For months leading up to that time, messages had been secreted into the prisons scattered all over Paris in various monasteries and hotels. A notary sent by some person sympathetic to their cause had, during the course of his appointment, which took him from one jail to another, transported messages across the city. Though he had not met the man, it was through him that letters from his Grand Master had been directed to him. ‘Be certain God’s light is upon us . . .’ one letter had said. ‘Defend the Order as best you can, for the sake of the future, that is all that can be done. Even now the light of Christ washes over our wasted bodies and shines our way to his bosom.’
Pierre greatly admired Jacques de Molay, a more pious and brave Grand Master could not have been hoped for after the ill-timed death of Thibaud de Gaudin. But Pierre was a lawyer, a legal graduate of the highest quality, and he was possessed of the suspicious mind of a man used to subtle treachery. His political wits had understood with certainty as each day had dawned that some snare awaited them in all of it. What the opposition could gain by allowing their communication had haunted him constantly. If he had been less wasted by lack of food and sleep he would have seen it sooner. Now all was lost.
At that moment there was the sound of the key turning in the lock and the door swung open.
A notary entered carrying the usual bundle of papers under his arm and a lamp in his hand.
‘Next time bring your letter or I shall not let you in!’ the jailer spat at the young man, then mumbled to himself these words: ‘The right hand knows not what the left hand does . . . every time the same ... How am I to run my jail ...?’ He closed the oak door and locked it.
The lawyer stood and moved his eyes over the figure of the notary and then down to where his hands were clasped.
Pierre thought how many times he had been before notaries and asked that he and his colleagues might form a proper defence, that all confessions made should not be held against the Order since they were clearly lies, spoken because of fear of death or because of grave torture or through fear of it, since the punishment of one is the fear of many. He told them, as they thought of the bed or food that awaited them on their return to the palace, that the Templars ate weevil-infested porridge and slept on stone pallets with no blankets.
‘You have asked for a notary, monsieur?’ the young man said, bringing him back to the present.
‘Yes, of course,’ the lawyer said and remembered his manners once so refined. ‘I am a little tired. Please, will you sit down?’
The notary looked around him in the narrow cell and placed the lamp on the floor. Having sat on the edge of the pallet he proceeded to sharpen his quill and to select a suitable parchment. After a moment of this he looked up and his eyes fell on the lawyer.
Pierre de Bologna felt that regard as an indignity upon the wretched state of his body and apparel. His mind flashed to a time when the smallest blemish on his white habit would have annoyed him.
‘What is your name, monsieur?’ he asked.
‘Julian.’
‘Julian, you are named after a great but misunderstood man, Julian the Apostate. A man who wished to remember what was forgotten . . . I am Pierre.’ He straightened his back. ‘Italian by birth and proud to be a knight of the Sovereign Order of the Temple of Solomon.’
The notary bowed a little. ‘A good man gave this name to a foundling . . . He was a man of your Order.’
The man’s eyes became round and he blinked many times. ‘In the Holy Land?’
‘At Acre.’
‘You are the notary, then, who has assisted us?’
‘Yes.’
Pierre de Bologna smiled and his eyes welled with tears. The two men came to a silent understanding. ‘I am happy to have met you finally . . .’
‘I am honoured. I fear you have suffered great indignity, Monsieur de Bologna.’
‘Yes . . . is it not to be marvelled . . . that there are those of us who have lied.’ He said with a half-hearted smile, ‘I suppose it is even more astonishing that there are those who have kept to the truth!’ He looked at Julian. ‘Shall we begin?’
‘One moment.’ Julian began to write while the lawyer waited until there was a nod for him to commence.
‘The dangers and tortures which . . . which those who speak the truth suffer continually, are great! The menaces and outrages, the offences against their person, which are sustained daily, are not to be dismissed! They contrast with the advantages, favourable conditions, pleasures and liberties which the liars have, and the great promises which are daily made to them . . . they can only be imagined . . .’ He ended out of breath, holding on tight to the pallet and feeling that he was losing his balance.
