‘Only when the moon is full, your grace.’
‘Oh,’ the man said gravely, nodding his head, and, looking up at the deeply overcast sky, added, ‘Most wise. One never knows . . . We are told of men who conjure up demons to exercise power over inquisitors. Incantations which, when recited several times, can put an enemy out of the way! Keep an eye on that Jew, preceptor. It is, after all, common knowledge that Jews are responsible for everything of a diabolical nature. Much can be attributed to their designs. Have we not all heard of the terrible acts committed in Saxony and other places, where they regularly steal the host in order to use it for their own evil purposes, causing it to cry out in agony – as it is tortured and is made to relive Christ’s sufferings – and to produce miracles of every kind!’
I gasped and my master gave the bishop a reproachful look. ‘Your grace, let us not frighten my young scribe with such stuff, none of which has been witnessed, nor proven. We all know that whenever a genuine inquiry was held into these accusations its findings always exonerated the Jewish community. A learned man should be above superstitions which occupy the feeble minds of the wretched and the poor.’
‘Indeed,’ the bishop squared his shoulders, his voice icy as the wind, ‘the fact remains, preceptor, that even those of the converted species, in their heart of hearts, reject the purity of Christianity. That is why they steal the host, and also why they kidnap Christian boys and murder them in fiendish rituals . . .’
I could see that Andre was becoming exceedingly annoyed. The bishop, not altogether dull in his senses, saw it also and changed the subject with a diplomatic flair. ‘But, of course, I sought you on another matter, a matter of utmost importance, as I have said.’ He said this last line with a flourish of his hand, and his amethyst ring flickered in my eyes dazzling me, the spell only broken by the gloom of the cloisters as we entered them through the arched aperture. Far away I heard a bird cry out, perhaps an eagle. Otherwise the day was strangely still, the air frigid and damp. I longed for a warm cup of ale to gladden my heart.
‘How may I help you, your grace?’ my master asked when it seemed that the bishop would not begin.
‘I wish to speak to you about the proceedings.’ The Benedictine paused for a moment, I believe unsure of how to broach the matter, he then placed his plump palms together in the manner of prayer and slowly, with deliberate wording, began, ‘I am deeply concerned, brother Templar, that you may not be aware of the difficulties faced by the church in these very difficult times. Indeed, the entire continent, of which France is but one small part, has been a hotbed of intrigue and I fear you may not understand the importance of our duty to the pope, in the matter of . . . in the matter of, the abbey.’
‘My lord, I am always conscious of my duty.’
‘Yes, no doubt,’ he cleared his throat, ‘but while you were away – fighting valiantly on behalf of all good Christians – many things have changed.’
‘Perhaps you should enlighten me, your grace.’
‘I shall. Firstly, as you may know, the church has been occupied with the unholy works of the guedes here in France, whose character is not unlike the Ghibellines of my own country, and whom everyone knows, seek only to fatten their coffers with the blood of Christ. They are supporters of imperialists. Helped by Louis and his brother, they collude to weaken the power of the papacy by reducing the privileges of the church and refusing to pay taxes! We must watch the fox and the wolf with diligence, lest we lose the vineyard!’ He moved his vastness in the direction of the large arches overlooking the central court, and fixed my master with a pained expression that on his face looked absurd. ‘I fear the king supports those responsible for the death of one pope – God rest his soul – and the dismemberment of Italy.’
‘I think you are confused, we are not speaking of Ghibellines, only merchant guilds, craft guilds.’
‘Ahh . . . but the king supports them, like Manfred supports the Ghibellines, because he wants power . . . Louis grows stronger by the day.’
‘But it was the pope, your grace, who handed Languedoc over to him, knowing him well enough. In return the church was promised the end of heresy. But our lord pope was wise for another reason, for he allied himself to a powerful throne, a champion, in the event that his power was once more threatened. It is after all Louis’ brother, Charles of Anjou, who stands at the ready, waiting to ensnare Frederick’s son, Manfred, before he can take up his father’s sword against the church! The pope seems to ally himself with whomever it pleases him, dear bishop. Has he not at this moment the Ghibelline Ottaviano governing northern Italy because this man’s family is very powerful in Bologna, whose geographical position is highly strategic?’
