He sighed and removed his long knife from its scabbard. He took it to the Grand Master’s flesh, and let its sharp edge move over the ribs one by one, leaving behind thin channels of blood. ‘I sorrow for you, Jacques de Molay, though you are an iniquitous creature, a spawn of the Devil, an idolater, heretic and necromancer! It is my task to sorrow for you and prevent you, if I can, from burning in the everlasting fires from which there shall be no salvation.’ His eyes were full of tears and he said in a whisper, ‘Confess and all will be forgiven . . . you shall find peace.’
Something he said had reached the Grand Master and a voice came from that tortured mouth, ‘Peace?’
The inquisitor was full of hope. ‘Of course, my son! Do you doubt that I am your loving father? God speaks through me and gives me the sanction to absolve you and to purify you, so that you shall once again enter the temple of the righteous.’
‘The Temple?’
William nodded. ‘Yes, my son, you shall enter it.’ He let the point pierce the skin. ‘When you make your confession.’ He made a cut.
The Grand Master gave a sharp cry and came back from out of the dream and tried to speak, but nothing came.
The inquisitor turned the knife to the right, making a well of blood. ‘Come, and we shall share in this vanquishing of evil, you and I. Yes . . .’ he said, ‘we shall share it as much as two men might share an achievement from which both men shall profit.’
Jacques de Molay opened his eyes and in them the inquisitor noted something . . . a resignation mingled with passionless horror. He lifted his chest away from the knife.
‘You will do well not to struggle, you will do well to stay still lest I make an error and pierce through your heart, then all this will have been for nothing, all this pain, Grand Master . . .’
The Templar closed his eyes and bit down on his mouth until the blood ran down his chin. ‘Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum,’ he whispered.
‘No!’ the inquisitor yelled at him now in a rage. ‘You may not call on Our Father when you have not confessed and you
have not been absolved of all the evils you have committed! Listen to me! You shall be ending it, soon, in the name of the Devil! In his name and for his name’s sake if you do not speak!’ The pointed tip moved to the left, creating a circle of blood.
Jacques de Molay gasped.
‘Confess!’
‘I will . . .’
He leant in. ‘Yes, my son?’
‘. . . not!’
The inquisitor was vexed beyond words, having missed by so narrow a margin the store of words which, by nature of their content, could have ended this dismal ritual. It was therefore made plain to him that the Grand Master was in need of further persuasion. With his blade he had already begun to make a push and it needed little urging to slice deep into the chest between the ribs. There was the ever-familiar sound of parting flesh and he watched the chest collapse with a loud whistle of air and a rush of blood that flowed from it like water from a spring. The inquisitor put his hand to it and let it run through his fingers, bringing the blood to his face. ‘Your blood, the blood of the damned, have I seen and touched and tasted.’
The night was dark and silent, almost spent.
There was a ripple deep in the throat. ‘To what . . . shall I?’
‘Confess?’ The tone was mild, paternal, underneath it excitement, anticipation. ‘Yes.’ He waved a hand for the notary to come from out of the shadows. ‘You are tired, Grand Master, damaged and broken, I shall remind you of your transgressions!’
The man’s eyes fluttered.
‘You have denied Christ,’ the inquisitor said. ‘Do you remember it? How you desecrated the cross? How you fornicated with your fellows?’
A look of confusion passed over the ashen face and breathlessness seized the man and he tried to speak, or so thought William of Paris, who called for the tormentor, but the man was still asleep and so he took a few steps to where he lay snoring and put the boot into his side. ‘Hold him up!’
The tormentor came to his feet, rubbing the exhaustion from his face, and paced toward the door.
‘Take it up . . . his body! He wants to speak.’
The tormentor took hold of the naked torso and lifted it. There was a groan.
‘Yes?’ asked the inquisitor, bowing his head and inclining his ear. ‘I am listening.’
The voice was small and feeble. ‘They . . . they . . . they . . .’
‘They? Who, my son?’
‘They . . . the evil . . . ones!’ The Grand Master’s eyes opened wide then and seemed to the inquisitor to be filled with horror. They looked beyond William as if they were seeing something other. ‘Leave this place, foulness! The Tabernacle is not secure!’ The man’s breath was sour and bloody and the inquisitor gasped having stood close, so that now he could not speak for coughing.