The Seal

by Adriana Koulias

  The man waited patiently for his sovereign to finish and then began with a calm voice. ‘Last year, sire, you asked the university masters for their lawyerly opinions on the legitimacy of the arrests, and when their prevarications were received, you seemed not so upset.’

  ‘Not so upset?’ he thundered, getting up and moving towards the windows. ‘How could it not upset me? Perhaps I was outwardly serene because I had not expected the unexpected . . . then.’ The King cast a look of shared knowledge. ‘But your Royal Majesty finds himself not so peaceful now that he must look for loopholes!’

  ‘No, sire.’

  ‘Of course not . . . it is to be expected. Look at how things are going, Marigny! After these replies, which did nothing to support me, I was put from my balance once again when our gathering in the city of Tours came to nothing! What support was there from the communities of France for their king? I wanted a large attendance, Marigny! Grand! I wished to put fear into that swine of a pope’s profane heart, to make him see that the nobles, that the French Church and its people, support my actions! Then he would have seen he had no other recourse but to comply with my demands. God knows we needed it, Marigny! But what did I get? Gilles Aicelin sends his suffragans to Poitiers, not Tours, by mistake? How many pleaded illness? How many said that it was short notice? Cowards! I was left with crumbs! Then at Poitiers that old, near-dead corpse imposes conditions on me! The King of France! Has he forgotten our preconditions, Marigny? Has he forgotten who warms his pontifical seat?’

  ‘Perhaps he has his eye on the Templar fortune, sire?’ de Marigny answered, as bland as custard.

  Philip’s ruddy face contorted into a look of hatred. ‘I shall have that eye put out!’ he yelled.

  ‘Everything now moves too slowly and your Royal Highness wishes it all to end! Is that not why we sent Charles to his chambers that night, to have him bring everything to a close? In return that fat pontiff sends my brother back with a scheme to make it all last till the end of time! Delays and prevarications! Charles is an idiot for not seeing it! And to think he pesters me to make him emperor!’

  De Plaisians saw the chamberlain’s face change almost imperceptibly, his eyes became hard and watchful. ‘Sire, I . . . can only wonder if your brother keeps the King’s interests firmly in his heart?’

  ‘Charles is an opportunist and a fool, Marigny, totally untrustworthy, and blunt of mind!’ The King was suddenly despoiled of temper. ‘But I have always found that one can trust Charles to be Charles, and he has never disappointed me.’

  There was a pause. The King observed his own thoughts, and gazed out the window again, as if expecting an answer from the snowflakes that were even now falling over the grounds of his palace.

  A sudden draught blew out the candles, and then the lamps flickered and went out, casting the three men into sudden gloom. It was cold.

  The King wandered back to his seat and sat down heavily, clicking his fingers. The greyhounds leapt up immediately. ‘Sit!’ he told them, rubbing their chests as attendants rushed in to light the flames. Momentarily a golden light illuminated everything, and yet some darkness was left behind, as though it had gathered strength in that one moment and resisted banishment.

  The King turned mercurial. ‘My brother’s sympathies lie where they profit him most – I admire that. He has always resented not having succeeded to the throne, quite naturally. Perhaps the Empire would smooth his feathers. Then we could exert a hold or two over the Church and the Empire. We kill two foxes with one dog, do you see? There are advantages for you also, for you have, it is true, taken his place as my adviser and he is inconsolable. It is no secret that my brother hates you . . .’

  He looked at this with fascination. ‘In truth he loathes you! Perhaps, as emperor, he will find his hate diminished?’ There was silence. ‘Perhaps you hate him also?’

  De Marigny remained very still. There was a pause rendered more significant by uncertainty. The man reminded de Plaisians of a rat who fears the cat and yet is destined to leap into its mouth. No, no, thought de Plaisians with sudden amusement. That was not it! He was the fattened hen called by the farmer holding a sharpened axe!

  ‘Sire,’ de Marigny said, ‘I . . . I . . . have the profoundest . . . the most –’

  The King waved a hand, bored. ‘Never mind! Hate is a good emotion. Hate and rivalry, they enrich, they blood the hunt, they add vigour to the lungs . . . You see these two?’ He caressed the silky coats of his animals with bejewelled fingers. ‘They are happy now because they are equally loved, but should I caress one and not the other . . .’ He paid particular attention to one dog until the other animal rendered its teeth and growled at his fellow. ‘You see? This rivalry shall make them good hunters, because they shall try to outrun and outwit each other to gain my favour.’ He continued until one jealous dog snapped at the other, drawing blood. ‘Good dog, Prince!’ The King smiled thinly. ‘Attendant! See to it!’

