The Parchment

by McLaughlin, Gerald T.

  “Go, I say or you will meet the devil before I do.”

  Clement grasped de Saone's arm and pulled himself up to a sitting position. He kept looking at the door across the room. “De Molay, Jacques de Molay, where are you? Will you not come to claim your victory?”

  The pope coughed violently. Blood stained his bed sheets. As he gasped for breath, Clement pointed again to the door. “They are here. De Molay and his Templars are here. Do you see them, de Saone? There by the door! De Molay taunts me with the parchment.”

  Wild-eyed, the pope tried frantically to get out of his bed. “He comes for me! The Templar comes for me. We must take the parchment away from him. We must save the Church. Help me!”

  “Holiness, you must get some rest.”

  “The way is dark.”

  Clement reached for a cross that lay on a table next to his bed. He touched it and slumped back on his pillows. The cardinal could see that the pope was dead. De Saone gently loosened Clement's grip on his arm. The camerlengo raised his right hand and made the sign of the cross over Clement's body. The pope had not confessed his sins to the camerlengo.

  Barbo looked up from the diary. The abbot's entry linked Pope Clement's death to the persecution of the Templars — something that Barbo had always suspected but could never prove. The cardinal poured a glass of water and telephoned Castel Gondolfo to speak with Sister Consuela. Barbo knew how difficult these days must be for Pope Benedict. After checking on his friend's condition, he picked up the abbot's diary and continued reading.

  Cardinal de Saone knew what must be done. As camerlengo, it was his responsibility to confirm the death of the pope. The rituals that must be followed were ancient. After Clement's body had been washed and wrapped in a white shroud, de Saone took a small silver mallet out of a velvet pouch. He walked to Clement's bedside, and as those in the room watched, the cardinal tapped Clement's forehead.

  “Bertrand de Got, arise.”

  When an individual is elevated to the papacy, tradition requires that he choose a new name that will mark his Pontificate. When Bertrand de Got, Archbishop of Bordeaux, was chosen pope, he took the name Clement. Papal ritual required that the camerlengo now address the pope by his family name and not by his papal name. In God's eyes, it was Bertrand who had died, not Clement. The papacy lives forever and the gates of hell will not prevail against it.

  De Saone tapped Clement's forehead a second time. “Arise, Bertrand.”

  He stood for a moment and then tapped Clement's forehead for the third and last time. “Bertrand de Got, arise from your bed.”

  When there was no response, the camerlengo intoned the ritual words: “Bertrandus mortuus est.” Once the camerlengo had spoken these words, the Church officially came to a halt. Until a new pope was elected, the Church was without a successor to Peter.

  One more task still awaited the camerlengo. De Saone removed the papal ring from Clement's finger and placed it and the pope's seal in a brazier of hot coals. As several members of the Sacred College watched, the heat from the coals gradually melted the ring and seal into a liquid paste. With the symbols of papal authority destroyed, the sacred rituals were concluded.

  The camerlengo walked to the chapel next to the pope's bedchamber and pulled a bell rope to begin tolling the death knell for Clement. The mournful cadence grew louder as more and more bells joined in the tolling. The sound reverberated through the streets of Avignon, then across the Rhone until it became lost in the hills beyond Villenueve.

  The merchant, warm in his house near the Palais des Papes, was awakened by the bells of the cathedral. Annoyed, he rolled over and went back to sleep.

  When they heard the bells begin to toll, those still gathered near St. Bénézet Bridge grew silent. The old woman dropped to her knees and made the sign of the cross.

  Kicking a stone along the street, the blacksmith walked away, smiling. “The Templars have been avenged. Clement has come before the judgment seat of God. King Philip and Cardinal de Saone will be next.”

  As the camerlengo walked back to his apartment, he was frightened. A strong wind blew along the cloisters causing his cape to billow behind him like the sail of a ship. It was as if the wind and the sail were pushing him back into the past—to that morning on the lie des Javaux in Paris when de Molay was burned at the stake. How could he ever forget the horror of that day—de Molay's defiance as the flames engulfed him, the smell of burning flesh, the cries of agony. But it was de Molay's curse that most terrified de Saone. As de Molay had predicted, Clement had come before God's judgment seat within the year. Would de Molay soon come for de Saone as well?

