by Andrea Japp
Arnaud de Viancourt, a small, slim man with light-grey hair and an ageless face, turned to him smiling, and folded his hands across his black monk’s habit.
‘Let us go outside, brother, and make the most of these few hours of relative coolness,’ he suggested.
Francesco de Leone nodded, certain that the early-morning air was not the reason for the frail man’s proposition. He was afraid of the spies Lusignan had placed everywhere, perhaps even within their order.
The two men walked for a while, their heads bowed and the hoods of their cloaks raised. Leone followed Arnaud de Viancourt to the great stone wall. His relationship with Guillaume de Villaret, their current Grand-Master, was founded upon the loyalty that bound the two men, as well as their intellectual complementarity. And yet the prior was unaware that this mutual trust had its limits; Guillaume de Villaret was well acquainted with the fears, hopes and motives of his Grand-Commander – as was his nephew and likely successor, Foulques de Villaret – but the reverse was not true.
Arnaud de Viancourt stopped walking and looked around carefully to make sure they were alone.
‘Listen to the cicadas, brother. Like us they wake at dawn. What wonderful stubbornness they possess, do they not? But are they aware of why they sing? Surely not. Cicadas do not question their lot.’
‘Then I am a cicada.’
‘Like all of us here.’
Francesco waited. The prior was given to these preambles, to speaking in metaphors. Arnaud de Viancourt’s mind made him think of a gigantic universal chessboard whose pieces were constantly moving and never obeyed the same rules. He wove such a complex web and it was easy to lose sight of the individual threads. Then suddenly each element would fall into place to form a perfect whole.
The prior said in an almost detached voice, as though he were thinking aloud:
‘Our late lamented Holy Father Boniface VIII had the makings of an emperor. He dreamed of installing a papal theocracy, a Christian empire united under one sole power …’
The veiled criticism was not lost on Francesco. Boniface had ruled with a rod of iron and been little disposed to dialogue, and his intransigence had won him many critics even within the Church.
‘… His successor Nicolas Boccasini, our Pope Benoît XI,* is quite unlike him. No doubt his election surprised him more than anyone. Should I confess, brother, that we fear for his life? He wisely pardoned Philip the Fair for attempting to murder his predecessor.’
The idea that Benoît’s life might be threatened filled the Knight with silent dread. The new Pope’s purity of vision, his spiritualism even, was a cornerstone of the century-old combat which Leone had devoted himself to. He waited, however, for the other man to continue. The prior proceeded with customary caution:
‘It … It has been brought to our attention that Benoît intended to excommunicate Guillaume de Nogaret,* the monarch’s ubiquitous shadow, who only played an accidental part in that abomination, although rumour has it Nogaret insulted Boniface. Be that as it may, Benoît must be seen to respond, to hold somebody to account. Complete absolution would undermine the Pope’s already wavering authority.’ He sighed before continuing. ‘King Philip is no fool and he won’t stop there. He needs a compliant pope and will have him elected if necessary. He will no longer tolerate any forces of opposition that might interfere with his plans. If our fears are justified and the Pope’s succession is imminent, we could find ourselves on very uncertain, not to say dangerous, ground. We are no less in the firing line than the Knights Templar. I need not go on – you know as well as I.’
Francesco de Leone gazed up at the sky. The last stars were fading. Was the newly elected Pope’s life really in danger? The prior digressed:
‘Are they not miraculous? We might fear they will fade forever, and yet each evening they return to us, piercing the blackest night.’
Arnaud de Viancourt glanced at the taciturn Knight. The man never ceased to amaze him. Leone could have become one of the pillars of the Italian-speaking world – as admiral of the Hospitaller fleet or even a Grand-Master of their order. The noble blood that flowed in his veins, his bravery and his intelligence predisposed him to it. And yet he had refused these honours, these burdensome responsibilities. Why? Certainly not for fear of not measuring up to the task, even less so out of immaturity. Perhaps it was simply pride, a gentle pure sort of pride that made him long to give his life for his faith. An implacable, terrible pride that convinced him that he alone was capable of following his mission through to the end.
The old man observed his fellow Knight once more. He was tall, his features delicate but well defined. His honey-blond hair and dark blue eyes betrayed his northern Italian origins. The shapely sensuality of his lips might have suggested a carnal nature, and yet the prior was in no doubt as to his complete chastity – imperative in their order. What most astonished him was the extraordinary versatility of his brilliant mind, a strength that sometimes frightened him. Locked behind that lofty, pale brow was a world to which no one possessed the keys.
Leone was filled with foreboding. What would become of his quest without the private, not to say secret, backing of the Pope? He sensed that the drawn-out silence of his superior required a response.
‘Are your suspicions about this … threat to our Holy Father related to the names Nogaret or Philip?’
‘It is hard to tell the difference between the two. The critics abound: no one knows who governs France, Philip or his counsellors Nogaret, Pons d’Aumelas, Enguerran de Marigny, to name but a few. Do not be misled by my words. Philip is a stubborn, hard-hearted man and well known for his ruthlessness. Even so, to answer your question: no, King Philip is too convinced of his legitimacy to stoop to commit murder against God’s representative on earth. We believe he will do as he did with Boniface and demand his removal from office. As for Nogaret – I doubt it. He is a man of faith and of the law. Moreover, were he to conceive such a plot without the endorsement of his monarch, he would be forced to commit – or have someone commit – a devious abhorrent form of murder, and I do not see him as a poisoner. However …’ Arnaud de Viancourt accentuated his pause with a slight nervous gesture of his hand ‘… a zealous follower might interpret and carry out their desires.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ avowed Leone, feeling a frisson of horror at the idea.
‘Hmm …’
‘Should we stay close to the Pope, then, in order to safeguard his life? I would willingly defend it with my own.’
As he spoke, the Knight was certain that the prior had been leading up to something else. The palpable sorrow in the man’s eyes as he stared at Leone told him he had not been mistaken.
‘My friend, my brother, you must know how difficult, nay, impossible it is to prevent this horror, and do we still have time? Of course Benoît’s life is our first priority. As we speak, two of our brave brothers are at his side, protecting him with their constant vigilance, tracking the would-be poisoners. However, if … If he were to pass away … In our grief we must not forget the future …’
Leone finished the sentence for him, pronouncing the painful words he knew nevertheless to be true:
‘… which we must already begin forging if we are to prevent the destruction of Christendom.’
These words applied equally to the sacred mission to which he had committed himself body and soul, and about which Arnaud de Viancourt knew nothing. About which no one must know.
‘The future, indeed. Benoît’s succession – if our desperate attempts of the last few weeks to prevent it fail.’
‘Are we hoping that an intervention on our part might influence events?’
‘Hope? There is always hope, brother. Hope is our main strength. But hope is not enough in this instance. We must be certain that King Philip IV’s plan fails. If his counsellors succeed, as I fear they will, in electing a puppet pope to the Vatican, they will be free to attack those whom they cannot control as they would wish – that is to say, the Order of
the Knights Templar and our own, since we are considered to be the Pope’s personal guard, a wealthy guard – and you know as well as I do of the King’s need for money.’
‘In which case the Templars are first in the line of fire,’ observed Leone. ‘Their extreme power has become their failing. The wealth that passes through their hands incites greed in others. Their system of depositing and transferring funds from one side of the world to the other has greatly facilitated this. Crusaders and pilgrims to the Holy Land need no longer live in fear of being robbed. Additionally, they receive a stream of donations and alms from all over Christendom.’
‘We benefit from it as much as they, and I must remind you that we are almost certainly as wealthy,’ corrected Arnaud de Viancourt.
‘True, but the Templars are censured for their arrogance, their privileges, their wealth, even for being idle and uncharitable, whereas we are spared such criticism. There is no better way to fuel a fire than with jealousy and envy.’
‘That is no reason to think, or more precisely to make others think, that this money has yielded such profits that they are now sitting on a veritable fortune. Have you ever asked yourself, Francesco, why Philip the Fair withdrew the administration of the royal finances from the Paris Templars in 1295 and entrusted it to the Italian moneylenders?’
‘It was simpler for him to cancel his debt to the moneylenders by arresting them and confiscating their assets. The same strategy would have proved more risky if used against the Templars.’
‘Precisely. And yet strangely enough two years ago the King granted the same Templars the right to collect taxes. Is it not a contradiction?’
‘A measure which, when added to the rumours already circulating about the Templars, provoked the anger of the people.’ The scattered elements of the prior’s discourse had come together in Leone’s mind, and he continued, ‘So this is part of a long-term strategy thought up by the King in order to discredit the Templars permanently.’
‘Stoking the fire as you said just now.’
The prior’s words trailed off in a sigh. The prospect of the fate that awaited them had troubled him for so long now. Francesco de Leone finished his train of thought for him:
‘And so the fire is already blazing. A conflagration would suit the King of France’s purposes very well, and the other monarchs of Europe will not be displeased by the prospect of strengthening their power with regard to the Church. The defeat at Acre will only serve to kindle the flames. Their reasoning will be simple: why so much wealth and power for these military orders that lose us the Holy Land? In other words we cannot expect any help from outside. None will be forthcoming unless the other monarchs smell Philip the Fair’s possible defeat, in which case they would flock to the Pope’s side.’
‘What a curious monologue-for-two our discussion is turning out to be, brother,’ observed the prior. ‘Is it possible that we have foreseen the future since we refer to it in the same terms?’ A sudden sadness caused his pale features to stiffen. ‘I am old, Francesco. Every day I count the tasks I am no longer able to undertake. All the years of war, crusades, death and blood … All the years of obedience and self-denial. To what end?’
‘Do you doubt your commitment, the sincerity of our order, of our mission, or worse still of your faith?’
‘Nay, brother, certainly I do not doubt our order or my faith. I doubt only myself, my failing strength and ability. At times I feel like a frightened old woman whose only recourse is to tears.’
‘Self-doubt, when mastered, is a friend to all men except fools and simpletons. Self-doubt is the resounding proof that we are but an infinitesimal, troubled part of the divine understanding. We are aware of our failings, yet we progress.’
‘You are still young.’
‘Not so young any more. I shall be twenty-six this coming March.’
‘I am fifty-seven and nearing my end. It will be a glorious reward, I believe. I shall at last enter the Light. Until then my task is to continue to fight with you as my magnificent warrior, Francesco. Our enemies will use any means, including ignoble ones. It is a secret war, but a merciless one. And it has already begun.’
Leone sensed the prior’s hesitation. What was he holding back? Knowing that a direct question would be awkward, he tried to curb his impatience.
‘Are we to prevent Benoît’s murder and the election of a pope favourable to Philip?’
Arnaud de Viancourt looked down, as though searching for the right words, before replying:
‘What you do not yet know, brother, is that the old idea advocated twelve years ago by Pope Nicholas IV in his encyclical Dura nimis, of uniting the military orders, primarily those of the Templars and Hospitallers, is still alive.’
‘Yet our relations with the Templars are … strained,’ Leone argued.
Viancourt hesitated before deciding to keep quiet about the pace of negotiations between their Grand-Master, the Pope and the King of France. The union would benefit the Hospitallers who would take control of the other orders. A confrontation with the Templars, who would not willingly give up their autonomy, was imminent, all the more so as Jacques de Molay, the Templars’ Grand-Master, was a traditionalist. An outstanding soldier and man of faith, he was weakened by his political naivety and blinkered by pride.
‘Strained … That is putting it mildly. Philip the Fair is a fervent advocate of this union.’
Leone raised his eyebrows.
‘His position is most surprising. A single order under the Pope’s authority would represent an even greater threat to him.’
‘That is true. However, the situation would be reversed if the union took place under his authority. Philip plans to name one of his sons Grand-Master of the newly constituted order.’
‘The Pope will never agree to it.’
‘The question is whether he will be in a position to refuse,’ the prior clarified.
‘And so we return to the problem of preventing the election of a pope favourable to Philip,’ murmured Leone.
‘Indeed. But do we have the right to influence the history of Christendom? The question plagues me.’
‘Do we have the choice?’ the Knight corrected gently.
‘I am afraid the coming years will provide us with little room for manoeuvre. Therefore, no, we do not have the choice.’
The prior became engrossed in the study of a tuft of wild grass that had pushed its roots between two large blocks of stone. He murmured softly:
‘The sheer tenacity of life. What a supreme miracle.’
He continued in a firmer voice:
‘How should I put this? A fortuitous and unwitting intermediary will … assist us against his will.’
The prior cleared his throat. Leone looked enquiringly at Arnaud de Viancourt, sensing that what he was about to say vexed him. He was not mistaken.
‘Good God, even his name is … difficult for me to pronounce.’ He sighed before confessing, ‘This intermediary is none other than Giotto Capella, one of the best-known Lombardy moneylenders of the Place de Paris.’
Leone grew faint and his eyes closed. He tried to protest but Viancourt interrupted:
‘No. There is nothing you can say that I do not already know. I also know that time cannot heal all wounds. I spent days searching for another solution, in vain. Capella will never escape his tainted past. It is our trump card.’
Leone propped himself against the wall of broad, rough-hewn stones. He was overwhelmed by his emotions and struggling with his hatred. In truth he had been fighting it for so long now it had become like an unwanted companion he had learnt over the years to silence and control. And yet he knew if he freed himself, if he rid his soul of the loathing he felt for Capella, he would be one step closer to the Light. In a faltering voice he said:
‘Blackmail? What if Capella is a reformed man, what if he simply acted out of cowardice …? One needs to have experienced terrible fear in order to forgive a coward. I was so young then, but now …’
Arnaud
de Viancourt replied in a despondent voice:
‘Brother, what purity of soul you possess. Many men would have been incapable …’ He stopped himself, deeming it unacceptable to add to the pain Leone was clearly already suffering. ‘Why should Capella help us in return for nothing when we have so little that interests him, and the King so much? I doubt it and it grieves me. Do men change unless they are compelled to? You may judge for yourself, brother. I know you to be a formidable judge of men’s souls. You will soon perceive how much he has changed, or simply how willing he is to oblige. I hope for our sake – and for his too – that you will deem the letter we have prepared for him superfluous. I sincerely hope you find the solace of forgiveness – forgetting is human, forgiving is divine. If such is the case, you may destroy the missive. Otherwise … I regret inflicting this ordeal on you but you must leave for France straight away. I have prepared letters of introduction as well as a leave of absence12 of unspecified duration. You will stay in our commanderies as and when required. You will find all the comfort and spiritual succour you need there. Giotto Capella should enable you to come within reach of our most redoubtable enemy, Guillaume de Nogaret. If we are right and Nogaret is already looking for a replacement pope, he will need money, a great deal of money. We suspect that the French cardinals are among the candidates of the King’s Counsellor. They are licentious and extravagant and will not pass up this opportunity to fill their purses. To begin with your task will consist in identifying the most likely candidate, for there are already several lining up. At best a name, or at worst two, Francesco. It is our only chance of intervening before it is too late.’
So everything had long been decided. The prior’s uncertainty and regrets were doubtless sincere, but he and the Grand-Master had already woven their web.
A clamour of contrasting emotions raged inside Francesco de Leone. An incredible feeling of hope overlaid his hatred for Capella.
Arville-en-Perche, France, site of one of the Templars’ most important commanderies. The place where for months he had despaired of arriving, the place where another door, surely the decisive one, would open for him. His throat was dry, and he limited himself to a brief remark:
