What might they have been carrying? Accoutrements of the Cathar faith, perhaps—books, manuscripts, secret teachings, relics, religious objects of some kind, perhaps something which, for one reason or another, could not be permitted to fall into hostile hands. That might explain why an escape was undertaken—an escape that entailed such risk for everyone involved. But if something of so precious a nature had, at all costs, to be kept out of hostile hands, why was it not smuggled out before? Why was it not smuggled out with the bulk of the material treasure three months earlier? Why was it retained in the fortress until this last and most dangerous moment?
The precise date of the truce permitted us to deduce a possible answer to these questions. It had been requested by the defenders, who voluntarily offered hostages to obtain it. For some reason the defenders seem to have deemed it necessary—even though all it did was delay the inevitable for a mere two weeks.
Perhaps, we concluded, such a delay was necessary to purchase time. Not time in general, but that specific time, that specific date. It coincided with the spring equinox—and the equinox may well have enjoyed some ritual status for the Cathars. It also coincided with Easter. But the Cathars, who questioned the relevance of the Crucifixion, ascribed no particular importance to Easter. And yet it is known that a festival of some sort was held on March 14, the day before the truce expired. 7 There seems little doubt that the truce was requested in order that this festival might be held. And there seems little doubt that the festival could not be held on a date selected at random. It apparently had to be on March 14.
Whatever the festival was, it clearly made some impression on the hired mercenaries, some of whom, defying inevitable death, converted to the Cathar creed. Could this fact hold at least a partial key to what was smuggled out of Montségur two nights later? Could whatever was smuggled out then have been necessary, in some way, for the festival on the fourteenth? Could it somehow have been instrumental in persuading at least twenty of the defenders to become parfaits at the last moment? And could it in some fashion have ensured the subsequent collusion of the garrison, even at the risk of their lives? If the answer is yes to all these questions, that would explain why whatever was removed on the sixteenth was not removed earlier—in January, for example, when the monetary treasure was carried to safety. It would have been needed for the festival. And it would then have had to be kept out of hostile hands.
THE MYSTERY OF THE CATHARS
As we pondered these conclusions, we were constantly reminded of the legends linking the Cathars and the Holy Grail.8 We were not prepared to regard the Grail as anything more than myth. We were certainly not prepared to assert that it ever existed in actuality. Even if it did, we could not imagine that a cup or bowl, whether it held Jesus’ blood or not, would be so very precious to the Cathars—for whom Jesus, to a significant degree, was incidental. Nevertheless, the legends continued to haunt and perplex us.
Elusive though it is, there does seem to be some link between the Cathars and the whole cult of the Grail as it evolved during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. A number of writers have argued that the Grail romances—those of Chrétien de Troyes and Wolfram von Eschenbach, for example—are an interpolation of Cathar thought, hidden in elaborate symbolism, into the hearts of orthodox Christianity. There may be some exaggeration in that assertion, but there is also some truth. During the Albigensian Crusade ecclesiastics fulminated against the Grail romances, declaring them to be pernicious if not heretical. And in some of these romances there are isolated passages that are not only highly unorthodox but quite unmistakably dualist—in other words, Cathar.
What is more, Wolfram von Eschenbach, in one of his Grail romances, declares that the Grail castle was situated in the Pyrenees— an assertion that Richard Wagner, at any rate, would seem to have taken literally. According to Wolfram the name of the Grail castle was Munsalvaesche—a Germanicized version apparently of Montsalvat, a Cathar term. And in one of Wolfram’s poems, the lord of the Grail castle is named Perilla. Interestingly enough, the lord of Montségur was Raimon de Pereille—whose name, in its Latin form, appears on documents of the period as Perilla.9
If such striking coincidences persisted in haunting us, they must also, we concluded, have haunted Saunière—who was, after all, steeped in the legends and folklore of the region. And like any other native of the region Saunière must have been constantly aware of the proximity of Montségur, whose poignant and tragic fate still dominates local consciousness. But for Saunière the very nearness of the fortress may well have entailed certain practical implications.
Something had been smuggled out of Montségur just after the truce expired. According to tradition the four men who escaped from the doomed citadel carried with them the Cathar treasure. But the monetary treasure had been smuggled out three months earlier. Could the Cathar "treasure," like the "treasure" Saunière discovered, have consisted primarily of a secret? Could that secret have been related in some unimaginable way to something that became known as the Holy Grail? It seemed inconceivable to us that the Grail romances could possibly be taken literally.
In any case whatever was smuggled out of Montségur had to have been taken somewhere. According to tradition it was taken to the fortified caves of Ornolac in the Ariège, where a band of Cathars was exterminated shortly after. But nothing save skeletons has ever been found at Ornolac. On the other hand. Rennes-le-Château is only half a day’s ride on horseback from Montségur. Whatever was smuggled out of Montségur might well have been brought to Rennes-le-Château or, more likely, to one of the caves that honeycomb the surrounding mountains. And if the "secret" of Montségur was what Saunière subsequently discovered, that would obviously explain a great deal.
