At the same moment he was struck by a realisation that sent a shudder from his fingertips down to the manicured toes in his soft-soled shoes. I too am a fugitive, in peril of my life! Then, because he was filled with a sudden vexation, he clapped his hands and shouted at his attendant, ‘More fuel! More fuel!’
Clement watched the servant leave and, having calmed himself, pushed his plate aside and stood, gesturing to a chair placed before the hearth. This interruption afforded him the opportu¬nity to construct his face into an agreeable mask.
The Pope’s chair was augmented by cushions and upon these he sat with regal consideration, arranging his robes and smoothing the garments over his middle. Glancing upward from this preening he found Jacques de Molay staring at him with a strange wildness. The Pope shifted. Why, he thought, the man knows that he was summoned not for a discourse on a union of Orders. He knows and there is . . . what? Resignation? Hatred? What is written into the lines of that face?
Clement’s own went blank and he chose a friendly tone. ‘What do you think of my prison?’
The Templar was silent and took to watching the fire.
Clement arranged his face into a smile. ‘The Italians hate me and drive me from Rome, you know, and Philip loves me so well he should like me at his side in Paris.’ His mouth turned upward on one side with cynicism. ‘Such extremes of love and hate! Such extremes have made me twice exiled. Neither here nor there . . . I should think that on this matter, Grand Master, we speak the same language, you and I.’
Jacques de Molay observed this with a rising of the brow. ‘The language of the exiled, your Holiness?’
‘Quite so.’
‘Permit me to say that our Order is only exiled from its duty until a Crusade is called to regain the Holy Sepulchre of our Lord.’ He accentuated it with a significant look. ‘If your Holiness would endorse one, perhaps the princes would look upon it.’
The Pope smiled deferentially. ‘Quite so.’ He was preoccupied for a moment with the neatness of that beard which caught the light from the fire and seemed to throw it back. ‘And there lies the problem precisely,’ he added.
The Grand Master sat back, stiff, so it seemed, like a fox. It was a moment before he spoke. ‘You will not call for a Crusade?’
‘Oh, you know the answer to that, Jacques!’ Clement moved forward, and once he had made his voice low and confidential he continued. ‘The feeling is . . . that a Crusade is out of the question.’ He let this remain loose in the air between them.
The Grand Master nodded. ‘I had thought as much.’
The Pope narrowed his eyes. ‘Well then, do you know what awaits you in Paris?’
‘Enemies, my lord?’
‘Enemies, yes . . . when you are among the princes of the royal blood of France, be vigilant, Jacques. In the same way Philip would have me at his side, he would have you at his. And it is not for love but for advantage.’
Jacques de Molay nodded. ‘The princes of the blood do not recognise the sovereignty of the Order . . . I am awake to that.’
Clement raised a plucked brow. ‘Good! Then you know that Philip is in league with . . . others, who in no way less vehemently plot against you . . . The rumours are circulating regarding spies . . .’
‘Certainly,’ Jacques said in a tone that Clement thought easier said than felt. ‘But, my Lord Pope, I am used to plots and intrigues.’
The Pope smiled. Inside he was furious – a cat despoiled of his rat. He tried another approach. ‘Well you may be used to plots and intrigues, my dear Jacques, but these are hatched by members of your own Order.’
‘The bankers are nervous, they do not know which way I shall go. Perhaps they wish to encourage me this way or that . . .’ Jacques de Molay’s eyes flickered and his mouth moved in an odd smile. ‘They mean to turn the Temple into a bank, and I mean to stop them.’
How could the man have figured it all out? The Pope smiled brightly. ‘But while you have been away, at Cyprus, Grand Master, a bank is precisely what your Order has become. How is that to be stopped?’
The firelight grew low then and the Pope hugged his robes and mumbled under his breath, ‘Where is that wretched servant, the flame dies!’ Then, ‘There is wine on that buffet, Jacques, pour some for the two of us, and bring me those chestnuts. I like chestnuts but they do devilry to my guts.’
The Templar went to the buffet. When he returned he handed a cup of spiced wine to Clement and at his behest threw the chestnuts into the fire. He sat down in his chair, observing the Pope, and took a thoughtful taste of his wine.
