The Seal (24 page)

It made Andrew
frown and settle into himself as his commander came forward and sat beside him.

A moment later
Bartholomew, Commander of Tomar, entered the centre of the room. He let his
eyes fall upon each man in turn until they fell upon Marcus. ‘Grand Commander,’
he bowed, ‘will you perform the ritual?’

Marcus shook his
head and a spasm followed the line of his scar to his mouth. ‘This is your
commandery, Brother Bartholomew, I am but a visitor in these walls.’

The man nodded,
and with a face like wood that is too long dry, and a voice cracked and hoarse,
he said into the night, ‘Knights, priests and sergeants, I call upon you to
discharge your duties and form the Tabernacle. Knight-Priest and inner guard,
as keeper of the inner porch, can you state if our Tabernacle is securely
guarded from all intruders?’

The inner guard
opened the door and, giving an outward glance, said, ‘Very eminent Commander, we
are indeed securely guarded.’

‘Knight-Priest
and Second-in-Command, are we then prepared to open?’

‘Commander, the
tabernacle is secure and we are prepared to open.’

The commander
looked to his second-in-command. ‘From whence do we come?’

The
second-in-command said, ‘From the land of darkness.’

‘Whither are we
going?’

‘To the land of
light.’

Bartholomew asked,
‘How shall we reach God?’

The Templars
answered in unison, ‘Through level steps, square conduct and upright
intentions.’

Bartholomew
said, ‘In the east where the sun rises and west where it sets, in the north and
south, let the heavens hear the yearning of man to unite his spirit with the
spirits of the cosmos! We dedicate ourselves to this task! All give the sign of
Determination.’

There was a
rising of the left hand in unison and the sign was made.

‘All give the
sign of Reprisal.’

The Templars
drew their right hands across their breasts.

‘Those of high
rank show their seals.’

‘I now declare
this to be an open Tabernacle. Knight-priest and inner guard, inform the
knight-priest and outer guard that the Tabernacle is open.’

After a moment
of silence the commander spoke again, ‘We are now met as a chapter of the
Temple at Tomar,’ he said, ‘and I have grave news . . . The messenger has just
reached us from the King of Portugal. Some time ago the Grand Master of the
Order, our leader Jacques de Molay, was seized and thrown into prison, along
with the majority of our brothers in France.’

These words hung
low over the men, who sat quiet and astonished. The shadows danced about on
their faces and on the walls.

Marcus put his
mind to it and closed his eyes. The sounds of the world stretched at him, flat
and unnatural.

‘The King of
Portugal supports us only a little, since he smells profit and sends his men to
inspect our coffers in Lisbon. It is the end of the Order as it has been.’ He
sat forward into the circle, one hand rubbing the line of his jaw set tight
against the bones of his long, drawn-down face. ‘And the loss is great. If we
are to save what we can from this tragedy then we must be wise . . . and so we
shall this night pray for guidance.’ He looked around from man to man, lined by
shadows, fitting them to his thoughts as he began the opening formula that
resonated darkly and drifted out over the hills and to the distant sea as the
men circled faith around them. The lamps flickered, moving the shadows. The
shadows mocked and loomed. Familiar, mysterious words entered the long unbroken
chain, the diaphanous chord that bound them in luminance and warmth of
outpoured light.

Bartholomew
raised his face then to the heavens beyond the chapter house. ‘Dear Lord, do
not turn away from
us,
do not shun us in your anger!
Almighty and everlasting God, who maketh us both to will and to do those things
that be good and acceptable unto Thy divine majesty; we make our humble supplications
unto Thee for we are Thy servants. Let Thy fatherly hand be over us, let Thy
Son protect us, let Thy Holy Spirit whose light is the garment of the Holy
Sophia, the mother of all mothers the wisdom of the cosmos, ever be with us and
lead us to the knowledge and obedience of Thy word, that in the end we may
obtain everlasting life through our Lord Jesus Christ, who with Thee and the
Holy Spirit liveth and reigneth; ever, one God, world without end. Amen.’

Marcus was a
feather in the wind, a spear poised and held. His life as a Templar was spent
like a season – a season coming to its end.

I must face this
dying without dying, this dead life, with blood in the veins . . .

A moment later
the men were returned from the dream and Bartholomew leant forward with worried
eyes and waited. No man could form lips around words since none had come by
revelation.

‘The Lord does
not answer our petition,’ Bartholomew said at last with a sigh, marking out the
stillness with his breath. ‘Even so, this night we are to make decisions.’
There was another silence. ‘It is my estimation that we can do no other than
surrender to the Bishop of Lisbon.’

Marcus put a hand
to his brow. The light faded and flickered with the lamplight, and the darkness
drew in and surrounded the room.

From the right
came a voice, ‘The Lord will not answer cowards who look to surrender and will
not fight.’ It was Anselm, an old knight from Leiria. He moved his bony face
into the light, disfigured and pale before a yellow lamp. ‘The Temple shall
spring back and we must see to it with our Lord’s help!’

The priest moved
forward to rebuke Anselm’s intemperance, but Marcus stayed him with a hand. He
grunted, moving his body back, his voice sharp and impatient,
his
face making slits of his eyes. ‘Brother Anselm, we are
dead to the world . . .’ he said with a fierce eye, ‘we are deserted and left
to spoil. Our leaders are imprisoned and our castles are desecrated. What
decisions we make are our own. The light shall not this night descend upon us
and give us guidance!’

Bartholomew
raised a brow and made a study of him. ‘Are we forsaken then, Commander
Marcus?’

Marcus looked
down to his hands, turning them over. They moved in a tremor. ‘We are left
bare
, Brother Bartholomew,’ he said, holding them, ‘and we
stand alone.’

Bartholomew was
puzzled and sad, ‘How may we be forsaken?’

‘It is so,’ said
Marcus, looking into the man’s eyes with such sternness that the other man,
finding his strength lacking, flinched.

‘It is not in my
blood to surrender,’ Bartholomew said, looking away from him to the others,
‘but our Grand Master has admonished that we not shed blood needlessly . . . We
must try to reach an arrangement with the King of Portugal.’

‘This is what
has brought the Temple to its end!’ said Peter of Nazare, between snatched
breaths. ‘We are not strangers to blood! We vow it to Christ and spill it for His
holy soil, forsaken or not!’

The white-robed
knights, the black sergeants and brown-robed brothers stared and nodded and
spoke among themselves. Where their seasoned faces were touched by light they
looked like blank pages.

The night
deepened.

‘It has been the
same in Spain,’ Bartholomew said, ‘where James is in sympathy with the Temple.
The King of Portugal shall see he must support us or else risk losing our
holdings either to the Pope or to the Hospital.’

Peter
interjected, ‘But we are not guaranteed safe passage. How may we reckon what
must pass between a king and his conscience? What is to tell he will not buckle
under the threat of excommunication? Tortures and deprivations shall be visited
upon us as they are visited upon our brothers in France!’

There was a hum
of voices.

Bartholomew was
impatient. ‘A knight lives not according to his will but by the will of Christ,
which is the same as the rule. Marcus has our orders from the Grand Master. We
are not to fight to the death. It stands to reason that there must be some of
us who shall live to refute these lies they tell, this malicious slander.’

‘Brothers!’
Peter cried out above their voices. ‘All is futile while our leader lies
rotting in a jail in France. We must regain our former sovereignty and to do it
we must elect a Grand Master who is not afraid to do battle!’

Now the chapter
house came alive with the voices of brothers one against the other. Bartholomew
stood; a look of pain and fatigue scowled his brow.

Andrew, next to
Marcus, poked his head into the lustre of lamplight and yelled out, ‘Blasphemy!’

