The Seal (43 page)

‘Be careful,
Julian!’ he whispered harsh into the space between them. ‘A pyre awaits every
defender of heresy. Perhaps I shall send you to Spain on an errand of some
importance. In Spain things are less complicated.’

Julian said
nothing to this; he added more wine to his glass and sipped at it. ‘You are too
late, your Grace, for I was present when they tortured de Molay, Grand Master
of the Temple, and my signature lies at the bottom of his confession.’

The bishop sat
forward in surprise.

‘You?’

‘Yes.’

‘You saw it?’

‘The brothers
who died, your Grace, merely did not know what they should be confessing to.’

There was a
nervous moment between them.

The bishop put
his chin to his chest and stared at the fire. It needed cheering. He reached
over and threw in a log and this brought the blaze up.

‘William of
Paris!’ Guillaume de Baufet spat presently. ‘The Grand Inquisitor has your
signature as notary upon that parchment! Your name!’ He shook his head and
placed a hand over his brow. ‘He has me in his net . . .’

‘I was summoned,
I could not refuse it.’

‘No . . .’ the
other man said to himself, taking his glass and gulping down a measure.
‘Sometimes we live not as we would like to, Julian, but as we can. William of
Paris has been awake to the possibility that I will not support Philip’s desire
for a false
trial,
certainly I have tried to avoid
these proceedings, stalling for time. I know they are innocent, but now it
shall be impossible for me to swim against the tide.’ The wine glass trembled
in his hand and he steadied it with the other.

The two men
contemplated the silence and the fire.

‘It is the case,
however, that Philip Capet will have blood whatever we might do to prevent it,’
the bishop said. ‘Who shall dare to defy him? My dear Julian! My dear, dear
Julian!’ the other man said, sitting forward. ‘Philip is a snake – even
the Pope has retreated to Avignon to be free of him. Avignon is perfect, is it
not? The King has no true jurisdiction there, but it is close enough for Clement
to keep an eye on Philip Capet . . . and on the Templar goods . . .’

‘Are you suggesting
something, your Grace?’

‘He shall pick
the bones after Philip is done with the carcass of the Order, and there he
hopes he will find something to his liking.’

‘I was with
Pierre de Bologna today.’

‘The lawyer?’

‘It is his
notion that the Archbishop of Sens is seeking to try the individuals of the
Order.’

‘It is an
accurate notion.’ The bishop looked at his charge and was full of affection,
remembering how some twelve years before he had come across the dear child
during a visit to the Temple. A more serious-faced and responsible boy he had
never seen in all his life. Filled with a father’s urge to nurture and educate
the child, he had negotiated with the Templars and had paid them well to have
him as his charge. When his monks had brought the boy before him, the poor
child would not speak; on his face there lay an expression that, time and again
over the years, had surfaced over the delicate features, and which even now
cast its shadow over the youthful face – a look of one who is weary with
a life that promises to be short. ‘Listen to me, Julian,’ he said to him.
‘Philippe de Marigny, Archbishop of Sens, needs to rid himself of Templars and
so he does it as much for himself as he does it for the King.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he has his nose deep into the property of the Temple.
He embezzles that which the King must expect one day to be forfeit
to his Crown: gold plates, chalices, jewelled crucifixes.’

‘How do you know
this?’

The bishop
sighed. ‘I am made aware of many things, my son, you forget the Templars own
this church in which I live and that it has been my duty to report to the Pope
regularly on Templar property held by the province of Sens. I have, therefore,
an intimate knowledge of what my landlords own. When the archbishop was
appointed to his position, things began to disappear, not only from the
strongholds of the Notre Dame but also from the records of inventory.
Completely obliterated. So I sent my spies out and what they found did not
surprise me. I put two and two together and I have anticipated his next move,
but I have no way of preventing it, since to discredit him is impossible.
Philip would simply let him try the Templars and then he would use the man’s
dishonesty as a pretext for taking all the goods from the hands of the Church,
landing them straight in his coffers. You see? I am more alone than a sheep in
the wilderness.’

The bishop
turned away; the wine suddenly tasted sour. ‘Perhaps these men are like Job
whom God tests with all manner of evil to know their continence, and we are
perhaps playing the part of Satan . . . And as Satan tortured Job, we torture
the Templar knights, taking everything of value from them, pouring them out as
milk, and curdling them like cheese! Have they not cried out, “Let the day
perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said there is a man
child conceived!”’ The Bishop of Paris calmed himself, his fingers pressing
into his temples. ‘Tomorrow I shall sit on the provincial council along with
six suffragan bishops, and at the behest of the newly appointed Archbishop of
Sens all of us will turn our backs on the Temple.’

Julian stared
hard at the fire. ‘As metropolitans of Sens you may be Marigny’s men, but there
is still the vote.’

‘Yes, but I am
only one of seven, and the others are either afraid or corrupt. The plan is
brilliant of course, to set up a council with the Pope’s blessing, whose
purpose is to anticipate the papal commission’s own finding because once the
individual Templars are pronounced guilty, it will be easier to prove the
culpability of the entire Order. The papal commission is even now becoming
complacent because it knows its work is superfluous. Marigny’s parallel trial
will be swift and will take little notice of legality.’

‘But the
commission offered them immunity. Here in your garden five hundred of them were
prepared to believe it!’ He set down his glass.