‘See how I pamper myself ?’ Clement said. ‘Venison, quail, spiced wine and chestnuts . . . all the foods appropriate to the colder months.’ He set the glass down and glanced a long moment at him. ‘You see this luxury, this finery and you think me a man of power, Grand Master, but you must remember that like you I am in exile, living opposite the King’s palace, with enemies ensconced in the hems of my robes. Like you my adversaries are everywhere! My servants, my advisers, my subjects, they are even in my own curia! All you eat here has been previously tasted, the wine, the food . . . I dare not close my eyes when asleep, Jacques, for fear of assassination. We cannot forget that once a pope was assaulted in his own palace by a king’s man!’ He threw Jacques de Molay a look. ‘Such a man, such a pope, as I am forced to be, can do little to support you . . . it is all I can do to prevent the downfall of the Church!’
The Grand Master went once more to the buffet, filled his cup with wine and drank it down in one gulp.
The Pope sipped, glancing over the rim at the Templar. ‘What will you do?’
‘Do, your Eminence?’ asked de Molay, torn from his thoughts.
‘With the gold and the titles, the archives?’
The Grand Master blinked.
‘What shall I do with them?’ he repeated.
The Pope gave him a paternal grin. ‘I suggest you hand them over to the Holy See for safekeeping, we don’t want Philip to get his hands on them.’
The Grand Master set down the glass and stood before the fire. ‘I cannot, your Holiness, I am pledged to their safekeeping for the Holy Land.’
‘The Order shall not endure.’ Clement was trying to hide his vexation. ‘You are released from holding to your pledge by this very fact.’
‘With respect, if it is the will of God that the Order not endure, then, your Holiness, the gold shall not outlast the Order.’ He hunted down Clement’s eyes. ‘It shall be used for no other purpose than for the recovery of our Lord’s Sepulchre.’
The Pope moved forward with a spontaneity that barely kept him from toppling out of the chair. ‘What arrogance! What are you implying, Grand Master? Of course it shall not be used for any other purpose! We shall keep it safe until, well, until a favourable time! Anyway, in what sense do you mean it shall not outlast the Order?’
‘In the sense that it shall be delivered into God’s hands.’
‘What?’ He lost his temper. ‘Are you planning some mischief, de Molay?’
At that moment the attendant returned with more wood and made smoke fill the room until the logs were adjusted and began to burn with determination. The Pope waved his servant out impatiently and waited for a response. He pondered that face full of devotion, hope and faith. He was full of disdain for it.
‘Answer me, Jacques!’ he said when they were alone.
Jacques de Molay took in a breath. ‘The good gold of the Order shall be safely stowed away, your Holiness. That is what has been agreed to by the hierarchy of the Order in Cyprus.’
Clement’s face reddened and moved with scorn. ‘Your folly will allow the gold to fall into the pit of Philip’s coffers! Or into the hands of the Hospitallers, whose tempers are impatient for your demise! They are here in Poitiers waiting . . . and in Paris . . . waiting. They have spies . . . nothing you do goes unnoticed!’
‘Yes . . . the Order of Hospitallers is no friend to the Temple, and, your Holiness, what has been decided is decided.’
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‘Without consultation with the dignitaries in France?’
‘These things are always decided in the Holy Land, in this case Cyprus.’
Something, a spark, jumped out of the fire, bounced onto the hearth and turned black. Clement leant over and picked up the chestnut, juggling it from one hand to the other. ‘Well.’ The man sat back, peeling it until his fingers were charcoal, then he popped it into his mouth and his eyes grew cold. ‘It appears that our interests are opposite, Grand Master. I had hoped,’ he said chewing, ‘to salvage something from your Order, but I see that you are determined on your own destruction and the obliteration of everything . . . Will you have me order you to hand the gold over to the Church?’
Another chestnut shot out of the fire and rolled over the hearth, landing near the Grand Master, who caught it in his hand not noticing how it burnt.
‘You will need to consult with your cardinals, your Holiness,’ Jacques de Molay said with a bow but there was defiance in his voice.
