‘What did you say?’
‘Who comes here? By what proof?’
The inquisitor calmed, knowing it to be only a moment, allowing the man some private reflection upon the matter of his confession.
A moment passed and he continued the catechism. ‘You denied the cross,’ he said, ‘inspired by evil spirits, you denied it.’
‘But it was Judas . . . not . . . not . . . I! The kiss was . . . not . . . O Lord!’ His eyes rolled into the back of his head. ‘Take it away! Take it away!’
The inquisitor persevered, gesturing for the tormentor to let the body go.
There was another feeble groan and a sigh from the hole in the chest.
‘Confess now!’ he yelled. The man would soon drown in his own blood. ‘I shall not be merciful.’
Jacques de Molay opened his eyes, aroused from his stupor. ‘Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra.’ Then he cried so suddenly that the inquisitor was startled and nearly lost his footing. ‘Satan! No . . . no . . . I did not! No! No! The pain . . . the kiss on the cheek . . . the money, the coins . . . !’
‘A kiss on the buttocks . . . write it down!’ he told the notary standing in one corner of the room, and returning to the Templar he said, ‘Did you deny Christ as Peter denied Christ, is that what you are saying?’
A warm breath escaped the Grand Master’s lips. It hung before his face a moment. The Grand Master seemed to be lost, gazing into this space, and then he gave a howl long and terror-filled. ‘Ba . . . pho . . . met!’ the man said between gasps of terror.
‘What did you say? What is this . . . a . . . pho . . . et? Or is it a . . . met? Notary, are you writing this down? What did he say? What did he say?’
Julian moved away from the shadows, passing an ink-stained hand over his eyes.
‘Come, boy! Sitting in that dark corner with your heart pounding and your breath coming in short bursts! Now is the time to do your duty to our Lord!’
‘I don’t know what he said . . .’ he answered.
‘Stupid boy, did you not hear?’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Mahomet? Mahomet! Oh dear Lord, yes!’
‘His eyes,’ Jacques de Molay said then, ‘shine black into my head. He is made of stone, or is it bread? I did not adore him . . . Tell me,’ he looked at something in the near dark, ‘shall I be forgiven?’
‘An idol of stone with black eyes . . . a denial of Christ. Write it down! Yes . . . Mahomet! Of course! Did you deny Christ who gave up His life for you? Did you? Did you deny him to worship Mahomet?’ The inquisitor searched the expression in those eyes. ‘You desecrated His holy cross! You denied it!’ He was like a horse that has been on a long journey and now sees his own barn. ‘Confess to me! Confess now!’
Those pale grey eyes ran all to white as the pupils disappeared into the head.
The inquisitor slapped the man across the face. ‘Answer me!’
Breathing shallow breaths, the eyes rolled forward and the inquisitor was taken aback by their sudden, lucid regard. In this stare there was something reflected, something that recalled a strange triumph, even defiance.
The inquisitor was taken with a feeling of disquiet. Somewhere a cock crowed.
‘Yes . . .’ Jacques de Molay said into the space between them, as calmly as if he and the inquisitor had been having a polite conversation. ‘All those things do I confess.’
The inquisitor did not move. He stood bewildered as if the ground were shaking beneath him. Something in that voice had opened a chasm in his soul and he lifted his eyes with the realisation of it. What did he discern? The Grand Master seemed to be speaking not from pain, but rather, in spite of it.
William of Paris rubbed his face and paced the floor, sweeping the notary aside with a hand. After a moment of thought he walked back to his prisoner and stared hard at him. He stared hard and the harder he stared the less he understood. Had the hunter ignored the elk in order to snare the rabbit? Had he not asked the right questions? Without the right questions he could not receive the right answers . . . and so, to his mind a crucial matter in the entire interrogation had been overlooked . . . since there was something, after all, to be confessed. Something besides this paltry, half-hearted admission, but what?
The inquisitor stared once again and tried to enter into the mind of the man and suddenly the realisation came.
It came and with it a certainty.
In such a confession there lay a species of concealment.
22
SHROUD
And when Joseph had taken the body, he wrapped it in a clean linen cloth.
Matthew 27:59
Far off the bells of Saint-Merry, Saint Martin, Saint Eustace, Saint German-l’Auxerrois and Notre-Dame rang out as they lifted his damaged body and brought it down onto cold stone.