‘From me?’
‘Ahh!’ Marcus looked at his men and each made a small laugh. ‘You continue a paragon, Etienne! But you forget that I know you! You would never desert Jacques de Molay if not by his command . . . Come, Jacques gave you something of great value to place in a hiding spot, something he could not have taken into the King’s jail. The sovereign seal of the Order! It is my guess that he left it with his faithful seneschal.’ A smile broadened on his face and once again it was a puppet at the behest of some playful devil. ‘No doubt he wished to prevent a new Order from arising out of the old since without the seal this is impossible. That is one thing. As for the other, I am thinking that there may be a more potent lure . . . some mystical worth?’
Etienne blinked.
‘Come now! I am certain you remember that scoundrel sergeant, the Egyptian? He is the King’s astrologer now. Is that not something? He has seen it in the stars!’ Marcus began to laugh so heartily he had to hold on to a comrade for support. ‘In the stars! Oh my Etienne! Think of it! The stars disclosing secrets to that useless misshapen creature!’ Then the laughter died down and he grew serious. ‘And yet, he has become useful to someone while we are useless . . . except that you are carrying something that is wanted, a useful treasure that I am of the mind to take for myself.’
Etienne held his gaze. He knew he should have killed the Egyptian at Ayios Memnon. Outside the day moved upwards over the windowsill, and broke into the building.
‘The Egyptian is a counterfeit . . .’ Etienne said.
Marcus smiled and chuckled and then it was gone again and in his throat came a growl low in his chest. ‘I am mad but I am not a fool!’ he shouted. ‘It sits there upon your finger as proud as a maid in May!’
‘This is my seal, Marcus, the second seal not the first.’
‘Well, all you have to do is to hand it to me and we shall see, then perhaps I shall be of the mind to let you live . . . Yes indeed,
perhaps I shall let you live because I half remember you and our life together. Then again, perhaps I wish to forget that life by killing you. Name your will.’ He made a mock bow, sweeping the sword behind him.
‘My will is not my own,’ Etienne answered.
‘Ahh!’ Marcus cried jubilantly. He straightened and raised the blade over his head as if it were a festival and he an object of observation. ‘I was hoping you would say that, since I have always wondered how I should fare in a battle with you . . . Also my poor men are hoping for blood since the Jews were hardly enough to quench their war lust!’ He said this and he smiled a little, while his tongue came to his teeth in anticipation, as he viewed the reaction of his foe, of further smiles.
Etienne was gripped by a desire to listen and inclined his head therefore in the other man’s direction and gave an ear to him – perhaps he had not heard correctly?
Marcus nodded, having read his mind.
Etienne raised his sword. To kill was one thing – Etienne had killed scores and scores and in a moment he would seek to kill again – but to kill with such a love for it sheltering in the heart? To kill with zeal what was unarmed and innocent was to kill spring and doom the world to a winter of the soul! All this passed over his mind in an instant.
His breath came fast. ‘The woman is dead, then?’
There was a nod.
‘And . . . the child . . .?’
‘My wolf has not had meat for three days.’
There was heard in Etienne’s ear what he had waited to hear. What came then was the sound of many waters; it set him off balance and after that there was only a blank space into which he found himself desirous to fall from the pain that moved like a river of hot ice over his chest. He took in a breath and gazed out of eyes over which a mist was descending. He would rip out the man’s throat . . . just one more word . . .
‘It was quick,’ Marcus obliged him, ‘across the throat . . . only the woman took longer . . . Strange creature, did not call for help . . . perhaps she was sparing you . . . ahh!’ There was a sudden realisation. ‘How difficult it is to find a noble woman! Unfortunately my men were not interested in her nobility, she was, rather, a vessel for their cravings . . . these animals of mine . . . and she was a difficult work!’ He shrugged as if the thought of it made a chill over him. ‘For my part I don’t take to Jew flesh . . .’
