The Seal

by Adriana Koulias

  ‘All my life,’ he heard his voice as distant and resonant, ‘I have struggled against the Devil, de Molay.’ He bent his eye upon the Grand Master’s unconscious body. ‘And you?’ he said to it. ‘You have warred against the infidel all your life, and now your fight is lost to you, for you have given yourself up to evil and its designs.’ He leant forward and shook the man until one eye opened and they were staring eye to eye. It was the eye of a wild animal, shaking and shivering and taking rapid breaths.

  The inquisitor was pleased to finally have his attention. ‘You have ceased to struggle, my son, and when one ceases to struggle with the Devil one is doomed, as you are, to struggle with heaven!’ He gave him one last look of fixed eloquence and continued pacing with his hands behind his back, his black robes showing the white beneath now and again. ‘It is certain that death is there upon that door waiting, Grand Master. On the pinions of violated organs, broken bones and torn muscles, upon the carcasses of brothers long dead and unremembered do you rest your wicked soul . . . but you must now listen to me!’ He stood like a painter examining his handiwork. ‘This pain, this dreadful union of blood and sinew that is your body impaled upon that door, is not hell. Oh no, Grand Master! Not hell but a prelude of what dwells in the vast empty spaces where the soul weeps in eternal torment. Do not hope for death. Do not pray for it, for there are worse things than this suffering. There are worse agonies to come, and so I urge you to confess your sins to me.’

  He was now looking earnestly for some response from those hitherto receptive eyes and saw that the man’s face was now downturned. He stared at him with the utmost force his spirit could command, but it was becoming poignantly clear that the Grand Master was in no mind to accept the logical message he was imparting to him and he knew then – with distinct certainty– that he must restore their communication.

  He sighed and removed his long knife from its scabbard. He took it to the Grand Master’s flesh, and let its sharp edge move over the ribs one by one, leaving behind thin channels of blood. ‘I sorrow for you, Jacques de Molay, though you are an iniquitous creature, a spawn of the Devil, an idolater, heretic and necromancer! It is my task to sorrow for you and prevent you, if I can, from burning in the everlasting fires from which there shall be no salvation.’ His eyes were full of tears and he said in a whisper, ‘Confess and all will be forgiven . . . you shall find peace.’

  Something he said had reached the Grand Master and a voice came from that tortured mouth, ‘Peace?’

  The inquisitor was full of hope. ‘Of course, my son! Do you doubt that I am your loving father? God speaks through me and gives me the sanction to absolve you and to purify you, so that you shall once again enter the temple of the righteous.’

  ‘The Temple?’

  William nodded. ‘Yes, my son, you shall enter it.’ He let the point pierce the skin. ‘When you make your confession.’ He made a cut.

  The Grand Master gave a sharp cry and came back from out of the dream and tried to speak, but nothing came.

  The inquisitor turned the knife to the right, making a well of blood. ‘Come, and we shall share in this vanquishing of evil, you and I. Yes . . .’ he said, ‘we shall share it as much as two men might share an achievement from which both men shall profit.’

  Jacques de Molay opened his eyes and in them the inquisitor noted something . . . a resignation mingled with passionless horror. He lifted his chest away from the knife.

  ‘You will do well not to struggle, you will do well to stay still lest I make an error and pierce through your heart, then all this will have been for nothing, all this pain, Grand Master . . .’

  The Templar closed his eyes and bit down on his mouth until the blood ran down his chin. ‘Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum,’ he whispered.

  ‘No!’ the inquisitor yelled at him now in a rage. ‘You may not call on Our Father when you have not confessed and you

  have not been absolved of all the evils you have committed! Listen to me! You shall be ending it, soon, in the name of the Devil! In his name and for his name’s sake if you do not speak!’ The pointed tip moved to the left, creating a circle of blood.

  Jacques de Molay gasped.

  ‘Confess!’

  ‘I will . . .’

  He leant in. ‘Yes, my son?’

  ‘. . . not!’