‘Is something wrong?’ Julian asked.
‘Yes ... I ... must ...’ He stared up at the young man patterned by shadows. ‘Where was I?’
‘That advantages are given to those who confess and those who do not suffer outrages.’
‘Ahh . . . yes . . . It is a marvellous thing indeed . . . and greatly astonishing to all, that greater faith is placed in these liars who, having been . . . corrupted . . . in this way, have testified such things in the interests of their bodies, rather than those who, for the purpose of sustaining the truth, have died by torture!’ There was a pause. ‘What do you think of it?’
‘I?’ Julian said.
‘Of course, that is my argument to the commissioners. Perhaps it will do no good since all I say mostly leaves them as unchangeable as the seasons – it is hopeless to think summer could appear in December!’ The lawyer smiled weakly at this jest. ‘I have requested that an inquiry be made into the evidence of Templar brothers who have died in prison, from the priests who gave them their last sacraments. They should be required to give evidence as to the deathbed confessions of these poor tormented souls . . . Nothing has come of it. Think about it, my friend, why else have men not wanted to join the defence if not from fear of their lives?’
Another silence filled the room.
Pierre de Bologna scratched under his arm where a flea had taken refuge; he moved forward whispering, ‘Only a short time ago the news reached me that the Archbishop of Sens has summoned a provincial council of the Church . . .’ He waited. ‘Do you know what that means?’
The notary frowned, thinking things through, then it was his turn for astonishment. ‘This means they are planning more than one trial!’
‘Yes! There are now two trials running concurrently,’ the lawyer said with a toothless smile, warming to his subject. ‘Do you play chess, Julian?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘I was once – it seems like lifetimes ago – accustomed to playing chess every afternoon with the Cardinal Franco del Pozzo. The man always manoeuvred the board so that I took more care in my defence than in my attack. I am afraid that I always watched my own pieces too well and allowed the cardinal to put my king in check. I have been thinking and thinking and I have realised something. I did not see the signs! There is no one else to blame . . . You see, the King has played with us, Monsieur Julian, like a cat plays cruelly with a mouse. He has allowed us to correspond! Is that not remarkable? To mount a defence, to gain solidarity! Is that not implausible? And why has he done so?’
The notary placed his roll of parchments and papers on the pallet and stared at Pierre de Bologna for a moment, his eyes catching the light from the lamp, his brows coming together in a frown. There was a sudden dawn of understanding surfacing over his face.
The lawyer smiled. ‘I see that you know the answer . . . We have been allowed to mount a defence so that we might retract our confessions and be judged as relapsed heretics!’
‘No! I do not –’ the notary began, ‘I did not . . .’
‘No, not you nor I!’ Pierre said to him. ‘All the King needed to checkmate the defence was to appoint his royal chamberlain’s brother, Philippe de Marigny, to the position of Archbishop of Sens. Do you see?’
‘Sens is one of twelve provinces,’ the notary said, ‘
and has jurisdiction over Paris . . .’
‘Yes . . . yes . . . you are on the right track . . . Paris under the Archbishop of Sens is a Paris under the control of King Philip. His provincial council will allow the papal commission to judge the Order while it judges the individuals independently and under its very nose!’
‘To come to a judgement independent of the papal com¬mission, and without its concern . . . to sentence the individuals?’
‘Precisely!’ the Templar said, and it seemed that he had lost his strength; tears streamed down his face again and he wiped them away. ‘I am emotional, my dear Julian, for today the papal commission has consented to a special audience and I must summon up all the intelligence, all the cunning and strength that is left to me, before I finally dissolve into madness. If I am successful, I will go directly to the Archbishop of Sens to plead my position and . . . I will need a notary to accompany me . . . No one will come! Perhaps you will be so kind as to consent?’
At that point a key turned in the lock once again and the door swung open. It was Jean de Jamville, the jailer, followed closely by four archers carrying pikes.
