The Seal(119)

Jourdain smiled back but it was soft and fleeting. ‘It is said, Etienne, that only those men who are divine can be right in what they say and do, even in grand matters . . .’

Etienne was content with this. ‘I am beginning to understand your strange reflections, Jourdain . . . You mean to tell me that to be right is only a privilege of God and that I should be happy with however close I may come to that.’

Jourdain looked at Etienne as much as if he were a father who was proud of his son. ‘I have waited for you to become a philosopher. You surely have taken your time!’

‘I am a man near death, Jourdain. Should my love for wisdom not guide me now?’ Etienne turned to the stairs.

‘You are a born philosopher, I have always thought so.’

‘A pity wisdom comes when there is no true use left for it . . .’ Then: ‘I am decided that should Simon desire it, we will succour him behind these walls . . . the townspeople will not like it that he helps us . . .’

Jourdain remembered something then, for he paused before Etienne. ‘Delgado will not leave. It is his desire to stay.’

Etienne stood astonished upon that step. He listened to the snow coming down. His ears were deceiving him. ‘For what cause?’

‘His own cause.’

Etienne nodded his head and his brows creased together. ‘It has been explained to him that he is released from the bondage of his loyalty?’

‘It is his wish to follow you to his death. That is his desire.’

Etienne lost his balance and Jourdain reached out a hand to steady him. ‘I have dreamt with the Grand Master, yester-eve,’ he told Jourdain. ‘Jacques de Molay is dead soon, I feel it. In the dream he spoke to me that all is not lost, that all shall lay buried for another time like a seed in the earth.’

Jourdain looked at him out of eyes sharp and flecked with snow. ‘You are his last heir, Etienne, you are our Grand Master now, and your men shall follow you to hell if need be.’

Jourdain’s words moved something inside him.They would follow me to hell?

Something was seeking to find its way from his throat to his mouth, something of anguish and sadness and frustration that made his knees tremble and his heart swell up until he found no more room in him for breath.

He saw a vision of death . . . for all of them.

‘It is cold . . .’ he said with a sniff and leant low to enter the aperture. ‘We go in.’





54


DE NOGARET’S MISTRESS

Who can find a virtuous woman, for her price is far above rubies.

Proverbs 31:10


Paris, April 1313

‘What is it?’ said the voice thick with sleep. Guillaume de Nogaret sat upon the edge of the perfumed bed in which lay Mademoiselle de Vigiers, and stared out at the moonless sky over the rooftops.

‘Come to bed . . .’ the creature moaned from the blankets, ‘it is cold.’

‘No, I have to go,’ he said.

‘Where?’

‘Why do you ask every time? I begin to believe that you are a spy.’ He laughed at this thought and gave the form a slap, but his eyes grew into slits in his head.

There was a movement in the blankets and a burnished copper head came out into the black night, casting its light into the gloom.

‘But I am a spy, rounded and comely.’ She bit his shoulder.

‘I have to go,’ he said again, pushing her away and putting on his boots. There were arms around his neck now, and soft peaks touched his back. He sighed, but not from passion.

‘Will you leave me to the cold?’

‘Why not leave you to the cold?’

The arms dropped down over his arms and came to embrace his soft middle; the voice purred, ‘So is it over?’

‘What?’ Nogaret struggled with his laces.

‘Have you finished with the Order of the Temple?’ Those hands were soft and curious.

‘It is finished with . . . there is only one last thread to pull . . . and I am looking forward to it with eagerness.’

‘You know, at night you dream of them and you talk in your sleep.’

He turned his head to her. ‘What do I say?’

He stopped her hands.

They withdrew and the bundle returned to its blankets.

He shook the bundle, annoyed now. ‘What do I say?’

‘You say . . . you say . . . oh . . . I don’t know!’ She stretched beneath the blankets. ‘It is foreign . . . something like . . . ak . . . mak . . . tub . . . I think.’

Nogaret returned to the business of dressing. ‘Maktub ... I know this maktub.’ He was frowning now and wishing to be gone.

‘Paris is alive with talk of your doings!’

He gathered his things and made to go.

‘What? You will say nothing?’ The bundle was now naked on its bed.