He slept then.
36
TRYST
I do begin to have bloody thoughts
Shakespeare, THE TEMPEST
Iterius walked the empty streets lighted by a crisp white moon, a green velvet cloak wrapped around his form with its cowl drawn well over the brown angled face. He listened to the sound of his own mismatched steps. The cobbled stones were wet; the soles of his boots squeezed out grit, filth, mud and excrement. He would have his servant clean them on his return to the palace. His servant! He was suddenly filled with fear . . . how long could such gifts of destiny last? Surely sooner than later his forgery would be discovered and then no fortuitous dreams, no concoctions, no promises would prevent his head being hung upon a gibbet to be spat upon and pelted with rotted fruit.
‘Oh!’ he sighed and tried to put his fears away. Once again he would have to use his cunning, as he had done years before when he had saved himself at Famagusta by poisoning the Grand Master so that he could bring him back to life, and then again at Poitiers when he had listened at Etienne’s door. His ears had not only learnt that Etienne was headed for a place in Hungary but that he carried with him something of great importance, whose precise merits, though unknown to Iterius, had so far allowed him to negotiate the polarities of hatred and affection between king and pope, in an eloquent balance for survival. It had been useful bait this mysterious something. The mere suggestion of it had been capable of enticing a sick, feebleminded pope bent on advantage, and a king steeped in a madness fed by greed. For such men anything and everything could be given as proof of a belief habitually held in the heart – that the Templars were more than they seemed.
He may have been a counterfeit, but he was a shrewd counterfeit, one who knew how to put one and one together so that it did not make two but a third thing which hovered above commonsense and above conscience. Now the task was to produce this something, belief and madness would do the rest . . . how difficult could that be?
For a moment this thought calmed him and he continued until he rounded the rue des Bourdonnais, where the public notaries and the wax merchants had their shops. In the day one could buy candles, tapers and polishes here. In the night, mysterious ingredients were bought and sold behind closed doors: powdered snake, dried toad, cat entrails, tongues of the hanged, strange plants and deadly poisons. It was here among the shadows that assassins and thieves exchanged goods and services and strange alliances were sealed in blood.
It was the street of the sorcerers, a perfect hideaway for fugitive Templars.
He paused before a shop, telling himself to halt his speedy heart and to put from his mind thoughts of failure. Above the door, a painted sign advertised Boufant – Scribe. The sign was lit by falling specks of moonlight and played in the gust, creaking and slapping. Beneath it he knocked twice. There was a noise and a moment later a shadow peered from behind the door. What Iterius could see of the man in that silver light was a deep socket stare and a grin-like movement of the mouth that puckered two large scars on either side of that pale, sullen face. He recognised something about that face.
‘Monsieur . . .’ the man said with a strange lisp. ‘Come in.’ He took him through a dark passage to a long room where there was the heavy smell of mould and stale air. He departed then without a word and left him alone with the pitch-black walls and the sounds of rats. In a moment the light of a candle was seen moving through the corridor beyond, its brightness increasing as it approached.
The light threw the room into chaos. Everywhere parchments and rat dung, and before Iterius the figure of another man.
‘Who is here?’ Iterius squinted. He sensed the presence of an animal.
‘Your servant.’ The man stood behind the candle with his face wrapped in cloth, as if he were expecting a sandstorm. The flickering candle, therefore, lit only the eyes affected by tics that closed the right one now and again.
Where had he seen those eyes before? It seemed this night all things were familiar. This made him fall suspicious and once again ideas of treachery passed over his mind. But Iterius reminded himself that whoever it was behind that cloth did not know him to be working alone, but believed instead that he had come on the King’s business and would not seek to see himself drawn and quartered.
‘Well, well,’ Iterius said, rubbing his hands of the matter, ‘are you ready to perform a duty?’
‘I am ready to perform it for payment,’ said the voice.
‘Are you prepared to have a new master?’ Iterius peered in the darkness, wishing at least for a glimpse of that face. ‘Or do you still call on the Beauseant?’