The bishop gave a grunt, perhaps because he hated Ghibellines, or perhaps because he thought that he should have been given this position. Nevertheless he defended his pontiff. ‘The pope’s designs are the concern of God, how am I to question his wisdom? However, you must concede that his supreme authority must remain flawless. How can we perform our duties when the king and the consuls continually erode our power? It is no wonder that we must find intricate and devious ways to exercise our jurisdiction . . .’ he trailed off as if to leave much to the imagination.
‘But is it not also the inquisitors that threaten your power, your grace? The Dominicans who presume to know more than the wise Benedictines.’ My master knew the antagonism that existed between the orders on this matter, and I believe he was using it as a divisive tactic.
The other man narrowed his puffy eyes, ‘Yes, there are men who unknowingly function as the enemy’s tool, but we must keep in mind our duty to the faithful. That is what is most important. For instability always leads, as is well known, to heresy. Look at Languedoc! You must remember, so many here, even those whom the church had trusted, were ‘questionable’. The battle is difficult, but all of us must fight the holy war together, even if sometimes we do not always agree as to the methods applied!’
‘No war is holy, your grace,’ my master said sadly, ‘it is only war.’
‘But you are a man of war! Do you say that the wars you have fought have not been for a holy cause?’
‘I am a Templar, a knight, but also a doctor. What I have seen has not pleased my soul.’
The bishop assessed the meaning of my master’s words and chose, for the moment, to ignore the entire matter, ‘In any case, with a new pope we may see things return to normal, we might forget the stink of the false emperor!’
‘A false emperor that was crowned by the pope.’
‘But what choice did he have? Tell me! Philip of Swabia was dead, Otto of Brunswick was an underhanded mercenary.
Frederick was his only choice. Besides, there were agreements, promises . . . He sought to lie like the Devil until crowned, and once emperor he began his campaign to establish complete imperial authority! Do not confound the truth with lies, preceptor, he was excommunicated at the council of Lyons because of his treason and you, a Templar, should have no reason to side with the likes of that fox! Did he not retain Templar property in Italy? Did he not shame your order by forming an alliance with the Saracens, managing to secure the Holy Land single-handedly, where your order and others were disastrously unsuccessful? We have seen your incompetence in your terrible defeat at Mansourah.’
My master blanched. ‘Frederick may have secured the Holy Land,’ he said with vehemence, ‘but such a bargain was procured at the expense of papal interests, as well as the interests of other European states. However, peace is peace, and I believe one has to measure the success of his diplomacy on those terms.’
‘Many have been deceived by that snake’s artful ways. Many still believe the false emperor to have walked according to truth, but it is plain to anyone that he was a devil, pretending to be a pillar of God in order to disguise his devious plans. It is common knowledge that he embarked on his crusade merely to elevate himself in the eyes of those around him. Once in Outremer, however, his zeal for sacrifice became tempered by a de
sire, nay, an obsession to serve his own interests and not the interests of the Holy See! He became infected because when you lie belly to belly with pigs you smell like pig, because sin begets sin . . . that also is common knowledge.’ Wagging a finger at my master agitatedly, as though he had forgotten something of great importance, which he was now about to impart, he said, ‘Rumours abound that your men at Acre were influenced by Cabbala and Islam, the seed of heresy! There are many who believe that your order has for too long walked a path that is not so straight.’ He moved closer in a conspiratorial way, ‘Even your dear Louis made your grand master kiss the hem of his tunic as penance for his arrogance. And then there are the rumours, which connect your order with necromancy, sorcery, and all manner of foulness, which I dare not repeat, for doing so would distress my quiescent senses. These rumours may be the result of malicious conspiracy,’ he added. ‘Nevertheless, we live in delicate times, preceptor, the memory of heresies and bloody massacres is still fresh. Do we not remember Avignonet? So much bloodshed! The new pope knows that you defended the heretics of this region, that you harboured Cathar nobles and their families, aiding murderers and adopting their doctrines . . .’
