The Seal

by Adriana Koulias

  ‘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.’

  Thunder shook the heavens beyond the walls of the old commandery. The brothers waited for the Grand Master to continue, but he did not. The rain stopped, from the window came the smell of wet stone and grass. Then, a sudden flapping of wings disturbed the concentrated waiting. A small bird entered through the aperture and was flying about th
e room. The mood became confused. The men moved here and there, avoiding the small thing whose panic-driven flutter left feathers floating down over them like snow. The Grand Master told them to stay still, that the bird had run away from the storm and was frightened. A moment later it landed upon the table, upsetting the parchments to the floor. The Grand Master made soothing noises to it and reached out with a hand. The bird pecked his finger and flew out into the storm.

  The Grand Master laughed and held his finger to his mouth. ‘See that bird! Remarkable creature! It is able to navigate the world by using only its natural feeling for direction and distance. It soars above all things and seems unassailable, and yet it is not so clever that now and again it does not fly into an open aperture.’

  There was a pause. Marcus shifted from one foot to the other and returned his Grand Master to the moment with a clearing of the throat. ‘For what you foretell to come true,’ he said, ‘Philip shall need the Pope’s agreement, and the Pope must defend us since we are his warriors.’

  Jacques de Molay cast him an eye. ‘Must he? Popes, Marcus, are consumables for kings. Philip slanders them and denies them taxes. He kidnaps them and pays assassins to put them out of the way. Pope Clement . . . well, he is a Frenchman. That is one thing, but that we have enemies now . . . even in the Temple . . . perhaps in this very house? That is another.’ He fell silent and watchful. ‘In this house, my brothers . . . in our very bosoms.’ His eye passed lightly over Etienne to Ayme, who stared hard ahead, then to Marcus. He seemed to be listening for what lay in the soul of his men. His eyes came to rest then upon Ayme d’Oselier with particular intensity. ‘Thibaud,’ the Grand Master said to him, ‘was murdered because he was too eager for a Crusade . . . what does that tell you?’

  Ayme shifted. Etienne and Marcus watched helpless as those words were brought out into the day to be looked at.

  No man could think of words to say.

  Outside the storm changed direction and a wind blew through the window. The Grand Master walked to the wooden shutter and closed it, casting them into gloom. Ayme went out to the guards and a moment later a sergeant brother, an Egyptian named Iterius, entered holding a torch and lit the lamps that were hung on brackets around the walls.

  He turned his eyes to the three men and to the Grand Master he made a deep bow.

  Marcus eyed the man with deep suspicion and Etienne observed it.

  When he was gone the Grand Master turned to the marshal. ‘What do the spies know?’

  The marshal made a fidget of the hand. ‘I have been returned from a meeting with brother Ibelin and brother Soisson only a day, the spies have not yet reported to me.’

  Marcus huffed. ‘To whom do they report if not to you?’

  The marshal straightened and drew into himself, becoming cautious, like a man who only now realises he is suspected of something. ‘To the Venetians or the Genoese or the bankers, what do I know? This place is a snake pit!’

  ‘There was a vessel in the bay yesterday.’ Etienne watched his expression. ‘It was flying an unknown flag, today it is gone. What of that?’

  Ayme shrugged his shoulders. ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Because it is your charge to know!’ Marcus hissed.

  The Grand Master waved them to silence and there was a long moment between them. ‘Do you see why we are deserted upon this island? We have failed and continue to fail. We are at once too light and too heavy. We have lived too long between the Devil abroad and the Devil at home without a deed, between hell and the Holy Land. See how we squabble amongst ourselves? More and more is it clear to me that we have not accomplished the original intentions of our founder! Where is our passion, brothers? Our passion to make the world more just, to fire the will of ordinary people and to inspire love for their duty to Christ? We have become road builders, landlords and bankers! That is why, in spite of the dream, I must go to France. But before I do,’ he looked at them, ‘I shall see to it that the gold, charters and titles are safe. Without them there shall be no revenge of Acre and no recovery of our Lord’s Sepulchre.’

  ‘It is clear then, my lord,’ Etienne was thinking as he spoke, ‘that we must move the gold from this place.’

  ‘That is what I thought,’ Jacques answered. ‘Marcus, there has been no Commander of Jerusalem since Acre, and you as Grand Commander of the Order have held charge of the strong room and storage vaults where lie the gold, the archives and the titles to our holdings over the sea and on the continent and so, I ask you . . . are you of the mind to take the gold from this place?’

  The man, surprised, thought a moment. ‘If it can be done . . . It will take time, we need a galley, not one of our own, but a Venetian and provisions . . .’

  ‘It will cost a deal . . . maybe more than a fortune,’ interjected Ayme.

  Jacques nodded. ‘And your advice, Marshal?’

  Ayme d’Oselier grunted. ‘I do not concur. To my mind it is more dangerous to move it.’

  ‘What then?’ Jacques said.

  ‘We hide it at Limassol,’ he said.

  ‘Why have we come to this modest house of Famagusta, Ayme,’ Etienne gave back, ‘if not to outwit the spies at Limassol?’

  Marcus said something under his breath not meant for other ears.

  ‘They shall find it at Limassol.’ Jacques added in paternal irritation, ‘That is where they shall look for it and it must be safe until I am certain! You know I shall not wish to remove the gold without your agreement, so it is . . . we must decide.’

  Ayme shifted with discomfort from one heavy foot to the other, carrying the burden of eyes upon him.

  To Etienne a separation was occurring between the three of them standing before their master – not a physical line drawn, that made each man acknowledge its meaning, but a thing of subtle quality. Ayme, it seemed, was singling himself from the rest as if his fate were a different one and must be played out in a different way.

  ‘May we find agreement?’ Jacques waited with raised brows.

  Ayme looked askance at Etienne and Marcus, searching for sanctuary, and found none. ‘If in your wisdom you believe it must be done, then you shall have my agreement.’

  ‘Good,’ Jacques said. ‘I have anticipated it. And I have anticipated your thoughts, Marcus. The galley you saw in the harbour, Etienne, will fly a Venetian flag. Roger de Flor will captain the vessel. They will await my orders at Tomar. It shall leave in a day at dawn with the gold as ballast.’

  ‘Roger de Flor?’ Marcus said, disconcerted. ‘I know who he is! He took the Falcon from the quays at Acre and never returned . . . I thought him dead.’

  ‘Well, he is alive and an ally . . . for a price,’ Jacques replied.

  ‘He is a mercenary!’ Ayme d’Oselier put in, turning his head and giving an eye to Marcus, as if to say, I agree, do you see how I agree? But it made little impression on Marcus since now they were men standing upon different ground.

  ‘He is a mercenary and no one shall suspect he carries the Order’s gold in his hold,’ Jacques said, turning around. ‘Marcus, take slaves and what men you want, two or three you can trust. No more. Go disguised.’

  ‘And?’ Marcus said.

  ‘And I shall leave tomorrow for Poitiers . . . and we shall see . . .’ These words were no more than whispers.

  ‘I shall accompany you,’ Etienne said. ‘If that is your wish.’

  Jacques nodded and his pale eyes lost their hold and seemed to be gazing at something altogether different. ‘Very well.’ Then turning to the marshal, ‘You are to stay upon this wretched island. Do whatever you can to preserve the integrity of the Order while I am gone. Remember, not so long ago the people rose up against us and they will waste no time in forming alliances that do not benefit the Order.’

  The marshal looked to the others and they saw a flash of something unknown in those eyes and the man left the apart¬ment with the awkward stride of one who vacillates between what is useful and what is admirable.

  Alone the three men
formed a circle of faith. ‘He is given the choice this night,’ Jacques said to them. ‘I hope it is the right one.’

  Marcus grunted. ‘You know I have no liking for him, Jacques, he makes friends more and more with Ibelin and Soisson in Limassol. Remember how he took the side of Hugues de Pairaud against you in the election to Grand Master?’

  ‘He is the marshal, Marcus, and it is the rule that the three of us concur on anything that is to be done,’ Jacques said. ‘I will not break the rule.’

  ‘I suspect the rule would make an exception for a traitor.’

  ‘Do not be so hasty to judge a man, Marcus. In any case, what is written, so it shall be . . . that is the way of prophecy, and we, brothers, shall remain thus throughout the night . . . with the Lord, His Son and the Holy Spirit. We shall pray that our Lord might take hold of arms and shield and rise up to help us. To send forth the spear and conclude against those who persecute us.’

  And the thunder moved closer.

  3

  LEPER’S CONFIDANT

  For God shall bring every work into judgement, with every secret thing, whether it be good,

  or whether it be evil.

  Ecclesiastes 12:14

  Christian de St Armand was helped onto his pallet by Jacques de Molay. The day was dawning soft through the window, illuminating the white walls, and a warm breeze, light and God-filled, moved in from the sea and circled about the room.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘my back aches!’

  The Grand Master brought the blanket of wool over the man’s knees and gave him a smile. ‘Once again I find myself visiting you, brother.’

  ‘You come to the leper because you are found too long and too often in conversation with God and this has struck you from conversation with ordinary men.’

  Jacques de Molay’s face looked to him full of irony. ‘Your leprosy seems to have left your face peaceful and ready to meet heaven. I wish it were my fate to die so calm a death, full of God and longing for His Kingdom.’ He sat down beside the old monk’s pallet.