by Robyn Young
Throughout the fifteen or so minutes it took the cardinal to read through the offensive list written on that scroll, Jacques de Molay kept his head raised. Hugues de Pairaud, by contrast, stared at the floor, his hands shaking at his sides. One knight collapsed, either from exhaustion or shock, and was left on the floor.
When he was finished, the cardinal looked up, his gaze on Jacques. “You have confessed before the inquisitor, Guillaume de Paris, to all of these crimes. Do you maintain this declaration of guilt now, here before us?”
For a moment, Jacques said nothing. Then he lifted his hands and gripped the collar of his threadbare tunic. There was a tearing sound as he pulled, ripping the material apart with a grimace of effort, until he was standing bare-chested before the three papal commissioners. His back, arms and chest were crisscrossed with deep gashes, each one blackened and blistered. The inquisitors had gone to work on the grand master with pincers, designed to tear the flesh from the victim, but heated until red-hot, so as to cauterize the wounds as soon as they were made, thus preventing the forbidden spilling of blood. Some of the slashes glistened, still weeping, and Will couldn’t imagine the pain the grand master must be in, even now, days after the injuries had been inflicted.
The cardinal’s face paled. He raised a hand as if to cover his eyes, then dropped it and instead looked away. One of the two who had remained seated sat back, looking sickened. The other stared, appalled.
“I did confess,” said Jacques, his voice gruff, “but I am only guilty of weakness. Like our savior, in the moment when strength failed Him and He asked for His burden to be taken from Him, I gave in to my frailty. I told my torturers what they wanted to hear in order to end my suffering. But now let me make it right. Let me do what I should have done then and retract that confession, made in the confusion of agony.”
Nogaret’s face was rigid. “Your Grace—”
The cardinal didn’t let him finish. “Minister de Nogaret, His Holiness wants a clear and unequivocal admission of guilt before he agrees to the king’s demands that the order be dissolved.” He stepped down from the dais and crossed the hall. “This”—he gestured at Jacques, looking horrified—“cannot count.”
“The inquisitors are licensed, by the papacy, to use torture to extract an admission of guilt. Your Grace, every one of these men has confessed!”
“And if we remove the clothes of each what will we find? I am sorry, Minister. I must inform His Holiness that the confessions of these men cannot be judged with any accuracy, being made under such extreme duress.”
41
Franciscan Priory, Poitiers
MAY 26, 1308 AD
“Get out of my way.”
“My lord,” protested the friar, planting himself in front of the door, “His Holiness is not ready. Please. If you wait but a moment longer, he—”
“Move! Or I will have my guards arrest you for obstructing your king.”
The friar hesitated, looking distressed, but when two royal soldiers came forward at Philippe’s command, he stepped reluctantly aside. Pushing past, the king forced open the door and strode inside.
As he slammed it shut, the figure in the room started. “My lord Philippe,” murmured Clement. He was in the process of pulling on a crimson robe and struggled the rest of the way into it. “What is the meaning of this? I was told you were waiting in the Chapter House.”
“I got tired of waiting,” responded the king, his blue eyes fierce. He stood head and shoulders above the pope, who seemed to have shrunk in the past year, his body curling in on itself, hunching over the pain that was said to plague him constantly these days. Philippe felt no sympathy. He had no desire to be here, having made the journey from Paris in record time, punishing both horses and men. His patience, worn down by the events of the past seven months, was thinning rapidly.
Philippe’s action against the Templars had begun well, indeed far better than he could have hoped after Rose’s theft of the scroll. True, the contents of the Paris coffers were still missing, but he had many hundreds of Temple properties in his possession despite this and Nogaret remained convinced that some knights, Campbell included, knew where the treasury was hidden. Jacques de Molay had confessed to the charges against him in a matter of days, the inquisitors surpassing their reputations, and after his declaration of guilt was made public the defense of the other knights quickly crumbled. As they yielded, one by one, to the inquisitors’ examinations, public and political backing for a full trial against the order grew. Clement had sent an incensed letter after the initial arrests, demanding to know what he was doing, but Philippe, secure in the knowledge that his subjects would support him, didn’t even respond. It was shortly after this that the three cardinals had arrived in Paris, insisting on hearing the knights’ statements.