  The camerlengo heard footsteps behind him. He looked over his shoulder but no one was there. The footsteps came again—this time they sounded closer. The cardinal became frightened. “Is it you, de Molay? Show yourself.” As if in response, the wind blew stronger. De Saone was sure that he could hear de Molay whisper to him. “I am coming soon for your soul.” Haunted by the sounds of the wind, the old cardinal hurried faster down the corridor.

  The sound of hooves awakened the mayor of Auclaire. It was unusual to hear horses so late at night. Lighting an oil lamp, he hastily threw a mantle over his shoulders and ran out to the street. The mayor could see a large contingent of horsemen — perhaps forty in number—riding into the town at a gallop. A carriage pulled by four white horses followed them. The mayor could make out a gold fleur-de-lis painted on the carriage door. With such an escort, the mayor knew that someone either very important or very wealthy must be in the carriage. Perhaps it could be the new governor of the province. As he hurried toward the carriage, one of the horsemen dismounted and blocked his way.

  “No farther, old man.”

  “I am the mayor of Auclaire. I come to greet our visitor.”

  “I do not care if you are St. Michael himself. Stay back.” Suddenly the carriage door opened and a man stepped out.

  “On your knees, old man. You are in the presence of the king of France.”

  The soldier pushed the mayor of Auclaire to the ground. Philip looked contemptuously at the figure cowering in front of him. “Is this peasant the messenger from Avignon? He reeks with garlic.”

  “No, Sire. He says he is the mayor of the village.”

  “The mayor? My subjects deserve better than this. Throw him into the Rhône for a cleaning.”

  Just then a lone horseman rode into Auclaire from the direction of Avignon. The rider jumped from his horse and knelt before the king.

  Philip pulled the messenger to his feet. “Is he dead? Tell me, is Clement dead?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. The bells announce that Christ has come for the pope's soul.”

  “‘That Christ has come for the pope's soul?’” Philip laughed. “If anyone came for his soul, it would have been the devil — or maybe Jacques de Molay. He threatened Clement and me that we would soon stand before the judgment seat of God.” Philip smiled. “I put Clement on the papal throne because he possessed the qualities I most admire in a pope—weakness and indecision. Clement has not disappointed me on either score.”

  Philip turned to the messenger. “Ride back to the city—have the Papal Palace surrounded. No one is to enter or leave—especially my lord cardinals.”

  “And the roads in and out of Avignon, do you wish them guarded as well, Majesty?”

  “Yes, and the river, too. Some cardinals may try to escape by boat to Rome.”

  “No one will leave, Sire.”

  “Bring the camerlengo, Cardinal de Saone, here so we may organize a conclave to elect another French pope.”

  As the messenger rode back toward Avignon, Philip beckoned to the captain of his escort. “Is there lodging nearby? I will stay out of Avignon until Clement's successor is chosen. Appearances must be preserved.”

  “There is a Templar commanderie half a league from Auclaire, Majesty. Several Templars are imprisoned there.”

  “Templars! They will provide interesting company while I wait for the ne
xt French pope to be elected.”

  King Philip walked down the wet stairwell to the dungeon under the commanderie. Seven Templars were shackled to the wall of the damp cell. When they saw the king, one prisoner spat on the ground. “Why does the devil come to see us?”

  “Speak more politely to the king of France, Templar heretic. I assume your accommodations are satisfactory. The seal of your order shows two Templars sharing a horse. I have allowed you to be even thriftier — seven of you share one cell.”

  “You will die for what you have done to us and to our grand master, Jacques de Molay.”

  Philip laughed and turned to leave. “I am late for dinner.”

  As Philip started back up the dungeon stairs, he spoke to the jailer. “Share the leftovers with these heretics. The king of France is a generous sovereign, but a sovereign who still punishes the sinner. Give them no wine to wash down their food. If they are thirsty, let them drink from the latrine.”

