The Seal

by Adriana Koulias

After a moment of silence the commander spoke again, ‘We are now met as a chapter of the Temple at Tomar,’ he said, ‘and I have grave news . . . The messenger has just reached us from the King of Portugal. Some time ago the Grand Master of the Order, our leader Jacques de Molay, was seized and thrown into prison, along with the majority of our brothers in France.’

  These words hung low over the men, who sat quiet and astonished. The shadows danced about on their faces and on the walls.

  Marcus put his mind to it and closed his eyes. The sounds of the world stretched at him, flat and unnatural.

  ‘The King of Portugal supports us only a little, since he smells profit and sends his men to inspect our coffers in Lisbon. It is the end of the Order as it has been.’ He sat forward into the circle, one hand rubbing the line of his jaw set tight against the bones of his long, drawn-down face. ‘And the loss is great. If we are to save what we can from this tragedy then we must be wise . . . and so we shall this night pray for guidance.’ He looked around from man to man, lined by shadows, fitting them to his thoughts as he began the opening formula that resonated darkly and drifted out over the hills and to the distant sea as the men circled faith around them. The lamps flickered, moving the shadows. The shadows mocked and loomed. Familiar, mysterious words entered the long unbroken chain, the diaphanous chord that bound them in luminance and warmth of outpoured light.

  Bartholomew raised his face then to the heavens beyond the chapter house. ‘Dear Lord, do not turn away from us, do not shun us in your anger! Almighty and everlasting God, who maketh us both to will and to do those things that be good and acceptable unto Thy divine majesty; we make our humble supplications unto Thee for we are Thy servants. Let Thy fatherly hand be over us, let Thy Son protect us, let Thy Holy Spirit whose light is the garment of the Holy Sophia, the mother of all mothers the wisdom of the cosmos, ever be with us and lead us to the knowledge and obedience of Thy word, that in the end we may obtain everlasting life through our Lord Jesus Christ, who with Thee and the Holy Spirit liveth and reigneth; ever, one God, world without end. Amen.’

  Marcus was a feather in the wind, a spear poised and held. His life as a Templar was spent like a season – a season coming to its end.

  I must face this dying without dying, this dead life, with blood in the veins . . .

  A moment later the men were returned from the dream and Bartholomew leant forward with worried eyes and waited. No man could form lips around words since none had come by revelation.

  ‘The Lord does not answer our petition,’ Bartholomew said at last with a sigh, marking out the stillness with his breath. ‘Even so, this night we are to make decisions.’ There was another silence. ‘It is my estimation that we can do no other than surrender to the Bishop of Lisbon.’

  Marcus put a hand to his brow. The light faded and flickered with the lamplight, and the darkness drew in and surrounded the room.

  From the right came a voice, ‘The Lord will not answer cowards who look to surrender and will not fight.’ It was Anselm, an old knight from Leiria. He moved his bony face into the light, disfigured and pale before a yellow lamp. ‘The Temple shall spring back and we must see to it with our Lord’s help!’

  The priest moved forward to rebuke Anselm’s intemperance, but Marcus stayed him with a hand. He grunted, moving his body back, his voice sharp and impatient, his face making slits of his eyes. ‘Brother Anselm, we are dead to the world . . .’ he said with a fierce eye, ‘we are deserted and left to spoil. Our leaders are imprisoned and our castles are desecrated. What decisions we make are our own. The light shall not this night descend upon us and give us guidance!’

  Bartholomew raised a brow and made a study of him. ‘Are we forsaken then, Commander Marcus?’

  Marcus looked down to his hands, turning them over. They moved in a tremor. ‘We are left bare, Brother Bartholomew,’ he said, holding them, ‘and we stand alone.’

  Bartholomew was puzzled and sad, ‘How may we be forsaken?’

  ‘It is so,’ said Marcus, looking into the man’s eyes with such sternness that the other man, finding his strength lacking, flinched.

  ‘It is not in my blood to surrender,’ Bartholomew said, looking away from him to the others, ‘but our Grand Master has admonished that we not shed blood needlessly . . . We must try to reach an arrangement with the King of Portugal.’