When the cardinals took their report to the pope, Clement suspended the work of inquisitors in France, and without his interrogators, Philippe was forced to halt the proceedings. Attempting to counter the action, confident of his own authority, the king summoned masters of theology from the University of Paris to pass their judgment upon the trial, but the verdict, announced earlier that month, was not to his liking. A king, the doctors had concluded, could only take action in matters of heresy at the express wish of the pope. Which was why Philippe was here now, standing before the belligerent vicar of Christ, his blood boiling. “I have had enough. This ends, today!”
Clement shook his head. “I do not know what you are talking about.”
Philippe bit back an overwhelming desire to unleash his sword and strike down the bent little man where he stood. “The Templars! I will not let you get in the way of my intentions for them.”
“Your intentions?” The pope fastened the robe at his throat. “Does that not depend on their guilt?”
“Do not play with me, Clement,” warned the king. “Do not forget it was I who put you on the papal throne. I can just as easily remove you!”
Clement stared at Philippe. “How? When the office of pope is one elected for life?”
Philippe looked away, discomforted by the pope’s scrutiny and feeling he had said something he shouldn’t have. Was Clement seeing through him, right to the heart of his sins? Were the ghosts of his predecessors whispering to him, pointing their fingers at the man responsible for their downfalls? “We had an agreement, you and I. You signed a document, consenting to five obligations, one of which was to dissolve the Temple and transfer their wealth to me and my heirs.”
“That agreement, like the confessions of the knights, was made under coercion. I signed it to save the life of my son, as we both know. So unless you mean to have me killed like Boniface and Benedict, how exactly do you propose to remove me from this holy office, my lord?”
Philippe’s fear swelled at the accusation, but he forced himself to look upon the pope’s face, lean and withered by illness. “Their deaths had nothing to do with me. I am guilty only of attempting to arrest a heretic and blasphemer.”
“I fear for you, my lord.”
“I have expanded the territory and power of my kingdom, stood firm in the face of my enemies, but rewarded those loyal to me and to France. I am a good Christian king, Clement. You need not fear for me.”
“You have done nothing for your people and everything for yourself. You have taken them to war, yes, but against other Christian nations, not against the heathen in Palestine. You have misused your sacred office, putting men of evil character in positions of great power and have blighted the Church with vicious attacks against persons and property. You have devalued coinage, causing poverty and unrest, and moved deceitfully against the very men who have been fighting for Christendom across the seas. A good king, my lord?” Clement’s voice hardened. “Your grandfather, Saint Louis, was that. He took the Cross for the liberation of Jerusalem and led two Crusades. If not for the ambitions of his brother, I believe he would have succeeded, so great a man was he, fearless and gallant, devout and humble. You wield his memory like a sword,
but that weapon is blunt in your hands. You are nothing like him, Philippe. All you share is blood.”
Philippe felt the words crushing him with the weight of truth. He moved away, his lips pulling back in a grimace of hatred, then turned back. “I never went against the Temple deceitfully. You heard Esquin de Floyran’s testimony. Heresy! That was his claim, not mine. No matter what you think of me, you cannot stop what I have begun, only hinder it. The people are demanding a trial.”
Clement spoke after a pause, clasping his hands behind his back. “You are right. This process has gone too far to be halted. There will always be suspicion of the Templars now, even if they are given back their command. I cannot fail to see that. The people want to know if there has been heresy committed. They need answers and reassurance that their spiritual and temporal leaders are doing what is necessary to safeguard their kingdom from wickedness.” He nodded slowly, as if deciding something. “The trial against the Templars will continue, but I will establish a council of commissioners to oversee it and make sure it is done properly. If enough evidence of heresy within the order is found, I will dissolve the Temple.”