‘If you speak of women and children,’ my master said with polite hostility, ‘imperilled by blood-thirsty animals, if you mean the elderly and the infirm, then those rumours are true. We have always maintained that the only true Crusade is the one against the infidel. Must we recall the terrible crime that saw women and children massacred in the churches?’
The bishop smiled with malice. ‘The antichrist makes no distinction between sex, nor age. That is well known. And neither should those, whose place – in the divine order of things
– is to root out such loathsomeness. Kill them all! God will recognise his own!’
‘God forgive the bishop of Citeaux, I believe he did not know what he was saying when he uttered those words,’ my master said bitterly.
The bishop looked at him curiously, as though this reply was beyond his understanding. ‘The bishop of Citeaux was a practical man, as I am. Even now there still exists a stink about the place. We must stamp out any seedlings before they resurface, and we can do no better than to start with these monasteries whose influence and wealth surpasses that of any secular organisation, whose abbots feel themselves autonomous and unconstrained. These false clerics, we know, side with emperors and kings against Rome. They call secular rulers their masters, quoting our beloved St Ambrose and St Augustine and using their divine words to further their own selfish aims at independence! Praise God that the pope has commanded a review of all monastic practices in this area! It is time we root out all those who stray from the regulations of the Apostolic See.’ He then proceeded in a fraternal way, ‘Take care that your order is not next!’
‘We are sanctioned by the pope, your grace.’
‘I confess, you have been useful,’ he answered as we rounded the south walk and the scriptorium, now empty and silent. ‘But do not make the mistake of thinking that we will look the other way if your brotherhood transgresses the teachings of Christ. Consider this . . .’ He moved closer, ‘There are many who, from the start, have had misgivings about your order’s duplicity. I, for one, and many others like me, are watching you and your kind with the utmost care. St Bernard may have been your most devout advocate, but I feel sure that he looks down from the blissful non-existence of divinity, in rebuke. His valiant knights, behaving like Jews!’
‘I would hope that in heaven there is less distinction between race and creed than we find here among sinful mortals. However, if St Bernard gazes down upon our brotherhood, it is with love and approval, for it is not the Templar order that should be closely scrutinised, your grace, but all the small parishes which are in the hands of dubious priests, and perhaps the larger diocese, run by greedy bishops.’
The other man’s face matched the colour of his amethyst ring.
‘Even in his life,’ my master continued, ‘St Bernard could see avarice blooming like weeds in the hierarchies of the church.’
‘Master Templar! How dare you say such things!’
‘I am merely saying that even the faithful dog must be closely watched by the shepherd.’
There was an awkward silence. The bishop spoke then, with restrained anger. ‘The Synod of Toulouse is quite clear! And it is my duty to uphold it! It is the responsibility of all citizens to search out heretics, to root out lasciviousness and its followers, patrons or protectors. No one is exempt, as you say. Not even the Militia of Christ!’ He stared at my master, a look pregnant with unspoken hostilities, and it was then that I knew that we were being openly threatened.
‘Not even the pope himself, one hopes.’
There was another terrible pause. Incredulity did battle with dislike for supremacy on the bishop’s face. ‘The time will come, preceptor, when your order will have outgrown its usefulness. What will become of fighting monks who have lost their raison d’être? Will you continue to barter and trade, staining your hands with money and blood when it is meekness and mildness in the service of God that you should seek! Your order is no better than these irreverent monasteries. No better than this Manfred devil, for you have become a law unto yourselves. It is your own empire that you seek, autonomous, independent, owing allegiance to none other, least of all the pope. In effect, you take for yourselves a power that not even the emperor dare claim! Even kings are in awe of you! Be careful, you have made yourselves indispensable, that may be true, but you are also hated, for it is no secret that you are the bankers for every throne in Europe . . . and kings with empty coffers have very short memories!’ In an attempt to calm himself, he wiped his brow with a handkerchief and continued, ‘Remember usury is an abomination in the eyes of God and the church.’