The air quickened, the animals moved in their cribs and Etienne added this new madness to all the rest, and let the wave of hate take him. He allowed himself to linger there on the lip of it and felt it surge through him, feeling the enormity of its power galloping out from his limbs towards the figure of Marcus. He did not see the smile upon the other man’s face, nor did he hear the cries of his men. He only heard his own shout, ‘Beauseant! ’
After that both sides struggled and the sound of it together with the sounds of the animals fretting and kicking at their fetters journeyed outside where a squall swung them around the stables and brought them to the house, where, upon the threshold there lay the bodies of the three – the woman, the child, the old man – and the dog that fed upon their carcasses.
41
THE SLAYING OF THE WOLF
Then comes Odin’s son Vidar to fight with the foaming wolf
Poetic Edda: VÖLUSPÁ (The Wise Woman’s Prophecy)
The battle was long and hard. The animals kicked and neighed and bleated and whined in their cribs and the wind howled and threatened to tear off the roof. The world was moving in a heartbeat, this way and that. A blur of sword thrust and sunlight, married to grunts and the sound of steel coming together.
Etienne fought with his newly mended body tight and obstinate and his mind shut up inside it as if it were a prison, since he must not let it fall out of itself into rage . . . not yet. Marcus, on the other hand, was all fluid movement and strength of will; a butcher in the eyes, with a fondness for hatred that made him seem like two men. Moving nimbly from one foot to the other, swinging his blade this way and that, he called out to Etienne with a mock-full laugh: ‘You are God-filled and old, my friend, while the Devil makes youth grow in my veins!’
Etienne forced his mind to come together; these were Marcus’s methods – the taunts, the pretty dances were a prelude to his slaughtering. All the while he would be watching Etienne’s eyes, seeking to anticipate their observation so that when Etienne was set to make his move, Marcus would be ready with an elegant sidestep while his other hand would run Etienne through with the knife at his belt. Marcus too had a knowing of Etienne’s fighting ways and would be looking for them; this he would use to his advantage. He held steady his foe’s gaze, and was not wasteful in his movements, letting the man opposite prance his prances. In the meantime, beneath Etienne’s thoughts, his legs shook with fatigue, his side made its complaints, his bones were white and heavy and creaked in his skin.
Around them the others grunted and clashed and thrust out in the birthing light. Etienne saw it from the corner of one eye, with the other locked on Marcus, smiling again, since there was something in that eye – the man was growing impatient. If Etienne wished to surprise him, he would have to make his move ...
... Now!
No sooner had he thought it, than his head was thrust back and his arm made as if to lunge. Marcus was quick, his smile pulled higher, and he made his parry to Etienne’s right while the other hand, having made a swift grab at the knife in the belt, was coming up in an arc. But Etienne was not where he should have been, since he had not followed through but instead had swerved to the left, curving his body around his foe so that by the time Marcus realised it, Etienne was behind him with the skull dagger pointed to his shoulders. Time stood still and an image of the old man, the woman, the child, came into his mind, and with it a resolve.
Again!
He shouted it and sank the blade between the bones, parting muscle and tissue, causing blood to spurt ahead of it like a herald of death.
After that he stood a while over Marcus before putting his boot into that back and pulling ou
t the blade. He rolled him over and looked into the face. ‘Speak now!’ he told him. ‘I have seen you before, Devil, at the house of the Order near where Dagobert was killed. Speak now!’
Marcus gave a blooded smile and said to him, ‘I shall see you . . . in the underground cave!’ And with that what had occupied Marcus’ soul departed and the face softened and what was left looked him in the eye. He seemed to be summoning what strength he had to say something. When it came it was like a rush of air.
‘I die!’
Afterwards his face was more still and peaceful than Etienne had ever seen it since Acre.
When Etienne finally looked around he saw a world in ruins. The Norman lay, run through the middle, near the animals. The Catalan was yelling and cursing in his language and on a rampage of hacking off the sacs of the enemies.