  ‘This is what has brought the Temple to its end!’ said Peter of Nazare, between snatched breaths. ‘We are not strangers to blood! We vow it to Christ and spill it for His holy soil, forsaken or not!’

  The white-robed knights, the black sergeants and brown-robed brothers stared and nodded and spoke among themselves. Where their seasoned faces were touched by light they looked like blank pages.

  The night deepened.

  ‘It has been the same in Spain,’ Bartholomew said, ‘where James is in sympathy with the Temple. The King of Portugal shall see he must support us or else risk losing our holdings either to the Pope or to the Hospital.’

  Peter interjected, ‘But we are not guaranteed safe passage. How may we reckon what must pass between a king and his conscience? What is to tell he will not buckle under the threat of excommunication? Tortures and deprivations shall be visited upon us as they are visited upon our brothers in France!’

  There was a hum of voices.

  Bartholomew was impatient. ‘A knight lives not according to his will but by the will of Christ, which is the same as the rule. Marcus has our orders from the Grand Master. We are not to fight to the death. It stands to reason that there must be some of us who shall live to refute these lies they tell, this malicious slander.’

  ‘Brothers!’ Peter cried out above their voices. ‘All is futile while our leader lies rotting in a jail in France. We must regain our former sovereignty and to do it we must elect a Grand Master who is not afraid to do battle!’

  Now the chapter house came alive with the voices of brothers one against the other. Bartholomew stood; a look of pain and fatigue scowled his brow.

  Andrew, next to Marcus, poked his head into the lustre of lamplight and yelled out, ‘Blasphemy!’

  The chaplain moved forward. ‘No heated words, Brother Andrew. The rule demands that we are mannerly and peaceable.’

  ‘I am too old for manners, and have seen too much war to be peaceable!’ He was panting with anger. ‘What Peter says goes against the rule of our Order! The Grand Master lives and while he is alive he will remain our leader! We may not disobey him!’

  Bartholomew raised his hand. ‘There will be silence!’ he said, glancing his eye about, letting it fall on Peter before continuing. ‘Our Grand Master was elected by vote, and while he lives it is the rule that we must obey his Orders, as our brother Andrew has said, for nothing is dearer to Christ than obedience!’

  This awareness made a silence.

  ‘Now, we shall face matters at hand!’ Bartholomew said. ‘In this region we are less than ninety men . . . the bishop sends soldiery to treble our own. They arrive tomorrow, the next day . . .’ He worked his face to counter the emotion that his lips let loose. ‘Who knows? We must, therefore, make a move for the gold, which is held at Atouguia. The commander has communication from the Grand Master to do so. This means also the charters and the archives . . .’ He paused, gathering his thoughts. ‘We shall be given some privileges here. We shall be allowed to answer our case before the bishops. That is what we shall do and then we shall wait and we shall see. The Pope will come to our aid since the arrests were made without legality. In the meantime most of the fleet is gone and heads for Scotland to the bosom of its prince, Robert. The Grand Master has commanded that Marcus take the archives, charters and what is left of the gold used as ballast, on the Eagle of St John, to safety, until this blows over.’

  There was a murmur. Marcus looked out of the window. His throat was dry and he made to cough but it came out like a rasp and nothing more.

  Bartholomew’s face grew weary, weighed down, as if up till now it had
been held up by the sheer effort of a will that was spent.

  Peter of Nazare stood. ‘I do not concur! To take the gold and charters to Scotland! This will lose them from the Order forever! Jacques de Molay has forsaken his voice since he was made Grand Master by deceit!’

  Andrew rose to his feet and his arms and legs seemed to be speaking a language of their own. ‘May God curse you!’ he got out finally.

  Peter flashed an eye upon Marcus. ‘How do we know if the gold leaves this shore that it will ever be seen again?’

  ‘Brother!’ Bartholomew took a step back. ‘Here stands the Grand Commander of the Order, who fought valiantly at Acre and was with Thibaud when he left Sidon. He is the reason the Grand Master lives since he saved his life there, and it is to him that our Grand Master gives this charge!’

  Peter stood his ground. ‘And strangely Brother Marcus did not prevent Thibaud’s death nor his friend Jacques de Molay from being elected Grand Master!’

