Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (68 page)

The brief assembly in Poitiers, begun before the pope’s illness, had turned up nothing and it seemed incredible to Jacques that all this trouble was caused by the accusations of one man. He had heard from some of the brothers today that the king believed the charges and had in fact made them public, but although the news disturbed him he chose to set rumor aside in favor of his audience with Philippe, planned for tomorrow. The order had been through difficult times before. It was only twelve years ago that he was here in the West defending the Temple against Pope Boniface’s suggestion of merging them with their rivals, the Knights of St. John. If they stood firm, they would remain unbeaten.

Jacques turned from the window as a commotion sounded in the passage.

He motioned to de Charney, who opened the doors. Between Rainier and another knight was a third man. He was shouting, struggling in their grip, but he fell silent as he saw the grand master, whose mantle was stitched with gold around the red cross at his heart.

“My lord,” he breathed, “I heard you had come. I tried to speak to you earlier, but your servants told me you were occupied in meetings.”

“Why did you want to see me, Brother Laurent?” barked Jacques. “To confess your guilt perhaps? Fall upon my mercy?”

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“I wanted to warn you. A man left this preceptory several weeks ago to fi nd you in Poitiers, but it seems he never reached you, as I do not believe you would have answered the king’s summons, knowing it was a trap.”

“A trap?” said de Charney quickly. “What do you mean?”

Jacques spoke over Laurent before he could reply. “I want to know about the treasury. Who took it and where it was taken. Every last detail!”

“It was taken to protect it from the king, my lord. Last month a woman fled here from the palace. She brought an order for the imprisonment of all Templars in France on charges of heresy. My lord, the arrests are planned for tomorrow. The seneschals of the kingdom will be opening these royal orders this very night! If you have been called here by the king, as Brother Rainier said, then I am certain he intends to take you too. The man who freed Robert de Paris was supposed to have brought you this news, but as a precautionary measure twenty knights from this preceptory removed the treasury by ship to Scotland.”

“How do you know this wasn’t some elaborate ruse concocted to persuade you to hand over the treasury?” demanded the master of Normandy. “Our men could have been ambushed. The treasury stolen.”

“I saw the scroll myself, Master de Charney. It had the king’s seal upon it.” Laurent turned to Jacques. “Believe me, my lord, what we did was in the best interests of the order, though we broke the rule most grievously in execut-ing it.”

“Can anyone else verify what you are saying?” asked de Charney.

Laurent shook his head. “It was agreed that we should keep it from the others so as not to cause panic. It was hoped Grand Master de Molay would return in time to make a decision as to how to proceed.”

De Charney glanced at Jacques. “If he is telling the truth, my lord, then—”

“No,” growled Jacques, “this is a misunderstanding. It has to be. King Philippe does not have the power to execute the arrest of a religious order.

Only the pope can do that and I know for certain His Holiness has given no such command. I will meet the king as arranged and get to the root of this confusion and these lies.” He fixed Laurent with a baleful stare. “Whether those who took the treasury thought they were doing right or not, I cannot condone their actions. Once these accusations have been laid to rest I will hunt them down and they will be punished, severely.” He nodded to Rainier.

“Take him to the dungeons. He can have a copy of the Rule to remind himself of our laws and the consequences of breaking them.”

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“My lord! The king’s men will be coming for us at dawn! We cannot stay!”

De Charney waited for the doors to close and Laurent’s shouts of protest to fade before turning to Jacques. “Perhaps it would be wise to leave the city,” he ventured. “Just for tonight. We can—”

“No, Geoffroi,” said Jacques sharply. “I will not be driven out of my own preceptory by rumor and panic. To do so would give these false allegations credence. How would it look if we ran? Would that not prove our guilt to our accusers? Would the people not think us cowards? We are Knights of the Temple of Solomon. We are God’s sword.” The grand master’s voice was implacable. “I will not run before any enemy. To do so would mean the breaking of the vows I took upon my inception. I will defend this order and my honor, even at the cost of death. I have stood in the desert before twenty thousand warriors, all intent on capturing or killing me. I will stand firm in the face of a few score city guards.”

the temple, paris, october 13, 1307 ad

It began with a deep thudding, like a slow-beaten drum. Birds fl ew startled from the dovecote, as the noise shattered the dawn hush. Horses tossed their heads and turned in their stalls, as grooms stumbled from their lodgings. In the kitchens, the cooks preparing the morning meal put down knives and glanced at one another. Servants stood uncertain, bundles of vegetables and braces of rabbits in their fists. The priests in the chapel, lighting candles for Matins, looked around, tapers flickering in their poised hands. Knights and sergeants rose from their pallets, shook drowsy comrades, pulled on boots and shirts. A few veterans of the Crusades, recognizing the sound, snatched up swords, shouting for the younger ones to do the same. Men and boys poured into the courtyard, the sky above them a frozen, brittle blue.

