The Seal (41 page)

The chains
around his legs cut into the scanty flesh, but he did not feel it. He was
consumed by grief, by guilt. It was painful to think of the rack, of the foot
oven. But he forced himself to remember everything, like a man who, trapped
under a great weight, prevents the loss of his sanity by recalling every detail
of his accident.

He remembered
with shame the day the extremities of his human resistance gave way to that
need, that desperate need which, in the final analysis, was all that was left
to a man whose teeth and nails had been wrenched out one by one, whose flesh
was burnt, or else pinched with pincers – the need to die.

Now he let the
tears flow hot until their saltiness reached his cracked lips. He had succumbed
to the desire to be free of pain and in so doing had confessed to such
depravity
as he had never known possible. Why? In the
inquisitor’s eyes he had seen hate but also a fleeting, paternal love. A part
of him felt a need to please the love in those eyes, to be a good son, to do as
was asked of him. But another knew that if he could last a little longer he would
soon be free. But death had not visited him. Instead he had seen a familiar
creature, a creature of satanic origins, whose odious enticements were the bane
of all men whose meditations took them to spiritual heights. Pierre could not
count how many times he had overcome this creature in his quiet moments, but on
the bloodied rack it had gained the advantage and had overwhelmed his ailing,
tortured body, speaking from his mouth vile temptations never committed but
conquered time and time again through strength of soul.

How had the
inquisitors known of Baphomet – more potent than Lucifer, more dangerous
than Satan?

He bowed his
head now, and prayed. ‘Father, You who were, are and will be, within us in our
being, may thy name be glorified, and praised in us. May thy kingdom live in
our deeds and in our
lives.
May we perform
Your
will as you, Father, hath lain it down in our own
being. You give us the bread of life to nourish our souls, through our every
condition. Let our mercy toward others reconcile the sins done to our being.
You do not allow the tempter to work in us beyond our strength. For no
temptation can live within us, Father, since the tempter is a delusion.
Therefore lead us through the light of knowledge . . . and may
Your
power and glory work in us through all periods and ages
of time . . . Amen.’

After a long
moment he felt a little better, his mind cleared. He realised that this day he
must keep the true light of knowledge well lit since it was the day of the
appeal before the papal commission.

His thoughts
returned to that morning months ago when more than five hundred of his brothers
were brought together en masse to defend the Order. Such a large number could
not be contained in the episcopal buildings and so the gathering had been held
behind the bishop’s house, in his orchard. There, with the sun in the eyes, he
and his brothers heard the articles of accusation for the first time since
their arrests. They were asked to name some representatives to put forward
their case, and Pierre had been named together with Renaud de Provins,
Preceptor of Orleans, and two others to illustrate a number of points on behalf
of themselves and of the Order. Pierre had complained of the appalling
conditions of their prisons, that the brothers were permanently chained, that
they had barely any food and only foul water to drink. He told the
commissioners that brothers were forced to live contrary to their rule since
they were stripped of their religious habits and were deprived of the
sacraments, some on their deathbeds. Moreover, those who had died outside Paris
had been buried in unconsecrated ground, like heretics, whose souls would
suffer eternal damnation. He then ventured to say that the Order had been
seized illegally and that
its temporal goods had been confiscated
by a king with no authority to do so
. Having made these points, he then
asked to meet with his Grand Master, that he might know his mind in these grave
matters. But the fact was that Pierre was in no doubt of the Grand Master’s
mind.

For months
leading up to that time, messages had been secreted into the prisons scattered
all over Paris in various monasteries and hotels. A notary sent by some person
sympathetic to their cause had, during the course of his appointment, which
took him from one jail to another, transported messages across the city. Though
he had not met the man, it was through him that letters from his Grand Master
had been directed to him. ‘Be certain God’s light is upon us . . .’ one letter
had said. ‘Defend the Order as best you can, for the sake of the future, that
is all that can be done. Even now the light of Christ washes over our wasted
bodies and shines our way to his bosom.’

Pierre greatly
admired Jacques de Molay, a more pious and brave Grand Master could not have
been hoped for after the ill-timed death of Thibaud de Gaudin. But Pierre was a
lawyer, a legal graduate of the highest quality, and he was possessed of the
suspicious mind of a man used to subtle treachery. His political wits had
understood with certainty as each day had dawned that some snare awaited them
in all of it. What the opposition could gain by allowing their communication
had haunted him constantly. If he had been less wasted by lack of food and
sleep he would have seen it sooner. Now all was lost.

At that moment
there was the sound of the key turning in the lock and the door swung open.

A notary entered
carrying the usual bundle of papers under his arm and a lamp in his hand.

‘Next time bring
your letter or I shall not let you in!’ the jailer spat at the young man, then
mumbled to himself these words: ‘The right hand knows not what the left hand
does . . . every time the same ... How am I to run my
jail
...
?’ He closed the oak door and locked it.

The lawyer stood
and moved his eyes over the figure of the notary and then down to where his
hands were clasped.

Pierre thought
how many times he had been before notaries and asked that he and his colleagues
might form a proper defence, that all confessions made should not be held
against the Order since they were clearly lies, spoken because of fear of death
or because of grave torture or through fear of it, since the punishment of one
is the fear of many. He told them, as they thought of the bed or food that
awaited them on their return to the palace, that the Templars ate
weevil-infested porridge and slept on stone pallets with no blankets.

‘You have asked
for a notary, monsieur?’ the young man said, bringing him back to the present.

‘Yes, of
course,’ the lawyer said and remembered his manners once so refined. ‘I am a
little tired. Please, will you sit down?’

The notary
looked around him in the narrow cell and placed the lamp on the floor. Having
sat on the edge of the pallet he proceeded to sharpen his quill and to select a
suitable parchment. After a moment of this he looked up and his eyes fell on
the lawyer.

