The chains around his legs cut into the scanty flesh, but he did not feel it. He was consumed by grief, by guilt. It was painful to think of the rack, of the foot oven. But he forced himself to remember everything, like a man who, trapped under a great weight, prevents the loss of his sanity by recalling every detail of his accident.
He remembered with shame the day the extremities of his human resistance gave way to that need, that desperate need which, in the final analysis, was all that was left to a man whose teeth and nails had been wrenched out one by one, whose flesh was burnt, or else pinched with pincers – the need to die.
Now he let the tears flow hot until their saltiness reached his cracked lips. He had succumbed to the desire to be free of pain and in so doing had confessed to such depravity as he had never known possible. Why? In the inquisitor’s eyes he had seen hate but also a fleeting, paternal love. A part of him felt a need to please the love in those eyes, to be a good son, to do as was asked of him. But another knew that if he could last a little longer he would soon be free. But death had not visited him. Instead he had seen a familiar creature, a creature of satanic origins, whose odious enticements were the bane of all men whose meditations took them to spiritual heights. Pierre could not count how many times he had overcome this creature in his quiet moments, but on the bloodied rack it had gained the advantage and had overwhelmed his ailing, tortured body, speaking from his mouth vile temptations never committed but conquered time and time again through strength of soul.
How had the inquisitors known of Baphomet – more potent than Lucifer, more dangerous than Satan?
He bowed his head now, and prayed. ‘Father, You who were, are and will be, within us in our being, may thy name be glorified, and praised in us. May thy kingdom live in our deeds and in our lives. May we perform Your will as you, Father, hath lain it down in our own being. You give us the bread of life to nourish our souls, through our every condition. Let our mercy toward others reconcile the sins done to our being. You do not allow the tempter to work in us beyond our strength. For no temptation can live within us, Father, since the tempter is a delusion. Therefore lead us through the light of knowledge . . . and may Your power and glory work in us through all periods and ages of time . . . Amen.’
After a long moment he felt a little better, his mind cleared. He realised that this day he must keep the true light of knowledge well lit since it was the day of the appeal before the papal commission.
His thoughts returned to that morning months ago when more than five hundred of his brothers were brought together en masse to defend the Order. Such a large number could not be contained in the episcopal buildings and so the gathering had been held behind the bishop’s house, in his orchard. There, with the sun in the eyes, he and his brothers heard the articles of accusation for the first time since their arrests. They were asked to name some representatives to put forward their case, and Pierre had been named together with Renaud de Provins, Preceptor of Orleans, and two others to illustrate a number of points on behalf of themselves and of the Order. Pierre had complained of the appalling conditions of their prisons, that the brothers were permanently chained, that they had barely any food and only foul water to drink. He told the commissioners that brothers were forced to live contrary to their rule since they were stripped of their religious habits and were deprived of the sacraments, some on their deathbeds. Moreover, those who had died outside Paris had been buried in unconsecrated ground, like heretics, whose souls would suffer eternal damnation. He then ventured to say that the Order had been seized illegally and that its temporal goods had been confiscated by a king with no authority to do so. Having made these points, he then asked to meet with his Grand Master, that he might know his mind in these grave matters. But the fact was that Pierre was in no doubt of the Grand Master’s mind.
For months leading up to that time, messages had been secreted into the prisons scattered all over Paris in various monasteries and hotels. A notary sent by some person sympathetic to their cause had, during the course of his appointment, which took him from one jail to another, transported messages across the city. Though he had not met the man, it was through him that letters from his Grand Master had been directed to him. ‘Be certain God’s light is upon us . . .’ one letter had said. ‘Defend the Order as best you can, for the sake of the future, that is all that can be done. Even now the light of Christ washes over our wasted bodies and shines our way to his bosom.’
Pierre greatly admired Jacques de Molay, a more pious and brave Grand Master could not have been hoped for after the ill-timed death of Thibaud de Gaudin. But Pierre was a lawyer, a legal graduate of the highest quality, and he was possessed of the suspicious mind of a man used to subtle treachery. His political wits had understood with certainty as each day had dawned that some snare awaited them in all of it. What the opposition could gain by allowing their communication had haunted him constantly. If he had been less wasted by lack of food and sleep he would have seen it sooner. Now all was lost.