Clement was furious now for he knew the man to be right – he was a pope with more enemies than friends. His brow furrowed. ‘Let us see . . . I shall think on it.’ Then, ‘Tomorrow we shall meet with Grand Master Fulk of the Hospital, it shall be a long day and you need your rest after your tiresome journey, I will bid you a good night.’
He gestured for the Templar and offered his ring. The Grand Master went down on one knee before him and pressed his lips to the jewel, remaining with head bowed for a time. He stood and was about to leave when Clement called out to him.
‘Wait!’ he said. ‘Wait . . .’ Then in a whisper, ‘Come closer . . . I will tell you something . . .’ When he was satisfied that Jacques had come close enough he continued, ‘Something I know concerning the spiritual secrets of the order . . .’
‘Secrets?’ Jacques de Molay took in a sharp breath.
Was that fear caught in his throat? Clement was suddenly full of satisfaction. ‘It was vouchsafed to me by Pope Boniface, his knowledge comes from an Inquisitor, a Rainerio Sacconi . . . If you are not careful, Jacques,’ he said, ‘Philip will soon have other designs besides taking the Temple’s gold . . . the temporal goods of the Order shall become secondary to him. Think for a moment of the consequences. He shall seek most vehemently and most violently . . . he shall desire with all his heart the spiritual goods that you so heroically guard. Mark what I say.’ He stared cold and grave into that Templar eye. ‘These he shall covet most of all!’
The Grand Master, the Pope knew, would not easily recover from this new and sudden fear and he sat back satisfied. ‘Firstly, he shall appropriate what you hold so tight to your heart, and secondly, he will exterminate your Order until nothing of it exists . . . do you understand me?’ His black eyes held those pale ones. ‘He will stop at nothing to destroy even the smallest remnant so that in times to come no man shall remember the Order of the Temple of Solomon save what history tells, namely, that it was guilty of heresy.’
Jacques de Molay’s mind seemed held fast by that word as if through its utterance an unspeakable picture began to rise in his eyes. He stared, the Pope fancied, like a child that is stabbed by his own father.
‘Now you understand me perfectly, Jacques . . . These last months Philip has been scheming, asking questions, raising doubts about the Order’s doings . . . all of it a prelude to one thing: the complete extermination of the Order and the appropriation of its goods! Now.’ He paused. ‘Is there nothing you would tell me?’
To Clement an invisible membrane descended over Jacques de Molay’s eyes at that moment. ‘All that is left to us is faith in our Lord and hope for His Kingdom. If I may, your Holiness, bid you goodnight . . .’ He bowed.
Clement’s face darkened and he was once again full of anger. He felt no sympathy for the old man standing before him with his shoulders square and his eyes sunken and sleepless. Clement could see in his mind’s eye what lay in store for him at the hands of Philip the Fair and he felt an impatience for it to begin.
‘God bless.’ He made the sign of the cross with a blackened hand and stifled a burp with the other.
‘Maktub,’ said the Grand Master and, seeing the question in the eyes of his pope, elucidated. ‘It means: it is written.’
12
THE KEEPER
Be thou faithful unto death and I will give thee the crown of life.
Revelation 2:20
Etienne dreamt he was flanked by priests who bore torches. They accompanied him through corridors made of stone to a crypt supported by four pillars. In the middle of the room the sarcophagus of marble was supported by two sphinxes; he looked into its depths and the priests, oiled, fasted and purified, began their chant. He was dressed in white robes and smelt of aromatic herbs. He knew this to be the day of his living death.
The voices of the priests faded into a darkness lit only by one light. The sanctuary door was closed. He entered the tomb. Inside it was cold and his body ached and fell numb. The light was extinguished then, and he was alone.
A terrible fear overcame him as he felt his body lifted up.
Then a voice came from the darkness and asked him,
Who is this Lord of Terror?
His spirit spoke the spell. ‘It is the Keeper of the Bend of Amentet.’
Who is this Keeper?
‘He keeps me from the knowledge of the heart of Osiris who is the father of the One who was bidden to rule among the gods on the day of the union of Earth with the Sun.’
Who is it this One?
‘He who was bidden to rule among the gods is Horus, the son of Isis.’
Where have you come from, neophyte?
‘From the darkness.’