Jacques de Molay, kneeling at his bedside, raised his head. As he stood, the rings of his mail coat clinked and settled into place. Unable to sleep, he had spent the night in prayer. Slowly, he crossed to where his broadsword stood against one wall. After sheathing the blade, he took his white mantle with its gold-edged cross and swung it around his shoulders. His hair and beard, silvery in the pallid light, hung loose and long as he strode out. He could hear doors banging and the calls of men, and above them all the boom of the battering ram striking the preceptory’s gates.

Geoffroi de Charney met him on the ground floor. “It seems Laurent was 406 robyn

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right, my lord,” said the master, coming to his side. “What are your orders?

Do we fi ght?”

For a moment the grand master didn’t answer. He paused on the steps outside his palace, his eyes on the men gathered before him. There were almost one hundred and fifty knights here, not to mention the sergeants and priests, and the large number of servants and squires, grooms and laborers. If necessary, they could hold off the king’s men for months; mount an offensive from the walls to repel the attack on the gate, then settle in for a siege. But this wasn’t Palestine. There weren’t two centuries of slaughter between them and the men outside, just a grave misunderstanding and an arrogant monarch.

“We will not fight,” said the grand master, heading into the crowd, which parted before him. “I will meet Philippe face-to-face to settle this matter. If we spill blood of the king’s men here today we will only give him more cause to condemn us. We cannot be seen to be acting like guilty men. We will defend ourselves with our words and our actions, not our swords.” He walked to the gates, where a group of knights were standing ready, swords in hands. The ram crashed against the wood, making it shudder. He heard the shouts of many men, along with the bellow of horses and the baying of dogs beyond the walls.

“Open the gates,” Jacques ordered two of the knights. “Now!” he demanded, when they hesitated.

Together, they hoisted up the thick wooden bar that secured the entrance.

Two others hastened to help and, between them, they pulled back the gates.

Outside, an army was waiting. Over two hundred royal guards were there, most of them mounted, along with a great number of officials and the city provosts. The soldiers at the ram, preparing for another strike, hung back at a shout from their captain. Others moved closer, crossbows trained on the grand master.

Jacques steeled his jaw and went forward, drawing strength from the knights gathering protectively at his back. Beyond the host of soldiers he could see a straggle of onlookers lining the road, watching with avid curiosity. They reminded him of crows, waiting at the edge of a battlefield. Movement to his left caught his eye and Jacques watched as a man in a black robe, trimmed with scarlet, trotted his horse out of the throng.

“Jacques de Molay?” the man called, looking down on the grand master from the height of his mount. He held up a scroll when Jacques gave a curt nod. “By order of the king of France, you and your men are to be seized and your preceptory held in royal custody until a trial into the crimes you have been accused of has been conducted and a verdict reached. Lay down your weapons and tell your men to do the same.”

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“Who are you to command this?” asked Jacques.

“My name is Guillaume de Nogaret,” replied the man, swinging his leg over his saddle and jumping down. “I am keeper of the seals and first lawyer of the realm. You can read the order if you wish,” he added, holding out the scroll to Jacques.

The grand master’s face hardened.

When he didn’t take it, Nogaret gave a small smile. “But of course, I forgot most Templars cannot read, can they? Well, then, I will have someone read it to you.” He snapped his fingers at an offi cial.

As the man came forward, Jacques held up his hand angrily. “Enough! I wish to parley with King Philippe.”

“His lordship does not parley with heretics.”

“Neither you nor the king have the authority to detain us or seize our property,” said Geoffroi de Charney, coming to stand at Jacques’s side. His fl int eyes regarded Nogaret with notable umbrage. “Your royal order, whatever it may say, is invalid.”

