Gilles Aicelin squirmed in his chair, coughed into his hand, cleared his throat and stood, imperiously.
‘I must go, to hear or . . . celebrate mass.’ Then he gathered his vestments and left the chapel.
Looks of astonishment passed from one commissioner to another, like a wave of locusts suddenly despoiled of fields. To hear or celebrate mass? their eyes questioned. They shrugged and coughed and looked askance at one another. The man had left them with no formal statement or announcement, with not a hint of his intentions. After a moment of conferral alone in another room, the commissioners returned, grim-faced and tired – they would give their answers at vespers.
Time moved slowly. At vespers Pierre and the others were recalled. Perhaps Pierre felt a little spark of hope in his heart, which he dared not mention to the others. How could they not see reason? The commissioners were not so different from them. They were godly men but also men of the law, for whom justice must come before all.
A clerk read out their decision.
‘They have discussed in their council those facts which the procurator has brought before this commission and have decided that the lord commissioners have no power over the Archbishop of Sens and his prelates, and cannot therefore impede the said Archbishop of Sens or the other prelates by postponing the trials . . .’
Pierre gasped, the others cried, ‘No!’
Rome had spoken . . . the case was concluded.
In the early hours of the morning, Pierre de Bologna dreamed that he was running at dawn. Feeling the warm earth between his toes, feeling the minerals and the rocks in their finest state of distribution, speaking poetry through his limbs. He gazed above him at the clouds illuminated through darkness, and it was as though the sun were rising in his heart.
Suddenly he was startled: in the darkness the jailer and his men were taking off his chains. That feeling of rejoicing had not left him, and he rose upon the hope that soared in his heart with tears flowing down his face.
‘Have we been freed?’ he asked, unable to see the faces of his saviours.
‘Freed?’ said the jailer. ‘Not freed!’
That was when he felt himself truly awake, more awake than he had felt all these months, and he knew. Taking a long breath he crossed himself and said, ‘Vade retro me Satana ...’
He was taken to the room of torture and at dawn his body, living still, was left outside the Temple grounds for the birds. Out of his disfigured face he saw the sun rise one last time. The light struck his eyes and once again he was one with it.
On his lips were the words ‘It dawns and I am reborn!’
43
THE BISHOP OF PARIS
What shall this man do?
St John 21:21
Guillaume de Baufet, Bishop of Paris, sat before his fire and stretched forth his ringed hands in a gesture so common to him that it encouraged him to calmness. I am but a common man, sitting before a fire, he thought. But he could not fool himself. He was a man living an uncommon life, set in strange and terrible times. This he admitted to himself with a grunt, feeling for his temple where the storm of a headache gathered behind his brows.
The room was dark. Outside, the sun was setting behind the buildings of the Ile de la Cite. He waited and time passed slowly. Compline should help to ease his mind. Perhaps God would answer his questions. He sighed and played with a ring until the finger was swollen and red.
A knock disturbed his thoughts. A monk entered, his personal attendant, Matthew of Oxford, cowl drawn. ‘Should I bring your eminence some spiced wine and your favourite fried cheese? Monsieur Julian has arrived.’
‘Very well, Matthew . . . but I have one of my headaches . . . and my heart is sickened. I cannot eat.’
‘Some wine then?’
‘Yes, yes, and please, send him in.’
The monk brought the wine and two glasses from a little rosewood credenza, a gift from the King on the day of his consecration.
‘Not too much of this,’ said Matthew. He set the glasses down on a little table before the fire and shuffled out the door.
A moment later the bishop’s charge entered the apartment.
‘Come, Julian.’ The bishop extended his hand but did not stand. ‘I am pleased to see you.’
‘Your Grace.’ Julian took it and bowed his head.
‘Sit . . . sit!’ the bishop commanded. ‘And take a glass of that wine, it is cold out, and Matthew knows the exact amount of spice. Tell me, Julian, are you well?’
‘Well thank you, your Grace,’ the young man answered, taking a seat opposite.
‘That is good . . .’ The bishop sat forward measuring his speech. ‘I have missed you, Julian.’
‘Have you, your Grace?’
‘Yes . . . I have been following your doings, you have been recording the confessions and statements made by the Templars, is that not so?’