He saw Andrew’s weatherworn face come over his and the smell of his stale breath as he said, ‘An arrow to the heart.’
Roger looked at it and it seemed to him an odd thing that Andrew had noticed it and he had not, but then he was reminded of Andrew’s good eyes and he tried to make conversation by saying, ‘I am killed.’
But even before his lips had said the words they were proceeding from out of a body below him that lay upon the leaves flanked by the two men. It did not concern him, that body. He had, by all accounts, discarded it since he was embarked upon a different journey, soaring over the waves of a vast blue space wherein he saw his life spread out like an ocean of light.
48
THE SUPPRESSION
It is finished.
St John 19:30
Vienne, April 1312
This city, Clement knew, was a perfect choice for the location of the general council, since it was not a fief of France but belonged instead to the kingdom of Arles. It was here that Clement controlled, through the Archbishop of Vienne, the suffragans of Geneva, Grenoble, Aosta, Tarentaise, Valence and St Etienne de Marienne, and this meant that his power extended over the borders of France, through the Alps and into Italy.
But Vienne was cold. Having left his beloved monastery of Grozeau, with its cool late summer climate and pure water, for this overcrowded and ill-smelling expensive place, Clement had felt a terrible decline in health. He was dying a slow death. He knew it, since lately his bowels moved liquid that was bright with blood and he had become paler and weaker. The pain had grown worse so that even the tea that his doctors brewed from poppies did not assuage it. Perhaps they were poisoning him? Perhaps.
And Boniface? Boniface came to him now day and night and he experienced no respite from horror, tortured even at the most inauspicious moments by that face whose admonition rang out, ‘Coward! Murderer!’
He made a sigh. Since the opening of the Council of Vienne, he had been expecting Philip but he had not come. Fifty prelates had gathered in the chill of October mornings, in the gloom of the unfinished, draughty cathedral to hear the monotonous findings of the papal commission and the provincial councils. Evidence they had heard many times before.
When the royal embassy arrived at Vienne, it was comprised of the King’s half-brother, Louis Count of Evreux; the Count of Boulogne; the Count of Saint-Pol and, together with the Royal Chamberlain Enguerrand de Marigny, the Keeper of the Royal Seals, Guillaume de Nogaret and the lawyer Guillaume de Plaisians. They battled across a negotiating table with Clement’s cardinals and nothing would come of it. Then Philip arrived accompanied by an impressive entourage. Once again their meeting had been tempestuous. The King would have nothing else save the suppression of the Order and he reminded Clement of his promises. Surely Philip realised Clement must be seen to make some fuss over his requests, considering the kings of England, Spain and Portugal had not been as enthusiastic about the Order’s demise? Besides, it amused him to see Philip harassed and red-faced.
When the time came his fifty prelates voted overwhelmingly for suppression, and in truth, he was glad it was finally over. He might not have learnt the Templar secrets but neither had Philip, who, despite having applied torture liberally, had not been successful in extracting anything of value from Jacques de Molay. Poor Philip had not known to ask the right questions before the Templar Grand Master had been sent to Chinon to be questioned by the cardinals. He smiled discreetly. The King had been looking for a fortune that had never been in his grasp, when all the time he had been in the presence of a true fortune and had not known how to ask for it . . . The Secrets of the Order would die with Jacques de Molay and all that was left to Philip Capet were meagre leftovers.
From his throne in the cathedral of St Maurice, Clement looked down on the potentates of the Church, arranged in a semicircle in front of him, with vague detachment. To his right, on his dais, a little lower than he, sat King Philip with his son Charles. To his left was Philip’s eldest son Louis and other nobles, with the cardinals, archbishops and bishops in all their regalia making up the rest.
The choir and nave resounded to the Veni Creator without sentiment and Clement barely followed. He had long ceased the struggle to find God. His life had been that of a man who is singled out like Abraham, obliged to perform exemplary acts with the eyes of mankind upon him. How would he be judged? Values were always too vague, always too broad. Circumstances had been against him, and what he had done had not, perhaps, shown his true worth. Had there not been a Philip or a Templar question, I may have been a pious man, a good pope, he told himself, and a belch came hot and sour.