  The inquisitor was vexed beyond words, having missed by so narrow a margin the store of words which, by nature of their content, could have ended this dismal ritual. It was therefore made plain to him that the Grand Master was in need of further persuasion. With his blade he had already begun to make a push and it needed little urging to slice deep into the chest between the ribs. There was the ever-familiar sound of parting flesh and he watched the chest collapse with a loud whistle of air and a rush of blood that flowed from it like water from a spring. The inquisitor put his hand to it and let it run through his fingers, bringing the blood to his face. ‘Your blood, the blood of the damned, have I seen and touched and tasted.’

  The night was dark and silent, almost spent.

  There was a ripple deep in the throat. ‘To what . . . shall I?’

  ‘Confess?’ The tone was mild, paternal, underneath it excitement, anticipation. ‘Yes.’ He waved a hand for the notary to come from out of the shadows. ‘You are tired, Grand Master, damaged and broken, I shall remind you of your transgressions!’

  The man’s eyes fluttered.

  ‘You have denied Christ,’ the inquisitor said. ‘Do you remember it? How you desecrated the cross? How you fornicated with your fellows?’

  A look of confusion passed over the ashen face and breathlessness seized the man and he tried to speak, or so thought William of Paris, who called for the tormentor, but the man was still asleep and so he took a few steps to where he lay snoring and put the boot into his side. ‘Hold him up!’

  The tormentor came to his feet, rubbing the exhaustion from his face, and paced toward the door.

  ‘Take it up . . . his body! He wants to speak.’

  The tormentor took hold of the naked torso and lifted it. There was a groan.

  ‘Yes?’ asked the inquisitor, bowing his head and inclining his ear. ‘I am listening.’

  The voice was small and feeble. ‘They . . . they . . . they . . .’

  ‘They? Who, my son?’

  ‘They . . . the evil . . . ones!’ The Grand Master’s eyes opened wide then and seemed to the inquisitor to be filled with horror. They looked beyond William as if they were seeing something other. ‘Leave this place, foulness! The Tabernacle is not secure!’ The man’s breath was sour and bloody and the inquisitor gasped having stood close, so that now he could not speak for coughing.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Who comes here? By what proof?’

  The inquisitor calmed, knowing it to be only a moment, allowing the man some private reflection upon the matter of his confession.

  A moment passed and he continued the catechism. ‘You denied the cross,’ he said, ‘inspired by evil spirits, you denied it.’

  ‘But it was Judas . . . not . . . not . . . I! The kiss was . . . not . . . O Lord!’ His eyes rolled into the back of his head. ‘Take it away! Take it away!’

  The inquisitor persevered, gesturing for the tormentor to let the body go.

  There was another feeble groan and a sigh from the hole in the chest.

  ‘Confess now!’ he yelled. The man would soon drown in his own blood. ‘I shall not be merciful.’

  Jacques de Molay opened his eyes, aroused from his stupor. ‘Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra.’ Then he cried so suddenly that the inquisitor was startled and nearly lost his footing. ‘Satan! No . . . no . . . I did not! No! No! The pain . . . the kiss on the cheek . . . the money, the coins . . . !’

  ‘A kiss on the buttocks . . . write it down!’ he told the notary standing in one corner of the room, and returning to the Templar he said, ‘Did you deny Christ as Pete
r denied Christ, is that what you are saying?’

  A warm breath escaped the Grand Master’s lips. It hung before his face a moment. The Grand Master seemed to be lost, gazing into this space, and then he gave a howl long and terror-filled. ‘Ba . . . pho . . . met!’ the man said between gasps of terror.

  ‘What did you say? What is this . . . a . . . pho . . . et? Or is it a . . . met? Notary, are you writing this down? What did he say? What did he say?’

  Julian moved away from the shadows, passing an ink-stained hand over his eyes.

  ‘Come, boy! Sitting in that dark corner with your heart pounding and your breath coming in short bursts! Now is the time to do your duty to our Lord!’

  ‘I don’t know what he said . . .’ he answered.

