The inner guard opened the door and, giving an outward glance, said, ‘Very eminent Commander, we are indeed securely guarded.’
‘Knight-Priest and Second-in-Command, are we then prepared to open?’
‘Commander, the tabernacle is secure and we are prepared to open.’
The commander looked to his second-in-command. ‘From whence do we come?’
The second-in-command said, ‘From the land of darkness.’
‘Whither are we going?’
‘To the land of light.’
Bartholomew asked, ‘How shall we reach God?’
The Templars answered in unison, ‘Through level steps, square conduct and upright intentions.’
Bartholomew said, ‘In the east where the sun rises and west where it sets, in the north and south, let the heavens hear the yearning of man to unite his spirit with the spirits of the cosmos! We dedicate ourselves to this task! All give the sign of Determination.’
There was a rising of the left hand in unison and the sign was made.
‘All give the sign of Reprisal.’
The Templars drew their right hands across their breasts.
‘Those of high rank show their seals.’
‘I now declare this to be an open Tabernacle. Knight-priest and inner guard, inform the knight-priest and outer guard that the Tabernacle is open.’
After a moment of silence the commander spoke again, ‘We are now met as a chapter of the Temple at Tomar,’ he said, ‘and I have grave news . . . The messenger has just reached us from the King of Portugal. Some time ago the Grand Master of the Order, our leader Jacques de Molay, was seized and thrown into prison, along with the majority of our brothers in France.’
These words hung low over the men, who sat quiet and astonished. The shadows danced about on their faces and on the walls.
Marcus put his mind to it and closed his eyes. The sounds of the world stretched at him, flat and unnatural.
‘The King of Portugal supports us only a little, since he smells profit and sends his men to inspect our coffers in Lisbon. It is the end of the Order as it has been.’ He sat forward into the circle, one hand rubbing the line of his jaw set tight against the bones of his long, drawn-down face. ‘And the loss is great. If we are to save what we can from this tragedy then we must be wise . . . and so we shall this night pray for guidance.’ He looked around from man to man, lined by shadows, fitting them to his thoughts as he began the opening formula that resonated darkly and drifted out over the hills and to the distant sea as the men circled faith around them. The lamps flickered, moving the shadows. The shadows mocked and loomed. Familiar, mysterious words entered the long unbroken chain, the diaphanous chord that bound them in luminance and warmth of outpoured light.
Bartholomew raised his face then to the heavens beyond the chapter house. ‘Dear Lord, do not turn away from us, do not shun us in your anger! Almighty and everlasting God, who maketh us both to will and to do those things that be good and acceptable unto Thy divine majesty; we make our humble supplications unto Thee for we are Thy servants. Let Thy fatherly hand be over us, let Thy Son protect us, let Thy Holy Spirit whose light is the garment of the Holy Sophia, the mother of all mothers the wisdom of the cosmos, ever be with us and lead us to the knowledge and obedience of Thy word, that in the end we may obtain everlasting life through our Lord Jesus Christ, who with Thee and the Holy Spirit liveth and reigneth; ever, one God, world without end. Amen.’
Marcus was a feather in the wind, a spear poised and held. His life as a Templar was spent like a season – a season coming to its end.
I must face this dying without dying, this dead life, with blood in the veins . . .
A moment later the men were returned from the dream and Bartholomew leant forward with worried eyes and waited. No man could form lips around words since none had come by revelation.
‘The Lord does not answer our petition,’ Bartholomew said at last with a sigh, marking out the stillness with his breath. ‘Even so, this night we are to make decisions.’ There was another silence. ‘It is my estimation that we can do no other than surrender to the Bishop of Lisbon.’
Marcus put a hand to his brow. The light faded and flickered with the lamplight, and the darkness drew in and surrounded the room.
From the right came a voice, ‘The Lord will not answer cowards who look to surrender and will not fight.’ It was Anselm, an old knight from Leiria. He moved his bony face into the light, disfigured and pale before a yellow lamp. ‘The Temple shall spring back and we must see to it with our Lord’s help!’
The priest moved forward to rebuke Anselm’s intemperance, but Marcus stayed him with a hand. He grunted, moving his body back, his voice sharp and impatient, his face making slits of his eyes. ‘Brother Anselm, we are dead to the world . . .’ he said with a fierce eye, ‘we are deserted and left to spoil. Our leaders are imprisoned and our castles are desecrated. What decisions we make are our own. The light shall not this night descend upon us and give us guidance!’