‘Time to go!’ the man said.
Pierre de Bologna ignored this and looked at the young man.‘Will you come with me?’
There was the heavy blow of a chisel and the rivet was broken that fastened the chain to the Templar’s anklets but not the chain that held fast one foot to the other.
‘Please!’ He grappled for the notary but the jailer struck a blow at his cheek, so that Pierre went toppling off the pallet and into the bowl of water.
‘We’ll have none of that! Now, put this on.’ The jailer threw him a mantle, covered in the filth of three years. ‘It will take two deniers to remove your ankle chains.’ He offered his palm.
‘Cruel!’ the Templar cried out. ‘We must pay for everything, our lodgings, our blankets, our baths and food!’ He huddled in a corner. ‘Twelve deniers each day, monsieur, is all we are given from Templar funds to live on in these cells! A pittance to a man who appears in court at least three times a week and has to pay not merely for his board and food but also for the removal of chains and for transport to and from the courts. What is left? I have not eaten in a week . . .’ His hands covered his face. ‘Some days I must sleep outside for want of money; some of us have died because of it.’ He went to a hole in the wall, where sat his last two deniers, he took them with trembling fingers. ‘Take one for my chains, and one for your salvation.’
The man took them and told the guard to unshackle him.
‘Will you come?’ Pierre asked the notary.
‘Yes,’ answered Julian.
There was a nod and the Templar lawyer was led out of his cell.
Outside, the day looked grim. Pierre looked to the clouds that threatened a shower and breathed the damp air into his lungs.
Momentarily he was joined by his fellow lawyer Renaud de Provins and the other members of the defence. The cart would take them to their destination. They embraced and together formed a circle of faith. The sky began to kiss the earth and rain fell over them and their bodies shook with cold. They leant into each other and listened. Renaud spoke first.
‘What shall we say? Have you formulated your words?’
Pierre locked his eyes on to those of his partner, a little younger than he, perhaps even a little wiser and more articulate, for he had not made any direct confession.
‘No. It is best that we let the Holy Spirit speak through us, brother.’
But his faith was weary and when he dug into his soul it felt emptied, bled dry. Would the Holy Spirit speak through a man with a scanty frame and eyes that were sunk deep, whose ribs jutted through his mantle like sticks that appear at low tide? He would look like a starved hare among fat wolves. ‘St Hilary protect us’, he prayed, ‘Christ vanquish our enemies!’ He stared out into the day. ‘In this circle we are not yet out of faith?’ His voice pleaded thinly as if it might find strength from their reply.
The men stared into the circle and prayed.
They came to the chapel of St Eloi in the monastery of St Genevieve with relative swiftness. The men said an Ave together, with the rain falling like spikes over their scanty attire, and prepared to meet the men who were their judges.
Inside sat the commissioners, hard, pale and bored. Gilles Aicelin, Archbishop of Narbonne, was present to chair the commission, accompanied by Guillaume Durant, Renaud de la Porte, Matthew of Naples and Jean de Mantua.
The Templars walked in with difficulty, some were limping from their wounds. They stood together, with their mantles flapping in the wind like the flames on the candles and torches.
After reciting the opening formula, the Archbishop of Narbonne asked the four men what it was they wished to say to the commission at this late and inappropriate date.
Pierre began: ‘Your Holiness the Archbishop, Commissioners, it has come to our knowledge that the Archbishop of Sens with his suffragans have convoked in provincial council at Paris, and wish, upon the morrow, to make some proceedings against many of the brothers who have brought themselves to the defence of the Order, so that they might make the brothers desist from their defence. We therefore wish to read to you an appeal, knowing that your power comes directly from his Holiness the Pope.’
Gilles Aicelin looked nervous and tense as he cast his eyes upon the Templar. ‘It is not the commission’s business to hear appeals, but if you would like to defend the Order we shall hear what you have to say.’
