My august sovereign King Philip IV has instructed me to take up the papers of your trial, which I have the order to close with a complete acquittal. It will be simplicity itself to grant the request, as you are innocent; but you must know that the king instructs me to exonerate you because he is convinced that you, Master Arnaldo, will agree to return to Paris, once you are sure that there are no legal issues pending. The king wants you back in France, and as you are aware, he is a man who does not know what refusal is.
Even if you hate him because he let you rot in jail instead of ordering your immediate release, reflect upon this before denying your help: His Majesty knows that you were working on the production of a powerful antidote capable of averting a terrible epidemic. The bishop of Pamiers and other troublemakers have mounted a conspiracy against the king, and shouted to the four winds that France will be stricken by a plague worse than any in its history – a scourge sent by God to punish the arrogance of Philip IV against the Vicar of Christ.
The more informed believe that these enemies of the king, of the people and of God, these children of Satan, actually intend to spread an atrocious disease throughout the kingdom so that they can claim that their prophecy was true, and thus induce the people to overthrow the throne.
You can avert the catastrophe, Master Arnaldo. You possess the antidote.
And know that a very prominent man at court, to whom the health of our sovereign has been entrusted, affirms that you will never help His Majesty in this emergency – indeed you will let him drown in his difficulties. He says he is sure of this for a specific reason: that the disease is actually your creation and it was you who placed it in the rebels’ hands.
The gravity of the facts now lies entirely before your eyes.
Maestro Arnaldo, my friend, send me the antidote through some trusted channel. Do it for me, if you have no pity for the French people. And do it also to defend your own honour.
May God shine his light upon you!
Guillaume Nogaret
The Catalan threw the letter down on the table and then dropped into the chair, crushed by the weight of what he had read.
The pope’s nephews hadn’t been telling him an idiotic tale to mask their intention of getting him out of Rome. It was tragically true: a handful of criminals actually meant to devastate the kingdom of France by spreading an incurable disease that seemed to occur spontaneously and would thus likely be passed off as the effects of the wrath of God. And a man whose name was concealed, but who could be no other than Henri de Mondeville, the royal surgeon, was insinuating that behind that awful plan drawn up by Satan himself there was his hand…
Almighty God! What could it all mean?
3
PRICE OF BLOOD
There is no escape from the wrath of God if not in God himself.
Rodulfus Glaber, IV, 10
I
Its eyes closed, and its wrinkles smoothed out, the face of the corpse reflected the inexpressive serenity that belongs to those who no longer have outstanding accounts with this world; but for anyone who knew something about the man, it was difficult to think that he had actually found peace.
Standing there on the loggia of the Royal Palace, his precious golden robes shining, Philip IV continued to stare at that face which had now been taken in the embrace of the Dark Lady; he had no peace either. For twenty years, the thought of that man had tormented him and made his blood bitter.
All around, the dawn light tinged the roofs of Paris with purple. The Seine sparkled in the first light like a long magic snake scattered with flakes of gold. His city was beautiful just before it awoke; a few minutes more and the streets would be filled with the usual rumble of cart drivers going to the market, the insults of some innkeeper throwing out a drunkard who had fallen asleep under the table, the rhythmic beating of clothes on the stones of the riverbank by the laundresses, who sang and squabbled.
For now, though, Paris was asleep, and the only sound in the air was the sweet bells of the convents that rang out the first mass of the day. It was an ephemeral glimpse of stillness, suspended between the darkness of the night, that kingdom of evildoers who swarmed the outskirts and the common streets, and the noise and bustle of the daytime hours, when politickers and fixers of every type swarmed the high quarters, entrenched behind their aura of powerful respectability. In that rare moment, though, the city was beautiful.
Careful not to make any noise, Alphonse de la Cerda came up behind the king. He knew his cousin’s soul well enough to know that he must be struggling with unpleasant thoughts if he ignored the beauty of Paris in the splendour of the dawning day.
“What is it?” asked Alphonse.
It was a poorly formulated question, in truth; he could already see that Philip IV was holding in his hand a death mask, one of those obtained by pressing onto the face of a deceased a thin layer of soft clay which thus preserved the exact features of the person one wished to remember, as the ancient Romans had used to do. If anything, he should have asked to whom that unknown face belonged, but the restlessness he sensed in the king advised him against asking too direct questions.
He imagined, though, that the dead man must be the first victim of that disease which for weeks had seemed to haunt the king and against which the Catalan was preparing a potent remedy, which was what he seemed to have understood from the sovereign’s few and reticent explanations.
Philip IV turned and shot him a grim glance. He felt that he needed to let off steam with someone, and no one was more trustworthy than Alphonse – a close relative, but more importantly, an old friend.
“Do you recognize him?” asked the king.
“No. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him.”
“I’m not surprised, Alphonse. This man spent the last fifteen years in a cloistered monastery. Where he was obliged to always wear a hood over his head, even at night.”
“Why?”
“To prevent anyone from seeing his face, Alphonse.”
“What was so terrible about it?”