Etienne did not let Delgado touch Marcus.
He went to the house and found the wolf tearing at the bodies of the Jews. He killed it by putting a knife to its throat. After that he thrust a boot into its jaw and tore it apart, dragging it to the field.
They buried Marcus, the old man, his daughter-in-law and her child next to Gideon in a little plot behind the house. Etienne, with his heart emptied and slow-beating, said his prayers at the graves, commending the souls of Marcus and Gideon into God’s care, and asking Michael to intercede on behalf of the three Jews who were good kind people and had helped him in his need.
He went to his little room above the stables, and there he spent some hours in silence.
He sat upon his pallet letting each hour that passed wrench from him his woes until there was nothing left in the marrow of his soul. He was a wasted man, broken and tearless and suffering a pain without which he would never again breathe and so he wished to stop breathing, to cease to see, to fall into a blindness of the heart and of the mind. Why had he not jumped from that parapet at Acre? Once again he had failed to save the mothers of his life . . . and he would ever be that boy, pious impious, sure-witted and unsure of everything, faithful and faithless, trembling upon the lip of the world!
The old woman at Puivert had been right: he was of two minds and two wills, and what was the third thing to come? He hoped it was death.
‘Jacques de Molay!’ he shouted to the emptiness of the room. ‘Wisdom has died in my heart and in my mind and in my will!’
There it was . . . the cause of all suffering, sitting upon his finger. He looked at the seal and was suddenly filled with a temptation to seek beneath its concealment. This in turn caused him to feel a great aversion and it was impious in his hands and he would not have it.
‘You are an evil thing!’ he told it and before he could think any more he threw it and it fell to the floor, with its lid unhinged and its inner content revealed to the day. A terrible guilt engulfed him in a wave of self-loathing. He picked up the thing and did not look upon it but closed its lid and replaced it upon his finger. The creature felt hot and neglected.
‘My will is not my own!’ he said to it.
When he emerged from the room he was a man grown old overnight. His hair was near to white and his now thin form gave him the look of a starved animal. He told a grieving Delgado that he would not think less of him if he should desire to go back to his country, to which the Catalan gave him a smile that recalled his old humour.
‘Should I not go with you, lord . . .’ he made a whistle while his eyes rolled in his head, ‘my Gideon would send me to a hell full of Norman whores!’
He left then to make ready.
Later Jourdain found Etienne harnessing the horses; he helped him at his work for a time before speaking. ‘You are healed now?’ he asked finally.
Etienne did not look at Jourdain, to see that youthful face so full of love and concern. ‘It is not that kind of wound from which a man may heal himself,’ he said. ‘It is better left to God.’
Jourdain nodded. ‘It is said that a king once suffered from a wound . . . it was his duty to wait for someone to ask him for what reason he was ailing . . . He waited, and suffered long.’
Etienne paused his work of lacing the harnesses and looked at Jourdain then, with pointed eyes. ‘I would not answer if I were asked!’
Jourdain nodded his head. ‘Then this duty shall give you great courage.’
Etienne did not look at this but continued his work. ‘Why should courage come from such weakness?’
‘Courage is born of pain, Etienne,’ he said, and left him to his work.
42
PIERRE DE BOLOGNA
And I looked and behold a pale horse; and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.
Revelations 6:8
Paris, 10 May 1310
Pierre de Bologna lay with his head resting on the mould-covered wall. Dozing with his quill still held in his hand he dreamed. A sunrise lit the rolling hills, purple and mist-laden beneath the rose and yellow. Light struck his eyes and he shielded them, but the light that was carried into him found no distinction between them. He had become the sunrise and the hills and the clouds.
The quill fell from his hand, splattering ink and breaking its point. Pierre sat up, feeling displaced, incoherent, confused. Glancing about with dream-clouded eyes he saw the diffused light that, coming from the little window, had landed upon his face and only slightly illuminated his meagre surroundings, the austerity of the cell he had occupied for three long years.
