The Seal

by Adriana Koulias

  Etienne looked upward to the sky full of snow-burdened clouds and then down to this apparition and the scar above the bloodshot eyes. It filled him with a sudden bewilderment at God, whose whim had kept this woman so long from death. He made a half-smile. ‘Old woman,’ he said, being all he could say, but his heart was soft at the sight of her, ‘when did you return?’

  ‘Return?’ she scoffed. ‘Forty-two years ago I took you from your mother’s womb and nursed you. Thirty-five years ago did I take you from another castle to hide you in a cave from the Inquisition. Twenty-eight years afore now have I waited for your return.’ Once more she leant on the hoe, her chin jutting out and her eyes like pinpoints of fire. ‘You have come, Etienne de Congost, and still your grandfather’s house belongs to another man!’

  She picked up her hoe and moved away from the circle of men.

  Gideon made a move to stop her.

  ‘Leave her!’ Etienne said and watched her go to her little house.

  ‘Old women have a taste for rumour, lord.’ Delgado was patting his sides to keep him warm.

  She is a cunning woman to have saved a child from the flames and after that to have lived this long waiting. A ‘good woman’ as the pure ones called them. I recognise her from the scar over her eyes, Etienne told himself and dismounted, feeling his bones shift all the way to the base of his skull. ‘She is not one for rumours.’

  Jacques de Molay dismounted and stretched at his back. ‘She wears her head as though it should bear a crown.’

  ‘She should like that,’ Etienne answered him, ‘a crown upon the head of a witch!’ And took himself to the sparseness of the hut of stone.

  The woman was wrapping a large dry loaf, a block of cheese and a chunk of dried beef in a cloth. She made a knot at the top with bone-strong hands. ‘You will take this and yourselves to the old cave. You remember it? Where I took you after your mother was put to the pyre?’ Then she looked at him through the space that existed between them and for a moment there seemed to be tenderness in those black eyes. ‘How you stared at that pyre from the parapets of that castle! I thought you would cast your body upon the rocks below to follow her to her death. Then I dragged you through the old passageway kicking and biting . . . I still bear the scar for it.’

  She lifted her sun-browned hand to show him and nodded to herself and gave him the food. ‘You are two things, Etienne de Congost, two minds, and two wills, I have always known it. To these be added a third thing,’ she said and the cold came back into her stare. ‘When the third comes it shall be the end of something, but it shall bring an answer to the question you carry in your heart. This day I read it in your cards . . . I knew you were coming and I knew you would go.’

  Etienne stood with his mouth slightly open. Once again he was a child unable to explain his thoughts with words.

  ‘Go now and forget me.’

  ‘I shall not,’ he said.

  ‘Well I shall forget you, after many years of remembering.’ She turned around to her hearth.

  Etienne had a sense there was no need for further words. In that small time the woman had come to know the rhythms of his soul and what kind of man he had become and now she would die, perhaps content to have seen him one last time, perhaps not. For his part he would go as she said he would . . . but he would not forget the scar over her eye and the bone-strong hands. He made a vow to himself then that he would pray each night to St Michael on her behalf.

  Outside Jacques de Molay sat beneath a tree, his countenance pensive and wasted, from the poison, the journey or his concerns, Etienne did not know which. He observed this and realised once again that weighty business. The business of making decisions to secure the welfare of his Grand Master in a land now foreign to his experience and lurking with enemies.

  Jacques de Molay looked up from his thoughts and, seeing Etienne’s face, nodded, stood and took himself to his horse. The other men followed and when they had mounted they waited for Etienne. But Etienne was giving one more look at the stone house, the cross entwined with roses and the road that led upward to the keep of his forebears.

  After that he mounted his own horse and led the party to the old cave.

  The sun had fallen behind the forest and the evening began to grow cold as they arrived. The cave was large enough, its entrance occluded by trees. Once he had settled the Grand Master with Jourdain, Etienne took the others outside. ‘Iterius, go and gather wood for a fire. Gideon and Delgado, bring the horses to the mouth, lest they be seen. The Grand Master will rest here until I return.’ He paused, searching his mind.