“It represented a very serious danger to the stability of our dynasty,” replied Philip IV, his voice assuming a sententious tone.
“Why did you have his face cast? Death sealed it away far more effectively than any hood.”
Philip IV did not reply this time, but merely raised the death mask to his own face so that Alphonse could see it.
“It looks like you, my lord,” the Castilian murmured. “That frightens me. And it reminds me of something.”
“Of what does it remind you, Alphonse?”
“That your father, King Philip III, was not the first son of Louis IX. There was another son named Louis who was to inherit the throne. The holy king brought him up personally, and loved him more than all his other children. He left the government of France to him when he went to the Holy Land. Then Louis died suddenly – because of a stomach infection, so they said. His tomb is in the abbey of Royaumont. But whether the body that lies there is truly his, only God Almighty knows!”
Philip IV put the death mask back down upon the stone windowsill; there was a kind of relief in the slow movement of his hand.
“The sins of the fathers fall upon the children,” murmured the king. “And now France is in danger of suffering terribly because of my father’s sin, unless I can stop it!”
“Is the question related to the Catalan, sire?”
The king nodded slowly.
“Arnaldo da Villanova could save me instantly if he wanted to. But he does not want to. He rejoices at the knowledge that I am in torment!”
“I am heartbroken to hear it, Your Majesty. And the Catalan is a vile man if he does not agree to do his part to avert disaster. I can imagine the catastrophe that would overwhelm the kingdom, Majesty, if that body really was of your uncle, the dispossessed firstborn. This would mean that your father was not the legitimate ruler of France. And consequently, you would not be either. Have I guessed correctly, sire?”
Philip IV replied with a nod tha
t was neither defeat nor confirmation, then motioned for him to come closer. Now both eyes looked at the eternal features of the face in the death mask.
“What was his name?” asked Alphonse.
“Gauvain de Longwy,” the sovereign replied grimly.
“Longwy? I have heard that name before, sire. I certainly know someone who bears that surname, though in this moment I could not say exactly who.”
The king’s intense blue eyes turned a cobalt colour that recalled the ocean when a storm was looming.
“Jacques de Molay is the son of Jean de Longwy,” he said, in a tone of suppressed hatred.
“Then this Gauvain de Longwy was the brother of the head of the Templars,” Alphonse said. “Does the Grand Master know? Is he aware of these thorny details of your family?”
“It seems unlikely that he can be ignorant of them,” the king replied. “If anything, one wonders if he plans to reveal them or rather will decide to keep quiet.”
The Castilian nodded: even though there were no written laws imposing it, and it was in fact absolutely illegal to even claim it, he knew for certain that every high dignitary of the Temple had to receive the approval of the king of France before his appointment was ratified in the hierarchies of the order. The supreme chief was no exception, and that practice, which openly violated the sovereignty of the Templars, was tolerated even by the popes, since, when the last Christian bastion had fallen in the Holy Land, the greater part of the Templar patrimony had lain within the borders of France, and the order had its headquarters just outside Paris. The Temple was an autonomous city surrounded by impassable walls that was situated near the French capital, and in order to ensure a quiet life, it was necessary that the leaders of the Temple maintained good relations with the reigning monarch; it was not always possible to collaborate with one another, but it was in any case of vital importance not to step on one another’s feet.
“When he was elected Grand Master, Jacques de Molay did not have your approval. Is that right, sire?”
Philip IV frowned.
“I wanted Friar Hugues de Payraud,” he replied, “but the Templars of Cyprus supported Molay, and appealed to the privileges of the order. The Pope capitulated and confirmed his election.”
“In any case, Majesty, Brother Molay has always kept the truth about his brother secret. Nobody knows anything about it. I myself, who am privy to several state secrets, am hearing about it for the first time now.”
The king put his hand to the sword that hung from his side. An instinctive gesture against a phantom threat.
“I always came to an agreement with him, Alphonse,” he said bitterly, “I endured seeing the Templars grow in arrogance as their discipline declined ruinously year after year. They were once warriors who faced martyrdom to defend the faith, but now they are nothing but soft, greedy bankers. I have had to swallow intolerable humiliations. And what is worse, to pretend not to know what happens in their abodes.”
The grim face of the sovereign alerted Alphonse. There were many questions he wanted to ask his cousin, but he knew it would be a waste of breath. The Templars were famous for the tenacity with which they guarded their secrets, and Philip IV, who was second-born and would have become one of them himself if God had not called his elder brother to his side, would surely do the same. At the age of eight, when a dazzling career in the order of the Temple had beckoned for him, he had undertaken for some week the novitiate with them. Evidently, he knew what he was talking about.
“So you fear that the Grand Master might betray your secret, sire. But why should he? Why speak now, after keeping silent for so many years!? What would be the point of it?”
“Revenge,” murmured the king. “Molay might decide to take revenge, because I opposed his election.”
“He could have done that while Gauvain was alive.”
