The Fall of the Templars

by Robyn Young

  “Do it. I’ll speak to the others before I leave for Poitiers.”

  “I want you on that ship too, Robert,” said Will.

  “What? No.”

  “There is no one I trust more, and someone who understands all that is happening here needs to make it out before the king’s men begin the arrests. It doesn’t require two of us to speak to the grand master and the pope.”

  Robert was silent. “Where do we go?” he said finally.

  “Scotland. It is remote enough for you to remain hidden for as long as this lasts, and now Edward is dead there should be little in the way of interference from England.” Will removed himself gently from his daughter’s embrace. “Go with Simon, Rose, and he’ll get you some dry clothes. Stay with him and when it is time he’ll take you to the ship.” He looked at Simon. “When you reach Scotland, I want you to take her to my sisters in Elgin.”

  “I’ll make sure it’s done.” Simon smiled faintly, as Will grasped his shoulder.

  Rose hung back, staring at Will when Simon took her by the arm. “Father . . . ?”

  “There will be time, Rose. But not today.” Will watched as she moved off, looking over her shoulder. He turned to Robert. “Come. We don’t have long.”

  “You’ll need to check the dungeons,” Robert told Laurent. “We had to put a couple of men down, but I expect they’ll come around soon. Tell them . . .” He shook his head. “Tell them anything.”

  Together, he and Will sprinted across the courtyard to the officials’ quarters.

  The door to Hugues’s chambers was locked, but they shouldered their way through. Will had taken a torch from the passage and the light spilled into the chamber before them. Other than Hugues’s desk, the large armoire and a few stools and chests, the place was empty.

  Will began picking through the parchments on the desk as Robert opened up the chests. “Anything?” he asked, glancing up.

  “Nothing. Just clothes.”

  Will stared around him. “This isn’t the room I was taken to. He must conduct the initiations somewhere else.”

  “The Chapter House?”

  “No, it wasn’t there. Anyway, that’s too exposed. They would run the risk of being seen.” Will frowned, trying to remember. “They took me down some steps. Narrow steps.”

  “The dungeons?”

  “I don’t think so.” Will moved to the armoire and opened up the front. There was a goblet on one shelf, a Bible, some skins, a pouch filled with coins. Nothing incriminating. Frustrated, he went to turn away, then stopped. He could smell something. It was bitter and oddly familiar. He bent closer to the armoire, trying to think where he had smelled it before. It came to him suddenly. Will closed the doors and moved around the back of the armoire. The odor was stronger. His pulse raced as he felt a draft. “Help me,” he called to Robert, sliding his fingers into the gap between the armoire and the wall.

  To their surprise, the cumbersome object slid back easily, as if it had been moved many times before. Indeed, as they looked down, they saw marks scratched in the flagstones. Ahead, a narrow passageway disappeared down a set of stone steps. Glancing at each other, they headed in, Robert hefting his sword, Will holding the torch aloft.

  They came out in a smaller chamber, where the stone was rough-hewn and unfinished. As Will moved the torch around, the flames danced across incomplete statues bowing from pillars, perhaps figures of saints or angels. There was a set of black curtains over one wall, which he recognized. He parted them to reveal a recess beyond, where a wooden dais had been constructed and a crude throne set upon it. The place had been scrubbed, but the bloodstains covering the walls and floor were unmistakable, as was the metallic odor that was barely masked by the stale incense.

  “What is this place?” murmured Robert, eyeing a statue with the cross of St. George chiseled into the shield it held. The head was blank and featureless.

  “A private chapel, I think.” Will glanced at him. “Perhaps a former Master ordered it built, but ran out of funds, or left for the Holy Land leaving it forgotten? It looks old.” He crossed to the altar. There were chalices and censers, skins scrawled with Hugues’s hand. His fingers came to rest on a worn-looking tome that he recognized with a rush of sorrow. Everard’s book.

  Robert had opened a chest, one of several stacked in a corner. “Jesus.”