  There was a rush of voices. Marcus felt his face pull up into a grimace a moment before a surging in his limbs drove him towards the figure of Peter of Nazare.

  Bartholomew stepped between them. ‘Brothers!’ he shouted.

  Marcus was all pants and gasps, his face jumping this way and that while Bartholomew came up close to the recalcitrant knight as if to pierce his head with his words. ‘This chapter excuses you, Brother Peter! And exhorts you to pray before the sacred space for a day and a night! For six months you shall eat from the floor with the dogs, and in this time you will contemplate your insolence and lack of temperance which, were it not for these strange circumstances in which we find ourselves, would have led to your release from the Order!’

  The man looked around him from beneath that leaning brow and found no support.

  ‘Temperance,’ iterated the Commander of Tomar.

  ‘You speak of temperance, Brother Bartholomew,’ Peter said, ‘when all is to fall through a chasm to the end of the world? You are fools to trust these deserters with the Order! Better to be released from it than to end up food for a pyre!’

  He left the chapter house. His footsteps made hollow sounds.

  Marcus listened to those steps and looked at the lucent faces about him with the world moving in circles.

  ‘Brother Marcus,’ Bartholomew was saying, but Marcus did not hear him, he was looking around at the men and thinking this:

  What do they see in me – fleeting madness?

  He was light in the head and about to fall down.

  If they could but know my mind!

  Bartholomew, anxious to return to matters at hand, continued more shaken than before. ‘What shall remain of us, Brother Marcus, when you leave this night?’

  Marcus’s mouth gave a twitch. ‘We have never been more alone, Bartholomew, and there is no place in the soul to give rest to the heart. What remains of us? I do not know.’

  24

  RULE OR CONSCIENCE?

  Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.

  Hebrews 11:1

  December 1307

  It began to snow as they came upon the plateau. That afternoon, after a restless sleep, they had eaten before riding a track which ran amongst a thicket of trees heavy with snow bordered by low rock mounds. Ahead rode Gideon, at the rear Delgado. In between, Jourdain and Etienne urged their horses, climbing slowly until they ascended the plateau. Now and again through the trees they saw a distant plain below and, further off, mountains that stretched to the north-east. The dying sun through grey cloud was made pale and bruised, leaving no shadows over the snow.

  This land was wide and deep and hung with mystery. Wolves called over the ancient ground and there was a feeling of melancholy that went deep into the soul.

  The going had been slow travelling the indirect route that took them to the seaward extremity of France, steering them always northwards from the cities and villages in their path. The days had grown to months, and more than a year had passed since they had left Poitiers. No word had reached them of the fate of the Order since they were removed from the world, and had no traffic with it.

  Now, following the route laid out by the Grand Master, they pressed on as a light fall of snow began to cover the ill-used road that led to a house of the Order. What they would find there, Etienne did not know, but the road was quiet and they had met no challenge, and so he laid a hope on the thought that in these far-off lands things might remain for a time as they had been. This made him more at ease and he looked down at the seal upon his finger, noting that it was not full of tempers, it was quiet and did not tempt him to look upon it.

  ‘What direction is this?’ Jourdain asked him.

  Etienne sniffed the air. ‘North of east,’ he said. ‘In the distance there is the village. The house is not far from here, we will not reach it before nightfall.’

  ‘You know that by sniffing the air?’ Jourdain said with a voice full of mischief

  ‘I shall not tell you my secrets.’

  ‘Well these lands have enough secrets for you and me, that is certain. Days ago we passed a country south of here, known of old as the dying place of the great king, Dagobert.’

  Etienne raised his brows. ‘Is that so? Dagobert?’

  ‘He was a great Merovingian king, who was pierced with a lance while resting under a tree.’

  Etienne lifted his face to the falling snow. It felt good, that coolness on his eyelids. ‘Is there nothing you do not know, Jourdain? What is this Merovingian, then?’

  Jourdain smiled again. ‘A line of kings. Dagobert was the last of this line, so it is said. Godefroy de Bouillon, the defender of the Holy Sepulchre, was a descendant of his. Some even tell that this line extends to the Holy Land from the blood of Jesus himself.’