In the case of the Cathars, as with Saunière, the word "treasure" seems to hide something else—knowledge or information of some kind. Given the tenacious adherence of the Cathars to their creed and their militant antipathy to Rome, we wondered if such knowledge or information (assuming it existed) related in some way to Christianity— to the doctrines and theology of Christianity, perhaps to its history and origins. Was it possible, in short, that the Cathars (or at least certain Cathars) knew something—something that contributed to the frenzied fervor with which Rome sought their extermination? The priest who had written to us had referred to "incontrovertible proof." Could such "proof" have been known to the Cathars?
At the time we could only speculate idly. And information on the Cathars was in general so meager that it precluded even a working hypothesis. On the other hand, our research into the Cathars had repeatedly impinged on another subject even more enigmatic and mysterious and surrounded by evocative legends. This subject was the Knights Templar.
It was therefore to the Templars that we next directed our investigation. And it was with the Templars that our inquiries began to yield concrete documentation and the mystery began to assume far greater proportions than we had ever imagined.
3
The Warrior-Monks
To research the Knights Templar proved a daunting undertaking. The quantity of written material devoted to the subject was intimidating, and we could not at first be sure how much of this material was reliable. If the Cathars had engendered a welter of spurious and romantic legend, the mystification surrounding the Templars was even greater.
On one level they were familiar enough to us—the fanatically fierce warrior-monks, knight-mystics clad in white mantle with splayed red cross who played so crucial a role in the crusades. Here, in some sense, were the archetypal crusaders—the storm troopers of the Holy Land who fought and died heroically for Christ in their thousands. Yet many writers, even today, regarded them as a much more mysterious institution, an essentially secret order, intent on obscure intrigues, clandestine machinations, shadowy conspiracies and designs. And there remained one perplexing and inexplicable fact. At the end of their two-century-long career these white-garbed champions of Christ were accused of denying and repudiating Christ, of trampling
and spitting on the cross.
In Scott’s Ivanhoe the Templars are depicted as haughty and arrogant bullies, greedy and hypocritical despots shamelessly abusing their power, cunning manipulators orchestrating the affairs of men and kingdoms. In other nineteenth-century writings they are depicted as vile Satanists, Devil-worshipers, practitioners of all manner of obscene, abominable, and/or heretical rites. More recent historians have inclined to view them as hapless victims, sacrificial pawns in the high-level political maneuverings of Church and state. And there are yet other writers, especially in the tradition of Freemasonry, who regard the Templars as mystical adepts and initiates, custodians of an arcane wisdom that transcends Christianity itself.
Whatever the particular bias or orientation of such writers, no one disputes the heroic zeal of the Templars or their contribution to history. Nor is there any question that their order is one of the most glamorous and enigmatic institutions in the annals of Western culture. No account of the crusades—or, for that matter, of Europe during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries—will neglect to mention the Templars. At their zenith they were the most powerful and influential organization in the whole of Christendom, with the single possible exception of the papacy.
And yet certain haunting questions remain. Who and what were the Knights Templar? Were they merely what they appeared to be, or were they something else? Were they simple soldiers onto whom an aura of legend and mystification was subsequently grafted? If so, why? Alternatively, was there a genuine mystery connected with them? Could there have been some foundation for the later embellishments of myth?
We first considered the accepted accounts of the Templars—the accounts offered by respected and responsible historians. On virtually every point these accounts raised more questions than they answered. They not only collapsed under scrutiny, but suggested some sort of "cover-up." We could not escape the suspicion that something had been deliberately concealed and a "cover sotry" manufactured, which later historians had merely repeated.
KNIGHTS TEMPLAR—THE ORTHODOX ACCOUNT
So far as is generally known, the first historical information on the Templars is provided by a Frankish historian, Guillaume de Tyre, who wrote between 1175 and 1185. This was at the peak of the crusades, when Western armies had already conquered the Holy Land and established the Kingdom of Jerusalem—or, as it was called by the Templars themselves, "Outremer," the "Land Beyond the Sea." But by the time Guillaume de Tyre began to write, Palestine had been in Western hands for seventy years and the Templars had already been in existence for more than fifty. Guillaume was, therefore, writing of events that predated his own lifetime—events he had not personally witnessed or experienced but had learned of at second or even third hand. At second or third hand and, moreover, on the basis of uncertain authority. For there were no Western chroniclers in Outremer between 1127 and 1144. Thus, there are no written records for those crucial years.
We do not, in short, know much of Guillaume’s sources, and this may well call some of his statements into question. He may have been drawing on popular word of mouth, on a none too reliable oral tradition. Alternatively, he may have consulted the Templars themselves and recounted what they told him. If this is so, it means he is reporting only what the Templars wanted him to report.