The cell was five paces wide and ten long, with a stone bench fixed to one wall that served as a crude pallet. In one corner, rats congregated around faecal remains; at another, a dirty bowl of water became the grave of cockroaches. He closed his eyes and tried not to smell the sour stench of his own body, unwashed and diseased. How many more days and nights would he be compelled to suffer this way? Deprived of food, of warm clothing, denied the sacraments? He blinked, a scholar from the illustrious University of Bologna, a priest and chief procurator for the Temple at the Roman curia, forced to exist like an animal, even worse than an animal. He knelt, tears falling from his eyes unheeded.
The chains around his legs cut into the scanty flesh, but he did not feel it. He was consumed by grief, by guilt. It was painful to think of the rack, of the foot oven. But he forced himself to remember everything, like a man who, trapped under a great weight, prevents the loss of his sanity by recalling every detail of his accident.
He remembered with shame the day the extremities of his human resistance gave way to that need, that desperate need which, in the final analysis, was all that was left to a man whose teeth and nails had been wrenched out one by one, whose flesh was burnt, or else pinched with pincers – the need to die.
Now he let the tears flow hot until their saltiness reached his cracked lips. He had succumbed to the desire to be free of pain and in so doing had confessed to such depravity as he had never known possible. Why? In the inquisitor’s eyes he had seen hate but also a fleeting, paternal love. A part of him felt a need to please the love in those eyes, to be a good son, to do as was asked of him. But another knew that if he could last a little longer he would soon be free. But death had not visited him. Instead he had seen a familiar creature, a creature of satanic origins, whose odious enticements were the bane of all men whose meditations took them to spiritual heights. Pierre could not count how many times he had overcome this creature in his quiet moments, but on the bloodied rack it had gained the advantage and had overwhelmed his ailing, tortured body, speaking from his mouth vile temptations never committed but conquered time and time again through strength of soul.
How had the inquisitors known of Baphomet – more potent than Lucifer, more dangerous than Satan?
He bowed his head now, and prayed. ‘Father, You who were, are and will be, within us in our being, may thy name be glorified, and praised in us. May thy kingdom live in our deeds and in our lives. May we perform Your w
ill as you, Father, hath lain it down in our own being. You give us the bread of life to nourish our souls, through our every condition. Let our mercy toward others reconcile the sins done to our being. You do not allow the tempter to work in us beyond our strength. For no temptation can live within us, Father, since the tempter is a delusion. Therefore lead us through the light of knowledge . . . and may Your power and glory work in us through all periods and ages of time . . . Amen.’
After a long moment he felt a little better, his mind cleared. He realised that this day he must keep the true light of knowledge well lit since it was the day of the appeal before the papal commission.
His thoughts returned to that morning months ago when more than five hundred of his brothers were brought together en masse to defend the Order. Such a large number could not be contained in the episcopal buildings and so the gathering had been held behind the bishop’s house, in his orchard. There, with the sun in the eyes, he and his brothers heard the articles of accusation for the first time since their arrests. They were asked to name some representatives to put forward their case, and Pierre had been named together with Renaud de Provins, Preceptor of Orleans, and two others to illustrate a number of points on behalf of themselves and of the Order. Pierre had complained of the appalling conditions of their prisons, that the brothers were permanently chained, that they had barely any food and only foul water to drink. He told the commissioners that brothers were forced to live contrary to their rule since they were stripped of their religious habits and were deprived of the sacraments, some on their deathbeds. Moreover, those who had died outside Paris had been buried in unconsecrated ground, like heretics, whose souls would suffer eternal damnation. He then ventured to say that the Order had been seized illegally and that its temporal goods had been confiscated by a king with no authority to do so. Having made these points, he then asked to meet with his Grand Master, that he might know his mind in these grave matters. But the fact was that Pierre was in no doubt of the Grand Master’s mind.
The Seal Page 28