The voice was quiet but in it Iterius discerned something violent. ‘I am for hire to him who pays best. Gold is my master.’
‘That is well for you, since those who think differently now suffer the boot, the rack and other tortures.’
‘You have the gold?’ The man put the candle down on a table.
‘Half now and half on your return with the item,’ Iterius said, giving him a bag.
The man removed a coin. It cast fragments of light over the darkness. Satisfied, he threw it back in and drew the string. Those eyes moved over Iterius in a stare . . . those eyes . . .
‘The King,’ Iterius began disconcerted, ‘will also keep the inquisitors from you indefinitely . . . if you find what he seeks.’
‘Why does the King stoop to seeking Templar help?’
‘A Templar must know another, and therefore how to track him down.’
‘Who is this man?’
‘His name is Etienne de Congost. He is a deserter to your Order.’
There was silence. ‘And what does he possess that is so sorely needed by the King?’
‘That is not your concern – as you have said, you are for hire.’
The voice was all restrained hostility. ‘I shall need to know what it is if I am to find it!’
There was that familiar sense in the voice and in the eye. ‘That is what I pay you to find out and to retrieve.’
‘You don’t know what it is, then?’
‘Something important, you have the means to coax it from the man . . .’ Iterius peered more deeply at that face.
‘Where do I find him, this Etienne de Congost?’
‘He is on an errand to a far-off land.’
‘How do you know where he is?’
The Egyptian smiled. ‘I have a knowing way.’
‘You perform sorcery?’ the man spat at him.
‘Come now, is that not what your Order and your Grand Master have been accused of? I suppose that makes us . . . brothers twice?’
The man moved swiftly over the parchments on the floor to take Iterius by the neck with one strong hand. Looking into the Alexandrian’s eye he said to him, ‘I do not wish to hear about the Order, nor concerning its ill-fated master, all of it has long been from my mind. Nor do I wish to call you my brother!’
The Alexandrian struggled and coughed until the man loosened his hold. ‘No . . . of course not,’ he said out of breath, ‘you want only the money and that is admirable. A man who knows what he wants . . .’
The man tightened his grip. ‘Hush!’ he said, and at the point of asphyxiation let go his hand so that Iterius swayed a moment and dropped to his knees, coughing and vomiting. From the dark there came a dog or a wolf, he did not know which, to lick up the mess upon the parchments.
Iterius, in his bent state, stared at it, from eye to eye. The creature growled and Iterius stood, nodding to himself. Yes, he had sensed an animal. After a moment he wiped his mouth and, rubbing his neck, tried to bring clarity to his head.
‘If you will be so kind as to tell me where I can find Etienne de Congost,’ the man said, ‘ I will go.’
Iterius leaned into him, attempting to understand the correspondence that seemed to his mind disordered and confused. ‘He travels to Lockenhaus, a village in Hungary near the border of Austria. He is not so easy to catch. I have sent some men to find him before and they have not r
eturned. You must not fail.’
‘I am not a man accustomed to failure,’ the man said, and, nudging the Alexandrian with a finger, caused him to lose his footing and fall into his vomit again, ‘and I shall not tolerate it in others . . . Have my money ready for me when it is finished or I shall cut off your hands, hack out your tongue, and feed them to my wolf.’ He took the candle and at that moment, as it shone into those eyes, Iterius saw something and he gasped.
He thought to himself, for he dared not say it . . .
I know you! You are the Devil!
37
THE LAWYER
And there were stings in their tails.
Revelation 9:10
Paris, November 1309
Guillaume de Plaisians, assistant lawyer to Guillaume Nogaret, walked briskly towards a small room behind the hall of the episcopal palace of Paris and with each step his full mouth affected a deeper smile. He stopped for a moment and in one of the many mirrors that lined the halls he examined his face intensely. The smile of self-contentment, which moved over the fine bones, wrinkling the soft, blue eyes and ending in two dimples on either cheek, had settled upon his face some days ago, with the first hearings of the papal commission, and he did not seem to be able to quench it. He resumed his walk, past guards posted at every door, reflecting on the auspicious evidence of the previous days given by de Melot, his own spy, and Pierre de Sornay of Amiens. Today they would be interrogating the Grand Master and he would be there to see it, whether or not he was a member of the commission. What could prevent him from defying the secrecy of the hearings? After all, he was the King’s lawyer, and a very tenacious man.
