And yet . . . in that young man’s eye Etienne glimpsed trust and loyalty and, better still, surprise.
Night moved forward at the perimeter of their meeting and the face before Etienne raised its eyebrows. ‘Come, brother, tell us! Do you have news of the war and of our Grand Master?’
‘Yes.’
The face was struck by light as if Etienne had blown at some hidden embers. ‘Then you must tell us all you know . . .’ He turned to a sergeant. ‘Bring in some bread and soup!’
‘No,’ Etienne said, weary now at the thought of food, ‘I will not eat while the Grand Master waits.’
The young man, serious-faced, nodded his agreement. ‘The Grand Master is with you?’
‘He is safe.’
The man sat down. ‘I will listen, tell me what you can.’
When Etienne had finished his tale the young preceptor’s face had moved from doubt to concern, to incredulity. ‘Perhaps the Grand Master is ill advised with regards to the menace offered by the King?’ He shifted as he said this, finding a discomfort at the words. ‘Perhaps this is the same with regards to the intentions of Hugues de Pairaud?’
Etienne sighed. ‘Geoffrey de Charney is a man to be trusted. I do not doubt the truth he speaks. It is the case, Sebastien, that you must choose to which side you will give your support.’
‘The Preceptor of Normandy, did you say? Your information comes from him?’
‘He was at Richerenches . . . it was he who advised us to caution.’
The young man sat straighter in his chair and his eyes moved about, following the mechanism of his thinking, until he smiled broad and shook his head, as if to dispel the drowsiness of a languid summer’s day. ‘Caution, yes . . . but only until you get to Poitiers, then you shall need to make as much pomp as can be made of it. For that you shall need a retinue and a vanguard. The preceptor at Civray is loyal to our Sovereign Lord Jacques de Molay . . . he is my brother in blood.’
Etienne nodded satisfied and stood. ‘We ride tonight.’
‘Tonight?’ The young man was smiling and frowning again.
‘The Grand Master shall be more safe in Poitiers and it shall be a relief to reach it.’
‘Then tonight it is!’ Brother Sebastien cried slapping his knees and standing. He looked like a young horse ready for a gallop, then his face was bewildered. ‘But I know not what to call you, as you have not yet told me your name and your rank.’
‘My name is Etienne, my rank . . .’ A sudden realisation provoked a numb silence in him and it took a long time for him to say the words. When he did he spoke like a man who has forgotten where he was born. ‘I no longer know what it is,’ he said with a rush of air as low as a whisper.
10
POITIERS
And by magic of colours mystic, a spell on his senses wrought.
Wolfram von Eschenbach, PARZIVAL
December 1306
In the narrow light of early day, the mounted retinue made its way through the thin, hilly streets of Poitiers, covered in snow, with the piebald Beauseant held out before them.
Ahead of Jacques de Molay rode the young master Sebastien with his men-at-arms each carrying a lance flying a red pennant. On his left the master of Civray and on his right Etienne. Behind them the mercenaries, Jourdain, Iterius and a further thirty knights. On the Grand Master’s orders they did not proceed directly to the monastery of the Franciscans where the Pope had his home, but diverged into the heart of the city to the great Church of Our Lady.
The narrow streets that led to the cobbled square were silent and shadowed. The horses’ hooves upon the snow made a clatter among the sleeping buildings perched high over their heads.
Leaving their horses outside the church with the men, Jacques de Molay and Etienne entered into the silence together. They walked the central nave past the stone effigies and the
rounded columns until they were before the sacred space. It was stone-quiet and full of the scent of heaven. The seneschal fol¬lowed his Grand Master without question, kneeling before the great bronze crucifix and pausing for a moment of fervent prayer. They remained there for a time, each man with his own faith, measured against hope and fear, straining to hear silence. When it was over Jacques de Molay turned to Etienne and began his confession.
At the end of it the seneschal, whose priesthood had not been tested in a long time, shrived his Grand Master and the two stood. They hoped for a miracle.
Outside the sun was hidden behind clouds and the city began to shrug off its sleep. The retinue continued on its way through the streets to the high point of the city where the monastery sat opposite the royal palace. The people of Poitiers, having been accustomed to the trespass of important persons upon their daily concerns, made way for the Templars, glanc¬ing upwards to their elegant warhorses, observing the courage of their bearing and the grave regard upon their faces. Of a sudden a shaft of light escaped from behind a cloud and its reflection on mail, sword, shield and helmet contrived to cast a spell that momentarily plunged the inhabitants into a mystical reverence. Women fell to their knees and men opened their mouths in a gasp, so mighty did these men seem to them and so changed was the air which shook and vibrated and followed in their wake. In that instant the world held its breath and the heart of it missed a beat. A gust of wind then swirled over the group and a red pennant, worked loose from its lance, was taken up into the air and came down over the snow. The people watched it fall.