The Seal

by Adriana Koulias

  Her milky eyes met mine and in them something stirred, something soft and full of pain. Then it was gone.

  She gave a nod and took herself through the door to her shop and I was left sitting alone in the falling night.

  That evening I made a half-hearted attempt to enjoy the concert in the village church. Sitting beneath the great rococo dome I could think of nothing but the story of the Templars. I tried to concentrate on the young musicians, playing their masterful rendition of a piece by Vladimir Martynov, then a lone cellist who played a Bacri, but the music only served to put me in a melancholy mood. I could guess what might be in store for me tomorrow and I wondered if perhaps the old woman was not the only one who needed rest before the next part was told.

  Afterwards, I decided to walk back to the castle. The evening was cool, the air was damp and fog was descending over the village. The caterers were packing up: three men were pulling down the fold-up tables and a waitress from the little Heiling cafe across the road carried a garbage bin full of serviettes and paper plates.

  Earlier, while eating dinner at the cafe, I had asked that waitress about the old woman of the ‘bourg’ and she had told me the villagers rarely saw her. ‘She’s a witch, a heretic, that’s what the priest says. No one goes near her except tourists who don’t know any better.’

  I took the short cut through the trees and climbed to the avenue lit by lamps. Beyond the portal the great donjon stood illuminated by floodlights, stark against the night. I thought of the old woman again as I passed her dark little shop, and felt strangely despondent. I tried to recall her face, to reconstruct in my mind’s eye wrinkles and grey skin tones, but in that space where her face might clearly hang before my vision I saw only outlines, vague and indistinct, only the essence of the steel-like angularity of soul, softened by a calm, thoughtful quality of inner expression.

  The next morning I woke early with a slight headache over my brow.

  I had breakfast and went out to the portal to look for her.

  It was still early, the air smelt of dew on grass and the hazy sky was crowded with birds. There were no tourists about and the buses loaded with visitors and musicians would not start arriving for another hour.

  She was waiting with her cards once more spread out over the table, and as I came down the flinted path she looked up without a smile. I noticed a look of exhaustion in the lines around her eyes and the paleness around her lips. I felt a perplexing concern, and also a little guilt.

  When I was seated I asked her if she had slept well.

  She made a beautiful frown. ‘How can anyone sleep? Those bells from the village church wake me every night at matins . . . it is that priest! He wishes to send me to my grave . . . well, that will come soon enough!’

  I waited for her to speak and sensed she was debating on the best way to begin.

  Finally she leant close. ‘Are you ready for it in your heart?’

  I told her that I had thought of nothing else since yesterday.

  This seemed to satisfy her. ‘Good, because we are coming to a difficult part and you had best be prepared.’

  At this point she looked out to the avenue. The lime trees glowed in the broad light. ‘He is waiting,’ she said. ‘Now, where was I?’ She gave a sigh and it was deep and sorrowful. ‘Yes, of course! The arrest!’

  17

  THE ARREST

  And I saw, and behold a white horse; and he that sat on him had a bow; And a crown was given unto him: And he went forth conquering and to conquer.

  Revelation 6:2

  Friday 13 October 1307

  Thirteen days after the feast of St Remegious, on the Friday after the feast of Dionysus, the sun rose pale behind dark clouds and Guillaume de Nogaret set his golden spurs to his horse’s dappled flank and proceeded from the palace. Behind him a mountain of men moved like one predatory body, silent and watchful across the bridge they called the Grand Pont. Nogaret’s pale features showed no opinion as he led his men through the little cobbled streets wet by rain, past the Grand Chatelet, where the men from the meat guilds were preparing their stalls, and onwards towards the street of the Templars.

  In that early hour the citizens of Paris paused to observe the retinue as it passed with mild curiosity and returned to their work unperturbed. After all, the King’s men were often at the Paris Temple and not a soul suspected the mandate that resided safely in Nogaret’s hand.