Philippe was staring at the pope, confounded by his change of attitude. “And their wealth?” he ventured, trying to keep his voice steady.
Clement met the king’s hopeful gaze. “It will be transferred to you.” As Philippe let out a sharp breath, the pope lifted his hand, his face sober. “On one condition.”
“Name it.”
“That you take the Cross and lead a new Crusade.”
42
The Louvre, Paris
SEPTEMBER 8, 1308 AD
Will scrabbled back against the wall, throwing his arms up over his face as four men entered his cell. The light from their torches seared him and he cried out when two of them grabbed him. He was so thin they almost lifted him off the ground as they pulled him to his feet.
“I don’t know where it is,” he rasped, as they forced him down the passage. “I don’t!” Will twisted against them, shouting the words over and over, but the guards barely broke their stride.
They came to a set of doors and dragged him through, into a dim-lit chamber. There was a desk in the center with two men in official-looking black robes seated behind it. One had a quill in his hand, poised over a parchment. The guards stepped back, leaving Will alone in front of them. His support gone, he staggered, almost fell, then managed to steady himself and stood there swaying, but upright. Raising a shaking hand, he adjusted the filthy strip of cloth covering his right eye, loosened in the march from the cell.
“William Campbell?” inquired one of the seated men, in an arid tone.
Will looked around at the guards, standing behind him to either side of the door, then nodded to the official who had spoken.
“Please answer out loud.”
Will cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said, swallowing painfully against his parched throat.
“The Knights of the Temple continue to protest their innocence, refuting the crimes they have been accused of. According to the papal commission established by His Holiness Pope Clement, they have a right to defend themselves. Two members of the order have been appointed lawyers for the trial and many brothers have pledged to support them in a public hearing. Would you be willing to stand before a tribunal and attest to your innocence?”
“I would,” said Will, his thoughts, until now suffocated with dread, beginning to clear. “I would be willing.”
“You are certain?”
“Yes.”
The official scratched something on the parchment, then nodded to the guards.
Will felt his arms gripped. “When will this happen?” he croaked, as the guards escorted him from the room. “When? ”
But they didn’t answer.
Back in his cell, Will slumped against the damp wall and slid down it, his gaze on the door. It was pitted with scars where he had banged and kicked and scratched at it, crazed with thirst, hunger, or pain.
It was almost a year since the arrests had begun, almost a year since they locked him in this hole. In that time they had tortured him beyond what he thought was possible for human endurance, taking him to the brink of madness. There were moments when he had prayed to God to end his suffering, to make his interrogators go too far. But the inquisitors always seemed to know the limits the body could take before it would give in to death and he lived through everything they did to him, the starvation and isolation, the threats and honeyed promises, the rack and the fire. He even survived the removal of his right eye, the inquisitors pinning him down and prying apart his eyelids, that blade coming toward him, closer and closer, until he was screaming and the metal was digging inside.
Some time ago, when the torture ceased for several months, he learned, listening to scraps of conversation from his guards, that the pope had intervened. His hopes lifted for a brief period, then faded when it became clear Clement had simply maneuvered himself into a position of power within the proceedings, establishing a papal commission to oversee the interrogations, rather than halting them. The torture began again, albeit less aggressively whenever a cardinal was present, and Will’s despair became complete when Nogaret told him the pope had sent letters to all the kings of the West, ordering the Templars in their territories be arrested, their property seized. He tried to convince himself the minister was lying; he had never told Nogaret where the Paris treasury had been taken and knew the lawyer was maddened by the fact he couldn’t break him, but inside he had known the truth: Clement had abandoned them.
Until now.
Will tried to force his sluggish mind to think through what the proposed trial might mean. If the knights defended themselves publicly, the king and his men wouldn’t be able to hide the fact that their confessions had been extracted with appalling force. Their plight had provoked the shock and sympathy of the cardinals. Might it do the same for others?