When his time came to stand he prayed that his legs would not give way and then spoke from the Psalms. ‘Therefore the wicked will not stand in the judgement, nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous, for the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous: but the way of the ungodly shall perish . . .’ Then he gave a brief summary of the errors of the Order, careful to note that the Templars could not go unpunished without inflicting damage on the honour of all those who loved God.
‘After a long and mature reflection,’ he said breathless, his hands trembling, ‘having before our eyes only our Lord and bearing in mind only the interests of the Holy Land . . . we abolish by perpetual sanction and with the approval of the Holy Council the Order of the Temple, its rule, its habit and its name, strictly forbidding anyone to enter into the Order, to receive or wear its habit, or to act as if he were a Templar . . . Factum est . . . It is done.’
He sank into his throne and noticed that his hands smelt peculiar. As the King removed himself and his entourage, Clement called for his attendant to bring him a bowl of water. When it arrived he washed his hands, but the stink would not relent.
He had not felt the contents of his bowels leave his body and form a puddle of excrement on the floor.
49
KNOW THYSELF
. . . as if there were some monster in his thought too hideous to be shown
Shakespeare, OTHELLO
Iterius ran from the royal gates and from there he stumbled over the bridge and through narrow streets, holding himself together. Fear nestled deeply in his breast and he barely noticed the people that, like a blur of images, came and went about in the early morning. In this state of half-mindedness he lurched into a fishmonger’s cart and, throwing his arms about in the air for balance, lost his footing and fell face down into mud and filth. He heard laughter and a shiver whisked through him.
He recalled the dream; he had seen himself falling from a great height, and the feeling of surprise and a terrible pain had come over him as if some creature were tearing at his face, throat and hand. Amongst the events of this nightmare he had seen the King’s face distorted into a grin as he laughed and said these words: ‘You shall never know it now, Iterius!’
How must he interpret this beyond the plain facts? He was a man marked for death . . . a counterfeit . . . empty and deluded.
Such a man without the affection of his king was a man utterly lost in the void of his own nothingness. A nothing!
What should he do? He was given a glimpse of the horror of his destiny, and against this momentary lapse into the truth of things, he closed his eyes and lay, letting the muck soak into his cloak and breeches and stockings. ‘Oh!’ he said, opening one eye and looking around him for assassins, and again, ‘Oh!’ into the mud. An anxiety rose to his throat and caused a great trembling to come over him. He grasped his cloak and pulled the wet muddy thing around him, taking gasps of air into his lungs. Calm ... calm . . . he told the blood congealing in his veins, Calm ... calm . . . he told the thoughts that flared up in the pit of his mind. His cunning had never failed to find deplorable ways around immovable obstacles. All he needed was a moment to collect himself. Just a moment and something would surface to rescue him from this predicament . . . something . . .
The world moved around him as if he were a cockroach flailing in a puddle. Children passed and threw food at hi
m or kicked more mud into his face, but the Egyptian was lost in thought and ignored these inconveniences long enough for a dull sense that all was not lost to gradually emerge from the abysmal depths of his soul. He might be nothing more than an imitation, a forgery, but even something worthless held its own strange value for those who had a use for it. He stood and wiped the grime from his face and his hands and took the thought to its conclusion.
The lawyer, de Plaisians . . . that was the name that had popped into his mind . . . something told him that this man would find him useful. Perhaps a little could be gained after all?
He straightened his back. First he would travel to Grozeau for an audience with his other master, the Pope. Iterius had failed him as well, but perhaps something could be salvaged.
Perhaps the Pope would take him as his astrologer? In the event this tack proved unsuccessful he would take more poison to give to Clement’s keepers.
Yes, all things would be put to rights.
And thus did Iterius walk away from his humiliation with the gait of the resourceful, and a smile upon his mud-stained face.