  Nogaret did not smile, but inwardly he was filled with satisfaction. All arrangements had been made under the strictest confidence. Only the royal lawyers who had drawn up the letters, the notaries who had written up the copies of the arrest orders, and the lesser royal officials had known beforehand anything of the arrests. No one else was privy to the instructions sealed with the King’s seal and dispatched to royal officials, who were to proceed in groups proportionate to the number of Templar houses to arrest all persons, seize all property and mount guard. Certainly it seemed to him that this was the law at its finest moment. A triumph that was sure to see his name go down in chronicles.

  At that moment the company emerged through the portal of the Temple, moving beyond the walls of Philip Augustus, where the fields and horizons of animals and farmhouses were dissolving in a sky of pungent copper. Nogaret shielded his eyes from the rays that wounded the coolness of blue and green and pale yellow. They cast an ominous radiance upon the Temple ramparts, and he sensed the hesitation in his men; did they shake from chill, or fear?

  This thought annoyed him. The Order of the Temple, and not his men, should have much to fear, since it would soon learn it did not stand upon higher ground, it was not closer to God.

  As they neared the Temple gate, Nogaret observed the structure with some fascination. It was approximately the width of two men and the height of five, supported by twin flanking towers guarded by a drawbridge. He could give credit where credit was due – they might not be closer to God but they were good builders.

  The drawbridge was down.

  Nogaret took off his left glove and held it up as he came to the gate, a signal for the company to halt. He dismounted and proceeded with short, uncertain strides for the gatehouse door, whose dense wooden surface resounded only a little as he knocked.

  ‘Guillaume de Nogaret, Keeper of the Royal Seals, I have orders that demand you yield this gate in the name of Philip Capet, King of France.’ He held a paper up to the aperture.

  Silence fell and the retinue waited, holding a collective breath in the way an archer does the moment before he frees his arrow. A moment later there was a dissonance: the heavy iron chain was lifting the great wooden beam that barred the gate.

  Beyond the threshold the compound was gradually comprehensible beneath the cover of fog. Nogaret urged his men forward while he remained on foot, entering the enclos as the sound of hoofs and oily steps bounced from the walls. For a moment he stood inside the irregular square of the Temple in a state of concentration. Protected by enormous crenellated walls it was an extraordinary fortress – he had always thought so – with grounds large enough to hold at least two or three hundred knights together with their horses and a full retinue of squires and servants. From within they could easily defend against an army. He paced the now deserted compound as the service of lauds resounded from the great round church of stone. His guards followed him to the chapel. Nogaret noted its tower in detail and made a mental note to check it for absconders. He thought, too, of the cloisters and the refectory, the chapter room, dormitories and other communal rooms, and sent men to guard all exits in and out of the cloisters and the church. Further away, two other towers were darkened by shadows. The lesser tower was the treasury of the Temple. To the left of the church he saw the great tower of the donjon. He nodded to himself. ‘Both towers would make good prisons.’

  He stood before the entrance to the church, adorned in its symbolic sculpture, and waited for his men to compose themselves. He proved his glove and measured his next move by the sounds coming from within. He had it in
his mind that to effect maximum surprise his entrance must fall upon the words, ‘Deus qui est sanctorum splendor mirabilis . . .’ as the knights began their laudatory adoration, since their minds, having turned to things pious and lofty, would least expect what was to befall them. He permitted himself a smile.

  A moment later he burst through the great doors and headed with marked step over the threshold down the central nave now lit by a faint sun. Ignoring the pinching at his spine, he marched to the figure of Jacques de Molay whom he recognised to be standing beside his officiating priest. All singing stopped abruptly, and men looked about them in a confusion occasioned by meditation, the mystic gloom and the sudden interruption of their praise.

  Nogaret glanced around at the congregation; many of the Order’s most senior officials were present. They reached for their swords in a futile gesture since the King’s archers were poured into the place and encircled the entire group, poised with arrows at the ready. By the time Nogaret was standing before the Grand Master, the entire church was secure.