Nogaret motioned behind him to a tall, gray-faced man dressed in the black robe of a Dominican. “Friar Guillaume de Paris, as head of the Dominican college in the city, has the authority to arrest anyone suspected of heresy.

This authority was given to the friars in their role as inquisitors by Pope Gregory IX, more than seventy years ago.”

“For laypeople, yes,” countered de Charney, “but for a religious order the pope must give his consent.”

“To my mind he has already given it,” responded Nogaret, “by initiating an inquiry into the charges of heresy.”

“Inquiry?” demanded Jacques. “It was little more than a conversation between myself and Pope Clement. His Holiness is concerned to lay this matter to rest, certainly, but he does not truly believe Esquin de Floyran’s accusations.

He has told me himself what a grudge this man has against the Temple.”

“If this is so, you have nothing to fear from a trial. Your innocence will be proven.”

“We both know the task of the inquisitors is to prove guilt, not innocence.”

Nogaret met Jacques’s gaze steadily. “Stand down. My soldiers have been authorized to use force.” When Jacques didn’t move, Nogaret gestured impatiently to the soldiers with the crossbows. “Lay down your sword, or my men will shoot you!”

Jacques looked around, sensing his knights moving in at the threat against him. He went to call them to halt. But before he could get the words out, 408 robyn

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Nogaret dropped his hand and two of the soldiers with the crossbows let fi re.

One of the missiles slammed into the chest of a young knight, just behind the grand master. Jacques saw the man fly backward and sprawl to the ground, sword clattering from his hand. Another went down, blood spurting around the bolt that caught him in the throat. There was a rush of motion as his men went to challenge the attackers. For a moment, Jacques stood rooted, his gaze on the two dead knights, mind filled with disbelief. It was a crime to insult a Templar and an offense punishable by excommunication to wound one. The sight of his knights advancing and Nogaret’s men raising more weapons focused him. He would not allow this to become a massacre. “
Halt!
” roared the grand master, stopping them to a man. “Lay down your weapons,” he bellowed at his knights. “
Do it!
”

One by one, the Templars placed their swords on the ground. As they did so, Nogaret smiled and motioned for the royal guards to enter the compound.

The soldiers were rough, pinning hands cruelly behind backs, kicking the knights to their knees or doubling them over with punches. Grooms, cooks and priests were treated in the same harsh way, and cries of pain rose as the soldiers swarmed into the Chapter House and grand buildings of the offi cials, the tower of the donjon and the quiet chapel. They moved quickly, excitedly.

For years, these men had grown up listening to whispers of the secret ceremonies of the proud, untouchable knights in their sinless white mantles, their prowess in battle and great deeds overseas, their immeasurable wealth. Now the legends were bowed before them, humbled at last, leaving them free to pick through those treasures and secrets.

While the knights and sergeants were hauled away to rooms in the preceptory, now their prison, Jacques de Molay and Geoffroi de Charney were relieved of their mantles and bound to a cart, destined for the Louvre, the royal fortress on the banks of the Seine. Dawn had broken, clear and cold, but for the first time in almost two centuries the Matins bell did not ring out its call to prayer.

the latin quarter, paris, october 27, 1307 ad

Will studied the buildings as he walked the winding street. Stores and workshops were crammed close together, the structures bowing over the muddy thoroughfare, ribbed with beams and painted in faded pinks and drab whites.

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In the distance, the dome of a church crowned the chaos of rooftops. Beyond, the sky was leaden, streaked with thin plumes of smoke. The air was chill and the people on the street were moving swiftly, swaddled in robes and mantles, breath misting before them. Most were scholars and priests from the many colleges that formed the focus of the Latin Quarter. Will was aware of how out of place he looked, his leather cloak shabby and stained, his hair and beard unkempt, his boots caked with dirt. The horse itself was conspicuous, a jet-black destrier Simon had saddled for him when he left the preceptory, and he sensed the curiosity of passersby, where people tried to match the disheveled man with the noble beast. He supposed, if anyone questioned him, he could try to pass himself off as a squire, though his age went against him. Forcing thoughts of excuses aside, he concentrated on the buildings. He didn’t plan to linger long enough for people to challenge him. He just needed to fi nd what he wanted and then he could go.