  A servant emerged from behind a tapestry and took away the bitten animal.

  Philip looked down at his blood-covered hand. He pressed the redness between his fingers, bringing it to his nose to smell it. He tasted it then. ‘Why does blood taste so like metal?’ he asked de Marigny absently.

  De Marigny looked about him with helpless agitation, and Guillaume de Plaisians seized his chance. ‘Perhaps there are sub-stances in the blood that resemble metals, sire . . .’

  The King’s mouth moved in an odd smile. He clapped his hands, ‘Wine!’ he said, then turned to de Plaisians. ‘Really? Metallic substances? Gold perhaps?’

  ‘Only in the case of kings, sire,’ said de Plaisians.

  Philip Capet raised an eyebrow and turned to his minister with a little less regard than before. ‘Did you know this, Marigny... that there is gold in the blood of kings?’

  The minister shook his head. ‘No, sire.’

  An attendant brought forth wine.

  The King took it and drank. ‘Be sure that you are not weak, Marigny,’ he said. ‘Rather, steel yourself and be ready to bite like Prince for my affections . . . always mindful.’ He smiled and raised a finger in the air. ‘Cave canum, for although my brother is a mangy dog, even such a dog has teeth! But if we hold the Empire in front of his nose like a joint of mutton, then we shall control him and the papacy.’ He changed his mood again and clapped both hands. ‘Is all of it ready?’

  De Marigny, perhaps used to his king’s strange philosophies and outbursts, answered mildly, ‘Yes, sire. If we place my brother in the position of Archbishop of Sens we shall control all his suffragan bishops, including the Bishop of Paris.’

  ‘Good then . . . go, prepare!’

  He waved a hand then because he had forgotten something. ‘Also, go to Dubois today, have him draught a scandalum magnatum that shall make the Pope look like a miniature Satan. If we must we should mention sodomy, sorcery, etcetera . . . as well as the usual excesses and corruptions – he is French, after all.’

  ‘Yes, sire,’

  ‘And Marigny?’

  ‘Yes, sire?’

  ‘Quietus, my friend, don’t be so serious. You are my best man, a loyal servant and your Majesty holds you in high esteem.’

  The man bowed.

  ‘In praesenti . . .’ he said, waving him away. ‘Cave Canem ... beware of the dog!’

  When he was gone the King turned to Guillaume de Plaisians. ‘Remind me to have Dubois write something about Marigny, will you? In case I need it . . . I am in the mood for sorcery these days.’

  For long moments the King ignored the lawyer, preferring instead to play with his animal. When he became bored he shooed the thing away and gestured for de Plaisians to come closer. ‘Tell me, did the Templar make a fool of himself?’ His eyes were steady and brilliant in their coldness. ‘It intrigues me.’

  ‘Yes, sire . . . more than we could have dreamed. If I may say, the destiny of the Order has this day been sealed.’

  ‘How so?’ The King sat forward, cupping his chin, and a dart sho
t out from his eyes to the lawyer.

  This man is all eagerness, de Plaisians thought, then said, ‘The Grand Master behaved in a manner that left no doubt as to his unstable state of mind and moreover . . . he asked if he could take my counsel.’

  The King’s eyes went completely blank. ‘He asked if he could take the counsel of the King’s counsellor?’ He sat back and his mouth twisted crookedly – the slightest trace of admiration surfacing over his brow. ‘How did you do it?’

  ‘One must understand human nature, your Majesty.’

  ‘And he did not detect your insincerity?’

  ‘Not in the slightest.’

  He banged both fists on the arms of his throne. ‘Very good!’

  ‘In truth he was very grateful to me for I vowed to arrange for communications to resume between himself and his lawyers.’

  The King paused, afterwards he whispered so quietly that de Plaisians had to lean in to hear, ‘Are you an imbecile?’

  De Plaisians had expected this. ‘I offered to aid him in any way possible in his communications with other members of his Order.’

  The King was grave. He stood and paced the room, sleek-limbed and significant. Looking to one side as he walked he said, ‘Make satisfaction of your answer, lawyer.’

