He did not know how long he sat upon that cold pallet with his hands grasping at stone and his legs straining at the chains around his ankles. The sound of men behind the door brought him to his senses. The cell, he realised, was returned to its former darkness and he was once again alone with it.
A key was turning in the lock. He thought of his old friend in Famagusta, Christian de St Armand, feeling the old leper’s spirit beside his own.
‘It begins . . .’ he told him.
19
CREDO
These are they which came out of the great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.
Revelation 7:14
The Keeper of the Royal Seals cast an uncertain shadow on the grey stone of the cellar wall. Outside, the distant muffled bells rang out matins in the thick stillness of night.
He stretched forth his arms and glanced toward that area lit by torches. Would the wretched man upon the rack never yield?
His contemplation was disturbed by a cry and he left his stool by the fire, arching his back as he walked. His eyes reflected the charcoals and his lips moved in a friendly way around a voice that threw the stillness back into its corners. ‘Monsieur de Molay . . . You are a little thirsty perhaps? Do your arms ache? Tormentor, loosen . . .’ He waved a casual hand and the tormentor moved to release the device. ‘Let the man speak.’
There was the sound of iron against iron and a gasp and the world was still. The sound of dripping could be heard in the corners of the dank, rectangular room.
‘You may speak, monsieur, if you can,’ he said, ‘we will listen . . .’
‘I ... thirst ... I ... cannot ... breathe ...’ Jacques de Molay’s voice was thin and his breath smelt of copper.
Nogaret brought a cloth to his nose to dull the smell. ‘I am most grieved for you, monsieur, most grieved, and I promise you, this will continue indefinitely until you confess the truth. Others have already done so, making this, at most, a formality. These things you must confess: that you have denied Christ, that you have not consecrated the host, that you worship the Devil and that you kiss new entrants on the anus on their being received into the Order. This, your own man, Esquin de Floyran, has told us. If you confess you shall have water, you may go back to the peace of your cell . . .’
The Grand Master seemed to be summoning up what breath was left in his lungs but what came out was little more than a whisper. ‘Traitor . . .’
‘He tells us that you spat on our Lord’s cross! Others besides de Floyran have confessed that you urinated upon it, that you then committed sodomy together in heinous rituals.’ He rubbed his hands together. It was cold. He hated the cold. The Templar’s breath was forming visible phantoms in the air and Nogaret wondered if the King had been right about the demons. This thought made a spasm crawl over his spine. ‘Tell me,’ he said, disconcerted, ‘how you drank the urine of black cats and you shall have a measure of water.’
Jacques de Molay was naked and covered in sweat, tears meandered into the dirty creases of his face, but he stretched his tongue over his jagged, broken teeth and said nothing.
The lawyer sighed and moved his hands in a circular motion to indicate to the tormentor one more twist of the device. He realised that good intentions were wasted on this man.
The Grand Master answered with a groan.
‘You have denied Christ, monsieur . . . Come, come, must we remain in this place for a saeculum? It is cold and there is mould upon the walls . . . it makes me wheeze,’ he said and immediately sneezed.
The Templar whispered something, and the Keeper of the Seals gestured to his notary to come forward from out of the shadows.
‘Say again?’ The two had to bend an ear close to the mouth and its sharp smell to hear him.
‘Credo in Deum, Patrem, Omnipotem ...’
Nogaret was at the peak of irritation. He stretched his back and said, ‘Yes . . . yes . . . you believe in God . . . Once again.’
The man turned the device tighter as Nogaret moved toward the fire to warm himself. Jacques de Molay had suffered many privations in the east, war had made him strong, and though he was now past sixty years, Nogaret knew he could easily stand torture that would bring a lesser man to confession.
A feeling close to admiration caught itself in his throat and it made a change to envy, and to disdain.
He gestured with his hand and heard a further movement of the mechanical device. Something snapped and there was a cry. Nogaret turned to look and found the sight a little disgusting. The shoulders had dislocated in unison and the rib cage looked grotesque. He knew that despite his sensitive nature and his natural repulsion, he must approach the rack. When his mouth was nearly upon the other man’s ear, he said, ‘Tell me!’