The Devil's Bed

by Doug Lamoreux

  “This is Hugh de Payens,” Trevelyan said, “a deeply religious man; and the father of the Templar knights.”

  He seemed to be looking past the portrait. To another century, Brandy wondered? Maybe he was a romantic after all.

  “In the twelfth century,” Trevelyan continued, “Crusaders captured Jerusalem from the Moslems. But it was a strange victory. For, after the Christians fought their way in and took their prize, they were trapped, completely surrounded by their enemies.”

  The priest drew several ponderous volumes from an overloaded bookcase.

  “Then, in 1188, Payens, with eight of his closest friends, began the Order of the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon; what we have come to know as the Knights Templar. They dedicated their lives to seeing Christians safely in and out of the Holy Land through hostile territory.”

  Trevelyan thumbed one of the books. He turned it on the desk, showing his guests a picture of a hand-painted disc decorated with two Templar knights, bearing white shields with red crosses, riding together aboard a single horse. The image was encircled by a Maltese cross and a phrase in Latin.

  “Sig-il-lum…” Brandy stuttered, giving it a try.

  “Sigillum Militum Xpisti,” Father Trevelyan said. “The seal of the soldiers of Christ.”

  “Why only one horse?”

  “It's symbolic of the Order's early poverty.”

  He stared at the photo, lost in thought. “Many knights, afire with religious fervor, joined. They organized and rapidly grew in number. Payens became the first Grand Master of the Knights of the Temple and, for years, he and his men were regarded as Holy. They were monks but also excellent soldiers. Templar fortifications sprang up in England, Spain, Portugal, here in France. They became the main support for Christians in the Holy Land. The church showered privileges on them. Wealthy nobles who did not join gave the knights property and money. Ironically, the members took a vow of poverty while the Order grew rich. They became bankers, even loaning money to kings, and this wealth would eventually cause their downfall.”

  Trevelyan opened the other book, leafed through several pages and sadly said, “I'm going to tell you an awful story.”

  Nineteen

  “For one and a quarter centuries the Templars held a position of power and respect throughout Europe and the world; with the Church and the King. But that came to an end on 13 October, 1307. It began with a long, desperate ride south from Paris for Jacques de Molay,” Trevelyan said, “the last man to hold the title of Grand Master of the Templar Knights.”

  The priest's passion carried his listeners with him – seven centuries into the past.

  Molay was a contradiction as he rode. In appearance, he was a resplendent Father Christmas; a bald dome wreathed in long white hair, dark eyes in a red, breathless face behind a great gray beard and mustache. In costume, he was a shining knight; a white tunic emblazoned with a black cross over a hauberk of chain mail, a white cloak with a matching black cross and a gray over-cloak pinned with gold at his throat. In manner, he was intimidation on horseback; one hand on the reins, the other gripping a brown leather belt from which depended a dagger on his right and, on his left, a scabbard holding his black banded, golden handled sword of the Savior. A racing contradiction, with the heart and soul of a Saint and the boiling temper of a demon.

  Molay was a heartbroken man spurred on by angry determination. The fields, the hills, the miles faded behind. His mount climbed the rocky Languedoc countryside. The keep of the Château de la liberté appeared in the distance and, finally, towered above. There had been rumblings of decadence and evil among members of their secret Order for years; rumors of witchcraft, human sacrifices and Black Masses at the Paradis stronghold. Jacques de Molay, a godly man, would end this nonsense for good.

  “Lower the bridge,” Molay called, riding the edge of the castle's dry moat. His call went unanswered and he had to rein in his horse. The animal cantered, panting, in need of rest. Molay steadied him. “Lower the bridge!”

  A single silver helmet finally appeared in the gate tower window. The guard stuttered fearfully, “I'm s-sorry, m'lord. I c-c-can not.”

  “Comment. What do you mean, you can not?” Molay stood in the stirrups, a trick for a big man, steadying his mount. “Do you not recognize me?”

  Even at that distance, the air was redolent of terror. “M-my master has o-ordered no one… be given entrance… during services.”