  Will stared at the misshapen monstrosity the knight held up. In the torchlight, the skull mask gleamed yellow, its long jawbone thrusting forward, huge eye sockets black and empty. As Robert turned it, the image of a young man, carved deftly out of wood, was revealed. He turned it a third time and Will saw the face of an older man, lined and stern, threads of white hair hanging from its brow. “Hugues said he was playing the part of the Fisher King in the initiations.” He crossed to Robert. “I remember Everard saying the Fisher King in the story of Perceval is the embodiment of Christ. Of God.” He pointed to each of the mask’s faces. “The trinity. Father. Son. Holy Ghost.”

  “Well, I always knew Hugues was ambitious.”

  Will leaned over to look in the chest. He saw the glittering folds of Hugues’s fish-scale cloak. “We’ll need to destroy everything.” He paused to light the candles on the altar with the torch, then sprinted up the steps to Hugues’s chamber. There was a stack of logs by the hearth. He tossed a few inside, along with some of the skins from the armoire and set the torch to them. Leaving the flames to spring around the dry wood, he returned to help Robert.

  The other chests were full of clothing; white mantles, strangely plain without their scarlet crosses, masks painted red with a white stag’s head, a symbol of rebirth, Will explained. There were also scores of books, all of them romances, from the Grail story of Chrétien de Troyes, to writers and works Will had never heard of.

  He and Robert emptied each chest, one by one, taking armfuls of books up to Hugues’s chamber. The flames in the hearth spat as they devoured the pages. Parchments curled and blackened.

  “We cannot burn all the clothes,” said Will, “but we can stow them in the preceptory’s wardrobe. They’ll look like unfinished mantles.”

  “What about these?” asked Robert, holding out the three-headed mask and the glittering cloak.

  Will took them and threw them in. The fragile silk of the cloak caught quickly, momentarily turning the flames blue.

  “And this?” Robert bent to pick up Everard’s tome, which Will had placed on the floor.

  After a moment, Will shook his head. “Not that.”

  Robert nodded, understanding. “I’ll take it with the treasury.”

  With the last of the skins tossed into the fire, the two of them stood there, watching the smoke belching through the eye sockets of the skull mask and forks of fire flicking from its mouth. As the Matins bell began to toll, they hastened from the chamber, leaving the mask to burn. Three faces vanishing in the roar of the flames.

  39

  The Temple, Paris

  OCTOBER 12, 1307 AD

  “I want to know everything,” demanded Jacques, sweeping along the palatial corridor. “Do you hear me, Rainier?”

  “Yes, my lord,” replied the knight, striding to keep up with the grand master, who had arrived at the Paris preceptory without warning several hours earlier, with the master of Normandy, Geoffroi de Charney, four squires and two servants.

  “Who did you say was involved?”

  “I am not certain of all the details, my lord, but I believe Simon Tanner, the stable master, was in league with the man who assaulted me and freed Robert de Paris. They left a month ago with twenty of our men. I have all their names recorded. Myself and several brothers tried to intervene, but they outnumbered us.”

  Jacques rounded on him. “You should have laid down your lives rather than let them take it!”

  “My lord,” conceded Rainier, hanging his head, still displaying a faint bruise where it had been slammed against the guardroom wall.

  The grand master studied the young knight, his massive frame dom
inating the passage. “Who organized the ship?”

  “Brother Laurent, my lord.”

  “And he is still here, you say?”

  When Rainier nodded, Jacques’s old eyes glittered. “Bring him to me.” As the knight hastened off, Jacques thrust open the doors of his chambers.

  “This is dire news, my lord,” said de Charney, entering behind him. “What with the king’s accusations and the pope’s inquiry, the last thing we need is our own men working against us. There must be an explanation. It seems inconceivable to me that so many brothers would be involved in such an appalling crime.”

  “We shall see, Geoffroi,” muttered Jacques, crossing to his desk, recently cleaned of the dust that had settled on it in a white blanket during his long absence. There was a jug of water and a goblet on it. Pouring himself a drink, he sat heavily on the chair behind. His hand shook as he raised the goblet and he frowned at the frailty. It happened often these days and he worried that it was the first sign of the decline of age, for he was in his sixties now. But perhaps it was simply the strain of the voyage from Cyprus.

