The Seal(31)

‘Certainly,’ Jacques said in a tone that Clement thought easier said than felt. ‘But, my Lord Pope, I am used to plots and intrigues.’

The Pope smiled. Inside he was furious – a cat despoiled of his rat. He tried another approach. ‘Well you may be used to plots and intrigues, my dear Jacques, but these are hatched by members of your own Order.’

‘The bankers are nervous, they do not know which way I shall go. Perhaps they wish to encourage me this way or that . . .’ Jacques de Molay’s eyes flickered and his mouth moved in an odd smile. ‘They mean to turn the Temple into a bank, and I mean to stop them.’

How could the man have figured it all out? The Pope smiled brightly. ‘But while you have been away, at Cyprus, Grand Master, a bank is precisely what your Order has become. How is that to be stopped?’

The firelight grew low then and the Pope hugged his robes and mumbled under his breath, ‘Where is that wretched servant, the flame dies!’ Then, ‘There is wine on that buffet, Jacques, pour some for the two of us, and bring me those chestnuts. I like chestnuts but they do devilry to my guts.’

The Templar went to the buffet. When he returned he handed a cup of spiced wine to Clement and at his behest threw the chestnuts into the fire. He sat down in his chair, observing the Pope, and took a thoughtful taste of his wine.

‘See how I pamper myself ?’ Clement said. ‘Venison, quail, spiced wine and chestnuts . . . all the foods appropriate to the colder months.’ He set the glass down and glanced a long moment at him. ‘You see this luxury, this finery and you think me a man of power, Grand Master, but you must remember that like you I am in exile, living opposite the King’s palace, with enemies ensconced in the hems of my robes. Like you my adversaries are everywhere! My servants, my advisers, my subjects, they are even in my own curia! All you eat here has been previously tasted, the wine, the food . . . I dare not close my eyes when asleep, Jacques, for fear of assassination. We cannot forget that once a pope was assaulted in his own palace by a king’s man!’ He threw Jacques de Molay a look. ‘Such a man, such a pope, as I am forced to be, can do little to support you . . . it is all I can do to prevent the downfall of the Church!’

The Grand Master went once more to the buffet, filled his cup with wine and drank it down in one gulp.

The Pope sipped, glancing over the rim at the Templar. ‘What will you do?’

‘Do, your Eminence?’ asked de Molay, torn from his thoughts.

‘With the gold and the titles, the archives?’

The Grand Master blinked.

‘What shall I do with them?’ he repeated.

The Pope gave him a paternal grin. ‘I suggest you hand them over to the Holy See for safekeeping, we don’t want Philip to get his hands on them.’

The Grand Master set down the glass and stood before the fire. ‘I cannot, your Holiness, I am pledged to their safekeeping for the Holy Land.’

‘The Order shall not endure.’ Clement was trying to hide his vexation. ‘You are released from holding to your pledge by this very fact.’

‘With respect, if it is the will of God that the Order not endure, then, your Holiness, the gold shall not outlast the Order.’ He hunted down Clement’s eyes. ‘It shall be used for no other purpose than for the recovery of our Lord’s Sepulchre.’

The Pope moved forward with a spontaneity that barely kept him from toppling out of the chair. ‘What arrogance! What are you implying, Grand Master? Of course it shall not be used for any other purpose! We shall keep it safe until, well, until a favourable time! Anyway, in what sense do you mean it shall not outlast the Order?’

‘In the sense that it shall be delivered into God’s hands.’

‘What?’ He lost his temper. ‘Are you planning some mischief, de Molay?’

At that moment the attendant returned with more wood and made smoke fill the room until the logs were adjusted and began to burn with determination. The Pope waved his servant out impatiently and waited for a response. He pondered that face full of devotion, hope and faith. He was full of disdain for it.

‘Answer me, Jacques!’ he said when they were alone.

Jacques de Molay took in a breath. ‘The good gold of the Order shall be safely stowed away, your Holiness. That is what has been agreed to by the hierarchy of the Order in Cyprus.’

Clement’s face reddened and moved with scorn. ‘Your folly will allow the gold to fall into the pit of Philip’s coffers! Or into the hands of the Hospitallers, whose tempers are impatient for your demise! They are here in Poitiers waiting . . . and in Paris . . . waiting. They have spies . . . nothing you do goes unnoticed!’