  “Services!” Molay hollered in disgust. Molay had to steady the animal again. “I am your master! You serve my Order! And I command you in the name of our Savior, and in the name of his Holiness the Pope, lower the bridge… and give me entrance!”

  Another moment elapsed. Then with a grating of gears, the shifting of timbers and the resonance of ropes stretched to their limit, the windlass was set into operation. The drawbridge dropped into place across the dry moat. The Grand Master spurred his mount and crossed the bridge.

  Molay rode into the courtyard, dismounted and strode angrily up the steps to the chapel. He inhaled to steel himself and pushed the door open. The squealing hinges echoed as he barged through the vestibule. He pulled up short in the nave, alone. The chapel was empty. “What in the name of God is going on here?”

  A squire, holding the reins of Molay's wandering horse, looked up shaking when he saw the chapel door open.

  “Where is Francois de Raiis?” Molay demanded, descending the steps. Raiis, a name once respected and now feared, was the knight in charge of Castle Freedom.

  “Conducting services, Master,” the boy said. “He has ordered…”

  Molay stuck his dagger in the lad's face. He shook with anger but, breathing deeply, stayed his hand. Squires were not members of the Order; they were outsiders hired by contract. Whatever was happening here was not this boy's fault. Molay reminded himself but his patience was wearing thin. “I will not hear his rite called a service again,” he said through clenched teeth. “Where is Francois de Raiis?”

  A moment later, Jacques de Molay burst into the foyer of Castle Freedom. His entrance startled two chaplains and a sergeant talking by the keep staircase. The sergeant left the others and rushed forward. Drawn from the lower strata of society, the sergeants were the Order's working class, performing the menial tasks of life in service of the knights. As he closed the distance to the Grand Master, the sergeant threw up a hand, calling, “Arrêtez-vous, s'il vous plaît!”

  Molay drew his sword and, without breaking stride, swung mightily. With a sickening thwack, the sergeant's head somersaulted off his shoulders. His corpse stood for an instant, a macabre fountain spurting blood, then crumpled. Its brown mantle settled in the crimson pool on the floor and its black tunic, bearing the red cross, floated over it like a pall. Without a glance at the mortified chaplains, Molay strode across the foyer toward the curved staircase to the dungeon. The Grand Master descended and, at the base of the stairs, forced one of the thick doors open.

  Molay stared - stunned.

  Benoit Lambert, Castle Freedom's senior chaplain, was an ordained priest entrusted with the spiritual needs of the resident Templars. And who better? Benoit literally meant 'blessed'. He stood on the far side of the dungeon in flickering torchlight, beneath a brilliantly colored, Ankh-emblazoned pall, before a makeshift altar. But nothing about the scene was blessed by any heavenly deity.

  Francois de Raiis stood at Lambert's side with blood dripping from his lips down the front of his mantle.

  Five knights, their backs to Molay, stood in a semi-circle before their leaders. Two gulped hungrily from gold chalices as blood ran down their chins. Then, their teeth and tongues coated in blood, they passed the vessels to the knights beside them.

  Lambert raised his hands and prayed, “Lord Satan, we thank thee for accepting this pathetic sacrifice and, in your mercy returning unto us, this, your key to immortality. Oh, Lord of Flies, Ah-mon.”

  The knights, spewing blood, called back the blasphemous, “Ah mon.”

&n
bsp; And then, on the opposite side of the dungeon, Molay saw the sacrifice of which Lambert had spoken. A young woman, in a horrid parody of the crucifixion, was tied on a large inverted cross. Her clothing was ripped away. She was mutilated, dead.

  Jacques de Molay gasped. “In the name of God!”

  Raiis saw the Grand Master in the door. “Dare I welcome you, old friend?”

  “Welcome me? Welcome me!”

  “I thought not.” Raiis wiped the blood from his chin with his cloak - smearing it. Then he spoke with resignation. “You have no place here, Molay.”

  Molay was aghast. His lips trembled but nothing succeeded. What could be said?

  Raiis stepped down. His knights, their raiment splashed in the peasant girl's blood, formed a line behind their master and their makeshift sanctuary.