  Jacques had arrived at Poitiers in August, glad of the rest offered by his sojourn at the Franciscan priory with Pope Clement, circumstances notwithstanding, but it proved all too brief. Barely days after the arrival of Hugues de Pairaud and the Temple’s officials, a royal message had reached him summoning him to Paris. Telling the visitor and the pope that he would return as soon as he had seen the king, who had promised to allow him to speak to Esquin de Floyran, Jacques had left with de Charney. As it was, the pope had fallen ill and was unable to continue the inquiry into the charges, and the summons seemed a timely opportunity for the grand master to speak to the king personally about the astounding accusations being leveled at the order. Jacques had stopped for several days at the Orléans preceptory to celebrate the Feast of St. Michael, but even so the journey to Paris had fatigued him further.

  He drained the water. “I would like to know why Sir Robert de Paris was imprisoned. He was on the progress I made through Christendom after the fall of Acre. I knew him well, but Visitor de Pairaud has known him since childhood. I cannot imagine what he could have done to cause Hugues to arrest him.”

  “Perhaps this Laurent will know, my lord.”

  Jacques grunted in reply and crossed to the window. He looked out over the courtyard, watching the men of the preceptory moving in the twilight: a sergeant leading a chestnut palfrey toward the stables, two servants carrying baskets of vegetables, four knights walking in a companionable group. His leathery brow creased as he thought of the crimes he and his men were being accused of. No, not crimes. Sins. The very thought of them struck at the core of Jacques’s honor. That the warriors of Christ, who had toiled and bled for Christendom for almost two hundred years, could be considered heretics was beyond his comprehension.

  The brief assembly in Poitiers, begun before the pope’s illness, had turned up nothing and it seemed incredible to Jacques that all this trouble was caused by the accusations of one man. He had heard from some of the brothers today that the king believed the charges and had in fact made them public, but although the news disturbed him he chose to set rumor aside in favor of his audience with Philippe, planned for tomorrow. The order had been through difficult times before. It was only twelve years ago that he was here in the West defending the Temple against Pope Boniface’s suggestion of merging them with their rivals, the Knights of St. John. If they stood firm, they would remain unbeaten.

  Jacques turned from the window as a commotion sounded in the passage. He motioned to de Charney, who opened the doors. Between Rainier and another knight was a third man. He was shouting, struggling in their grip, but he fell silent as he saw the grand master, whose mantle was stitched with gold around the red cross at his heart.

  “My lord,” he breathed, “I heard you had come. I tried to speak to you earlier, but your servants told me you were occupied in meetings.”

  “Why did you want to see me, Brother Laurent?” barked Jacques. “To confess your guilt perhaps? Fall upon my mercy?”

  “I wanted to warn you. A man left this preceptory several weeks ago to find you in Poitiers, but it seems he never reached you, as I do not believe you would have answered the king’s summons, knowing it was a trap.”

  “A trap?” said de Charney quickly. “What do you mean?”

  Jacques spoke over Laurent before he could reply. “I want to know about the treasury. Who took it and where it was taken. Every last detail!”

  “It was taken to protect it from the king, my lord. Last month a woman fled here from the palace. She brought an order for the imprisonment of all Templars in France on charges of heresy. My lord, the arrests are planned for tomorrow. The seneschals of the kingdom will be opening these royal orders this very night! If you have been called here by the king, as Brother Rainier said, then I am certain he intends to take you too. The man who freed Robert de Paris was supposed to have brought you this news, but as a precautionary measure twenty knights from this preceptory removed the treasury by ship to Scotland.”

  “How do you know this wasn’t some elaborate ruse concocted to persuade you to hand over the treasury?” demanded the master of Normandy. “Our men could have been ambushed. The treasury stolen.”

  “I saw the scroll myself, Master de Charney. It had the king’s seal upon it.” Laurent turned to Jacques. “Believe me, my lord, what we did was in the best interests of the order, though we broke the rule most grievously in executing it.”

  “Can anyone else verify what you are saying?” asked de Charney.

  Laurent shook his head. “It was agreed that we should keep it from the others so as not to cause panic. It was hoped Grand Master de Molay would return in time to make a decision as to how to proceed.”