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching. He tensed, his heart pounding as torchlight flared around the edges of the door. The bolt clacked back. Between the cover of his fingers, Will picked out the faces of three or four guards, then someone was ducking inside his cell, torch thrust before him. It was Nogaret.
There was something greedy in the minister’s thin face as he looked down at Will. “I am glad to hear you are willing to defend the order, Campbell. It means I can take one last thing from you.” Nogaret’s expression shifted at Will’s incomprehension, his eyes filling with rancor. “Did you really believe I would give you the chance to defend yourself? You or the others?”
“Then it was a lie?” Will slumped back against the wall. “Those men? What they said? Just lies?”
“On the contrary, it was true. Clement, fool that he is, is attempting to offer you the opportunity of a fair trial. He wants to be seen to be doing this properly, wants to be seen as the one in control, when he is just a puppet! He always has been.”
Will turned his head away, closing his eye to block out the sight of the minister’s vengeful face. “Why do you hate us?”
Nogaret appeared surprised by the question. “I do not hate you, Campbell. You aren’t important enough for me to waste such emotion on.”
“Clement then? Boniface? Benedict? What drove you to commit your crimes against them?”
Nogaret quickly pushed the cell door shut, blocking out the sight of the guards lingering in the passage. “You should stop your tongue from flapping, unless you want it removed.”
“It is no secret, what you did.”
“And yet no one has ever convicted me.”
“Perhaps they won’t in this life. But in the next—”
“Next?” Nogaret gave a bark of laughter. “You have to believe in the next life to fear it.” His eyes narrowed and he crouched in front of Will, the torch flaring between them. “You still believe though, don’t you? Even now, you imagine God is up there looking down on you, loving or judging?” His voice dropped. “My father and mother believed. Onl
y they were Cathars, not Christians. By the time I was born, the Church’s Crusade against their sect had ended. The Cathar stronghold of Montségur had fallen, almost twenty years earlier, and their last resistance faltered soon after. My parents escaped the burnings and settled, like many others of their kind, in an anonymous town in the south of France. They pretended to be Christian, celebrated the festivals, went to Mass each week. But at night they would perform their heresies in secret. For years, I watched them lead these lives of deceit, terrified of being discovered, yet unwilling to give up their beliefs. I played the dutiful son and followed my father’s example, but I never believed. I found their fearful rituals embarrassing.” Nogaret’s mouth curled in contempt. “All of us cramped together in a store-hold, my sister cupping her hand around a candle, my father whispering and sweating.
“I left when I could and went to university in Montpellier. I studied law, Roman and canon, and in doing so the secrets of faith were laid bare for me, rendered transparent. I could see how the Church manipulated and controlled, how its leaders benefited from the gullibility of its flock. My eyes were opened and I understood how I too, a man not of the cloth, but of the world, could use the law to get what I wanted, how state could become more powerful than Church. I was passionate, filled with knowledge. I made the mistake of trying to make my father understand; of trying to convince him he no longer needed these inane rituals. We argued and he cut me out of the family. Despite his past, he was respected in his community and he made his displeasure known by having me removed from an important teaching post I had been installed in at Montpellier.
“I did the only thing I could to discredit him and informed the Dominican college of his continuing adherence to the Cathar faith.” Nogaret paused, his expression distant. “I wanted him to see that I was right, that the law was more powerful than any God. I imagined he would refute his beliefs, he and my mother, thought they would confess and beg to be pardoned. I wanted them humbled and humiliated, their absurd faith stripped from them.” His gaze focused on Will. “Both of them refused to denounce themselves despite the tortures the inquisitors wrought upon them. They went to the pyres set for them along with my sister almost proudly. When the soldiers were lighting the faggots under them they began reciting the very prayers they forced me to say in that dark little store-hold, for all the crowd to hear.”