Where shall you go?
‘Towards the light.’
Etienne awoke with a sudden rush as if he had been drowning and were only now reaching air. He sat up disoriented.
He was in darkness and in his ear a voice.
It was Jacques de Molay, his Grand Master, stooping over him with eyes wild, whispering, ‘Hist!’ and with a finger to Etienne’s mouth and a jerk of the head he said, ‘Gather your things, Etienne, you leave tonight.’
‘Leave?’ Etienne was shaking out the dream and taking hold of his senses. ‘What of Paris?’
Into Etienne’s ears the Grand Master whispered, ‘You will not come to Paris, you and Jourdain will travel disguised. Soon I shall send word to Tomar . . . Marcus is to take the Eagle out to the sea . . .’ He paused like a man who has bewildered himself, as if the words had escaped his grasp and would not return without effort. ‘Out to the sea,’ he said, ‘he is to take the good gold of the Order, Etienne, the titles, and the archives, and he is to drown them. He is to drown them in the sea.’
Etienne’s tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth and he passed a hand over his brow as if to dispel the vision of it. ‘Into the sea?’ The words felt strange in his mouth. ‘The meeting did not go well . . . we are forsaken?’
The Grand Master was stiff and out of breath; he jerked his head and Etienne could see nothing of it save the beard and a reflection in the eyes. ‘The King wishes to bury his hands in our Lord’s gold, Etienne. He wishes to draw power from ownership of our titles and all that is possessed in our archives. In the King’s hands these goods shall no longer serve the spiritual life, but shall become a bulwark to shore up his greed . . . I have long known his heart, but this night I have learnt more . . . Clement is on the scent of something else . . . something . . . far greater and more dangerous in the hands of Philip than the treasure of the Order, and it shall give him more power than all our titles and holdings . . . If we do not hurry, we shall not be in a position to prevent what will come from the two of them.’
Etienne mustered his attention. ‘You wish me to leave you in danger . . . to what end?’
Jacques de Molay silenced him. ‘I am still the Grand Master and I can look after myself. And as for you? What lies before you shall not be so tame as you imagine.’ He paused a moment, removing som
ething from his belt. ‘You must take this . . .’ He handed him something in the darkness. ‘A token of my esteem. It was given to me by a brother long dead . . . There is a legend attached to it, it is a skull dagger brought back from a place known only to our ships, a new world whose position is not marked upon any map. It has served me well and will serve you also, when the time comes.’
Etienne took the dagger, heavy and sharp in his hand.
‘Oh Etienne! I remember receiving you into the Order . . . you were only a boy! Even then did I know that heaven would find a use for you, and so in my heart I have put you beyond all others . . . now it is made clear to me the aim which heaven, in its wisdom, has prepared for you . . .’ There was a movement in the darkness and Etienne’s other hand was taken by the Grand Master and something cold and round was passed into it.
‘What is this?’ Etienne said, looking at it.
The Grand Master was in his ear. ‘The sovereign seal of the Order.’
Etienne stared into the dark at the form of his Grand Master, and he could not speak since his mouth was dry and his tongue would not form words. He could hear his heart drumming out his life in small measures. He needed to wet his mouth.
‘Listen Etienne!’ Jacques said stark into his ear. ‘You will take it from this place, and away.’ His head shook with an intensity held back by the silence of his voice. ‘This shall be the last order you receive from your Grand Master. And it shall be the last time we see one another in this life.’
Etienne let his head hang back and tried to think of some word to turn around this strangeness but found none. If Jourdain had been here he would have thought of something.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said, bewildered.
The Grand Master let out a breath and it seemed to Etienne that in that one breath lay pain and sorrow and years that exhausted faith. ‘This holy creature is more than a seal upon our secret documents, it is more than a mark of my sovereignty. The memory of its task has not been known, and should remain so. You must find for it a dark, quiet place in which it can rest, forgotten. Men are by nature not more than animals when they see something that is to their advantage. You are my deputy, and on the surface you and I have shared the same seal; mine, however, has a hidden compartment. The Sacred Seal lies beneath, made of brass and iron. Do not look upon it for it shall steal into your heart.’
The Seal Page 10