50
CONSPIRACY
Men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil.
St John 3:19
Charles, Count of Valois!’ exclaimed Guillaume de ‘Plaisians when the King’s brother rushed to catch up with him along one of the corridors in the east wing of the palace. When he reached de Plaisians, the King’s brother was breathless and sweating.
De Plaisians smiled. ‘How fortunate to meet with you,’ he said, looking over the man with mild amusement, for arrayed in purple with ermine around his shoulders the count looked like those strange creatures one saw illuminated in bestiaries. ‘What is your pleasure, Count?’
Charles of Valois, disconcerted and suffering a cold, took a dismal moment to regain his composure before answering. ‘Plaisians . . . you have sent a message whose contents . . . whose contents, suggest . . .’ he lowered his voice, ‘treason of the highest order.’ He edged towards a painting of St Louis, grim-faced and ascetic, commissioned by Philip. When he was sure there was no one in earshot the count spoke again. ‘There are spies everywhere! Philip tells me that the papal commission’s first witness, de Folliaco, was a spy – how do we know we are not being watched as a lion observes its prey, hidden in the shadows?’
‘It is we who, one might say, hide in the shadows. Besides, in these arts, dear Count, I am king.’
‘Arts?’ he snickered, sniffing and sucking his phlegm. ‘I have heard your only art is in making women moan, Plaisians. I have heard you like them especially lowborn.’
De Plaisians made a soft laugh. ‘Yes, why not? I admit to a fondness for those plump little girls from the Parloir aux Bourgeois. I think the odours of frying fat and leather stir the loins of a man too accustomed to perfumes. However, queens too are tasty morsels, not without their uses, for one must not think the sport of Eros and the games of intrigue mutually exclusive.’
‘Plaisians, control your tongue, these are serious matters!’ the count said, and he gave a spluttering sneeze.
‘If I cannot control it in matters of love, why should I do so in matters of intrigue? First of all,’ de Plaisians continued, taking the other man’s arm so that they both walked in step, ‘let me give you some advice – you must be attentus. Pretending always to know little, so that whatever he tells you, he must repeat a second time, even more precisely. Then you ingratiate yourself with little lies, little gratuities, but only little ones, for he shall soon get wind of it if you exaggerate your love . . . That is how I am with women, Count, and it has stood me in good stead.’
‘Wait!’ The man was confused. ‘Of whom do you speak?’
‘Why, the King, of course! We must be able to anticipate his every move and, above all, we must know his own thoughts even before he knows them.’
‘To what advantage? Monsieur, you are confounding me!’ he whispered harshly, stopping in his tracks.
‘Everything is to the advantage of a man who seeks to become more celebrated than his brother.’
There was a look of horror and the pale face grew paler and sweat began to glisten over the bulbous forehead; he gave another sneeze. He brought a wet cloth to his nose and blew loudly into it. ‘You are mistaken, monsieur! And you are a traitor into the bargain!’ The count loosened himself from the lawyer’s hold and began to walk away, but something stopped him and he turned around, fear composing the lines of his face into a grimace. He sniffed and passed his trembling fingers through his thinning hair. ‘What,’ he trembled, ‘is it that you want of me, Plaisians?’
Suddenly a group of guards and notaries, courtiers and advisers passed them. The palace seemed engulfed in imbroglio.
‘Not here, come . . . let us find a chamber . . .’ De Plaisians opened a door nearby that led from the corridor to a room adorned with paintings and tapestries. Here it was cold, dim and empty. ‘This is perfect. After you?’ He bowed deferentially.
The count huffed and snorted and, narrowing his eyes, entered the room.
Once they were inside and the door was shut, de Plaisians spoke from out of the gloom. ‘I hope whatever it is you are preparing has been well prepared,’ he said, delighted to be confounding the other man. ‘As it is I have done most of it for you, we only await the result.’
‘Most of it?’
‘Why yes, nearly all of it really.’
‘Monsieur, what do you speak of?’
‘Come now, dear Count . . . the brothers Aunay, the princesses, your future crown!’
The man gasped. ‘For the love of God! What are you saying, Plaisians?’
‘Please Count, to feign ignorance is most unnecessary, for I know you to be a man whose political skill I liken to . . . to Caesar! Your courage to Hannibal!’ He paused to see what effect this had on the count before continuing. ‘That the Pope overlooked your estimable virtues and appointed another man emperor signals his incompetence, for you are a man who, after all, knows the necessity of countering difficulties and dangers with a prowess that is treacherous certainly, but also . . . timely and wise.’
‘Well . . .’ said the other man, frowning and coughing, but an unsettled contentment was discerned clearly in his thick, oily voice. ‘Necessity dictates . . . one’s actions . . . but . . . what are you talking about?’
‘The princesses, my dear Count! Ah! Marguerite of Navarre, if you could see her as nature has made her, you would think her nothing less than a wondrous architecture of womanhood! She is the thunder of heaven! She is that nepenthe that inspires unsatisfied satisfaction!’
‘Enough!’ The count, whose sexual impotence was commonly known, sniffed again, wetly. ‘Tell me everything.’
De Plaisians smiled to the very edges of his dimpled cheeks. ‘Once Marguerite was satisfied, and I myself achieved this with very little trouble, the other princess was in a hurry to see what she was missing. Now, you see, these poor women, who had not known the pleasures of love, could not afterwards bear to be parted from them . . . After I distanced myself from their warm beds they began looking around for lovers and that is when their gaze fell upon your equerries, quite naturally.’
‘My equerries . . . ?’ The count nodded his head slowly. ‘You put my equerries in their way?’
‘In the most subtle manner.’
The other man sniffed. ‘But with what aim, Plaisians?’
‘With the aim that soon the world shall hear of it – the King’s sons are cuckold! The lovers of their wives will then be drawn and quartered and their heads shall be hung on gibbets and their tongues sold to the sorcerers.’
‘And my brother’s daughters-in-law shall lie in prison for life, or else die by the axe . . .’ It was obvious that a light was lit in the count’s vacuous head because he said very slowly, ‘And the King’s sons shall be left without heirs . . . !’
‘Most astute, Count! Now, look at your nephews: Louis is weak and hollow-chested, Philippe is thin, and C
harles shall certainly succumb to . . . some terrible disease . . . Many uncles have been known to outlive their nephews . . . especially when there are no heirs to the throne . . .’
‘Yes . . . especially so.’ The count sniffed with his blocked nose and smiled as a wicked realisation dawned over his puffy features. ‘But . . . what shall you get quid pro quo, Plaisians?’
‘There is the matter of elevation . . .’
‘Yes. And further?’
‘If you should become king, it would be my pleasure to serve you as Keeper of the Royal Seals.’
The count frowned. ‘But Nogaret lives?’
‘There you have illustrated my point! He lives, but as Horace tells us, dear Count, one night awaits us all.’
‘I do not know if I wish to kill him . . .’
‘Well, shall we say that Nogaret was not so perturbed when your wife died, providing him with an advantageous lure which he used to tempt Jacques de Molay to remain in France.’
Charles looked at this and shrugged. ‘I was not myself much perturbed by it.’
‘No . . . however, I shall tell you that he also conspires with Marigny against you.’
‘Does he?’ There was a sudden note, the beginnings of fear in the count’s voice. ‘Does he conspire with that weasel?’
‘Of course . . . you are an important man, they fear your power. They poison the King’s ear . . . they convince him that you are conspiring against him.’
‘They do? Oh my Lord!’ The count was flustered now and biting his thumb. ‘He shall believe that I am conspiring against him, my own brother!’
‘The thing is, Count . . . you are conspiring against the King . . .’
‘I am?’
‘Of course! And for this very reason you must show Nogaret no mercy.’
‘No, I must not . . .’ He was lost in this thought, then: ‘But how will you do it? How will Nogaret succumb?’
The Seal Page 32