The Seal (5 page)

After all, new ways, new ways.

Once again that
numb pain came into his left hand, a tingling in his fingers as he rounded the
north walk and the west. He shook it and walked on, thinking no more on it,
listening instead to the ring of his boots, boots that marked him more soldier
than priest.

From behind him the sound of footsteps.
It was Brother Jourdain the youthful captain, his knight companion,
in charge of his squires and the running of the more mundane aspects of his
daily affairs. The young man came towards him from out of the gloom and when he
reached Etienne he stood at attention and bowed his head in deference.
‘Etienne,’ he said, ‘I do not wish to detain you but I have come on behalf of
Alphonse the Scribe. To plead for your mercy.’

Etienne took a
breath in and let this thought sit in his head a moment, observing the captain.

‘He has asked me
to say again that the woman was his
mother,
his father
was a Frankish knight who fought valiantly on Crusade. She is a Cypriot and
treated unkindly by the people of her village because of it. She has lost her
farm and has no means to feed herself.’

‘I was at
chapter, Jourdain, I am aware of the particulars. She may be his mother, but
she is also a woman. He has broken the rule twice therefore: to look upon a
woman is a dangerous thing, be it widow, young girl, mother, sister, aunt or
any other; a knight is to remain eternally before the face of God with a pure
conscience and sure life.’ Etienne gave him a significant look. ‘In providing
food for the woman from the larder he has transgressed a second rule. Remind
him that one-tenth of all food is given each day to the almoner, whose duty it
is to see that it reaches the needy. Tell Brother Alphonse to pray and ask our
Lord for His forgiveness. The decision of the chapter, however, is accomplished
and what is accomplished cannot be revoked. Tomorrow he shall lose his mantle
and his privileges and for six months he shall eat his food from the floor.
That is the decision.’

The captain made
a slight gesture, a glance with the eyes and turned to go.

Etienne sighed.
‘Jourdain?’

The young man
turned again and Etienne saw something in his face.

‘Tell him if he
endures the punishment with steadfastness he shall soon be wearing his white
mantle, for God is merciful. Then go to the almoner, see to it that he finds
the woman . . . tell him to give her part of my ration.’

There it was
again, just like that! It seemed to Etienne that the moment he was close to
understanding the language of Jourdain’s face, the look was flown away.

He narrowed his
eyes. ‘You are thinking something, Jourdain?’

The captain
looked down. ‘It is only this, Etienne . . . if you will permit me to say . . .
Aristotle once said that a virtuous action should bring pleasure to the soul .
. . I only ever see it bring you pain.’

Etienne was used
to this young man’s strange thoughts and even stranger ways, for his father had
been a man of great learning whose donations to the Temple for his immortal
soul had not only included all of his estates but also his only child. Etienne
sighed, the boy meant well. ‘There is no provision for pleasure in the rule,
Jourdain, as you know . . . Now I am in a hurry and you must see to your
duties,’ he said, but his voice was not without warmth.

The young
captain gave a nod and Etienne continued on his way with disquiet in his heart.
Such was the Order of the Temple in Cyprus, he thought, underwarred and
unwound, loose in habit and in will, so that each day there was a new thing to
think of, a new transgression to punish. Soon those who were penitent would
outweigh those who were constant, and he wondered how the Order could battle
the numerous outward perils that pressed in upon it from all sides, when its
mind was turned inward to lick its own wounds.

He found that he
was standing before two sergeant brothers whose task it was to guard the Grand
Master’s cell. He held his face together with frown and stern lip and put away
these concerns and prepared to enter the room with a calm heart.

He showed the
outer guards his ring and they nodded and ushered him in.

The inner guard
was released and he entered the room.

Inside stood
Marcus, these days made Grand Commander of the Order. Beside him the marshal,
Ayme d’Oselier, holding himself in as tight as an overwound lute that at any
moment would let loose its strings.

Both men were
surrounded by an activity of the soul that burdened the air in the cell.
Etienne was given a notion and a thought came to him.

This looks like
a council of war.

Jacques de
Molay, in contrast, was full of grave serenity. He stood by the window, dressed
in white mantle and chain mail with hands crossed behind him, staring outwards
to a black sky and beyond with his face into the breeze. Rain fell upon the
stone of the floor at his feet and was lit by reflections of gold that, coming
from below a cloud, communicated something too important to be interrupted.
There was a flash, the room filled with light and died away.

The cell was
sparse. A chair, a table crosswise the window, with a rough wooden cross above
it were all the adornment.

How the man has
changed since Acre!

As Etienne
thought this, Jacques half turned to him. He was thin-lipped, his mouth relaxed
and brow cut straight across, bridging eyes that were no longer furrowed. Those
eyes did not look sharply at the world, but had loosened their hold these last
years. They no longer darted here and there; they were unguarded,
contemplative, and what was beyond, perfectly revealed and acknowledged. To
Etienne he looked like a dying tree, naked in the light that threw his shadow
less big and drew his shoulders in.

‘Etienne,’ he
said.

‘My Lord,’
Etienne gave a bow.

He turned once
more to the window. ‘We have waited. It is beautiful, this storm and that sky!’

Etienne took a
glance beside him. Marcus raised a brow as if to say, ‘I know no more than
you.’

Ayme d’Oselier
stared ahead stiffly and would not meet his eye.

The Grand Master
turned and stood facing his men fondly and then his expression was once more
grave. ‘We have been summoned to Poitiers . . . Raimbaud, Preceptor of Cyprus,
has already left and awaits us there . . . It is said the King puts pressure on
Pope Clement and once again there is to be a discussion on a union of the
Orders. The Templar Order and the Hospitallers, I have argued, have different
tasks, but Clement has asked that I form a defence for my opinions and I have
been composing a letter, with great difficulty.’ He smiled. ‘It has been long
since I have had to set down my thoughts on parchment. I am afraid that I am
not eloquent. I have called you to hear your thoughts . . .’

Marcus made a
gesture, a tremble on the left side of the face that pulled it as if by a
string – a relic of the knife wound to his face at Acre. He shifted his
feet and his voice sounded as though it came through gravel. ‘For my part,
Jacques, I hear an old line. King Philip has ever seen himself like his
grandfather, leading a Crusade. His vanity tells him that in a united Order he
may find a way to make himself Grand Master . . . but what good is a Grand
Master who is a coward and will never set foot on a field of battle?’

Jacques de Molay
nodded, pensive. After a moment he began. ‘A coward with many friends can be
made suddenly brave.’ He looked at them, measuring his next words. ‘This day I
have had a terrible revelation.’ He waited to hear their silence,
then
he stared out to sea again. ‘While prostrate before the
sacred space, contemplating our Lord’s sacrifice, I was taken up into a dream.
In this dream the banner of the Order is consumed by flames and I see the face
of the King, Philip Capet.’ He returned his gaze to them. ‘And I am among that
burning banner, I am consumed by fire.’

Silence swept
the room and darkness began to settle over the men. Marcus’s teeth worried his
lip, Ayme’s head dug into his chest.

Etienne had
expected something and now it was clear what he must say. ‘Such a dream
counsels you to caution, and you must refrain from going to Poitiers. It is a
portent of peril.’

‘From Philip
Capet?’ The marshal sniggered next to him, drawing himself upwards. ‘He is a
great one for threats and promises, but to prove peril to the Order . . . I’ll
not believe it.’

The Grand Master
turned a bland eye upon his marshal. ‘Our Lord has revealed it in a dream,
would you not believe Him?’

‘But Jacques,’
Marcus began, all polite restraint, ‘I myself have dreamt of a burning fire
that was caused by the heat of fever!’

The Grand
Master’s eyes grew sharp then, recalling their old way, and his voice was loud.
‘Do not mistake me! There is a burning fire in my heart and in my head, and it
lingers still! With these eyes open I see the Beauseant of the Order burning!’
He seemed larger, and the day grew dark around him as if he drew strength from
the light itself. He pounded his fist upon the table. ‘I see the flesh melting
from my bones!’ He trembled. ‘I am not dreaming now!’