  In this state of profound concentration, Nogaret took in the Grand Master’s face. He looked for surprise, for disbelief, but found only resignation. The man’s brows met in inquiry, lips framed by a well-kept beard formed unspoken words, eyes steady.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ the Grand Master said. ‘Have you so little regard for the holy office?’

  The lawyer neither liked nor disliked de Molay. To his mind the man was merely a means to an end – the end of an Order that had outlived its usefulness. And as Guillaume de Nogaret disliked useless things, Jacques de Molay was nothing more to him than flesh awaiting a pyre.

  The lawyer let his stagnant eye rest upon the Grand Master a moment then brought the arrest order forth and began to read it aloud. He liked the resonant sound of his own voice.

  ‘A bitter thing, lamentable, horrible to think of and terrible to hear, a disgrace, detestable, wholly inhuman and foreign to all humanity has, thanks to the reports of several persons worthy of faith, reached our ears. A crime so enormous that it overflows to the point of being an offence to the divine majesty of humanity, for it is a pernicious example of evil and a universal scandal!’

  ‘This is preposterous, Nogaret,’ came the calm reply. ‘What universal scandal? What evil do you speak of?’

  Cries from the Templar delegates echoed around the church and in Nogaret’s ears. ‘Lies! Blasphemies!’

  Nogaret sighed with impatience; his gloved hand motioned for guards to seize the Grand Master and place him in chains. ‘The charge is heresy, Grand Master, heresy most heinous and foul.’

  ‘Who charges us?’ Jacques de Molay raised his chin as chains encircled his wrists. ‘We are exempt from secular laws.’

  The man’s face made a frown of Nogaret’s brows. Why does he not show more astonishment?

  ‘Who charges you? Why, the Inquisitor General, William of Paris, de Molay.’ He made his voice sound full with confident sarcasm.

  ‘He cannot arrest us without the Pope’s regard! We have our sovereignty! We are not ordinary men!’

  Nogaret made a yawn. He must get more sleep. ‘Sovereignty?’ He noticed a fleck of lint on his cloak, which he summarily flicked off. ‘When the mighty fall, they fall further and therefore lower than ordinary men, Grand Master.’

  There was a moment caught in a gasp. Jacques de Molay looked at Nogaret, and the lawyer noted what was, to his mind, a calmness that suggested anticipation.

  A feeling of unease spread from Nogaret’s temples to the backs of his eyes. Was it possible that the man had been expecting it? No . . . he would not have allowed him passage, he would have battled to the death . . . surely?

  Words came then, from out of the Templar’s mouth. To Nogaret they were no more than a whisper.

  ‘Maktub! ’ the Grand Master said.

  18

  LIGHT IN DARKNESS, WORD IN SILENCE

  That was the true Light which lighteth every man that cometh into the world.

  St John 1:9

  Jacques de Molay sat upon the stone pallet of his dungeon, whose great dark cells in better times had been used to store ale, wine, grain and other goods. A small light came through the narrow aperture that went deep into the thick stone and he could see the barest margin of blue. If he was very still he could hear the twitter of birds.

  He turned his mind then not upon his fate, which to him was plain and visible and fastened to his soul, but upon the fate of his brothers and of the terrible trials that awaited them. He thought of Marcus and the gold of the Order soon to be drowned. He thought of Etienne and his lonely task. His eyes filled with tears for all his men, sergeants, knights, priests, preceptors and commanders. He prayed that God would give him the courage he needed not only to do what was expected of him but also to bear the destiny of so many men upon his old shoulders. This thought made his breath come in labored bursts and he calmed his speedy heart against the weight that sought to pull the life from his veins. He grasped the pallet with his gloved hands and with his eyes closed tight clung to his Order’s words of consecration.

  I am in Christ. Christ lives in Me, I feel in Christ. Christ feels in me, I will in Christ. Christ wills in me.

