The Seal(105)

Julian raised his brows. ‘Yes, I have been doing so for three years now. There are hundreds of us.’

The bishop gave a grunt. ‘Yes . . . you know that since I found you at the Temple those years ago I have loved you as my own child and have looked after your welfare to the best of my ability . . . Now you must listen to me. I know of the deep sense of loyalty you have for these men who saved you from death at Acre . . . that is a natural thing. But you can do nothing on their behalf . . . and I must urge you to caution.’

Julian took in a breath and sat forward. ‘Do you know, your Grace, that as many as thirty-six Templars have been denied a holy burial?’

Guillaume studied his charge. ‘I know.’

‘The poor wretches can do nothing in the face of their accusers. Torture and the fear of death have terrified them into silence because they are unable to accuse the King or even his legal counsellors whilst they are his prisoners.’

‘Be careful, Julian!’ he whispered harsh into the space between them. ‘A pyre awaits every defender of heresy. Perhaps I shall send you to Spain on an errand of some importance. In Spain things are less complicated.’

Julian said nothing to this; he added more wine to his glass and sipped at it. ‘You are too late, your Grace, for I was present when they tortured de Molay, Grand Master of the Temple, and my signature lies at the bottom of his confession.’

The bishop sat forward in surprise.

‘You?’

‘Yes.’

‘You saw it?’

‘The brothers who died, your Grace, merely did not know what they should be confessing to.’

There was a nervous moment between them.

The bishop put his chin to his chest and stared at the fire. It needed cheering. He reached over and threw in a log and this brought the blaze up.

‘William of Paris!’ Guillaume de Baufet spat presently. ‘The Grand Inquisitor has your signature as notary upon that parchment! Your name!’ He shook his head and placed a hand over his brow. ‘He has me in his net . . .’

‘I was summoned, I could not refuse it.’

‘No . . .’ the other man said to himself, taking his glass and gulping down a measure. ‘Sometimes we live not as we would like to, Julian, but as we can. William of Paris has been awake to the possibility that I will not support Philip’s desire for a false trial, certainly I have tried to avoid these proceedings, stalling for time. I know they are innocent, but now it shall be impossible for me to swim against the tide.’ The wine glass trembled in his hand and he steadied it with the other.

The two men contemplated the silence and the fire.

‘It is the case, however, that Philip Capet will have blood whatever we might do to prevent it,’ the bishop said. ‘Who shall dare to defy him? My dear Julian! My dear, dear Julian!’ the other man said, sitting forward. ‘Philip is a snake – even the Pope has retreated to Avignon to be free of him. Avignon is perfect, is it not? The King has no true jurisdiction there, but it is close enough for Clement to keep an eye on Philip Capet . . . and on the Templar goods . . .’

‘Are you suggesting something, your Grace?’

‘He shall pick the bones after Philip is done with the carcass of the Order, and there he hopes he will find something to his liking.’

‘I was with Pierre de Bologna today.’

‘The lawyer?’

‘It is his notion that the Archbishop of Sens is seeking to try the individuals of the Order.’

‘It is an accurate notion.’ The bishop looked at his charge and was full of affection, remembering how some twelve years before he had come across the dear child during a visit to the Temple. A more serious-faced and responsible boy he had never seen in all his life. Filled with a father’s urge to nurture and educate the child, he had negotiated with the Templars and had paid them well to have him as his charge. When his monks had brought the boy before him, the poor child would not speak; on his face there lay an expression that, time and again over the years, had surfaced over the delicate features, and which even now cast its shadow over the youthful face – a look of one who is weary with a life that promises to be short. ‘Listen to me, Julian,’ he said to him. ‘Philippe de Marigny, Archbishop of Sens, needs to rid himself of Templars and so he does it as much for himself as he does it for the King.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he has his nose deep into the property of the Temple. He embezzles that which the King must expect one day to be forfeit to his Crown: gold plates, chalices, jewelled crucifixes.’

‘How do you know this?’

The bishop sighed. ‘I am made aware of many things, my son, you forget the Templars own this church in which I live and that it has been my duty to report to the Pope regularly on Templar property held by the province of Sens. I have, therefore, an intimate knowledge of what my landlords own. When the archbishop was appointed to his position, things began to disappear, not only from the strongholds of the Notre Dame but also from the records of inventory. Completely obliterated. So I sent my spies out and what they found did not surprise me. I put two and two together and I have anticipated his next move, but I have no way of preventing it, since to discredit him is impossible. Philip would simply let him try the Templars and then he would use the man’s dishonesty as a pretext for taking all the goods from the hands of the Church, landing them straight in his coffers. You see? I am more alone than a sheep in the wilderness.’