit and tried to look calm.

From the shadows
emerged figures, the King’s guards were first, stone-faced and regal, then
gradually the tall shape of Philip, followed by his royal chamberlain,
Enguerrand de Marigny.

He knew Marigny.
He did not like the man.

Philip was
smiling, his energetic limbs making sparks in the frigid air as he moved
towards the treasurer. His chamberlain stood a little behind him, flicking
through some parchments.

The King’s eyes
made a study of John of Tours, and the shadows, and with a voice that echoed
down the ever-stretching lanes of boxes, he said, ‘Well, Tours! Here is your
king. He has come to stroke his fortune!’

‘Sire.’ John of
Tours bowed.

‘I have been
patient, Tours. Now I wish to know how rich I have become! Show me to the gold
Byzantines . . . I desire to see the lustre of my benefits, though I suspect
there is silver besides that!’ He slapped two hands together, looking at the
beech crates stacked up as high as a man. ‘Are they in these boxes?’

The treasurer
fumbled with his words. The King would have to learn a thing or two about
banking and John of Tours did not wish to be the one to teach him.

‘Perhaps I
should show you the ledgers, sire?’ He moved toward his desk and took up the
large collection of parchments held by metal clasps.

‘Ledgers?’ The
King raised a quizzical brow, smiling still. ‘Why, pray, should there be a
royal interest in ledgers?’

‘Ledgers, sire,
enumerate an account of profit and loss . . . monies borrowed and deposits,’ he
explained. ‘This is the most accurate way of knowing the state of the bank.’

‘No, no, Tours!’
The King rubbed his hands, his unblinking eyes wide and expectant. ‘I want only
to see the Byzantines . . . Come . . . your sovereign is impatient.’

John of Tours
paused. The moment had come. ‘Sire . . . if I may . . . there is no gold, or at
least an unremarkable amount by your standards. The last held by the Temple was
lost after the Battle of Ruad.’

The King looked
at him and the smile froze on his face. ‘What say you? No gold?’ There was a
frown.

‘Only a little,
sire, but I assure you . . . the bank is doing very well.’

‘It is?’ The
King took this in and became preoccupied with clenching and unclenching his
long tapered fingers, watching as they turned from red to white to red again.
When he spoke, finally, his voice was tight to his chest. ‘Without gold, it is
doing very well?’

‘I realise that
you may not have expected it, sire, it is something not generally known, but it
is a common practice.’

The King began
to pace about with a reserved frantic energy. ‘Have I left you alone for
months, with your inventories and your ledgers . . . waiting to hear to what
extent I am rich, to find that your wretched bank has no gold? No . . . I did
not expect it!’ He paused before John of Tours and his eyes and their pinpoints
came at him with particular intensity. ‘How is it possible that business is
brisk without it, Tours? How is it possible?’

The treasurer
was struck with incertitude.

Philip looked
behind him to his chamberlain. ‘Where is Fuinon?’ he shouted.

The chamberlain
scurried off and when Philip returned his stare to the treasurer, the man shifted
under its immediate passion.

‘You shall find
everything in the ledgers, sire.’ He offered the book to Philip but was
forestalled by the eyes contrived into slits and the corners of the small thin
mouth pursed into a half-moon frown.

Then it came.

‘Shut up,
Tours!’ the King shouted. He pushed the treasurer aside and came up behind the
table, putting a hand on the many parchments that lay neatly stacked. He
shouted again, ‘Shut up!’ and sent the papers flying. After that his face was
serene and he went down upon the treasurer’s chair but found he could not fit
his legs beneath the table so he splayed them out to one side like a clumsy
pup. ‘Tell me, precisely, why it is that I have saved you from the Dominicans,
Tours?’

The banker’s
mind was struck by a sudden palsy; he swallowed and found his mouth as dry as
sticks. ‘If I may . . . take a moment to explain it to you, sire?’