  Iterius leant in. ‘The Grand Master takes long to recover . . . not from the poison . . . but his loss of heart.’

  This seemed an affront to Etienne, and his pensive countenance was made alive with anger. ‘I do not like you, nor do I trust you, Egyptian! Perhaps you have saved his life . . . perhaps you have not. On that score I am not yet decided. But that you add a load to this journey which is ill supported is a sure thing, and I will not need much reason to lighten it!’

  The other man became the very picture of meekness and a moment later was setting off with a limp to his task. Etienne watched him until he was out of sight.

  Gideon and Delgado, having observed the traffic between them with interest, now felt the sting of that pale regard. ‘There is a Templar house nearby. I shall go and seek for allies,’ Etienne said. ‘I return before daybreak. One will watch there . . .’ he pointed to the escarpment above, ‘the other will keep watch over the Egyptian.’

  ‘If he displeases me, lord, he will not know he is dead,’ Delgado said, a restless smile at his mouth.

  Jourdain emerged from the cave and Etienne went to him. ‘Keep an eye on the Grand Master, see to his every need, watch those three . . . I will return. If I do not . . . go on to Poitiers without me.’

  Jourdain nodded and waited for his master to move.

  But he did not move. Instead he stood upon the rim of the cave thinking on the peculiarity of circumstances that would have him leave the Grand Master in the safekeeping of such a company, so that he might die at the end of a sword of his own Order.

  He caught Jourdain observing him and he waited for what the boy would say.

  ‘You must be like Odysseus, Etienne.’

  Etienne sighed. ‘You will tell me who is this Odysseus?’

  ‘A Greek adventurer . . . when he was in despair he struck at his breast and reproached it to endure, for much worse it had endured.’

  Etienne looked at this strange thing, and finding no answer forthcoming threw all his difficulties into one pot and took himself away from Jourdain and the cave and to his horse.

  9

  THE YOUNG MASTER

  Can two walk together, except they be agreed?

  Amos 3:3

  When Etienne came down from the hills he followed the river until he was in a valley rimmed with small oaks. It was full night and the frost lay on the valley floor, with a humped moon like a slice of day over the black horizon of mountains. The air bit at his lips and ears, and the ground, clotted with smooth stones, was covered in a white shroud that rolled downward to a cold river, brisk and fast running. He crossed it at a shallow spot, avoiding the township, following instead a track that made a loop through harvested lands and bare vines until he came to a high-walled house whereupon he beat with his fist on a heavy gate.

  ‘Who comes there?’ came the sleep-laden question.

  ‘I am a brother.’

  ‘Have you anything to communicate?’

  ‘I have a word.’

  ‘What is this word?’

  ‘I will give only part of it.’

  ‘What is the part?’

  ‘Joa,’ Etienne said.

  The other added, ‘Chim.’

  ‘Joachim.’ Etienne finished it.

  ‘What is Joachim?’

  ‘A pillar in the Temple.’

  ‘What is this pillar?’

  ‘Each Templar is a pillar of the sanctuary th
at is indwelt by Christ.’

  ‘Make the sign of faithfulness.’

  Etienne crossed his right arm over his left and it was seen through a slit in the door.

  ‘Where have you come from, brother?’

  ‘From the darkness.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Towards the light.’

  ‘May the brotherhood dwell in you,’ said the voice.

  ‘And in you.’

  Immediately the bolts were pulled back and the gates opened.

  The master of the house, Brother Sebastien, was young.

  Dressed in a fine laundered mantle he sat upon a chair like a throne in the draughty hall lit by many candles. Looking directly at Etienne when he entered, he did not stand but smiled slightly at the worn, stained attire, at the long unkempt hair and beardless face, and said to him, ‘Where have you been, brother, and what has brought you to this house without mantle, without beard and in this fashion?’ He raised his chin and put one finger underneath it, smiling at the corners of his mouth, but only slightly, as if to say, ‘There is some interest to this day after all!’