The chaplain
moved forward.
‘No heated words, Brother Andrew.
The
rule demands that we are mannerly and peaceable.’

‘I am too old
for manners, and have seen too much war to be peaceable!’ He was panting with
anger. ‘What Peter says goes against the rule of our Order! The Grand Master
lives and while he is alive he will remain our leader! We may not disobey him!’

Bartholomew
raised his hand. ‘There will be silence!’ he said, glancing his eye about, letting
it fall on Peter before continuing. ‘Our Grand Master was elected by vote, and
while he lives it is the rule that we must obey his Orders, as our brother
Andrew has said, for nothing is dearer to Christ than obedience!’

This awareness
made a silence.

‘Now, we shall
face matters at hand!’ Bartholomew said. ‘In this region we are less than
ninety men . . . the bishop sends soldiery to treble our own. They arrive
tomorrow, the next day . . .’ He worked his face to counter the emotion that
his lips let loose. ‘Who knows? We must, therefore, make a move for the gold,
which is held at Atouguia. The commander has communication from the Grand
Master to do so. This means also the charters and the archives . . .’ He
paused, gathering his thoughts. ‘We shall be given some privileges here. We
shall be allowed to answer our case before the bishops. That is what we shall
do and then we shall wait and we shall see. The Pope will come to our aid since
the arrests were made without legality. In the meantime most of the fleet is
gone and heads for Scotland to the bosom of its prince, Robert. The Grand
Master has commanded that Marcus take the archives, charters and what is left
of the gold used as ballast, on the Eagle of St John, to safety, until this
blows over.’

There was a
murmur. Marcus looked out of the window. His throat was dry and he made to
cough but it came out like a rasp and nothing more.

Bartholomew’s
face grew weary, weighed down, as if up till now it had been held up by the
sheer effort of a will that was spent.

Peter of Nazare
stood. ‘I do not concur! To take the gold and charters to Scotland! This will
lose them from the Order forever! Jacques de Molay has forsaken his voice since
he was made Grand Master by deceit!’

Andrew rose to
his feet and his arms and legs seemed to be speaking a language of their own.
‘May God curse you!’ he got out finally.

Peter flashed an
eye upon Marcus. ‘How do we know if the gold leaves this shore that it will
ever be seen again?’

‘Brother!’
Bartholomew took a step back. ‘Here stands the Grand Commander of the Order,
who fought valiantly at Acre and was with Thibaud when he left Sidon. He is the
reason the Grand Master lives since he saved his life there, and it is to him
that our Grand Master gives this charge!’

Peter stood his
ground. ‘And strangely Brother Marcus did not prevent Thibaud’s death nor his
friend Jacques de Molay from being elected Grand Master!’

There was a rush
of voices. Marcus felt his face pull up into a grimace a moment before a
surging in his limbs drove him towards the figure of Peter of Nazare.

Bartholomew
stepped between them. ‘Brothers!’ he shouted.

Marcus was all
pants and gasps, his face jumping this way and that while Bartholomew came up
close to the recalcitrant knight as if to pierce his head with his words. ‘This
chapter excuses you, Brother Peter! And exhorts you to pray before the sacred
space for a day and a night! For six months you shall eat from the floor with
the dogs, and in this time you will contemplate your insolence and lack of
temperance which, were it not for these strange circumstances in which we find
ourselves, would have led to your release from the Order!’

The man looked
around him from beneath that leaning brow and found no support.

‘Temperance,’ iterated
the Commander of Tomar.

‘You speak of
temperance, Brother Bartholomew,’ Peter said, ‘when all is to fall through a
chasm to the end of the world? You are fools to trust these deserters with the
Order! Better to be released from it than to end up food for a pyre!’

He left the
chapter house. His footsteps made hollow sounds.

Marcus listened
to those steps and looked at the lucent faces about him with the world moving
in circles.

‘Brother
Marcus,’ Bartholomew was saying, but Marcus did not hear him, he was looking
around at the men and thinking this: