by Robyn Young
“Another clutch of rats fleeing the sinking ship,” came a cold voice. “Arrest the innkeeper and all his staff.” The command was loud enough for all the onlookers to hear. “Anyone who harbors heretics will be dealt with in the same way.”
Will hung his head quickly, seeing a set of black robes sweep into sight.
“Who are they? Knights or sergeants?”
“I’m not sure,” replied the guard. “But we’ll know soon enough when we’ve got them locked away.”
“Indeed we will. Take them all to the preceptory.”
From under his lowered gaze, Will watched the black robes swish away. He felt himself being marched off, then that cold voice struck out again.
“Wait!”
Will tensed.
“That man there. Show me his face!”
Will tried to pull away, but one of the men holding him wrenched back his hair. He found himself looking straight into the dark eyes of Guillaume de Nogaret.
Nogaret’s face showed disbelief, then the slow spread of satisfaction.
“Shall we take him with the others, Minister?” asked one of the guards hesitantly.
“No,” murmured Nogaret. “This one can go to the Louvre.” His voice was thick with relish. “I’ll have a special cell prepared for him.”
40
The Louvre, Paris
OCTOBER 31, 1307 AD
Will walked the cell floor, five paces forward, five back. For the past four days he had filled the hours that stretched into infinity in the cramped, airless space with these small acts of freedom. They hadn’t bound his body and so he could make the choice to sit and think, lie down and sleep to save his strength, or pace to keep his muscles working.
The prison—four bare walls, no window, a blank door with a hole for his food to be shoved through—was a surprise. The way Nogaret looked at him when he was hanging between the royal guards, he had imagined beatings and tortures awaited him. In some ways, this nothingness, almost devoid of human contact, was worse. His anticipation of what was to come was now so heightened, his whole being seemed to vibrate with it and it took all his control not to let his thoughts spiral into madness. He had to stay calm, prepare himself, and so he walked, focusing on the simplicity of placing one bare foot in front of the other.
Some time later, the sound of footsteps echoed. Will halted, listening. They were coming closer. He guessed there were three, maybe four men, the chink of their mail unmistakable. He pressed his back against the cell wall as the footsteps stopped outside his door, heard a bolt rattle and snap back.
“Face the wall,” came a harsh voice.
Will hesitated, not wanting to show weakness, but there seemed no reason to disobey the simple order and so he turned. His back itched with expectation as the door opened and a cold draft brushed across him. He tensed as hands gripped his arms, pulling them back. Rope circled his wrists. He heard a man’s breaths behind him as the pressure increased, and felt the blood pulsing in his veins, his hands growing hot and prickly. He was jerked round and marched forward, two men to either side of him.
None of the guards spoke, to him or one another, as he was led from the cell through the prison. As he walked, Will tried to focus his mind down to a single point inside himself, a point at which threats or pain wouldn’t be able to reach him. It was hard, his thoughts fluttering agitated within him. A memory of his daughter looking back over her shoulder as Simon led her away was followed by an image of William Wallace being cut down from the gallows. He gritted his teeth and forced them away, concentrating on the task of putting one foot in front of the other, just like in the cell.
The men holding him brought him to a stop at a door. As it was opened, Will felt a rush of heat, and sweat beaded his forehead. The first thing his eyes fixed on was the immediate threat in the pitiless faces of the nine men he could see in the chamber. He recognized Nogaret at once. Other than the four royal guards who had escorted him, there were four more men, all clad in the black robes of Dominicans. He knew one by sight, a tall, thin man with chilling eyes. It was Guillaume de Paris, Philippe’s personal confessor, and head of the inquisitors in Paris. As the door closed behind him, Will’s gaze came to rest on a variety of items and contraptions, whose threat was more oblique and sinister.
There was a rope slung over one of the ceiling beams, near a triangular frame with what looked like a windlass positioned at the apex, a system of ropes snaking from it. In front of a coal fire a blackened-looking board was propped beside a bowl of something oily. There was a trestle with some sort of metal funnel and a large jug sitting on it, and another table covered with a cloth, under which he made out the outlines of things whose identity his mind could only guess at. Worse than the objects themselves were the stains on the floor, some fresh, some old. He smelled blood and urine, feces and sweat. Every splatter was an echo of pain, a scream or a whimper. It was a room of horrors, where a man would be shredded of dignity and humanity, stripped right back to the core of himself, to the blood and the sinews and bone. Distantly, he remembered Everard telling him about the tortures inflicted upon the Cathars, but the inquisitors had had a great deal of practice since those early days, refining their methods within the constraints placed upon them by the Church. Forbidden from spilling blood, unless it be done accidentally during examination, they had been forced to come up with ingenious ways of exacting suffering upon men and women accused of heresy, from whom they sought a confession. Limbs would be broken, burned, compressed, dislocated, all without a drop of blood to stain the Church.
Nogaret waited until Will had taken in the whole room before speaking. “William Campbell, you have been accused of heresy. You will now be examined by the authority of the Church to determine whether or not the charge is true. You will be given the opportunity to confess your guilt and, should you be truly repentant, will be forgiven your sins. How do you plead?”
Will glanced at the other men, then back at Nogaret. “How can I be guilty? I am not a Templar. I left the order years ago. What evidence do you have that implicates me as a heretic?”
Nogaret smiled, seemingly pleased by this game. “The confession of a high-ranking member of the order implicates you.” He paused, studying Will. “What is the Anima Templi?”
Will said nothing, but continued to meet Nogaret’s gaze.
“Your silence surprises me, Campbell. The visitor of the Temple, Hugues de Pairaud, told everyone in this room that you were the head of this organization.”
Still Will kept quiet.
“In fact,” continued Nogaret, “much of what de Pairaud said resonates with Esquin de Floyran’s testimony, along with the testimonies of others, including the grand master.”
“That is a lie.”
“Is it?” Nogaret went to the triangular frame. “Jacques de Molay confessed right here on the rack. He said he had denied Christ and spat upon the cross. He said he worshipped a three-headed idol in his Chapter meetings and encouraged other knights to do the same, and kissed brothers on the mouth and other parts of the body.”
Will noticed Guillaume de Paris’s jaw twitch with disgust. One of the Dominicans crossed himself. In the heat of the torches and the fire, he felt sweat trickle down his spine. He could deny everything they were saying, he realized, and it would make no difference. Neither would a confession, not with Nogaret leading the investigation. But perhaps he could appeal to the humanity of de Paris, spare other innocent men this ordeal? At least until Pope Clement intervened. He focused on the tall Dominican. “The Anima Templi does exist and I was once its head. It was never a heretical organization, but one devoted to peace. Unfortunately, after I left the order, a small number of men twisted our original aims to suit their own purposes. But, again, these men were not heretics, they were simply misguided. Their faults lie in greed and arrogance, not in crimes of faith, and they should be judged by the only authority who has power over Knights of the Temple: His Holiness, the pope. As I said, they were a small number only. Spare the r
est of the brothers these tortures for they know nothing of any heresy, including the grand master.”
“Do you have the names of these few men?” inquired Guillaume de Paris sternly.
Will was thinking about how to answer when Nogaret stepped between them.
“Do not let him fool you. He is trying to distract us. You heard de Molay confess yourself, only yesterday.”
Will’s eyes narrowed. “Any man would confess to anything strapped to that,” he growled. “Including you.”
Two stains bloomed on Nogaret’s cheeks, but he checked himself before answering. “I am pleased to get your confession so quickly, Campbell. It augurs well for the next set of questions I will be putting to you, for which the king requires an immediate answer.” He gestured to the guards. “Strip him.”
Will stiffened as the guards came forward. His shirt was torn open. One of the others cut down the sleeves with a knife. He flinched as the blade nicked his skin. His breeches suffered a similar fate and then there was just the horrible vulnerability of his naked flesh. He remembered feeling something similar at his initiation into the Temple, only then there was the promise of reward at the end of the trial. Now there was little to hope for.
As he was taken to the trestle with the metal funnel and jug placed upon it, Will could see water and other stains darkening the floor. His eyes moved over the instruments, although he couldn’t tell what they would be used for.
“Where is the treasury, Campbell?”
“I have no idea. Ask the knights.”
“I have. Several of them tell me you were involved in its removal from Paris.” The minister’s voice became a snarl. “On the night your whore of a daughter stole one of the royal orders from my lord! I should have slit the bitch’s throat when I had the chance!”
Will started toward him, but was yanked back and, at a barked command from Nogaret, hefted onto the table, one of the inquisitors removing the jug, another picking up the funnel. He struggled fiercely, but the other soldiers moved in and, between them, the four guards pinned him to the table, naked, his hands bound painfully behind him, arms crushed by his own weight.
“Where is the treasury?” demanded Nogaret, so close Will could smell his breath.
He twisted his face away, but one of the soldiers gripped his head. An inquisitor leaned over him and inserted the nozzle of the metal funnel into his mouth, pushing against his lips until they bled and he was forced to open them. Suddenly, the lip of the jug was hovering over him. His whole body convulsed with shock as a stream of water gushed into the bowl of the funnel. It flooded his mouth and poured down his throat, giving him no chance to swallow. More and more came, making him choke and retch, until it felt as though they were emptying a river into him. He couldn’t breathe. He was drowning. This was it. He was dying and all the while Nogaret’s voice grated in his ears.
“Where is the treasury? Where? ”
THE LOUVRE, PARIS, DECEMBER 24, 1307 AD
Will came to with a jolt as his cell door banged open. He tried to push himself up, but his body was weak with hunger and exhaustion, and before he could move, three guards were dragging him to his feet. One held a rough woolen tunic that was forced over his head and pulled down to cover his scarred body. Their hands felt like claws on his skin. He hadn’t seen anyone in weeks and the shock of contact was painfully invasive. As they took him out, his dread swelled. They had gone far last time, using their instruments on the softest, most vulnerable parts of him, causing him to black out with agony. Now perhaps they would go further and he might not walk away from what they did.
Loud in his mind came Nogaret’s voice, cruel and taunting, telling him how one knight, whose feet had been rubbed with fat and placed before a coal fire, was given the bones that dropped out of his feet in a bag to take back to his cell. Will’s feverish thoughts had been filled with images of men, mutilated and limbless, crawling and whimpering in cells like his all across France. Nogaret had told him more than fifteen thousand members of the order had been rounded up. Like many of them, Will had confessed to everything the king’s minister wanted to hear, in an effort to end the pain of torture. During the session the inquisitors would put the words into his mouth and he would simply be required to agree, as they held him down and poured molten wax over him, or ran the flame of a candle up his bare thighs until he could smell his own flesh burning. The worst had been the rack, the ropes around his wrists and ankles attached to the windlass, which one inquisitor would turn, grunting with effort, until each limb was twisted to the point of snapping.
But even through the worst of it, part of him remained aware that these men needed to keep him alive. Nogaret believed he knew where the treasury was, and as long as the minister kept believing that, his life would not be put in danger. On the rack, Will told the minister the treasury had been taken to Cyprus, but shortly after, when asked to repeat the confession, he said Portugal. Nogaret was left not knowing which confession was false and which true. This frustrated the minister beyond belief and allowed Will one small victory in the midst of his torments.