  Etienne regarded the man and chose his words with care. ‘I will answer you, but first you must convince me of your fealty to the Grand Master of the Temple of Solomon.’

  The brother frowned and smiled at the same time, then frowned more deeply still. ‘What mean you by this strange request?’

  ‘I wish only to know if you owe allegiance to the Grand Master of the most Sovereign Order of the Temple? That is my question,’ Etienne repeated.

  Sebastien looked Etienne up and down and the smile waned. He rose to his feet, noted the sergeants flanking Etienne and proceeded towards the intruder with his hands behind his back. He walked around the Templar once then twice until he was before him with a face fashioned into a puzzled expression. ‘The Grand Master of the Temple of Solomon, our most sovereign leader, Jacques de Molay?’ He paused then and waited with his hand resting upon the short sword at his belt. Then it seemed to Etienne as if he was struck by a sudden thought that having at first half impressed itself on his bored soul now having sunk in showed him to be animated. ‘Have you come from the wars? Do you have news of our lord?’

  Etienne sighed, feeling himself an oddity, a distraction from daily boredom. He confronted the young master, therefore, with suspicion. It was now plain to him that in Europe the Order had become overfull and underwarred if it chose to give command of such a house to a master so young and fine and well disposed to comfort. Etienne felt that between them lay stretched time and blood, and that all the sacrifices made and unmade in the east for the sake of this man’s peaceful existence made a mockery of Etienne’s life and of the dead whose bones were buried in Jerusalem and at Acre, Sidon and other places. How could two divergent minds such as theirs meet in the middle? The mind of a man ancient with longing for a past glory that was now, to all intents and purposes, slipped away, and the mind of a man whose concerns lay on a future in which Christ’s lost kingdom was all but forgotten.

  And yet . . . in that young man’s eye Etienne glimpsed trust and loyalty and, better still, surprise.

  Night moved forward at the perimeter of their meeting and the face before Etienne raised its eyebrows. ‘Come, brother, tell us! Do you have news of the war and of our Grand Master?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The face was struck by light as if Etienne had blown at some hidden embers. ‘Then you must tell us all you know . . .’ He turned to a sergeant. ‘Bring in some bread and soup!’

  ‘No,’ Etienne said, weary now at the thought of food, ‘I will not eat while the Grand Master waits.’

  The young man, serious-faced, nodded his agreement. ‘The Grand Master is with you?’

  ‘He is safe.’

  The man sat down. ‘I will listen, tell me what you can.’

  When Etienne had finished his tale the young preceptor’s face had moved from doubt to concern, to incredulity. ‘Perhaps the Grand Master is ill advised with regards to the menace offered by the King?’ He shifted as he said this, finding a discomfort at the words. ‘Perhaps this is the same with regards to the intentions of Hugues de Pairaud?’

  Etienne sighed. ‘Geoffrey de Charney is a man to be trusted. I do not doubt the truth he speaks. It is the case, Sebastien, that you must choose to which side you will give your support.’

  ‘The Preceptor of Normandy, did you say? Your information comes from him?’

  ‘He was at Richerenches . . . it was he who advised us to caution.’

  The young man sat straighter in his chair and his eyes moved about, following the mechanism of his thinking, until he smiled broad and shook his head, as if to dispel the drowsiness of a languid summer’s day. ‘Caution, yes . . . but only until you get to Poitiers, then you shall need to make as much pomp as can be made of it. For that you shall need a retinue and a vanguard. The preceptor at Civray is loyal to our Sovereign Lord Jacques de Molay . . . he is my brother in blood.’

  Etienne nodded satisfied and stood. ‘We ride tonight.’

  ‘Tonight?’ The young man was smiling and frowning again.

  ‘The Grand Master shall be more safe in Poitiers and it shall be a relief to reach it.’

  ‘Then tonight it is!’ Brother Sebastien cried slapping his knees and standing. He looked like a young horse ready for a gallop, then his face was bewildered. ‘But I know not what to call you, as you have not yet told me your name and your rank.’

