Another silence filled the room.
Pierre de Bologna scratched under his arm where a flea had taken refuge; he moved forward whispering, ‘Only a short time ago the news reached me that the Archbishop of Sens has summoned a provincial council of the Church . . .’ He waited. ‘Do you know what that means?’
The notary frowned, thinking things through, then it was his turn for astonishment. ‘This means they are planning more than one trial!’
‘Yes! There are now two trials running concurrently,’ the lawyer said with a toothless smile, warming to his subject. ‘Do you play chess, Julian?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘I was once – it seems like lifetimes ago – accustomed to playing chess every afternoon with the Cardinal Franco del Pozzo. The man always manoeuvred the board so that I took more care in my defence than in my attack. I am afraid that I always watched my own pieces too well and allowed the cardinal to put my king in check. I have been thinking and thinking and I have realised something. I did not see the signs! There is no one else to blame . . . You see, the King has played with us, Monsieur Julian, like a cat plays cruelly with a mouse. He has allowed us to correspond! Is that not remarkable? To mount a defence, to gain solidarity! Is that not implausible? And why has he done so?’
The notary placed his roll of parchments and papers on the pallet and stared at Pierre de Bologna for a moment, his eyes catching the light from the lamp, his brows coming together in a frown. There was a sudden dawn of understanding surfacing over his face.
The lawyer smiled. ‘I see that you know the answer . . . We have been allowed to mount a defence so that we might retract our confessions and be judged as relapsed heretics!’
‘No! I do not –’ the notary began, ‘I did not . . .’
‘No, not you nor I!’ Pierre said to him. ‘All the King needed to checkmate the defence was to appoint his royal chamberlain’s brother, Philippe de Marigny, to the position of Archbishop of Sens. Do you see?’
‘Sens is one of twelve provinces,’ the notary said, ‘and has jurisdiction over Paris . . .’
‘Yes . . . yes . . . you are on the right track . . . Paris under the Archbishop of Sens is a Paris under the control of King Philip. His provincial council will allow the papal commission to judge the Order while it judges the individuals independently and under its very nose!’
‘To come to a judgement independent of the papal com¬mission, and without its concern . . . to sentence the individuals?’
‘Precisely!’ the Templar said, and it seemed that he had lost his strength; tears streamed down his face again and he wiped them away. ‘I am emotional, my dear Julian, for today the papal commission has consented to a special audience and I must summon up all the intelligence, all the cunning and strength that is left to me, before I finally dissolve into madness. If I am successful, I will go directly to the Archbishop of Sens to plead my position and . . . I will need a notary to accompany me . . . No one will come! Perhaps you will be so kind as to consent?’
At that point a key turned in the lock once again and the door swung open. It was Jean de Jamville, the jailer, followed closely by four archers carrying pikes.
‘Time to go!’ the man said.
Pierre de Bologna ignored this and looked at the young man.‘Will you come with me?’
There was the heavy blow of a chisel and the rivet was broken that fastened the chain to the Templar’s anklets but not the chain that held fast one foot to the other.
‘Please!’ He grappled for the notary but the jailer struck a blow at his cheek, so that Pierre went toppling off the pallet and into the bowl of water.
‘We’ll have none of that! Now, put this on.’ The jailer threw him a mantle, covered in the filth of three years. ‘It will take two deniers to remove your ankle chains.’ He offered his palm.
‘Cruel!’ the Templar cried out. ‘We must pay for everything, our lodgings, our blankets, our baths and food!’ He huddled in a corner. ‘Twelve deniers each day, monsieur, is all we are given from Templar funds to live on in these cells! A pittance to a man who appears in court at least three times a week and has to pay not merely for his board and food but also for the removal of chains and for transport to and from the courts. What is left? I have not eaten in a week . . .’ His hands covered his face. ‘Some days I must sleep outside for want of money; some of us have died because of it.’ He went to a hole in the wall, where sat his last two deniers, he took them with trembling fingers. ‘Take one for my chains, and one for your salvation.’