The moment
passed and nothing in his face revealed his momentary loss of control. He was
once more calm, his face open and contemplative. He searched for the chair and
sat down.

Etienne saw the
storm
light,
infused with pink, play softly on the
scars, silver-grey over his bearded face. It fell on a heavy oak table and on
the parchments scattered there, reflecting on a short knife, a pot of black
ink,
a
quill.

When those eyes
touched upon Etienne’s the exchange they provoked was disconcerting and strange.
‘Tell me, Etienne, since I have only just returned from England, how do matters
stand at Famagusta?’

Etienne took a
moment. ‘Famagusta is undersoldiered and what men we have lack heart.’

‘And the
island?’

‘This place is
full of spies,’ Marcus broke in. ‘Philip has his men listening at doors. The
King of Cyprus does not trust us!’

‘Are these your
thoughts, Etienne?’

Etienne made
himself calm. ‘That is so.’

Jacques de Molay
sighed. ‘Things are no better, then?’

Ayme grunted,
clearly dissatisfied.

‘Marshal?’
Jacques de Molay turned to him. ‘You think differently?’

‘This is not my
estimation.’

‘Is it not?’
Marcus fired off. ‘Come now, Marshal! You know the merchants have the King’s ear
and they bend it to their purpose! It would suit them too well to see us gone
so the Syrian trade can be brought here.’

Jacques gave
Marcus a look. ‘All is trade, profit and gold these days, and we would be
foolish not to look at the realities that face us. Even if the Pope calls for a
new Crusade, which could mean the end of this stalemate in which we find
ourselves, even then it is my belief that the European princes will not look on
it, since they are overspent from warring and it will seem to them foolery to
spend money they do not have on a Crusade that will bring disorder to their
trade! The bankers of our Order wish to encourage us more and more to behave
fittingly . . .’ His eyes fell upon Ayme d’Oselier. ‘They wish us warriors to
behave like bankers. I am not a learned man, but I was a man of God long before
I was given a bank to run. Now God speaks in my head, in my heart and in my
bones, and He tells me that we may not profit from His gold!’ He stood then,
straightening his shoulders square, and moved towards Marcus and Etienne until
he was standing between them. ‘Too long has our sweet Saviour been from our
sight, my brothers, and what is left to our memory lives in the pale image that
shines to us from gold.’

Etienne knew he
was right.

Jacques de
Molay, in the habit of reading his mind, said into his ear, ‘What do you think
of it, Etienne?’

Etienne searched
for his answer. ‘There is a power in it . . . I have seen it shine and turn men’s
hearts from holy things.’

Jacques de Molay
closed his eyes as if preparing to pray. ‘Yes . . . it has that power . . . it
has that power . . . and the Order has known it, but through the years it has
forgotten and now we must face, dear brothers, the position in which we find
ourselves, those of us who are loyal to the original intentions of our Order. A
question has begun to ask itself in the wind, in the sea, in the sky, in my
marrow it speaks. It wakes me from dreams and sweats through the pores of my
skin.’ He opened his eyes and what the men saw there was close and somewhat
wild. ‘What is the Temple’s function without a Crusade? Without the Holy Land?’

Etienne, whose
life in Cyprus had given birth to such questions, looked out through the
aperture and opened his mind to the thunder, waiting for the hidden messages
that were striving to emerge from the spirit of the storm.

None came.

After a long
moment the Grand Master let out a breath. ‘Why should Philip Capet not think
the same? Why should he not ask himself this very question? Come now, brothers,
like the other princes he is scratching for funds. His constant warring has him
ruined. He has tried debasing the currency, but this proved unpopular, so he
resorted to borrowing from the Lombards. Having exhausted their generosity he
expelled them from France before he had to pay back the loans. He then borrowed
to the hilt from the Jews and proceeded to burn so many of the poor wretches
upon his little island that it is called the Island of the Jews! Now he is in
deep to us, and when I refuse him more money, as I will, subsequent to every
means being lost to him, will he not ask himself, What purpose does the Temple
serve? Whosoever is Grand Master then, my brothers, shall not be master of his
own house.’