  ‘Sire, you misunderstand me.’ His head was bent in deference. ‘It was my intention to endear the Templar to me, and I think he trusts me, for it is clear that he is a fool. As he was sinking deeper into the mire, he stared at me like a lamb who seeks shelter with a faithful dog. That was when I set about my plan. To woo him as one does a woman, with promises, pledges and affection, but just like that liaison I shall keep my promises to the extent that they are profitable . . . to you. Namely, to allow such a communication to one end and one end only: that they might be convinced to come forward and defend the Order.’

  The King clenched his jaws and said with perfect civility, ‘Are you insane?’

  ‘Your Majesty shall see the cunning of my plan when I tell you that once they defend themselves they are in effect retracting their confessions, they are recanting, and in the eyes of the Church the moment they recant they are impenitents . . .’

  A pause.

  ‘Impenitents . . .’ the King stared abstractly, ‘are delivered to me for burning?’

  ‘Always, sire . . . and when the individual Templars are pro-nounced guilty, it shall make it easier to prove the culpability of the entire Order.’

  ‘Intriguing . . .’ the King said.

  ‘I shall encourage a great groundswell, a groundswell of pride which shall see as many Templars as there are in our fair city come forward and beg to be burnt.’

  ‘And what does Nogaret think of your remarkable plan? Or is the disciple seeking to be above his master?’

  De Plaisians thought quickly – the height of cunning was the ability to conceal it. ‘My king . . .’ he bent his head, ‘I pray I have not slighted my master . . . my loyalty has always been ...’

  ‘Yes, yes . . . loyalties . . .’ The King turned over an inquiring expression and said, ‘I find you exceedingly interesting, Plaisians.’ He fixed his eyes on him. ‘All around me there are three kinds of men: those who fear me and shower me with love, those who despise me and shower me with love, and those who seek benefit and do likewise. Those who fear me do so in anticipation of evil, those who despise me wish to destroy me, and those who seek benefit are seeking to be confirmed in the favourable opinion they have of themselves. You, on the other hand, do not seem to fear me or hate me, nor do you seek reward, so it seems. You appear to be splendidly false and nobly untruthful... all is plain to the eye. I like that, such qualities do I admire in a man! But to trust you, well ... I am not made up in my mind.’

  ‘You are truly a wise sovereign, intelligent in the art of intrigue, knowledgeable in the employment of the antipodes of terrorism and kindness. A sovereign who understands that severity is a useful tool but that humanity in some instances yields better fruit.’

  ‘You seem to think that you know much about my philosophy. Tell me more and we shall see if you are right . . .’ He took himself to his throne.

  ‘I know that a king must excite fear but not hatred, for hatred will destroy him in the end; that it is best to keep men poor and awaiting war, for it counteracts the sins of ambition and boredom.’

  ‘You are a wealth of knowledge, are you not, Monsieur de Plaisians?’

  ‘I know also that it is best for a king to confer benefits, but that if there is some evil work to be done, then he must let others do it, for they and not the King shall be blamed, and he may gain favour through execution, for men prefer vengeance and security over liberty. If I may say, your cunning is flawless, since to place Bishop Philippe de Marigny in the archbishopric, a man who has been both a secretary and a counsellor at the royal court, is to assure that the last piece of the puzzle falls into place. Marigny will be in a position to circumvent the papal commission without incurring the wrath of the Pope.’ De Plaisians saw a light go on inside the King’s head.

  ‘Circumvent the papal commission altogether . . .’ Philip said.

  ‘Yes, sire. You see, we have been on the same track,’ de Plaisians adjusted his voice to exude deference. ‘While I have prepared the trusting lambs, your Highness in his superior cunning has made ready the axe. The Archbishop of Narbonne shall be going about the futile business of inquiring into the Order and at the same time the provincial council shall be outwitting him by trying and burning his individual witnesses behind his back.’

  ‘Yes . . . yes . . . But Plaisians, you forget that the papal com-mission has authority from the Pope to offer protection to any Templar who comes forward to defend the Order . . . what about that?’ The King sat forward.

  ‘Yes sire, but it was also the Pope who set up the provincial councils whose task is not only to inquire but to pass judgement on the individual Templars that belong to their provinces. The Pope shall not see his stupidity until it is too late.’

  The King sat back and mulled this over. ‘But how many Templars are under the jurisdiction of Sens, Plaisians? A paltry few.’