  At noon, the Mass of the Dead was offered for Pope Clement. As the papal choir intoned the Dies Irae, a long procession of cardinals and bishops wended its way from the Papal Palace to Avignon's Cathedral des Doras, fifty yards away. A lone priest followed the prelates, carrying the papal tiara on a red velvet cushion. The tiara was made of three jeweled circlets, each symbolizing one of the pope's powers: to rule over the people; to judge their sins; and to teach the word of God. Behind the priest, members of the nobility pulled a caisson draped in black cloth on which the body of the pope lay. At the rear of the procession walked the three prelates who would concelebrate the pope's funeral Mass. By tradition they were the camerlengo, the dean of the college of cardinals and the youngest member of the Sacred College, in this case, the Cardinal Archbishop of Genoa.

  One mourner, however, was conspicuously absent from the procession. King Philip had sent word that he would not attend Clement's funeral Mass.

  At the entrance to the cathedral, the procession paused as the pope's body was lifted off the caisson and placed on a catafalque. Thurible in hand, de Saone circled the coffin three times, each time incensing Clement's remains.

  De Saone thought back five years, to the first time Clement had entered the Avignon Cathedral. King Philip had invited Clement to live in Avignon for the pope's own safety. Rome, Philip insisted, was no place for the head of Christendom.

  “When the weather in Rome is cool, there are riots; when the weather is hot there is plague. The Rhone flows more calmly than the Tiber.”

  Clement knew, however, that Philip's concern about his health and well being was an act. The king's real motives were less noble. Clement's predecessor, Pope Boniface VIII, had excommunicated Philip for taxing Church properties. Philip swore he would never allow a pope to challenge him again. The easiest solution was to hobble the pope's power by forcing him to live under the watchful eye of the king. Clement knew that it would be unwise to refuse King Philip's invitation. On March 23, 1309, followed by King Philip, Clement had ridden through Avignon's San Roch Gate to the thunderous cheers of the faithful. As the papal entourage moved through the crowds, the devout, and even some of the not so devout, covered the streets with rugs. Others tossed sprigs of lavender and flower petals from tenement windows in a blinding rain of color. Men ran next to the pope's horse, holding up children for him to bless. At the Avignon Cathedral, hundreds of prelates and nobility waited outside to greet him. As Clement dismounted, the bishop of Avignon knelt before him and kissed his ring. Then as the choir thundered the Tu es Petrus, the pope and the king of France walked into the cathedral for a pontifical Mass celebrated by Clement.

  Now, of course, things were very different. There were no cheering crowds, no showers of lavender, no trumpets, and most significantly, no King Philip. As de Saone watched the faces of his fellow cardinals, he could see that their minds were not on Clement but on the upcoming conclave. De Saone had already received a foretaste of what was to come. Earlier that morning, two French cardinals had secretly come to his quarters in the hope of persuading him to allow Cardinal Taserant to preach Clement's eulogy. The camerlengo indignantly refused. “I was blessed to have Pope Clement as my friend. His funeral Mass will not be used to promote Cardinal Taserant's papal ambitions.” As the French cardinals stormed out of his apartment, de Saone recalled that it was Clement who had elevated Cardinal Taserant to the Sacred College and appointed him Archbishop of Lyons, the wealthiest diocese in France. But now, there was no gratitude, only Taserant's naked ambition to be Clement's successor.

  The signal was given for the procession to enter the cathedral. When the cardinal camerlengo walked into the immense twilight of the nave, he thought he saw a helmeted figure standing on the high altar. He hesitated for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. When he looked again, whatever he had seen was gone. As he started down the center aisle, he passed a painting of the triumphant Jesus appearing to the Magdalene. Then the camerlengo saw it again—a wraith-like figure was beckoning him toward the altar. De Saone thought he saw a scroll of parchment in the figure's hand. The cardinal began to lose his composure and paused. The figure dissolved in the smoke from the incense.

  At the altar, de Saone began the Mass. The cardinal always found comfort in the sheer predictability of the ceremony. The words of the liturgy never changed, even for a funeral of the Vicar of Christ. He recited the offertory prayers and prepared the bread and wine for consecration. De Saone prayed the Sanctus and genuflected before the altar. Taking the bread in his hand, he bent over the altar to recite the words of consecration. Suddenly, de Saone sensed the mysterious helmeted figure standing beside him on the altar. As de Saone lifted the consecrated host for veneration, he felt the phantom pulling his arms down. Trembling, he laid the host back on the altar. De Saone bent low over the wine. “Hic est Calix sanguinis mei”—he could barely speak the Latin words of consecration. As he lifted the cup of Christ's blood high above his head, it felt like a stone of immense weight. The cardinal lost all sensation in his arms. The chalice fell on the altar, spilling red wine over the white altar cloth. As he looked down at the altar, de Saone shrank back in terror. In the pool of wine, he saw the face of Jacques de Molay. The Templar smiled at de Saone and held out the parchment scroll as if taunting him to take it.

  Père Beneton ran to the camerlengo's side when he saw the chalice hit the altar. Wild-eyed, the old man stood alone. Then, as if he were looking into the abyss itself, de Saone let out a loud, animal cry: “God protect me from the Templar.” He struggled to pick up the chalice a second time but collapsed on the marble floor of the altar. Beneton carried the camerlengo to a chair on the right side of the sanctuary. When he regained consciousness, de Saone's face was ashen and his breathing labored. Père Beneton knew the cardinal would not be able to finish saying the mass. Steadying the old man, the priest led the cardinal into the sacristy and helped him remove his black vestments. As de Saone looked back to the altar, he saw Cardinal Taserant had replaced him as the principal celebrant.

  When Mass was over, the sacristan burned de Saone's black vestments and the white altar cloth. Both had been stained with the Blood of the Savior.

  An hour later, de Saone was still trembling as he entered his apartment. Beneton poured water into a metal basin and wiped the cardinal's face.

  “Beneton—my nephew Etienne—bring him here as quickly as you can.”

  “It will be difficult, Emenence.”

  “Difficult! Why?”

  “The Papal Palace has been sealed off. King Philip's soldiers are everywhere.”

  “Clement's body is hardly cold and already the struggle over succession begins.”

  De Saone scribbled a message on a piece of parchment. “Take this, Beneton. Tomorrow the College of Cardinals will inter Clement's remains under the altar of the cathedral. I need my black cope and stole from my palace in Villenueve to participate in the burial liturgy. No one will stop the camerlengo's secretary on such a mission.”

  “Yes, Eminence.”

&
nbsp; “One thing more, Beneton. My nephew must disguise himself when he comes here. If King Philip knew that Etienne was visiting me today, there would be some inconvenient questions.”

  “Finding Etienne's whereabouts may be harder than bringing him here, Eminence.”

  CHAPTER XXI

  A TRIP T AVIGNN

  “HALT!” FRENCH SOLDIERS blocked the road. “Go back. No one may leave the palace.”

  Père Beneton took de Saone's letter from under his cloak. “Stand aside. My orders are under seal of the camerlengo.”

  A soldier read the letter and handed it back to Beneton. “No one can leave — not even the camerlengo himself.”

  “It is the pope who is dead, not some poor beggar in the street. It would be sacrilegious to deny him the rites of the dead.”

  The soldiers spoke among themselves. Finally, the ranking soldier turned and looked uneasily at Beneton. “Go ahead. We do not want the pope's soul on our consciences.”

  Père Beneton continued down the hill. When he reached the town center, the marketplace was bustling with people. The pace of commerce stops for no one, Beneton thought, not even for Christ's Vicar on earth.

  Beneton decided to go first to L'Auberge Carrée to look for Etienne. The priest had often seen the camerlengo's nephew leaving the bordello at odd times during the day. Knowing Etienne as he did, Beneton was certain that Clement's death would not keep him from the pleasures of a woman's bed.

  “Below!” Beneton heard the cry just in time. The contents of a slop-pot splashed on the ground, barely missing him. A toothless old woman looked down from a tenement window smiling.

  “You dried-up hag. You did that deliberately.”

  “Come up and visit me, priest.” The woman pulled up her dress. “I can still teach you a thing or two.”

  As he was staring at the woman, a French patrol came galloping down the street, scattering pedestrians in every direction. Beneton jumped into a doorway, barely escaping injury. A merchant shared the space.