“But that would have meant the risk of reprisals for his brother,” said the king. “Longwy was a prisoner, but the conditions of his imprisonment were not harsh. His existence was the same as that of the other friars. Apart from the hood.”
“I understand, sire. And now that his brother is dead, Molay has nothing left to lose. He could decide to take revenge against you.”
“And he would do so with great cunning: at this moment, his denunciation would pass for an act of pure and simple fidelity to the Pope.”
Alphonse de la Cerda’s face grew alert.
“So relations with Boniface VIII are worsening?”
“They are at breaking point, Alphonse. That man is not satisfied with being the Vicar of Saint Peter, his arrogance is such that he believes himself to be God on Earth. So he tramples over the sovereignty of the other heads of state, just for the sake of seeing them crawl at his feet like worms!”
“I imagine that this is the dirty work of Monsignor Saisset,” said Alphonse, “the rebel bishop who disputes your legitimacy. The Pope defends him fiercely against you. Are you afraid that the head of the Templars now wants to join this sedition?”
The king’s face twitched with rage.
“Boniface VIII and the head of the Templars embody the worst dangers for France,” he replied, “and, unfortunately, they are too close to one another.”
He had to find a solution to prevent the calamity that was looming on the horizon. Philip IV knew it very well, and the thought of it haunted his sleepless nights. He would go to any lengths to silence those who, by speaking, could endanger his crown and throw France into chaos.
Any lengths at all. Without worrying about foolish scruples.
II
A gelid draught swirled incessantly around the room.
Sometimes it seemed that it came from the wind that howled out there in the night so furiously that it made the leading of the windows creak; other times, that glacial gust which raised goosebumps on the flesh of the arms with its slightest touch seemed to emerge from the fireplace, where the embers, at this late hour, were now dying.
In front of those embers, her face warm with the remnants of their heat and her heart frozen by a doubt, sat Queen Joan, holding out her hands towards what little remained of the reddish light. There was no one else in her room; against common practice, she did not allow the ladies of her retinue to sleep with her, in the fervent hope that her husband would join her that night.
After all, the suspicion that had crept into her, depriving her of sleep and peace, was not something she could confess to anyone. Though in truth, one pious and devoted soul who actually did care for her in the nest of vipers which was the court of France did exist.
She picked up her cloak from a bench and threw it over shoulders numb from the extended vigil then picked up a candle, and with it he went out into the corridor.
Discreet taps at the door, so soft that the ladies in waiting of Her Majesty Queen Joan did not even hear them, sunk as they were in the torpor that brings sleep to the young. Seventy-year-old Gilla di Lievroifontaines, on the other hand, who like all people of a certain age did not really sleep but passed from one light slumber to the next, raised herself on her elbows. The moonlight highlighted the whiteness of her figure, giving it an immaterial charm; so small, thin and bent by the years, with her hair wrapped in a night cap, she looked like a wise and benign elf.
“My lady Gilla,” the queen whispered softly, “come to my room, please. I need you.”
Seated before a beautiful fire, which blazed vigorously now that Her Majesty’s nurse had topped it up, the two women stared, absorbed, into the flames.
“Yes, my daughter,” said the old lady, “I have had two husbands. The first was thirty years older than me, and left me a widow after just a few months of marriage. The other was young, the same age as me. Young and vigorous.”
Overcome by modesty, the queen hesitated for a moment; she had to force herself, though, if she wanted to know.
“My lady Gilla, how long does it take for a man to…” Hesitant, she paused for a moment. “…to do certain things with a woman?”
; The puzzled nurse tried to understand what the dear girl meant.
“What are you referring to?” she asked. “When the kissing starts and a man begins to undress you, or…”.
“Or,” said Joan, cutting her off. Madame Gilla chuckled.
“Let’s see,” he began, “my first husband, poor soul, taught me very little about love. He went slowly, because of his age, and it was already a miracle if he managed to finish. As for the other one…” She paused a moment, her cheeks warmed by the pleasantness of memories. “He was young, impetuous. Sometimes, when he was overcome by passion he would throw me against the wall and lift my skirts, and his hands went everywhere. And that was when the real struggle began. He was like a river breaking its banks, if you follow me.”
“How long, Donna Gilla?”
The nurse shot her an inquisitive look. What on earth was this anxiety to know about times? And how was she even supposed to remember, all these years later? But the question seemed to be of the utmost importance to Joan, so she tried to recall.
“Those intense moments feel endless, in truth. But let’s say, the time it takes to recite the Lord’s Prayer three or four times.”
Her reply brought a shadow of profound sadness to the queen’s face. Gilla lifted her chin and saw that her eyes were moist.
“Joan, what has happened?”
The queen swallowed and forced back her tears.
“Today my husband went to the Augustinian convent,” she murmured. “Matilda was waiting for him there, in a room. They shut themselves inside alone. And they stayed there for a quarter of an hour.”
Gilla di Lievroifontaines nodded sadly.
“And you think they went there for a furtive embrace,” she said with a hint of sarcasm. “Dear girl! Do you really think a convent is the most suitable place for such antics?”
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