Granted, Guillaume does provide us with certain basic information, and it is this information on which all subsequent accounts of the Templars, all explanation of their foundation, all narratives of their activities have been based. But because of Guillaume’s vagueness and sketchiness, because of the time at which he was writing, because of the dearth of documented sources, he constitutes a precarious basis on which to build a definitive picture. Guillaume’s chronicles are certainly useful. But it is a mistake—and one to which many historians have succumbed—to regard them as unimpugnable and wholly accurate. Even Guillaume’s dates, as Sir Steven Runciman stresses, "are confused and at times demonstrably wrong."1
According to Guillaume de Tyre the Order of the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon was founded in 1118. Its founder is said to be one Hugues de Payen, a nobleman from Champagne and vassal of the count of Champagne.2 One day Hugues, unsolicited, presented himself with eight comrades at the palace of Baudouin I, king of Jerusalem, whose elder brother, Godfroi de Bouillon, had captured the Holy City nineteen years earlier. Baudouin seems to have received them most cordially, as did the patriarch of Jerusalem— the religious leader of the new kingdom and special emissary of the Pope.
The declared objective of the Templars, Guillaume de Tyre continues, was, "as far as their strength permitted, they should keep the roads and highways safe ... with especial regard for the protection of pilgrims." 3 So worthy was this objective apparently that the king vacated an entire wing of the royal palace and placed it at the knights’ disposal. And despite their declared oath of poverty the knights moved into this lavish accommodation. According to tradition their quarters were built on the foundations of the ancient temple of Solomon, and from this the fledgling order derived its name.
For nine years, Guillaume de Tyre tells us, the nine knights admitted no new candidates to their order. They were still supposed to be living in poverty—such poverty that official seals show two knights riding a single horse, implying not only brotherhood, but also a penury that precluded separate mounts. This style of seal is often regarded as the most famous and distinctive of Templar devices, descending from the first days of the order. However, it actually dates from a full century later, when the Templars were hardly poor—if, indeed, they ever were.
According to Guillaume de Tyre, writing a half century later, the Templars were established in 1118 and moved into the king’s palace— presumably sallying out from there to protect pilgrims on the Holy Land’s highways and byways. And yet there was at the time an official royal historian employed by the king. His name was Fulk de Chartres, and he was writing not fifty years after the order’s purported foundation, but during the very years in question. Curiously enough, Fulk de Chartres makes no mention whatever of Hugues de Payen, Hugues’ companions, or anything even remotely connected with the Knights Templar. Indeed, there is a thunderous silence about Templar activities during the early days of their existence. Certainly there is no record anywhere—not even later—of their doing anything to protect pilgrims. And one cannot but wonder how so few men could hope to fulfill so mammoth a self-imposed task. Nine men to protect the pilgrims on all the thoroughfares of the Holy Land? Only nine? And all pilgrims? If this was their objective, one would surely expect them to welcome new recruits. Yet according to Guillaume de Tyre, they admitted no new candidates to the order for nine years.
Nonetheless, within a decade the Templars’ fame seems to have spread back to Europe. Ecclesiastical authorities spoke highly of them and extolled their Christian undertaking. By 1128 or shortly thereafter, a tract lauding their virtues and qualities was issued by no less a person than Saint Bernard, abbot of Clairvaux and the age’s chief spokesman for Christendom. Bernard’s tract, "In Praise of the New Knighthood," declares the Templars to be the epitome and apotheosis of Christian values.
After nine years, in 1127, most of the nine knights returned to Europe and a triumphal welcome, orchestrated in large part by Saint Bernard. In January 1128 a Church council was convened at Troyes —court of the count of Champagne, Hugues de Payen’s liege lord—at which Bernard was again the guiding spirit. At this council the Templars were officially recognized and incorporated as a religious-military order. Hugues de Payen was given the title of grand master. He and his subordinates were to be warrior-monks, soldier-mystics, combining the austere discipline of the cloister with a martial zeal tantamount to fanaticism—a "militia of Christ" as they were called at the time. And it was again Saint Bernard who helped to draw up, with an enthusiastic preface, the rule of conduct to which the knights would adhere—a rule based on that of the Cistercian monastic order, in which Bernard himself was a dominant influence.
The
Templars were sworn to poverty, chastity, and obedience. They were obliged to cut their hair but forbidden to cut their beards, thus distinguishing themselves in an age when most men were cleanshaven. Diet, dress, and other aspects of daily life were stringently regulated in accordance with both monastic and military routines. All members of the order were obliged to wear white habits of surcoats and cloaks, and these soon evolved into the distinctive white mantle for which the Templars became famous. "It is granted to none to wear white habits, or to have white mantles, excepting the ... Knights of Christ."4 So stated the order’s rule, which elaborated on the symbolic significance of this apparel: "To all the professed knights, both in winter and summer, we give, if they can be procured, white garments, that those who have cast behind them a dark life may know that they are to commend themselves to their creator by a pure and white life."5
In addition to these details the rule established a loose administrative hierarchy and apparatus. And behavior on the battlefield was strictly controlled. If captured, for instance, Templars were not allowed to ask for mercy or to ransom themselves; they were compelled to fight to the death. Nor were they permitted to retreat unless the odds against them exceeded three to one.
In 1139,6 a papal bull was issued by Pope Innocent II—a former Cistercian monk at Clairvaux and protégé of Saint Bernard. According to this bull the Templars would owe allegiance to no secular or ecclesiastical power other than the Pope himself. In other words, they were rendered totally independent of all kings, princes, and prelates, and of all interference from both political and religious authorities. They had become, in effect, a law unto themselves, an autonomous international empire.
Holy Blood, Holy Grail Page 7