  When he opened his eyes he had to shield them from an effulgence that, coming through the aperture, now filled the cell. A momentary thought passed through his mind as he saw it. This part of the donjon faced west and the sun could not so soon be setting. But the light would not be put off by his thoughts and continued on its journey through that meagre opening as if to push its way into him. He closed his eyes and saw the white heat of it gathering behind his eyelids. It felt to him like the fluttering of burning wings or the weightless wisp of hot snow. It took him out of himself to a place where his brows met and made a movement to his throat, seeking a path to his heart. It held him and, like that, in that space where there was nothing but the whirling of the world and the movement of stars, he felt himself like a word in the throat of God.

  He did not know how long he sat upon that cold pallet with his hands grasping at stone and his legs straining at the chains around his ankles. The sound of men behind the door brought him to his senses. The cell, he realised, was returned to its former darkness and he was once again alone with it.

  A key was turning in the lock. He thought of his old friend in Famagusta, Christian de St Armand, feeling the old leper’s spirit beside his own.

  ‘It begins . . .’ he told him.

  19

  CREDO

  These are they which came out of the great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.

  Revelation 7:14

  The Keeper of the Royal Seals cast an uncertain shadow on the grey stone of the cellar wall. Outside, the distant muffled bells rang out matins in the thick stillness of night.

  He stretched forth his arms and glanced toward that area lit by torches. Would the wretched man upon the rack never yield?

  His contemplation was disturbed by a cry and he left his stool by the fire, arching his back as he walked. His eyes reflected the charcoals and his lips moved in a friendly way around a voice that threw the stillness back into its corners. ‘Monsieur de Molay . . . You are a little thirsty perhaps? Do your arms ache? Tormentor, loosen . . .’ He waved a casual hand and the tormentor moved to release the device. ‘Let the man speak.’

  There was the sound of iron against iron and a gasp and the world was still. The sound of dripping could be heard in the corners of the dank, rectangular room.

  ‘You may speak, monsieur, if you can,’ he said, ‘we will listen . . .’

  ‘I ... thirst ... I ... cannot ... breathe ...’ Jacques de Molay’s voice was thin and his breath smelt of copper.

  Nogaret brought a cloth to his nose to dull the smell. ‘I am most grieved for you, monsieur, most grieved, and I promise you, this will continue indefinitely until you confess the truth. Others have already done so, making this, at most, a formality. These th
ings you must confess: that you have denied Christ, that you have not consecrated the host, that you worship the Devil and that you kiss new entrants on the anus on their being received into the Order. This, your own man, Esquin de Floyran, has told us. If you confess you shall have water, you may go back to the peace of your cell . . .’

  The Grand Master seemed to be summoning up what breath was left in his lungs but what came out was little more than a whisper. ‘Traitor . . .’

  ‘He tells us that you spat on our Lord’s cross! Others besides de Floyran have confessed that you urinated upon it, that you then committed sodomy together in heinous rituals.’ He rubbed his hands together. It was cold. He hated the cold. The Templar’s breath was forming visible phantoms in the air and Nogaret wondered if the King had been right about the demons. This thought made a spasm crawl over his spine. ‘Tell me,’ he said, disconcerted, ‘how you drank the urine of black cats and you shall have a measure of water.’

  Jacques de Molay was naked and covered in sweat, tears meandered into the dirty creases of his face, but he stretched his tongue over his jagged, broken teeth and said nothing.

  The lawyer sighed and moved his hands in a circular motion to indicate to the tormentor one more twist of the device. He realised that good intentions were wasted on this man.

  The Grand Master answered with a groan.

  ‘You have denied Christ, monsieur . . . Come, come, must we remain in this place for a saeculum? It is cold and there is mould upon the walls . . . it makes me wheeze,’ he said and immediately sneezed.

  The Templar whispered something, and the Keeper of the Seals gestured to his notary to come forward from out of the shadows.

  ‘Say again?’ The two had to bend an ear close to the mouth and its sharp smell to hear him.