‘Oh then . . . not through love for me are these excellent things accomplished?’
‘I beg your leave, sire, but you are, if I may say, the state.’
The King was thoughtful. ‘Yes . . . I am! Good answer. So we shall have no more talk of piety and I shall tell you how this excellent thing is accomplished! Now then,’ he warmed to his subject, ‘where were we?’
‘You were inducing a stupor, sire.’
‘You were listening! Well, well, there are some surprises to this day!’ Then, ‘I told you how you must induce a stupor in your victim and ask the questions afterwards . . .’
‘Stupor first, then questions,’ the lawyer said.
‘That is what I said.’ Philip shot him a frown. ‘Now with that in mind, tell me, what tortures are available to us?’
The lawyer straightened, and to Philip’s mind he seemed more at ease when things turned practical. ‘In my opinion, the foot oven, sire, is an effective instrument since it is cheap and quick to make – a platform, a brazier and a little oil . . .’
‘Is it painful?’
‘It melts the skin from the bones of the feet, sire.’
‘Interesting . . . and?’
‘The rack is useful but costly . . . There are other methods . . . tedious affairs but cheap enough.’
‘Go on . . .’
‘Hanging by the arms or the testicles . . . slow drowning.’
The King turned thoughtful. ‘I have heard of that . . . you pour water continuously down a man’s throat.’
‘Yes, sire. There are also spikes through the nails . . . the pulling of teeth . . . etcetera . . . etcetera . . .’
‘Do not forget, Nogaret, blood! There needs to be blood . . . that is the important thing . . .’ Then something occurred to him. ‘It would be propitious to extract a confession from . . . what in the devil is his name again?’
‘Who, sire?’
Philip took a nut and threw it at his lawyer. The animals lifted their glossy heads from their front paws. ‘The Grand Master, Nogaret! What is his confounded name?’
Nogaret, having ducked awkwardly, now grasped at his back and with a wince answered, ‘Jacques de Molay, sire!’
‘Yes . . . Better to get a confession from him before our impatient Dominicans are blooded.’
‘I shall do my best, sire.’ The lawyer straightened.
‘Oh, one thing, Nogaret, the banker . . . John of Tours . . . we shall keep the hounds from him until the last, at least until he sees to the books of the Order and to our riches.’
There was a nod.
The King looked on his lawyer, expecting more from him.
Nogaret, sensing this, said, ‘If I may say so, sire, this intrigue shall be a fine achievement.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Not the ruination of the Lombards, not even the burning of the Jews shall rival it for profit and advantage.’
‘Yes . . .’ The King’s eyes lingered on something not there but absent, a picture in his mind.
Profit and advantage.
‘All that gold, Nogaret, think on it!’ He became lost for a moment in an imagination that lit up his eyes and filled him with excitement. ‘My treasury vaults shall glow with the light from gold Byzantines, and Paris shall be black with smoke from pyres! Light and dark, Nogaret! Light and dark – from which all things are created . . . Gold and blood!’ He became grave as his soul filled to the brim with a cold excitement. Then as easily as it had come it was gone from him and he slapped both knees.
‘Good . . . I shall make you the Keeper of my Royal Seals at the Abbey of St Martin of Pontoise. It was at Pontoise that my grandfather made a solemn vow to embark on the seventh Crusade, and that is where I shall make my own vow.’
‘To embark on a Crusade, sire?’
‘Yes!’ he said casually, ‘My own Crusade! Against those con-founded Templars who once kissed the hems of my grandfather’s skirts.’
Nogaret nodded as if he were already somewhere else.
The King noticed it and was full of annoyance. ‘Schedule the arrest for late October. Passing winter in a dungeon is good for chilling the blood and loosening the tongue. I shall leave the luring of the Grand Master to you!’
‘Yes, sire.’ Nogaret took a bow.
But Philip punished him by ignoring it and the lawyer left with an air of incertitude, which suited Philip well, since it redressed the balance.
He remained upon his throne, caressing the ears of his animals with a pensive turn, feeling full of obscurity.
Out loud he recited a line from his favourite philosopher, Boethius: ‘The hour of gloom had well-nigh overwhelmed my head. Now has the cloud put off its alluring face, wherefore without scruple my life drags out its wearying delays . . .’