  ‘My name is Etienne, my rank . . .’ A sudden realisation provoked a numb silence in him and it took a long time for him to say the words. When he did he spoke like a man who has forgotten where he was born. ‘I no longer know what it is,’ he said with a rush of air as low as a whisper.

  10

  POITIERS

  And by magic of colours mystic, a spell on his senses wrought.

  Wolfram von Eschenbach, PARZIVAL

  December 1306

  In the narrow light of early day, the mounted retinue made its way through the thin, hilly streets of Poitiers, covered in snow, with the piebald Beauseant held out before them.

  Ahead of Jacques de Molay rode the young master Sebastien with his men-at-arms each carrying a lance flying a red pennant. On his left the master of Civray and on his right Etienne. Behind them the mercenaries, Jourdain, Iterius and a further thirty knights. On the Grand Master’s orders they did not proceed directly to the monastery of the Franciscans where the Pope had his home, but diverged into the heart of the city to the great Church of Our Lady.

  The narrow streets that led to the cobbled square were silent and shadowed. The horses’ hooves upon the snow made a clatter among the sleeping buildings perched high over their heads.

  Leaving their horses outside the church with the men, Jacques de Molay and Etienne entered into the silence together. They walked the central nave past the stone effigies and the

  rounded columns until they were before the sacred space. It was stone-quiet and full of the scent of heaven. The seneschal fol¬lowed his Grand Master without question, kneeling before the great bronze crucifix and pausing for a moment of fervent prayer. They remained there for a time, each man with his own faith, measured against hope and fear, straining to hear silence. When it was over Jacques de Molay turned to Etienne and began his confession.

  At the end of it the seneschal, whose priesthood had not been tested in a long time, shrived his Grand Master and the two stood. They hoped for a miracle.

  Outside the sun was hidden behind clouds and the city began to shrug off its sleep. The retinue continued on its way through the streets to the high point of the city where the monastery sat opposite the royal palace. The people of Poitiers, having been accustomed to the trespass of important persons upon their daily concerns, made way for the Templars, glanc¬ing upwards to their elegant warhorses, observing the courage of their bearing and the grave regard upon their faces. Of a sudden a shaft of light escaped from behind a cloud and its reflection on mail, sword, sh
ield and helmet contrived to cast a spell that momentarily plunged the inhabitants into a mystical reverence. Women fell to their knees and men opened their mouths in a gasp, so mighty did these men seem to them and so changed was the air which shook and vibrated and followed in their wake. In that instant the world held its breath and the heart of it missed a beat. A gust of wind then swirled over the group and a red pennant, worked loose from its lance, was taken up into the air and came down over the snow. The people watched it fall.

  The sun was swallowed by cloud again and the brilliance died away. The knights with their horses’ tails swishing from this side to that rounded a corner and the people were returned to their dullness.

  It seemed as if for a moment they had lapsed into a deep sleep and had entered heaven where dwelt the angels of the Lord. Shaking their heads they each returned to their own miserable existence, but in the heart something had altered and would never be put back.

  Amongst these highs and lows a young boy stepped out onto the street and, taking the red pennant, stuffed it into his dirty shirt and ran all the way home.

  11

  THE POPE AND THE GRANDMASTER

  He took the water and washed his hands before the multitude . . .

  St Matthew 27:24

  In a generous room at the monastery of the Franciscans the Pope and his guest dined on quail and venison and finished their meal as the day darkened and servants entered the room to light the tapers.

  Jacques de Molay and his retinue had arrived at his monastery gates unannounced that morning, in broad daylight with the standard of the Order flying before them. Clement had been wrenched from his pontifical bed to greet him and it had taken him all day to recover from his annoyance.

  Now he regarded the Grand Master with a dull eye. In the soft light the strong bones of the browned face, the eyes grey, friendly, unguarded, the grey hair, the beard trimmed neatly to a point, all gave him a look that was almost regal. The man was proud, thought Clement, and it seemed to him strange that pride should sit so well upon the face of a renegade, a fugitive without country, living by his wits.