  Sanctuary, dear God! Molay's mind reeled. There was no sanctity here; nothing sacred. “Blasphemers,” Molay sputtered, finding his voice. “Idolators.”

  Still carrying the sword with which he'd killed the sergeant, Molay advanced on the cruciform and cut the leather bindings holding the girl. He eased her body to the floor. He bent to her, his tunic marred by her blood, crossed himself and whispered the beginnings of an “Our Father.” Suddenly aware of his jeopardy, he stood facing the dark knights.

  “Murderers!” he shrieked – and ran at them.

  Startled and off guard, Raiis, Lambert and his knights scattered. Molay swung his sword at the altar knocking the chalices away. Blood flew and soaked his tunic. He shoved the altar over. He cut the pall down and threw it to the floor. He turned on the knights – his eyes shot with anger.

  Then, for the first time, Molay saw his student and friend, Geoffrey de Charney, among the blasphemers with drying blood splashed down his chin. “Charney!” he cried. He passed his hand over his disbelieving eyes. “I've… been… blind.”

  “You are blind, Molay,” Raiis said with a cruel laugh. “Blinded your whole life by the pitiable biddings of an aging Pope and his dead god. Open your eyes! Know the sweetness of perversion!”

  Molay, shaking with anger, lifted his sword toward Raiis. “Knights of the Order, godly men, are being arrested across Europe. You've brought this upon us!”

  Shouts arose in the stairway beyond the chamber; the clash of swords, running feet. The doorway to the chamber was suddenly filled with armed and armored men, the soldiers of the King.

  The Templar knights pulled their swords and looked to Raiis in questioning fear. Raiis raised his hand, staying theirs, and turned defiantly to the soldiers. Molay, soaked in blood like the blasphemers, stood wide-eyed in shock.

  The leader of the soldiers, shaking at the sight before him, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Steady again, he stepped hesitantly forward. He identified himself, drew out a parchment, and read, “Jacques de Molay, in the name of King Philip IV of France, I arrest you and your Knights of the Temple. The charge is heresy, practicing Black Magic and worshipping the devil.”

  Twenty

  “The Templars were arrested. All of them; including Molay.” Trevelyan said. He stood behind his desk, running his hand across the surface of the bell, staring seven hundred years into the past.

  Brandy studied the priest. She understood grief, God knew, but for someone simply relating history the Father's sorrow seemed almost ludicrous. Still, she said nothing as he resumed his story.

  “It was a terrible day. One hundred and forty Templars across Europe, many here in France, were arrested for consorting with the devil.” He sat. “Because the Templars had always been so secretive many believed the charges. Others owed them money and knew, if the Order was disbanded, they would not have to repay their debts. They supported the authorities.”

  “On 14 March, 1310, a trial was begun in Paris. The Articles of accusation were read and each knight found himself facing 127 charges. Pierre de Bologna and Renaud de Provins appeared for the defense. Under the false impression their clients might receive justice, they went before the trial commission to secure their rights. They demanded full disclosure of gathered evidence. They demanded witnesses be banned from discussing the case. They demanded the proceedings be kept secret until put before the Pope.”

  “In answer, the Archbishop of Sens, disbanded the commission, took over the trial as sole judge, and burned fifty-four Templars at the stake. Then he summoned Pierre and Renaud. You will not be surprised to hear the lawyers failed to appear. They were caught trying to escape Paris and were made to confess to heresy. There would be no justice. The Templars would be found guilty.”

  Including the knights of Castle Freedom.

  The Archbishop sat at the bench surrounded by the empty seats that once held the commission. The Templars were led before him in chains. One of his Cardinals, acting as clerk, intoned in a reedy voice, “Francois de Raiis, you stand accused of heresy and practicing the Black Arts.” Then he read the charges, a stomach churning list of ungodly acts, and passed the indictment to the judge.

  The Archbishop looked over his crooked spectacles. “How do you plead?”

  Too far away to spit, Raiis merely laughed and said, “To hell with you.”

  With the same disregard for the judge's authority each of Raiis' knights pled the same. All were found guilty. All sentenced to death.

  “Because of his exalted position, Jacques de Molay was tried separately,” Trevelyan said. “With no evidence he was involved in any Black Rites, no evidence of heresy, he was finally accused of participating in secret ceremonies. (The Templars held their initiations privately and at night.) This allowed the court to intimate guilt for 'unspoken evils'. It was the only charge ever levied at him.”

  “Molay was questioned, and by that I mean tortured, until he confessed. With that confession, the Grand Master convicted all of the Templars. He was forced to repeat it before the University of Paris. And, a month later, ordered to confess again before a Cardinal sent by the Pope. This was the last disgrace. Molay refused and recanted. And so, despite never having been charged with heresy, he was returned to his cell, the same as that of Raiis and his knights, to await trial as a relapsed heretic.”

  “I don't understand,” Brandy said. “This all happened in Paris?”

  Trevelyan blinked behind his magnifying glasses. “Ah, eh, oh, you're referring to Fournier's tour. Eh, Sorry, you've been, what's the American phrase… sold a load of goods. Though the setting is real, eh, I mean, er, Castle Freedom is an actual Templar stronghold, the tour is fright and fiction. The knights were arrested here, but they were imprisoned and tried in Paris.”

  “And the executions?” It was the first time she'd spoken since their introductions and Aimee caught the priest off guard.

  “Eh, er, yes,” Trevelyan said, still blinking like an owl. “On 19 March, 1314, following seven years of brutal imprisonment, Molay, Raiis and his six knights were brought from the dungeons to the eastern side of the Ile de la Cite, before the people and the cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris for execution.”

  “The cathedral, begun one hundred and fifty years before, was still under construction. But the western facade, the main entrance, had been completed and the grand twin towers rose triumphantly above the city square. A dais, upon which the heretics would be executed, was erected at the foot of the church steps, before the massive doors; the portals of the Virgin, the Last Judgment, and St. Anne.”

  The clerk stepped forward, waved for the silence of the excited onlookers, and inquired, “Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of this disgraced Order, you stand before the King, the Church, the court and the people as a convicted heretic; already dead and damned in the sight of God. His Holiness, Pope Clement V, through his representative, the Archbishop of Sens, offers you a last chance at redemption. Will you now, publicly, renounce Satan and confess your iniquities?”

  Molay couldn't do it. No one was more aware he was going to die than he, but he could not repeat the lies he'd been made to utter under torture. He could not confess to blasphemies he hadn't comm
itted. He had proudly worn the Templar arms; the symbol of their dedication to martyrdom. Could he fail that dedication now?

  “My only sin,” Molay said, “was lying… to save myself from torture. The Order of the Knights of the Temple, with the exception of these men, is innocent.”

  The crowd, hundreds strong, jeered.

  “I have served the Lord faithfully.”

  Their derision escalated; boos and catcalls.

  “I have carried the sword of the Savior…”

  The executioner, known only as Fasset and only for his icy demeanor, knocked Molay to his knees. He would have hit him again, but the Templar called out to the Archbishop. He begged that his hands be retied, before him, that he might pray, and that he be secured to the stake facing the Cathedral.

  The Archbishop conceded. Molay's request was honored. Then Fasset brought forward a lighted torch.

  The end had come. All Molay could do was stare at the flickering light and cry out, “I will hope in the resurrection.”

  “I will hope in the resurrection?” Brandy repeated, unable to hide her disappointment. “That was the evil curse?”

  “Oh, er, ah, no. According to legend, and mind you it's only apocryphal, it was Francois de Raiis who leveled the Templar curse.”

  As the Grand Master claimed salvation, Raiis screamed at Molay:

  “Shut up, you damnable coward.”

  The Archbishop signaled Fasset and the executioner approached the condemned Raiis.

  “The Pope and the King will pay for their conspiracy,” the Templar screamed, spittle flying from his lips. “By year's end, Clement and Philip will meet each other in death!”

  “With you!” Fasset shouted, drawing laughter from the crowd.

  “No!” Raiis stared wildly at the executioner. “We will not die. We will return from the grave to have our vengeance on all of you. We will kill all of you!” Then he laughed maniacally.