The sun was swallowed by cloud again and the brilliance died away. The knights with their horses’ tails swishing from this side to that rounded a corner and the people were returned to their dullness.
It seemed as if for a moment they had lapsed into a deep sleep and had entered heaven where dwelt the angels of the Lord. Shaking their heads they each returned to their own miserable existence, but in the heart something had altered and would never be put back.
Amongst these highs and lows a young boy stepped out onto the street and, taking the red pennant, stuffed it into his dirty shirt and ran all the way home.
11
THE POPE AND THE GRANDMASTER
He took the water and washed his hands before the multitude . . .
St Matthew 27:24
In a generous room at the monastery of the Franciscans the Pope and his guest dined on quail and venison and finished their meal as the day darkened and servants entered the room to light the tapers.
Jacques de Molay and his retinue had arrived at his monastery gates unannounced that morning, in broad daylight with the standard of the Order flying before them. Clement had been wrenched from his pontifical bed to greet him and it had taken him all day to recover from his annoyance.
Now he regarded the Grand Master with a dull eye. In the soft light the strong bones of the browned face, the eyes grey, friendly, unguarded, the grey hair, the beard trimmed neatly to a point, all gave him a look that was almost regal. The man was proud, thought Clement, and it seemed to him strange that pride should sit so well upon the face of a renegade, a fugitive without country, living by his wits.
At the same moment he was struck by a realisation that sent a shudder from his fingertips down to the manicured toes in his soft-soled shoes. I too am a fugitive, in peril of my life! Then, because he was filled with a sudden vexation, he clapped his hands and shouted at his attendant, ‘More fuel! More fuel!’
Clement watched the servant leave and, having calmed himself, pushed his plate aside and stood, gesturing to a chair placed before the hearth. This interruption afforded him the opportu¬nity to construct his face into an agreeable mask.
The Pope’s chair was augmented by cushions and upon these he sat with regal consideration, arranging his robes and smoothing the garments over his middle. Glancing upward from this preening he found Jacques de Molay staring at him with a strange wildness. The Pope shifted. Why, he thought, the man knows that he was summoned not for a discourse on a union of Orders. He knows and there is . . . what? Resignation? Hatred? What is written into the lines of that face?
Clement’s own went blank and he chose a friendly tone. ‘What do you think of my prison?’
The Templar was silent and took to watching the fire.
Clement arranged his face into a smile. ‘The Italians hate me and drive me from Rome, you know, and Philip loves me so well he should like me at his side in Paris.’ His mouth turned upward on one side with cynicism. ‘Such extremes of love and hate! Such extremes have made me twice exiled. Neither here nor there . . . I should think that on this matter, Grand Master, we speak the same language, you and I.’
Jacques de Molay observed this with a rising of the brow. ‘The language of the exiled, your Holiness?’
‘Quite so.’
‘Permit me to say that our Order is only exiled from its duty until a Crusade is called to regain the Holy Sepulchre of our Lord.’ He accentuated it with a significant look. ‘If your Holiness would endorse one, perhaps the princes would look upon it.’
The Pope smiled deferentially. ‘Quite so.’ He was preoccupied for a moment with the neatness of that beard which caught the light from the fire and seemed to throw it back. ‘And there lies the problem precisely,’ he added.
The Grand Master sat back, stiff, so it seemed, like a fox. It was a moment before he spoke. ‘You will not call for a Crusade?’
‘Oh, you know the answer to that, Jacques!’ Clement moved forward, and once he had made his voice low and confidential he continued. ‘The feeling is . . . that a Crusade is out of the question.’ He let this remain loose in the air between them.
The Grand Master nodded. ‘I had thought as much.’
The Pope narrowed his eyes. ‘Well then, do you know what awaits you in Paris?’
‘Enemies, my lord?’
‘Enemies, yes . . . when you are among the princes of the royal blood of France, be vigilant, Jacques. In the same way Philip would have me at his side, he would have you at his. And it is not for love but for advantage.’
Jacques de Molay nodded. ‘The princes of the blood do not recognise the sovereignty of the Order . . . I am awake to that.’
Clement raised a plucked brow. ‘Good! Then you know that Philip is in league with . . . others, who in no way less vehemently plot against you . . . The rumours are circulating regarding spies . . .’