‘Yes, usury has many names. When bishops borrow from the city consuls they call it a dono.’
‘I will not have you say such things! What impudence! Donations are necessary for the life of the church! How else could we maintain our place in the world?’
‘But our Lord, your grace, died on the cross, naked.’
The bishop’s eyes widened, irritated and bloodshot. ‘Jews and merchants line their purses with the sufferings of others. The church, on the other hand, provides fraternal service to its children! For charity, not poverty, is the basis for the perfect life. No,’ he continued, out of breath, ‘we do not pretend to be paupers, nor do we live a sybaritic life! And although there is pride in wealth, preceptor, there is also pride in poverty! A hypocrite stands before me preaching the value of poverty when it is no secret that your Paris preceptory holds treasures beyond comprehension!’
‘What we have accumulated for services beneficent to the countries we inhabit is used to maintain our militia, so that we may best serve the pope, and so, naturally, God. And if you speak of charity, no other order has such strict charitable obligations as the Templar order, my lord.’
The bishop laughed, ‘You make an excellent diplomat, preceptor, I can see why the king holds you in such high esteem. Your tongue is smooth and obviously illuminated by learning. I hear Alexandria, where you were born, preceptor, is the centre of heretical learning. I am told it is a hotbed of gnostic wisdom, cabbala, sufism and all manner of sin.’
‘It is a great place of learning, your grace, as you have said. As a matter of fact, the Christians of Alexandria were foremost in interpreting the ascetic teachings of the early fathers, the founders of the monastic life.’
‘So you say, because you are half infidel, preceptor, and I begin to wonder which half of you takes precedence.’
‘The half that counts, your grace.’
The other man looked at him blankly, ‘Yes, and yet, was it the Christian half or the infidel half that was compelled to leave the university of Paris? Perhaps you thought you could hide your past from us? Your strange methods were not considered . . . shall I speak delicately? Your methods were not considered pious. Today you might be burnt at the stake for such transgres
sions. In any event,’ he paused, savouring his words, ‘after so many years you do not seem to have learnt the error of your ways. Remember the maxim? Chil paist, chil prie, et chil deffent.’
‘This man labours, this prays and that defends . . .’
‘Precisely . . . Listen to me, this is not your war, return to your preceptory, leave the work of rooting out the disembodied enemies of the faith to the inquisitor!’
‘I cannot do that, your grace.’
The man sat down on a stone bench facing the central garth and sighed, suddenly tired. ‘What has happened to the world? All over Europe Christians struggle with Christians, heresy sprouts up to poison the calm waters of wisdom . . . In truth, politics do not interest me, it is not my concern if the classes struggle one with the other, that is the king’s business. Only when it affects the morals of my community, only then does it come under my authority. In such cases, mark my words well, I would use all the power afforded me to see to it that the laws of the church are upheld whatever the cost! I will not allow patricians, nor indeed these defiant monasteries, nor even the privileged classes, to cause the ruination of the faith of my community.’
‘But what is faith to a man who does not make distinctions between right and wrong, but simply between living and dying?’
The bishop shook his head stubbornly. ‘I do not profess to know the solutions to all things, preceptor. I am a simple man, unlike you . . . however, even you must not fall prey to pity. You must rather see through the disguise of poverty and obedience to what lies secret, and obscure. Namely, greed and wealth!’
The bell tolled and my master helped the bishop to his feet.
‘Tell me, how is your friend Jean de Joinville on his return from the Holy Land? I believe he has become quite the hero fighting alongside the king.’
‘I believe he is well, recuperating after some four years at the hands of the infidel,’ my master replied.
‘Hmm . . . the battle of Mansourah, a terrible thing. So many men captured, so many dead . . . but you and your squire escaped?’
TEMPLE OF THE GRAIL - a Novel Page 17