‘Yes, and they
shall be condemned to burn for it.’

The young man
stood with the light from the fire playing at his clothes. ‘This morning Gilles
Aicelin chaired an extraordinary hearing of the commission – perhaps he
shall listen to Pierre de Bologna and prevent the provincial council from
condemning the Templars before he has had a chance to question them.’

Guillaume looked
down and his throat was suddenly dry. ‘Gilles walked out in the middle of the
hearing, giving some excuse about celebrating the mass. As far as I know he has
not returned to the commission. He has gone back to Philip like a dog to his
vomit.’

Julian’s face
lost its colour. He stood motionless for a time, looking into the fire with his
fists clenched. ‘I have had a part in this!’ he said to himself.

The Bishop of
Paris was puzzled. ‘What do you mean, a part in it?’

Julian shook his
head. ‘I have aided their communication . . .’

The bishop was
aghast. ‘You? Did you not see the trap to which you were being directed?’

But his words
were not heard, for Julian had walked out of the apartment.

THE SIXTH CARD

O
n the Tuesday after the
feast day of St Nicholas fifty-four Templars were condemned as relapsed
heretics.

‘These Templars
of the province of Sens,’ began the Archbishop of Sens, ‘have confessed to the
inquisitors, have sought forgiveness and have been led through the path of
penance and reconciliation back into the bosom of the Church, whose mercy knows
no bounds. But like those perverted Cathars of the south, these men have not
confessed willingly, but cunningly, for their humility and contrition is a
shallow
beast which hides beneath it a heart
despoiled
by heresy. But it is well known that the heart of such men is never hidden long
from the eyes of godly men, since sooner or later such men seek to defend their
heresy by denying wrongdoing. Such men are recognisable by these signs and are
beyond the absolution and care of the Church. We can no longer stain our hands
with their sin, instead we must sorrowfully follow canon law, which dictates
that all impenitents are to be turned over to the officials of the royal court,
whose task it is to put such men to death by fire.’ He ended with a regal yawn.

Julian had relayed
the message to the papal commission at St Eloi that the men would be taken to
their punishment that day, and an hour after prime the answer that had been as
much anticipated as expected, returned by way of Julian, who was accompanied by
de Voet, the royal jailer, and Amisius, Archdeacon of Orleans.

He forwarded to
the Archbishop of Sens the details of Sunday’s appeal by the Templar lawyer,
Pierre de Bologna, and the other three procurators. The papal commission argued
that many Templars had stated at the point of death that their Order was pure
and that the charges against it were false. If this were true, to burn the
Templars precipitately was to obstruct the work of the papal commission.

The Archbishop
of Sens, dressed in his own importance, thin with a long doubtful face and
small darkling eyes, shook his head. ‘We can do nothing more . . .
Fiat iustitia
– justice shall be
done!’

Now as the
Bishop of Paris’s carriage drove through the
porte
Saint Antoine he reflected at the speed of the judgement. There had been no
pretence of legality, no reviewing of evidence, and no witnesses were summoned.
A judgement had been ascertained before he and the other suffragans had even
warmed their seats in council, for even before the judgement had fallen, the
prisoners had been divided into classifications, with the recalcitrant brothers
placed in chains and repaired to waiting wagons that would take them to their
execution.

His carriage
rode to the convent of Saint Antoine des Champs outside the city walls on the road
to Meaux. The convent was a huge fortified complex, with buttressed walls and a
large deep moat, surrounded by agricultural lands, orchards and vineyards. The
sky was hung with clouds that scattered over the horizon. The sun slanted noon.
The heat bore down and the bishop, dressed in the regalia of his investiture,
could feel its piercing hands.

People were
making their way toward a spot past the mill of St Antoine, in the fields
between it and the abbey. There, a crowd of citizens had gathered. Tradesmen,
charlatans, pickpockets, people selling produce and wares made a wide circle
around a wagon overflowing with brothers of the Order. Two guards were
releasing four horses from their bridles whilst another was piling faggots and
straw beneath the wagon.

The Bishop of
Paris alighted from his carriage. His round, richly dressed figure was
immediately recognised as he pushed past the crowds. He reached the scene as the
guards set the straw alight.

Guillaume de
Baufet stood before the spectacle, breathless, staining his sacerdotal robes
with perspiration, his eyes wide and incredulous. ‘My Lord,’ he whispered under
his breath, ‘there is no time even to erect a stake!’

The flames began
to lick sluggishly at the floor of the wagons, and the men inside cried out.

‘We are innocent!
We have done nothing!’

The crowd was
quiet. There were no jeers or insults, just a deathly silence. Even the merchants
and hawkers were paused.

‘Save us!’ cried
one man. The bishop recognised him – it was Laurent de Beaune, Preceptor
of Mormant from the diocese of Langogne. ‘For the glory of Christ we die!’

‘We have not had
the sacraments!’ wailed another. ‘Lord protect us!’ he gasped and went down on
bended knee.

‘
Gloria in excelsis deo.
Et in terra pax hominibus
bon voluntatis
! ’ The Templar priest, William de
Landres, whom the bishop also recognised from the trials, recited the gloria. ‘
Laudamus
te
Benedicimus Adoremus te. Glorificamus
te
. Gratia agimus tibi propter magnam gloriam tuam.
’