‘We gravely suspect, your Holiness,’ began Pierre, his lawyerly bearing composing the lines of his face, so that he gradually lost the look of a hunted man and regained a little of his dignity, ‘that the Archbishop of Sens seeks to conduct a de facto trial behind the commission’s back. His suffragans, archbishops and prelates of the kingdom of France are preparing for this. They will proceed de iure while your inquiry is still pending. We appeal to you, that no execution or unlawful acts be carried out against men who have come to the defence of the Order by the above-named archbishops and prelates of the kingdom since such acts would be against God and justice and would serve to cause severe disturbance to your inquiry. We appeal to the Holy See to place all the brothers who have offered to defend the Order under its protection, and we ask the counsel of wise men, for the purpose of carrying out this appeal, that any necessary moneys should come from the property of the Order. This said, money should then be taken in full security to the Lord Pope so that he may prosecute this appeal himself. Meanwhile, we ask the commissioners to order the Archbishop of Sens and the other prelates not to proceed with additional inquiries, and that through the mediation of the commission we may be allowed to go to the Archbishop of Sens to appeal to him directly, together with one notary.’ He ended with his heart beating in his ears, and thus he fought a feeling of faintness. ‘At the same time we beg that you make this appeal known to all the archbishops of the Kingdom of France, at the expense of the said Order, since we ourselves cannot do so as we are imprisoned.’
There was a pause. The commissioners looked to the Archbishop of Narbonne with morbid curiosity. Pierre knew he had placed the man in a difficult position, for Gilles Aicelin was as much the King’s man as he was the Pope’s. To whom would he give his ultimate loyalty? The Templar lawyer was smart enough to know that an audience between the defence and the Archbishop of Sens with a public notarial record would certainly enrage a king anxious that his machinations not be revealed before they have time to do their work. On the other hand, a refusal would surely infuriate the Pope since he would have to admit to his cardinals what they already suspected: that the French clergy were ignoring his authority and conspiring to undermine the trials. This had been his gamble. He had decided to put the King in check.
Gilles Aicelin squirmed in his chair, coughed into his hand, cleared his throat and stood, imperiously.
‘I must go, to hear or . . . celebrate mass.’ Then he gathered his vestments and left the chapel.
Looks
of astonishment passed from one commissioner to another, like a wave of locusts suddenly despoiled of fields. To hear or celebrate mass? their eyes questioned. They shrugged and coughed and looked askance at one another. The man had left them with no formal statement or announcement, with not a hint of his intentions. After a moment of conferral alone in another room, the commissioners returned, grim-faced and tired – they would give their answers at vespers.
Time moved slowly. At vespers Pierre and the others were recalled. Perhaps Pierre felt a little spark of hope in his heart, which he dared not mention to the others. How could they not see reason? The commissioners were not so different from them. They were godly men but also men of the law, for whom justice must come before all.
A clerk read out their decision.
‘They have discussed in their council those facts which the procurator has brought before this commission and have decided that the lord commissioners have no power over the Archbishop of Sens and his prelates, and cannot therefore impede the said Archbishop of Sens or the other prelates by postponing the trials . . .’
Pierre gasped, the others cried, ‘No!’
Rome had spoken . . . the case was concluded.
In the early hours of the morning, Pierre de Bologna dreamed that he was running at dawn. Feeling the warm earth between his toes, feeling the minerals and the rocks in their finest state of distribution, speaking poetry through his limbs. He gazed above him at the clouds illuminated through darkness, and it was as though the sun were rising in his heart.
Suddenly he was startled: in the darkness the jailer and his men were taking off his chains. That feeling of rejoicing had not left him, and he rose upon the hope that soared in his heart with tears flowing down his face.
‘Have we been freed?’ he asked, unable to see the faces of his saviours.
‘Freed?’ said the jailer. ‘Not freed!’
That was when he felt himself truly awake, more awake than he had felt all these months, and he knew. Taking a long breath he crossed himself and said, ‘Vade retro me Satana ...’
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