Will now felt his dread fade into confusion as the guards escorted him up a set of steps. This wasn’t the way to the torture chamber. After several turns through windowless halls, the soldiers approached a set of heavy doors. When they were opened, Will sucked in a breath as he was hauled out into daylight. It was early morning and bitterly cold, but he savored its purity. Hearing voices and the clop of hooves, he looked around, feeling more awake and alert than he had in weeks. There were more soldiers out here and four wagons. Will spotted Nogaret and Guillaume de Paris. The minister looked tense and irritable. As his gaze moved over the crowd, Will saw other shabby men wearing tunics like his, in between the guards. He recognized Jacques de Molay and Geoffroi de Charney. The grand master looked terribly frail and was being supported by two soldiers. He had lost a shocking amount of weight and his beard had been crudely hacked away. Will glimpsed men inside the wagons as he was forced up into one nearest to him. A handful of other prisoners, whom he didn’t recognize, were compelled inside, and after four soldiers climbed in behind, there was a crack from a whip and the wagons lumbered out of the yard.
Will caught the eyes of a couple of fellow prisoners, but no one spoke. They were all too aware of the royal soldiers sitting there, swords in hands. Trying to guess where they were being taken, he sat back as they passed out of the royal fortress. Once out of the yard, he could smell the river and hear the dawn chorus of birds in the trees along the banks. The air smelled of damp grass and smoke, and had never seemed so sweet. The wagon slowed briefly, then passed through a gate into the city proper. Will’s apprehension built when they crossed the Grand Pont onto the Ile de la Cité, but rather than heading toward the palace, the wagon turned down one of the streets that led to Notre Dame.
In the little square outside the cathedral, Will and the others were ushered out by the soldiers. One man stumbled as he jumped down. Will grabbed him to keep him from falling, but no sooner had he grasped the man’s arm than the guards were coming at them, shouting at them to keep apart. As Will pulled back, he collided with another prisoner. Recovering his balance, he found himself face-to-face with Hugues de Pairaud. The visitor’s face was ashen and gaunt, his hair and beard matted with blood, his lips blistered.
“I am sorry,” he breathed hoarsely at Will, as one of the guards pushed him forward. “I’m sorry.”
Will stared after him as they were escorted up the steps into the dark maw of the cathedral. He smelled incense and heard the chanting voices of the canons singing the morning office as they were led into the Chapter House.
On a dais were three men in black and crimson robes, gold crosses, crusted with jewels, around their necks. As Will saw them, hope broke through his tension. By the resentment on Nogaret’s face, he guessed the three cardinals of the Sacred College weren’t here at the king’s bidding. Perhaps the pope had finally intervened? He was jostled as the soldiers lined him and the others
up in the center of the room. The guards moved back, leaving the twenty-four emaciated knights standing alone before the judging stares of the cardinals.
After a moment, the one in the center, an old, venerable-looking man, rose. He held a roll of parchment. “We have been appointed by His Holiness, Pope Clement V, to hear the case against the Order of the Temple.” The cardinal’s voice strengthened. “His Holiness was most disturbed, as were we all, to learn that each of you has confessed to the appalling crimes with which you have been charged. With great sorrow, he appointed us with the grave task of judging those confessions that we might come to understand how such an ancient and respected order could have fallen so far from the grace of the Lord.” He cleared his throat. “Jacques de Molay, you will step forward while the charges against you and your men are delivered.”
There was a pause. Then, slowly, deliberately, the grand master moved. He walked awkwardly, with a limp that caused his face to crease with pain, but he kept his head high.
The knights listened in silence to the 127 charges laid against them. On each, Will could discern Nogaret’s hand. Indeed, the minister looked almost proud as they were uttered in the quavering voice of the old cardinal. The knights were accused of urinating and trampling on the cross at their inceptions, of adoring a cat and a three-headed idol, of keeping charitable donations for themselves and holding Chapters in secret. Even through his anger and disbelief, Will understood the skill in Nogaret’s lengthy indictment. He recognized charges that had been leveled at the Cathars, Jews and Saracens, all enemies of the Church; charges the public could easily understand, and fear. Some of the accusations were even true: the knights did hold their Chapters in secret and only allowed professed members to read the Rule, something the Teutonics and Hospitallers would recognize. This lent a particularly damning element to the allegations. A lie was easier to swallow if coated in truth and Nogaret had artfully distorted the daily practices of the order, many of which were well known, to fit the trial, rendering them suddenly suspicious.