  De Charney glanced at Jacques. “If he is telling the truth, my lord, then—”

  “No,” growled Jacques, “this is a misunderstanding. It has to be. King Philippe does not have the power to execute the arrest of a religious order. Only the pope can do that and I know for certain His Holiness has given no such command. I will meet the king as arranged and get to the root of this confusion and these lies.” He fixed Laurent with a baleful stare. “Whether those who took the treasury thought they were doing right or not, I cannot condone their actions. Once these accusations have been laid to rest I will hunt them down and they will be punished, severely.” He nodded to Rainier. “Take him to the dungeons. He can have a copy of the Rule to remind himself of our laws and the consequences of breaking them.”

  “My lord! The king’s men will be coming for us at dawn! We cannot stay!” De Charney waited for the doors to close and Laurent’s shouts of protest to fade before turning to Jacques. “Perhaps it would be wise to leave the city,” he ventured. “Just for tonight. We can—”

  “No, Geoffroi,” said Jacques sharply. “I will not be driven out of my own preceptory by rumor and panic. To do so would give these false allegations credence. How would it look if we ran? Would that not prove our guilt to our accusers? Would the people not think us cowards? We are Knights of the Temple of Solomon. We are God’s sword.” The grand master’s voice was implacable. “I will not run before any enemy. To do so would mean the breaking of the vows I took upon my inception. I will defend this order and my honor, even at the cost of death. I have stood in the desert before twenty thousand warriors, all intent on capturing or killing me. I will stand firm in the face of a few score city guards.”

  THE TEMPLE, PARIS, OCTOBER 13, 1307 AD

  It began with a deep thudding, like a slow-beaten drum. Birds flew startled from the dovecote, as the noise shattered the dawn hush. Horses tossed their heads and turned in their stalls, as grooms stumbled from their lodgings. In the kitchens, the cooks preparing the morning meal put down knives and glanced at one another. Servants stood uncertain, bundles of vegetables and braces of rabbits in their fists. The priests in the chapel, lighting candles for Matins, looked around, tapers flickering
in their poised hands. Knights and sergeants rose from their pallets, shook drowsy comrades, pulled on boots and shirts. A few veterans of the Crusades, recognizing the sound, snatched up swords, shouting for the younger ones to do the same. Men and boys poured into the courtyard, the sky above them a frozen, brittle blue.

  Jacques de Molay, kneeling at his bedside, raised his head. As he stood, the rings of his mail coat clinked and settled into place. Unable to sleep, he had spent the night in prayer. Slowly, he crossed to where his broadsword stood against one wall. After sheathing the blade, he took his white mantle with its gold-edged cross and swung it around his shoulders. His hair and beard, silvery in the pallid light, hung loose and long as he strode out. He could hear doors banging and the calls of men, and above them all the boom of the battering ram striking the preceptory’s gates.

  Geoffroi de Charney met him on the ground floor. “It seems Laurent was right, my lord,” said the master, coming to his side. “What are your orders? Do we fight?”

  For a moment the grand master didn’t answer. He paused on the steps outside his palace, his eyes on the men gathered before him. There were almost one hundred and fifty knights here, not to mention the sergeants and priests, and the large number of servants and squires, grooms and laborers. If necessary, they could hold off the king’s men for months; mount an offensive from the walls to repel the attack on the gate, then settle in for a siege. But this wasn’t Palestine. There weren’t two centuries of slaughter between them and the men outside, just a grave misunderstanding and an arrogant monarch. “We will not fight,” said the grand master, heading into the crowd, which parted before him. “I will meet Philippe face-to-face to settle this matter. If we spill blood of the king’s men here today we will only give him more cause to condemn us. We cannot be seen to be acting like guilty men. We will defend ourselves with our words and our actions, not our swords.” He walked to the gates, where a group of knights were standing ready, swords in hands. The ram crashed against the wood, making it shudder. He heard the shouts of many men, along with the bellow of horses and the baying of dogs beyond the walls. “Open the gates,” Jacques ordered two of the knights. “Now!” he demanded, when they hesitated.