Pierre de
Bologna felt that regard as an indignity upon the wretched state of his body
and apparel. His mind flashed to a time when the smallest blemish on his white
habit would have annoyed him.

‘What is your
name, monsieur?’ he asked.

‘Julian.’

‘Julian, you are
named after a great but misunderstood man, Julian the Apostate. A man who
wished to remember what was forgotten . . . I am Pierre.’ He straightened his
back. ‘Italian by birth and proud to be a knight of the Sovereign Order of the
Temple of Solomon.’

The notary bowed
a little. ‘A good man gave this name to a foundling . . . He was a man of your
Order.’

The man’s eyes
became round and he blinked many times. ‘In the Holy Land?’

‘At Acre.’

‘You are the notary,
then, who has assisted us?’

‘Yes.’

Pierre de
Bologna smiled and his eyes welled with tears. The two men came to a silent
understanding. ‘I am happy to have met you finally . . .’

‘I am honoured.
I fear you have suffered great indignity, Monsieur de Bologna.’

‘Yes . . . is it
not to be marvelled . . . that there are those of us who have lied.’ He said
with a half-hearted smile, ‘I suppose it is even more astonishing that there
are those who have kept to the truth!’ He looked at Julian. ‘Shall we begin?’

‘One moment.’
Julian began to write while the lawyer waited until there was a nod for him to
commence.

‘The dangers and
tortures which . . . which those who speak the truth suffer continually, are
great! The menaces and outrages, the offences against their person, which are
sustained daily, are not to be dismissed! They contrast with the advantages,
favourable conditions, pleasures and liberties which the liars have, and the
great promises which are daily made to them . . . they can only be imagined . .
.’ He ended out of breath, holding on tight to the pallet and feeling that he
was losing his balance.

‘Is something
wrong?’ Julian asked.

‘Yes ... I ...
must ...
’ He stared up at the young man patterned by
shadows. ‘Where was I?’

‘That advantages
are given to those who confess and those who do not suffer outrages.’

‘Ahh . . . yes .
. . It is a marvellous thing indeed . . . and greatly astonishing to all, that
greater faith is placed in these liars who, having been . . . corrupted . . .
in this way, have testified such things in the interests of their bodies,
rather than those who, for the purpose of sustaining the truth, have died by
torture!’ There was a pause. ‘What do you think of it?’

‘I?’ Julian
said.

‘Of course, that
is my argument to the commissioners. Perhaps it will do no good since all I say
mostly leaves them as unchangeable as the seasons – it is hopeless to
think summer could appear in December!’ The lawyer smiled weakly at this jest.
‘I have requested that an inquiry be made into the evidence of Templar brothers
who have died in prison, from the priests who gave them their last sacraments.
They should be required to give evidence as to the deathbed confessions of
these poor tormented souls . . . Nothing has come of it. Think about it, my friend,
why else have men not wanted to join the defence if not from fear of their
lives?’

Another silence
filled the room.

Pierre de
Bologna scratched under his arm where a flea had taken refuge; he moved forward
whispering, ‘Only a short time ago the news reached me that the Archbishop of
Sens has summoned a provincial council of the Church . . .’ He waited. ‘Do you
know what that means?’

The notary
frowned, thinking things through,
then
it was his turn
for astonishment. ‘This means they are planning more than one trial!’

‘Yes! There are
now two trials running concurrently,’ the lawyer said with a toothless smile,
warming to his subject. ‘Do you play chess, Julian?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘I was once
– it seems like lifetimes ago – accustomed to playing chess every
afternoon with the Cardinal Franco del Pozzo. The man always manoeuvred the
board so that I took more care in my defence than in my attack. I am afraid
that I always watched my own pieces too well and allowed the cardinal to put my
king in check. I have been thinking and thinking and I have realised something.
I did not see the signs! There is no one else to blame . . . You see, the King
has played with us, Monsieur Julian, like a cat plays cruelly with a mouse. He
has allowed us to correspond! Is that not remarkable? To mount a defence, to
gain solidarity! Is that not implausible? And why has he done so?’

The notary
placed his roll of parchments and papers on the pallet and stared at Pierre de
Bologna for a moment, his eyes catching the light from the lamp, his brows
coming together in a frown. There was a sudden dawn of understanding surfacing
over his face.

The lawyer
smiled. ‘I see that you know the answer . . . We have been allowed to mount a
defence so that we might retract our confessions and be judged as relapsed
heretics!’

‘No! I do not
–’ the notary began, ‘I did not . . .’

‘No, not you nor
I!’ Pierre said to him. ‘All the King needed to checkmate the defence was to
appoint his royal chamberlain’s brother, Philippe de Marigny, to the position
of Archbishop of Sens. Do you see?’

‘Sens is one of
twelve provinces,’ the notary said, ‘and has jurisdiction over Paris . . .’

‘Yes . . . yes .
. . you are on the right track . . . Paris under the Archbishop of Sens is a
Paris under the control of King Philip. His provincial council will allow the
papal commission to judge the Order while it judges the individuals independently
and under its very nose!’

‘To come to a
judgement independent of the papal com¬mission, and without its concern . . .
to sentence the individuals?’

‘Precisely!’ the
Templar said, and it seemed that he had lost his strength; tears streamed down
his face again and he wiped them away. ‘I am emotional, my dear Julian, for
today the papal commission has consented to a special audience and I must summon
up all the intelligence, all the cunning and strength that is left to me, before
I finally dissolve into madness. If I am successful, I will go directly to the
Archbishop of Sens to plead my position and . . . I will need a notary to
accompany me . . . No one will come! Perhaps you will be so kind as to
consent?’