  ‘Stupid boy, did you not hear?’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Mahomet? Mahomet! Oh dear Lord, yes!’

  ‘His eyes,’ Jacques de Molay said then, ‘shine black into my head. He is made of stone, or is it bread? I did not adore him . . . Tell me,’ he looked at something in the near dark, ‘shall I be forgiven?’

  ‘An idol of stone with black eyes . . . a denial of Christ. Write it down! Yes . . . Mahomet! Of course! Did you deny Christ who gave up His life for you? Did you? Did you deny him to worship Mahomet?’ The inquisitor searched the expression in those eyes. ‘You desecrated His holy cross! You denied it!’ He was like a horse that has been on a long journey and now sees his own barn. ‘Confess to me! Confess now!’

  Those pale grey eyes ran all to white as the pupils disappeared into the head.

  The inquisitor slapped the man across the face. ‘Answer me!’

  Breathing shallow breaths, the eyes rolled forward and the inquisitor was taken aback by their sudden, lucid regard. In this stare there was something reflected, something that recalled a strange triumph, even defiance.

  The inquisitor was taken with a feeling of disquiet. Somewhere a cock crowed.

  ‘Yes . . .’ Jacques de Molay said into the space between them, as calmly as if he and the inquisitor had been having a polite conversation. ‘All those things do I confess.’

  The inquisitor did not move. He stood bewildered as if the ground were shaking beneath him. Something in that voice had opened a chasm in his soul and he lifted his eyes with the realisation of it. What did he discern? The Grand Master seemed to be speaking not from pain, but rather, in spite of it.

  William of Paris rubbed his face and paced the floor, sweeping the notary aside with a hand. After a moment of thought he walked back to his prisoner and stared hard at him. He stared hard and the harder he stared the less he understood. Had the hunter ignored the elk in order to snare the rabbit? Had he not asked the right questions? Without the right questions he could not receive the right answers . . . and so, to his mind a crucial matter in the entire interrogation had been overlooked . . . since there was something, after all, to be confessed. Something besides this paltry, half-hearted admission, but what?

  The inquisitor stared once again and tried to enter into the mind of the man and suddenly the realisation came.

  It came and with it a certainty.

  In such a confession there lay a species of concealment.

  22

  SHROUD

  And when Joseph had taken the body, he wrapped it in a clean linen cloth.

  Matthew 27:59

  Far off the bells of Saint-Merry, Saint Martin, Saint Eustace, Saint German-l’Auxerrois and Notre-Dame rang out as they lifted his damaged body and brought it down onto cold stone.

  The man lay still.

  The inquisitor, unable to shake off his misgivings, instructed the notary as to the wording of the confession. After he had finished he ordered the tormentor to wrap the Grand Master in a cloth and to take him back to his cell. The man must not die since he had one more task to perform – to validate his confession before the papal courts.

  ‘Consummatum est,’ he said to him. ‘It is finished.’

  At the same time as the inquisitor was pronouncing those words, a figure upon a horse arrived at the royal palace gates. There was an exchange and momentarily iron and wood were set in motion. Iterius looked around him from out of his cowl like a fox from behind a thicket. A moment later he had crossed the threshold.

  23

  CHAPTER AT TOMAR

  A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity

  Proverbs 17:17

  Portugal, November 1307

  The chapter room was dark. Brooding men, silent beneath lit lamps, waited in a circle as Marcus entered the round chamber observing and being observed by fellow monks, knights, sergeants and brothers, all that remained of the Order in Portugal.

  It had been some weeks since he had read the message from Jacques de Molay, and in that time he had felt more and more like a horse that mistakes twigs for snakes: startled by shadows and thoughts that, though small and held close, provoked in him a feeling of doom.

  It did not seem strange to him, therefore, that he could find no time appropriate for the execution of his duty. And so he could not pray, since to do so would mean to open his heart and all his sin of disobedience to God and he wished to remain asleep to it, poised on a moment that never passes, suspended and dispassionate, with all the passion in his heart stored up for another season.

