The inquisitor’s face hardened and inside him he was cold. He shook his head and made a resolve. With his hand he made a sign for the tormentor to lift Jacques de Molay from the floor and to drag him to the great oaken doors leading out of the room. Another guard joined him and together they lifted the Grand Master and stretched both his arms outwards, forcing them upon the wood. This triggered a cry of agony.
Nogaret became agitated. ‘What will you do, William? Remember, he must not die before he confesses!’
The inquisitor turned to the lawyer with a look of disdain. He felt it offensive in the extreme that his ritual should be interrupted by one who was not aware of its significance, so he said these words with a certain emphasis that was meant to cause a chill in the lawyer from head to foot: ‘The Lord hath accomplished his fury, he hath poured out his fierce anger and hath kindled a fire in Zion, and it hath devoured the foundations thereof. The Kings of the earth, and all the inhabitants of the world, would not have believed that the adversary and the enemy should have entered into the gates of Jerusalem! He shall suffer the wounds of our Lord!’
On this command the tormentor drove a nail first into one wrist and then into the other. There was blood on the floor and a sudden wave of shock and nausea seemed to run through the hanging man. When the sense of it reached him he howled, and the sound of it echoed through the chamber.
The assistant held the man’s torso while the tormentor took hold of both feet and, having fettered them, one over the other, took a nail and tried to drive it into the flesh. This proved difficult and there were gasps and wails from the Grand Master as the man held him steady while the other attempted to keep the nail straight. With a final and thunderous blow of the mallet, the bones of the feet parted and the nail pierced the oak on the other side. The body was let go and it hung two spans from the ground. When the Grand Master’s wide eyes took a look at his impaled limbs he let a gasp escape from his mouth and he fell out of his head.
Time lay unswept in the chapel. The inquisitor sat upon the throne like a hen upon an egg. He was learned in the science of physiology, having made it his business to know the human body intimately, its weaknesses and its strengths, and he knew, therefore, that as the man’s weight sagged downward and the body slumped, the rib cage was drawn upwards and the lungs became narrowed, preventing breath. The Grand Master would have to push down on his impaled feet to raise his body to take a breath and this would incur unbearable pain. Soon a paralysis of the will would ensue, from lack of air, and this was always the most fortuitous time for confession.
But confession did not come.
When the blood from Jacques de Molay’s wounds had congealed and nigh three hours had passed, the Templar was seized by terrible spasms and woke briefly only to sink once again into oblivion.
The inquisitor waited. In one corner the tormentor snored, drooling. Nogaret had left, making some excuse about a conference in the morning. Alone now, with only the notary for company, he paced the room and watched his own shadow.
‘All my life,’ he heard his voice as distant and resonant, ‘I have struggled against the Devil, de Molay.’ He bent his eye upon the Grand Master’s unconscious body. ‘And you?’ he said to it. ‘You have warred against the infidel all your life, and now your fight is lost to you, for you have given yourself up to evil and its designs.’ He leant forward and shook the man until one eye opened and they were staring eye to eye. It was the eye of a wild animal, shaking and shivering and taking rapid breaths.
The inquisitor was pleased to finally have his attention. ‘You have ceased to struggle, my son, and when one ceases to struggle with the Devil one is doomed, as you are, to struggle with heaven!’ He gave him one last look of fixed eloquence and continued pacing with his hands behind his back, his black robes showing the white beneath now and again. ‘It is certain that death is there upon that door waiting, Grand Master. On the pinions of violated organs, broken bones and torn muscles, upon the carcasses of brothers long dead and unremembered do you rest your wicked soul . . . but you must now listen to me!’ He stood like a painter examining his handiwork. ‘This pain, this dreadful union of blood and sinew that is your body impaled upon that door, is not hell. Oh no, Grand Master! Not hell but a prelude of what dwells in the vast empty spaces where the soul weeps in eternal torment. Do not hope for death. Do not pray for it, for there are worse things than this suffering. There are worse agonies to come, and so I urge you to confess your sins to me.’
He was now looking earnestly for some response from those hitherto receptive eyes and saw that the man’s face was now downturned. He stared at him with the utmost force his spirit could command, but it was becoming poignantly clear that the Grand Master was in no mind to accept the logical message he was imparting to him and he knew then – with distinct certainty– that he must restore their communication.