  ‘And you believe this?’

  ‘I believe that our Lord Jesus Christ sacrificed himself upon a cross and shed his blood. It unites us, each one, though we are not born of the same mother. That is what I believe.’

  Etienne gave him a significant look. ‘Lineage of blood, Jourdain, is something left over from past times and will soon come to an end.’ He looked ahead. ‘Our Order considers all men brothers who give their life to Christ’s purposes and his Holy Sepulchre, regardless of blood.’

  ‘I am thankful for that.’

  ‘The same as I.’ Etienne noticed, in the dimming day, an expression in the young eye. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘When you speak of the Holy Sepulchre, it makes a picture in my mind of the Holy Land and how it must seem. I suspect it is beautiful to behold!’

  Etienne pictured it in his mind’s eye. ‘It is hot and cold, beautiful but not as you would imagine beauty. It is the spirit in that land that makes it so, not wide green valleys and lush trees and fair rivers. Once I travelled with the Commander of Sidon upon a galley to Athlit. I could not believe the beauty of it. There are vineyards and orchards and olive groves. Fig trees that give the biggest and sweetest fruit you have ever tasted, and there is camphor and myrrh and rosemary so that the scents from the land are sensed even upon a galley far off. Such a place gives a man the desire to stay to tend the land in his old age and see the sun dawn over the same rise one day after another.’ He paused then, having bewildered himself since he realised that this world he imagined was doomed, if not now, certainly tomorrow, and he was not likely to meet old age but expected to die the seal’s watchdog in some corner of the world unknown to him. He settled this into his heart like a steel band and made a nod to make sure it would not unfasten. It made him snatch a breath.

  ‘I should like to see this barren beauty with my own eyes!’ Jourdain gave the horse a pat and the animal twitched its ears and continued its walk as if Jourdain were but an irritating flea upon its back. ‘Jerusalem seems to me like a woman, like Mary – the womb of heaven, the beloved of Solomon’s songs!’ He gave a laugh sitting high in his saddle with the dying day’s worth of snow upon his face.

  When he looked like that, Etienne was
hard-pressed to see the Jourdain who, with sword in one hand and shield in the other, was like a device made to kill.

  ‘Solomon was a wise man,’ Etienne told him. ‘He saw the great mother, Sophia, in all women . . . his Temple was a fine thing, we are told, before it was torn down too many times to recount. What remains in Jerusalem is no more than a heathen shrine.’

  Jourdain sat straight. ‘Tell me more about the Temple, Etienne.’

  Etienne found it a strange thing to be instructing Jourdain, and it made him smile to himself. ‘It was built over a great rock which is revered by the Jews and also the Saracens who know it as the centre of the earth. Here is something you might not know; the mount upon which it stands is said to have been held in the mouth of the serpent Tahum, and that it formed the intersection of the underworld . . . at least that is what they tell.’

  Jourdain thought about this. ‘I have heard something of that, that Jerusalem is the centre of the world. A place that Christian, Jew and Saracen all consider holy because of Abraham. Where man and God come together . . . And the Ark of the Covenant, Etienne, was it a promise or a real thing?’

  ‘Perhaps one and the other . . . Perhaps the ark is a picture of the human being whose number and measure is like the Temple – a vessel wherein are held the laws of the universe and man’s covenant with God.’

  ‘A fine picture, Etienne!’ Jourdain said, slapping his thigh with enthusiasm. ‘Man, the image of the heavens in number and measure, and within him a promise with God to follow the commandments!’

  Etienne could not help but give a laugh. ‘When we speak we seem to stew things down to nothing! Is that what philosophers do?’

  ‘I am sure of it!’

  It was near dark and the trees made a canopy over their heads.

  Etienne had more to say. ‘But you have almost got it right.’

  ‘Almost?’ Jourdain’s voice was full of amazement.

  ‘Almost,’ said Etienne, happy to once again have the boy on the edge of his saddle. ‘These commandments are laws that work upon us from without. The covenant was the promise that men would follow these commandments and in the same spirit do we follow our rule. But it is my feeling that it shall, some day, be time for a new covenant, a law that comes from the heart . . .’