He thought of his tenacity. How when he set his sights on Paris, he had managed in so short a time to become the perfect addendum to the circle of royal lawyers so that even Nogaret himself, his former teacher, had been astonished. Right from the start de Plaisians had insinuated himself into Nogaret’s affection, persuading the man that he was, and would remain, a loyal dog. One could always do with a loyal dog in a court full of foxes.
From youth he had known that flattery, diplomacy and persuasion, in the right portions, could get a man anything – in and out of bed. And so it stood to reason that he should be a natural talent for the practice of law. For the soft battles of the boudoir were no less demanding than those he waged in court; they both required a certain cunning, intelligence, an articulate tongue,
impeccable syntax, the ability to understand weaknesses and, of course, a little cruelty.
He looked out to the cold wet day and thought of the warm afternoon ensconced in the round, firm assets of the Queen of Navarre, Marguerite, who was also, as it happened, the young wife of Louis, the King’s eldest son. What a delicious afternoon it had been! He had freed himself with the greatest difficulty from his duties at court and had made his way to the hotel de Nesle feeling a great anticipation since, some days before, he had received a note heavily scented from the queen that had left him in no doubt of her intentions. The message was worded cleverly; to make such a meeting possible she had stated her desire for counsel in her affairs pertaining to the kingdom of Navarre. It would be, she said, a surprise for her dear husband, who thought her uninterested. She was, the note read, eager to be more involved in the running of the kingdom, as she wished, most desperately, to do her duty by her subjects.
She will do her duty, he had thought when entering the sombre tower with its high narrow windows and conical roof, and quite possibly excel at it.
He was ushered to the queen’s apartment by a lady-in-waiting. Along the way he asked the girl concerning her majesty’s health and the girl replied, ‘She is melancholy, monsieur, her heart flutters like a bird’s, and I have tried to cheer her spirits by reading to her. The doctor will call at any mo –’
Guillaume raised a hand to stop the girl. ‘Yes, good.’ He looked at her, plump, firm, not too pretty. ‘What have you been reading to her, mademoiselle?’
‘From a French poet, monsieur, a love poem.’ The girl looked away, flushed.
‘Ahh . . .’ He frowned, feigning displeasure. ‘That is not good, my dear, no more poems of love . . . instead read to her of the martyrs. That would be far more profitable study for a queen.’
The girl curtsied awkwardly and led him to Marguerite’s chamber in silence.
She announced the lawyer, lifted her liquid eyes to him briefly, parting her two lips just so. For a moment he could see the moisture of her tongue against her teeth, and then she left.
He had sensed that she would be his for the choosing . . . the queen and her maid? A smile touched his lips. Perhaps at the same time?
He turned his gaze toward the bedroom and found Marguerite lying in her green-curtained bed beneath a sumptuous red coverlet. The windows permitted a bright cheering autumn light into the large, otherwise drab room, and on the fire a huge log glowed red with embers. She lay motionless with her eyes closed, beautiful without blemish, raven tresses loose about her olive neck, unusually flushed about the face. At sixteen years of age, time had not yet assaulted her delightful, sensual mouth, her pointed chin, her nubile body, plump and delicious. Seeing her this way stirred his appetite and it was all he could do to keep from pouncing on her like a blooded dog.
‘Oh,’ she murmured, one slender hand idly touching her brow.
‘Your Majesty . . .’ he said softly, glancing at the curves beneath the coverlet.
‘Who is it? Who? Is it you, Physician? Oh,’ she sighed coolly. ‘I am too, too ill.’ She gestured for him to come to her, her eyes still firmly shut.
