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
...’
He was taken to
the room of torture and at dawn his body, living still, was left outside the
Temple grounds for the birds. Out of his disfigured face he saw the sun rise
one last time. The light struck his eyes and once again he was one with it.
On his lips were
the words ‘It dawns and I am reborn!’
G
uillaume
de Baufet, Bishop of Paris, sat before his fire and stretched forth his ringed
hands in a gesture so common to him that it encouraged him to calmness. I am
but a common man, sitting before a fire, he thought. But he could not fool
himself. He was a man living an uncommon life, set in strange and terrible
times. This he admitted to himself with a grunt, feeling for his temple where
the storm of a headache gathered behind his brows.
The room was
dark. Outside, the sun was setting behind the buildings of the Ile de la Cite.
He waited and time passed slowly. Compline should help to ease his mind.
Perhaps God would answer his questions. He sighed and played with a ring until the
finger was swollen and red.
A knock
disturbed his thoughts. A monk entered, his personal attendant, Matthew of
Oxford, cowl drawn. ‘Should I bring your eminence some spiced wine and your
favourite fried cheese? Monsieur Julian has arrived.’
‘Very well,
Matthew . . . but I have one of my headaches . . . and my heart is sickened. I
cannot eat.’
‘Some wine
then?’
‘Yes, yes, and
please, send him in.’
The monk brought
the wine and two glasses from a little rosewood credenza, a gift from the King on
the day of his consecration.
‘Not too much of
this,’ said Matthew. He set the glasses down on a little table before the fire
and shuffled out the door.
A moment later
the bishop’s charge entered the apartment.
‘Come, Julian.’
The bishop extended his hand but did not stand. ‘I am pleased to see you.’
‘Your Grace.’
Julian took it and bowed his head.
‘Sit . . . sit!’
the bishop commanded. ‘And take a glass of that wine, it is cold out, and
Matthew knows the exact amount of spice. Tell me, Julian, are you well?’
‘Well thank you,
your Grace,’ the young man answered, taking a seat opposite.
‘That is good .
. .’
The
bishop sat forward measuring his speech. ‘I
have missed you, Julian.’
‘Have you, your
Grace?’
‘Yes . . . I
have been following your doings, you have been recording the confessions and
statements made by the Templars, is that not so?’
Julian raised
his brows. ‘Yes, I have been doing so for three years now. There are hundreds
of us.’
The bishop gave
a grunt. ‘Yes . . . you know that since I found you at the Temple those years
ago I have loved you as my own child and have looked after your welfare to the
best of my ability . . . Now you must listen to me. I know of the deep sense of
loyalty you have for these men who saved you from death at Acre . . . that is a
natural thing. But you can do nothing on their behalf . . . and I must urge you
to caution.’
Julian took in a
breath and sat forward. ‘Do you know, your Grace, that as many as thirty-six
Templars have been denied a holy burial?’
Guillaume
studied his charge. ‘I know.’
‘The poor
wretches can do nothing in the face of their accusers. Torture and the fear of
death have terrified them into silence because they are unable to accuse the
King or even his legal counsellors whilst they are his prisoners.’