  ‘Some fifty men, sire. Not a large number, true, but in prisons all over Paris and France there are Templars who shall see themselves in those few brothers who come forward to defend the Order under the protection of the Mother Church. Or else they shall see themselves the same as those whose belief in the nobility of truth has kept them from confessing. They shall be watching and waiting to hear news of the success of the defence. When it is learnt that those who came forward were led to the pyre, no man shall seek to do the same, and others who have perhaps already done so and do not belong to the province of Sens shall retract their retractions, since it shall dawn upon them that if it can be done in Paris it can be done at other places where your royal supporters are chairing episcopal inquiries – Orleans, for instance, Amiens, Bayeux, Auxerre, Cambrai, Cahors . . . It shall become plain speech to them: “You have placed all your hopes on a weak pope who is neither capable nor interested in defending you from the machinations of a king who is your jailer, judge and executioner.” Such truths brought home will see an end to the resistance in France, and as the majority of the leaders are French, what is left of the Order in other countries shall follow in their skirt tails.’

  The King lifted one brow and the corner of his mouth turned upwards in mild esteem. ‘We are wicked, Plaisians.’

  ‘Not wicked, sire, but rational. Such doings are demanded by the very nature of things, for the common good . . .’

  ‘You put it very well.’ Then his face was ashen, as though a grey curtain had descended over his features. ‘Sometimes I am uncertain of everything, Plaisians,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I feel that I have burnt rather too many Jews . . . that I have tortured and put to death rather an inordinate number . . . in truth a river of blood runs through my reign. What do you think of that?’ He was sour. ‘All such things in the balance would prove a means to an end . . . but where are my v
ictories? I’ve yet to see them!’

  Could it be the man was growing a conscience? De Plaisians knew he must keep him on track. ‘Sire, there are two worlds – one of personal morals and ethics, and another of the public organisation. A good king must sacrifice his personal salvation for the salvation of his kingdom, for his noble and glorious society in which his subjects can grow strong and proud, wise and productive. A king must exchange his private conscience for a public one. You do what you must.’

  ‘I do what I must . . .’ He gave his counsellor a distrustful glance.

  ‘Shall I tell Monsieur de Nogaret all we have discussed?’ de Plaisians asked, as innocent as a lamb.

  ‘We are awake,’ he said, waving a hand as his eyes became preoccupied with something unseen. ‘Let others sleep.’ He gave two claps. ‘Call for my astrologer!’

  The bleary-eyed attendant, who had himself fallen asleep behind the curtains, was now flustered and disconcerted.

  ‘Have him bring me the brew!’

  39

  CONFESSIONS

  Behold thy mother . . .

  St John 19:27

  May 1310

  It was night and Etienne knelt at prayer. He prayed since soon he and his men must leave the little farm that had sheltered them for over a year, and the thought of it pressed at his heart and made his soul disordered.

  Here in the dark space, full-smelling of animals and dung, he asked for St Michael’s saintly vigilance in all matters pertaining to the Order and the Holy Land. He asked concerning his brothers still alive and those who were dead and in his presence, that they might be honoured by God for their sufferings. He asked that he watch over Jacques de Molay and prayed for the wisdom to know the clear intentions of his Grand Master regarding this deed, whose weight had only now once again begun to fall upon his mind and soul.

  He began his confession, firstly, of his lack of observation of the holy offices, which he knew required regularity. Secondly he told St Michael of his failure to observe silence when eating – Manduca panem tuum cum silentio. He asked forgiveness for not wearing the garments of the Order, and for not fasting the vigils when unwell. Finally, the crown of all his sins was a further and more serious breach of the rule: that of keeping, though not in the most heinous sense, habitation with a woman. This brought back to him that wayward brother, Alphonse, with the crossbow quarrel in his cheek. The man he had punished at Famagusta for giving alms to his hungry mother. How high and mighty had he been then, when he disrobed Alphonse before his brothers and condemned him to eat from the floor for six months! He thought of this with shame in his heart and this was added to by a sense of bewilderment, for even now, fully awake to all his shortcomings, he was not certain how it had happened. How the days had stretched out and kept him from noticing these digressions from the rule. How the reach of time had held him between one hour and the next, from one season to another, like a bird resting its wings upon a breeze that does not lift it nor bear it downwards, but holds it at the far edge of its life, suspended in a dream.