The Seal (13 page)

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.

W
hen
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 that 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.

I
n 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, shield 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.

I
n
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.