The Seal(45)

I told her it promised to be a good concert, and that I had some tickets if she would like to come with me.

She shook her head as if the thought of it was utterly pre-posterous to her. ‘Oh goodness no! I never go to that village!’ She stood and collected her cards. ‘Come back tomorrow and if I am not dead I will tell you the worst part of it. Before that, I will need to rest.’

Her milky eyes met mine and in them something stirred, something soft and full of pain. Then it was gone.

She gave a nod and took herself through the door to her shop and I was left sitting alone in the falling night.

That evening I made a half-hearted attempt to enjoy the concert in the village church. Sitting beneath the great rococo dome I could think of nothing but the story of the Templars. I tried to concentrate on the young musicians, playing their masterful rendition of a piece by Vladimir Martynov, then a lone cellist who played a Bacri, but the music only served to put me in a melancholy mood. I could guess what might be in store for me tomorrow and I wondered if perhaps the old woman was not the only one who needed rest before the next part was told.

Afterwards, I decided to walk back to the castle. The evening was cool, the air was damp and fog was descending over the village. The caterers were packing up: three men were pulling down the fold-up tables and a waitress from the little Heiling cafe across the road carried a garbage bin full of serviettes and paper plates.

Earlier, while eating dinner at the cafe, I had asked that waitress about the old woman of the ‘bourg’ and she had told me the villagers rarely saw her. ‘She’s a witch, a heretic, that’s what the priest says. No one goes near her except tourists who don’t know any better.’

I took the short cut through the trees and climbed to the avenue lit by lamps. Beyond the portal the great donjon stood illuminated by floodlights, stark against the night. I thought of the old woman again as I passed her dark little shop, and felt strangely despondent. I tried to recall her face, to reconstruct in my mind’s eye wrinkles and grey skin tones, but in that space where her face might clearly hang before my vision I saw only outlines, vague and indistinct, only the essence of the steel-like angularity of soul, softened by a calm, thoughtful quality of inner expression.

The next morning I woke early with a slight headache over my brow.

I had breakfast and went out to the portal to look for her.

It was still early, the air smelt of dew on grass and the hazy sky was crowded with birds. There were no tourists about and the buses loaded with visitors and musicians would not start arriving for another hour.

She was waiting with her cards once more spread out over the table, and as I came down the flinted path she looked up without a smile. I noticed a look of exhaustion in the lines around her eyes and the paleness around her lips. I felt a perplexing concern, and also a little guilt.

When I was seated I asked her if she had slept well.

She made a beautiful frown. ‘How can anyone sleep? Those bells from the village church wake me every night at matins . . . it is that priest! He wishes to send me to my grave . . . well, that will come soon enough!’

I waited for her to speak and sensed she was debating on the best way to begin.

Finally she leant close. ‘Are you ready for it in your heart?’

I told her that I had thought of nothing else since yesterday.

This seemed to satisfy her. ‘Good, because we are coming to a difficult part and you had best be prepared.’

At this point she looked out to the avenue. The lime trees glowed in the broad light. ‘He is waiting,’ she said. ‘Now, where was I?’ She gave a sigh and it was deep and sorrowful. ‘Yes, of course! The arrest!’





17


THE ARREST

And I saw, and behold a white horse; and he that sat on him had a bow; And a crown was given unto him: And he went forth conquering and to conquer.

Revelation 6:2


Friday 13 October 1307

Thirteen days after the feast of St Remegious, on the Friday after the feast of Dionysus, the sun rose pale behind dark clouds and Guillaume de Nogaret set his golden spurs to his horse’s dappled flank and proceeded from the palace. Behind him a mountain of men moved like one predatory body, silent and watchful across the bridge they called the Grand Pont. Nogaret’s pale features showed no opinion as he led his men through the little cobbled streets wet by rain, past the Grand Chatelet, where the men from the meat guilds were preparing their stalls, and onwards towards the street of the Templars.

In that early hour the citizens of Paris paused to observe the retinue as it passed with mild curiosity and returned to their work unperturbed. After all, the King’s men were often at the Paris Temple and not a soul suspected the mandate that resided safely in Nogaret’s hand.