  Two days before, however, grave news from France had come to force his mind to wakefulness. Now finally what he had so long feared, what had kept God from his thoughts, was at hand, and his determined mind fell upon a judgement. He would not take the gold out to sea to drown it as he had been ordered by Jacques de Molay, instead he would take it to Scotland, where the Templar fleet was headed. He would not think on what would follow after that. He would think only of the gold kept safe, for this at least was something in his power to command, something that gave him the sense that his life was not a wasted, useless thing.

  After all – the gold had whispered to him from its resting place – the Grand Master and Etienne, together with the leaders of the provinces, the commanders, knights and sergeants in France, were now languishing in the King’s prisons. The marshal and those left in Cyprus, traitors and loyal men alike, no doubt suffered the same fate. Marcus was therefore more alone than Moses in the wilderness, left to guard an Order that was falling into crumbs with no rule to support it. Who could blame him for following his own insights and inspirations? The gold had shown him how it was: a colossal act of disobedience now could be seen as a great act of bravery in future times.

  Thus was he held by thoughts as he stood upon the threshold of the chapter house. His mind was dulled by what he knew was a lucid madness.

  He looked about the circle of men, hearing his breathing in his ears. Unlike him, they were full of the wide-awake despair that sanity brings. Full of despair because nothing in their demeanour recalled what once had been. Nothing spoke of the army that had moved like a god through the Holy Land, a force so mighty and impregnable as to cause the sun to pale beside its power. In their eyes he saw them, a few scarred men, less than

  twenty in total, diminished by the weight of their crosses that seemed to have grown from out of the heart and were drawing strength from the blood.

  This made his face full of activity: a vein pulsed under his eye and the skin around the scar contorted the muscles of his cheeks into a dance of unbidden smiles.

  Andrew saw it, tipped his head to him and made room for him on the step of stone.

  Marcus cast the knight a look that in the passage from eye to eye told him: ‘Beware, my brother, for I am standing upon the edge of an abyss, and all that is needed is the slightest wisp of a breeze to send us both downwards.’

  It made Andrew frown and settle into himself as his commander came forward and sat beside him.

  A moment later Bartholomew, Commander of Tomar, entered the centre of the room. He let his eyes fall upon each man in turn until they fell upon Marcus. ‘Grand Commander,’ he bowed, ‘will you perform the ritual?’

  Marcus s
hook his head and a spasm followed the line of his scar to his mouth. ‘This is your commandery, Brother Bartholomew, I am but a visitor in these walls.’

  The man nodded, and with a face like wood that is too long dry, and a voice cracked and hoarse, he said into the night, ‘Knights, priests and sergeants, I call upon you to discharge your duties and form the Tabernacle. Knight-Priest and inner guard, as keeper of the inner porch, can you state if our Tabernacle is securely guarded from all intruders?’

  The inner guard opened the door and, giving an outward glance, said, ‘Very eminent Commander, we are indeed securely guarded.’

  ‘Knight-Priest and Second-in-Command, are we then prepared to open?’

  ‘Commander, the tabernacle is secure and we are prepared to open.’

  The commander looked to his second-in-command. ‘From whence do we come?’

  The second-in-command said, ‘From the land of darkness.’

  ‘Whither are we going?’

  ‘To the land of light.’

  Bartholomew asked, ‘How shall we reach God?’

  The Templars answered in unison, ‘Through level steps, square conduct and upright intentions.’

  Bartholomew said, ‘In the east where the sun rises and west where it sets, in the north and south, let the heavens hear the yearning of man to unite his spirit with the spirits of the cosmos! We dedicate ourselves to this task! All give the sign of Determination.’

  There was a rising of the left hand in unison and the sign was made.

  ‘All give the sign of Reprisal.’

  The Templars drew their right hands across their breasts.

  ‘Those of high rank show their seals.’

  ‘I now declare this to be an open Tabernacle. Knight-priest and inner guard, inform the knight-priest and outer guard that the Tabernacle is open.’