by Robyn Young
Finally, three years ago, Clement held a general council of the Church in Vienne. It was called to discuss, among other matters, the pope’s plans for a new Crusade, but the only point in the lengthy proceedings of interest to Philippe was the pope’s delivery of a certain bull, Vox in excelso. For the king, it wasn’t the ringing endorsement of his actions he had hoped for, but the outcome was nonetheless the same. Clement declared the Order of the Temple not guilty of the 127 charges, saying, on the advice of his papal commission, that the accusations could not be proven. However, he had gone on to say that due to the trial, the order’s reputation had been so irrevocably damaged that it would be impossible for it to continue serving Christendom and therefore it should be disbanded and the wealth it had procured over two centuries used to fund what the knights had in the end been unable to accomplish: the liberation of Jerusalem.
For a long time after this, despite his pledge to the pope, Philippe had fought against taking the Cross. He had no desire to risk his life overseas on what he considered a fool’s errand. His grandfather, among many others, had met death on those foreign sands. But in the end, seeing no other way to claim his prize, he had yielded to Clement’s urgings.
Now, as he left his chambers and headed out, ministers and guards falling in behind him, as he heard the distant roar of the crowds beyond the palace walls and the beating of drums that pounded a rhythm deep inside him, Philippe felt a surprising swell of exultation. It did not matter if he never went on Crusade; many kings before him had taken the Cross and done nothing more. What mattered was what his people thought of him on this momentous day. What mattered was that he was following in the footsteps of his grandfather, stepping out from the palace gates, the cheers of his subjects a wave of sound washing over him.
At the head of the royal procession walked Guillaume de Paris, Philippe’s black-clad confessor, who had condemned hundreds of Templars to death. At his side was the bishop of Paris, crook held high, and around them were many other dignitaries of the Church, prelates, archbishops and bishops, all arrayed in garish ceremonial robes. Acolytes swinging smoking censers sang hymns, their chanting voices lifting above the cacophony of the throng that lined the road from the palace to Notre Dame. Rosy-cheeked children dressed in gold robes, their heads crowned with laurel leaves, scattered fistfuls of rose petals before the king, so that with every step he took, Philippe walked on a fluttering blanket of red and white. Around him walked his sons and their wives, his brothers and their children. There were dukes and counts, princes and lords from across the kingdom, all with their knightly escorts garbed in silvery mail, helms borne under their arms. The greatest entourage belonged to King Edward II of England and his bride, Philippe’s daughter, Isabella. The two walked apart from each other, Isabella with her handmaidens, Edward with his knights.
Royal guards bordered the road, pushing back the churning crowds. The king had decreed a week’s holiday and all across the city servants had worked for days stringing banners from buildings until the streets were a riot of color. Sweets and gingerbread were tossed from the backs of royal wagons that trundled through Paris, followed by hordes of children and dogs. Taxes had been stopped for one week and there would be no toll on bridges. Philippe had made certain his subjects would come here to adore him on this day, showing all the nobles in his train how beloved he was by them. This was what his people would remember, not the soaring taxes and the poor harvests, the devaluation of coinage and the trial against the Templars, the massacre of the Jews and attacks on the Church. This day, Philippe was convinced, would be the one that would live in their minds forever. As he entered the great doors of Notre Dame, for the first time in his life he walked without fear into the house of God.
Inside, Clement and five cardinals of the Sacred College were waiting. The pope, a pale nub of a man, dwarfed in his robes, sat hunched on the papal throne before the altar, a plain gold cross in his shaking hands. As the lords and ladies spread out behind the king and the voices of the choir rose trembling to the distant expanses of the roof, Philippe went down on his knee, his grandfather’s mantle flowing out around him. After the psalms were recited and the prayers offered, the pope leaned forward and the king of France stretched out his hand to take the golden cross.
As his fingers clutched at it, Philippe felt himself suffused with a sense of holiness the like of which he had never felt before. He flushed with excitement expecting, at last, to hear God’s voice pulsing through him, but before he could pause to listen, the nobles were moving in around him, pledging their support for his war against the Saracens. Philippe accepted their aid distractedly, his mind already focusing on his plans to divert the Temple’s wealth from the Hospitallers to his own coffers. With the ceremony done and his part of the bargain fulfilled, Clement would have no choice but to give him what he had promised. But before that pact could be consummated, there was one last thing to be done.
When the order was dissolved, the Templars who survived the trial in France were either sentenced to imprisonment or else allowed to live out their existence in prayerful service in various monasteries. In other kingdoms, sentences were less harsh, the knights being given license to do as they pleased, but as many had spent their lives in service to the Temple, their earthly needs cared for, there were few options open to them. Some became mercenaries, others beggars. The only ones on whom final judgment had so far been reserved were the surviving officials in Paris. Now, led through the hustling crowds who jeered and spat at them, they were brought to the steps of Notre Dame, where Clement was ready to pass sentence.
Jacques de Molay, along with Geoffroi de Charney, Hugues de Pairaud and Geoffroi de Gonneville, the master of Aquitaine, were lined up before the pope. All were haggard and malnourished, their faces ashen with lack of sun, their hair and beards long and matted. Still, the grand master, whose massive frame was crooked with his injuries, kept his head raised as the pope began to speak in a quavering voice.
Despite the fact that the order itself could not be proved guilty, the four men had admitted their culpability on numerous occasions. Therefore, Clement pronounced, all were to suffer harsh and perpetual imprisonment. Hugues de Pairaud and Geoffroi de Gonneville did not speak, neither man seeming to hear or comprehend what had been said, barely even able to hold themselves upright. Jacques de Molay, however, with a grimace of pain, rose shakily to his feet. Even on the lowest steps, beneath the king and assembled nobles, the grand master seemed to tower over everyone.
“The Order of the Temple was created to defend the people of Christendom. Its sons have bled for all of you on the sands of Palestine. It has been noble in its endeavors, gallant on the field of battle, honorable in its dealings, pure in its service to the Lord. It remains so to this day and shall forever more, if not in this kingdom then in the next.” Jacques continued, his old eyes boring into Philippe. “The falsehoods that have been spun like webs around us by poisonous creatures will one day be swept away and the world shall see our innocence. I deny all that I confessed to, having done so only to end the pain of torture.” Lifting his gruff voice, he turned to the crowd behind him, which had fallen into a bated silence. “I deny every charge that has been laid against me and my brothers. The Temple is innocent.”
Philippe watched on in fury as Geoffroi de Charney staggered to his feet beside Jacques to add his own denial to his master’s. De Pairaud and de Gonneville had so far remained silent, but the king wasn’t going to give them the chance to have their say as well. The crowd was murmuring restlessly, excitedly. He felt their respect and adoration slipping away, replaced by curiosity, awe even at the sight of the impassioned grand master. Philippe crossed quickly to Clement, who was looking confused at the turn of events.
“Your Holiness,” he hissed through his teeth, “these two men are relapsed heretics. They must be dealt with swiftly, lest their infection spread. You must condemn them.”
Clement stared at him. “Condemn them?”
“To the fire.” Phi
lippe held the pope in his hard gaze. “De Molay and de Charney must be passed over to my authority for execution. It is the law.”
Clement gazed back at Jacques, who had raised up his arms before the silent crowd and was standing like a crucified Christ on the steps of the cathedral. He closed his eyes. The grand master could have repented and saved his life, but he had sealed his own fate with this action. Philippe was right: it was the law. “Very well,” he murmured.
45
The Royal Palace, Paris
MARCH 18, 1314 AD
The lawns in the royal gardens were wet, the grass glimmering in the evening light. The rain that had swept across the city during the afternoon had moved slowly west, leaving the city drowned and bleary in its wake. The sun was low, caught between the base of a mountainous black cloud and the horizon, bathing the city in amber dusk.
The shadows of the men stretched long and thin as they moved through the gardens toward a small door in the palace wall, hidden by sodden veils of trailing ivy that dripped water onto their heads as they passed through in single file. Behind them, Notre Dame’s bell began to toll, the sound shuddering over the island, but the streets of the Ville and the Latin Quarter remained eerily quiet, even as other bells began to join the call to Vespers. The citizens of Paris weren’t on their way to prayer. They were lining the banks of the Seine in their thousands, their gazes all fixed on a bare island rising from the broad river, upon which a pyre had been built. The crowd, growing all afternoon as word of the pope’s judgment went around, had been hushed, expectant. Now, as the men filed through the door onto the banks where the wooden footbridge spanned the waters, they began to whisper and murmur, eyes on the two figures within the company whose deaths they had come to witness.
Jacques de Molay and Geoffroi de Charney, stumbling out between the royal guards, had each been stripped down to a loincloth, their bodies displaying the ravages of seven years of torture. Both had been crudely shaved, their hair and beards hacked away, flesh scraped raw by the knives. Behind them came the Dominican, Guillaume de Paris, three cardinals and two executioners, hooded in black. They were followed by the king, who waited on the banks, while the company made their way to the bridge. Of the pope, there was no sign.
Jacques staggered and fell before he reached the bridge, his bare feet slipping in the slick mud. The soldiers went to haul him upright, but he shrugged away their clutching hands and instead grasped the rickety bridge posts and pulled himself up. The excited murmurs of the waiting crowds died away to quiet as the grand master put his foot on the boards and began to cross the river, each step taking him closer to the Ile des Juifs, and the pyre. Geoffroi de Charney limped in his wake, his pale face fixed on the grand master’s scarred back. The guards’ mail boots sounded hollowly off the wooden boards.
Once on the other side, the executioners took control, gesturing for the soldiers to secure the two men to the post that stuck up from the center of the pyre. De Charney’s legs gave out as they took hold of him. The crowds sucked in a breath and jostled one another to get a better look as the guards shouted abuse and grabbed at him. Turning, Jacques elbowed his way roughly to where Geoffroi had slumped. He crouched and grasped his brother’s hands. The king started forward with a frown as the guards hung back uncertainly. No one on the banks heard what the grand master said, but when he was finished, Geoffroi struggled to his feet. Together, side by side, the two old men made their way unaided to the pyre.
A broad plank of wood had been laid over the packed heap of branches and straw. The soldiers led them across it to the central post, where the two Templars were bound, back to back, the stake thrusting between them. The pyre was high enough for everyone on the banks to see them, their faces tinged gold in the last of the light. The executioners headed down the plank, which was dragged away, leaving Jacques and Geoffroi alone. One of the black-clad executioners took a torch from Guillaume de Paris. As he shoved it into the straw that had been stuffed in between the branches and timbers, the crowd let out an approving roar. Smoke swirled and little orange flames sprung up around the wood. The second executioner took another torch and did the same on the other side. After lighting the four corners, the two men stepped back to wait and watch with the rest of the city.
The bottom of the pile began to glow, wood hissing, sparks spitting. The smoke grew thicker and the two men began to cough, their bodies straining against their bonds, but the executioners had been careful and the wood was dry enough to flame rather than smolder. The king had instructed that they make it a slow fire with the minimum of straw, so that the men would burn rather than choke to death. At this point, when the heat from below began stinging the soles of their feet, victims would usually start to cry out; to protest or beg mercy, sometimes to pray, so it wasn’t a surprise to the waiting crowd when Jacques’s voice echoed across the water. But his words, when they came, were anything but expected.
“Before Heaven and Earth, with all of you here present as witness, I tell you the Order of the Temple is innocent.” The grand master’s voice was hoarse from the smoke, but filled with an authority that silenced all who could hear him. “Christ knows our innocence, just as he knows the guilt of those who have wrought these wrongs upon us. I tell you these men, these guilty men, will account for their crimes before the tribunal of God. For no man, neither king nor pope, can hide from the judgment of the Lord!”
There were no cheers from the watching throng, no taunts. Some people turned away as the flames rose higher, consuming the wood under the men’s feet. On the riverbank, Philippe, his face pale, watched them burn.
Away on the left bank, opposite the island, two men in hooded cloaks looked grimly on as Jacques’s words rang out. They were both tall and well built despite their age, although one was leaning heavily on the stick he wielded, his gray hair pulled back from his face, sharpening the hard lines of his cheeks and jaw.
“It is as if he knows.”
Will glanced around at Robert’s murmur. He had to turn his head fully to face his old friend, as a leather patch covered the scarred hollow where his right eye used to be. “In a way, he does. He is innocent. God will be the last judge in this.”
Robert didn’t take his gaze off the grand master and de Charney, now writhing in agony as the flames billowed around them. “And us? Are we not somehow to blame here?”
Will looked back at the pyre. The blaze was reflected in the water between the bank and the island, turning the Seine to molten gold. “No.”
Robert looked at him searchingly. “That is the first time I’ve heard you sound so certain.”
“It was a long journey. I had a lot of time to think.” Will realized his comrade was waiting for more. “All great empires fall, Robert. Nothing can stay the same forever. The world changes and those who refuse to change with it are destroyed by its convulsions.” He paused, frowning. “That was something I do not think Everard understood. His beliefs were strong, stronger than mine have ever been, but ultimately constrained by the rigidity with which he held them. He couldn’t see beyond the borders of his own ambitions, couldn’t see that the world was moving in different directions, rendering some of his plans impossible. He always said the Anima Templi could only survive if the Temple did, that it needed the order’s money and resources if it was to continue its aims. I do not believe that. A dream isn’t something that exists in bricks or organizations, laws or gold. Neither is hope. These things exist within us, waiting to be made manifest through our words and our deeds. We are our dreams, Robert, and they are us. It would be more true to say that the Soul of the Temple cannot exist without us.”
“Then you think we can continue?”
“We already are.”
Robert gave a sober laugh. “I suppose you are right.”
Turning from the pyre, Will threaded through the crowd, using his stick to steady himself. Some of the wounds he had sustained in the king’s prison had never properly healed and he was suffering from the voyage from Scotland. Rob
ert followed, people moving back into the space they left. Once away from the main throng, Will handed over a pack he had been carrying.
When Robert took it the bag flopped open to reveal a snatch of white cloth, before he slung it over his shoulder. “One last time,” he said quietly.
Will looked away. “It doesn’t seem right, you doing this alone. I should be with you.”
“I’m not alone,” responded Robert, nodding to two men waiting at the end of a street a short distance away, both dressed in the same woolen cloaks as he and Will. “And no offense,” he added, cocking his head at Will’s eye patch, “but you’re a hazard with a bow these days.” His grin faded. “This has to be done. You made the right decision. We cannot risk another Crusade.”
“I know. But it feels more like vengeance today.”
“You know the price for peace, Will. It is always high.”
Will paused, thinking of Everard’s belief that, sometimes, peace could only be bought with blood. For a long time he hadn’t truly agreed, but after all they had been through these past few years it seemed the old man might have been right. He gripped Robert’s outstretched hand. Will waited until his old comrade and the two men had disappeared from view, then moved off alone. Behind him, the pyre burned like a sun, the two men at the center consumed by its light.
DOMINICAN PRIORY, NEAR CARPENTRAS, THE KINGDOM OF FRANCE, APRIL 20, 1314 AD
“I am afraid the journey from Paris weakened him beyond my skills to heal, Your Grace. Perhaps if he had remained at rest while the present bout passed . . . ?”