‘No, it is Guillaume de Plaisians, your Majesty,’ he answered, playing the little charade for the benefit of the lady of the bedchamber who was hiding behind a curtain in the shadows.
‘Oh Monsieur de Plaisians! I am afraid I am no good to you at all! Feel my brow, it burns!’
‘No doubt,’ he mumbled, wondering lustily what other parts were as warm.
‘And my heart . . . it beats strangely.’ She opened her eyes and gazed into his . . . hazel, clear, hungry. ‘Feel it, perhaps I shall die?’ She caught his hand in hers and drew it to her breast. Guillaume felt those firm orbs only the slightest distance from his touch and experienced an animal passion, that straining toward intercourse, is not satisfied until it is satiated.
‘The fire is hot,’ he said, musing on which way to take her first, ‘and the coverlet far too heavy, your Majesty. These things have combined to cause you this distress . . . I suggest your maid use less fuel in the hearth, and arrange for another coverlet to cover you or the doctor shall have to resort to lancets.’
She sat up, letting the coverlet fall away, revealing that there remained only a sheer layer of fabric between Guillaume and his prize.
‘Permit me to allow a little air in,’ he said after a good observation.
He walked to the window and opened it. A rush of cool air entered the chamber.
‘I feel better already.’ She gave him a capricious smile. ‘I think you are most wise, it is far too stuffy in here. I don’t believe I shall need the doctor after all.’ She raised one brow and fluttered her lashes. ‘Marie? Marie!’
The dour old woman surfaced only a little from behind the curtains.
‘Fetch me my shawl! Come, Marie, it is only the royal lawyer come to arrange my affairs, be an angel and go tell the doctor I have no need of him. It seems I am recovered. It is a miracle!’ Her laugh was full-bodied and most comely.
When the article had been placed around her shoulders and the maid with suspicious eyes had been summarily dispatched, they were alone.
‘It is a shame the doctor resides so far away at the royal palace. The poor woman will take all day to get there,’ she said, pursing her lips and frowning. ‘But you must tell me, monsieur, before we . . . get down to business, how goes the trial?’
‘Slow and tedious, your Majesty.’ He inched closer, loosening his cloak. ‘Slow and tedious.’
‘Yes, a most monotonous affair . . .
Do you know that Monsieur Jacques de Molay is Isabella’s godfather?’ She patted the space beside her on the bed. ‘Who would think of it? It seems like only yesterday I saw him at the funeral of our dear Catherine of Valois, walking beside the pall and holding one of its cords. How can one imagine that all the time . . . he was committing such unspeakable crimes . . .’ She made a little shudder and continued. ‘Whatever the case, I trust that what the King decides is most surely well decided, for what do I know of men . . . my husband, monsieur . . . is not a man.’ She said this in a voice that was lower and softer, her eyes shining like two olives.
‘It is a shame to waste such womanliness on him.’ He brought his face to hers, only inches from her lips, teasing her. ‘You are a rare pearl cast before a swine.’
She laughed. It sent ripples of desire over his spine.
‘How well you put things, monsieur! I would wager most men at court are lesser for being compared to you . . .’
She smelt of peaches.
‘You are most kind,’ he answered, venturing to touch the quivers that strained upwards and defied gravity.
‘Ahh . . .’ she sighed, ‘yes . . . why only a few days ago . . .’ Her eyes rolled in her head and returned to his. ‘I heard the King complimenting you. He said that you are going to burn them all.’ She said this as though the thought of a burning amplified the burning between her milky thighs.
The thought excited him also, and he was suddenly lost in his robust immediacy and heard nothing else. Quickly he removed the coverlet and placed his body atop her fine and curvaceous one and allowed the vertigo of lust to take him to that world of intense awareness, where in a frenzy he found himself engulfed in her warmth.
When he had reached the pinnacle of exhilaration, he had seen two things: the beautiful woman beneath him, crying out with surprise and pleasure, and, in his mind’s eye, Jacques de Molay, engulfed in flames.
He had left her as he had found her, reciting poems.
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