The Seal(57)

Bartholomew raised a brow and made a study of him. ‘Are we forsaken then, Commander Marcus?’

Marcus looked down to his hands, turning them over. They moved in a tremor. ‘We are left bare, Brother Bartholomew,’ he said, holding them, ‘and we stand alone.’

Bartholomew was puzzled and sad, ‘How may we be forsaken?’

‘It is so,’ said Marcus, looking into the man’s eyes with such sternness that the other man, finding his strength lacking, flinched.

‘It is not in my blood to surrender,’ Bartholomew said, looking away from him to the others, ‘but our Grand Master has admonished that we not shed blood needlessly . . . We must try to reach an arrangement with the King of Portugal.’

‘This is what has brought the Temple to its end!’ said Peter of Nazare, between snatched breaths. ‘We are not strangers to blood! We vow it to Christ and spill it for His holy soil, forsaken or not!’

The white-robed knights, the black sergeants and brown-robed brothers stared and nodded and spoke among themselves. Where their seasoned faces were touched by light they looked like blank pages.

The night deepened.

‘It has been the same in Spain,’ Bartholomew said, ‘where James is in sympathy with the Temple. The King of Portugal shall see he must support us or else risk losing our holdings either to the Pope or to the Hospital.’

Peter interjected, ‘But we are not guaranteed safe passage. How may we reckon what must pass between a king and his conscience? What is to tell he will not buckle under the threat of excommunication? Tortures and deprivations shall be visited upon us as they are visited upon our brothers in France!’

There was a hum of voices.

Bartholomew was impatient. ‘A knight lives not according to his will but by the will of Christ, which is the same as the rule. Marcus has our orders from the Grand Master. We are not to fight to the death. It stands to reason that there must be some of us who shall live to refute these lies they tell, this malicious slander.’

‘Brothers!’ Peter cried out above their voices. ‘All is futile while our leader lies rotting in a jail in France. We must regain our former sovereignty and to do it we must elect a Grand Master who is not afraid to do battle!’

Now the chapter house came alive with the voices of brothers one against the other. Bartholomew stood; a look of pain and fatigue scowled his brow.

Andrew, next to Marcus, poked his head into the lustre of lamplight and yelled out, ‘Blasphemy!’

The chaplain moved forward. ‘No heated words, Brother Andrew. The rule demands that we are mannerly and peaceable.’

‘I am too old for manners, and have seen too much war to be peaceable!’ He was panting with anger. ‘What Peter says goes against the rule of our Order! The Grand Master lives and while he is alive he will remain our leader! We may not disobey him!’

Bartholomew raised his hand. ‘There will be silence!’ he said, glancing his eye about, letting it fall on Peter before continuing. ‘Our Grand Master was elected by vote, and while he lives it is the rule that we must obey his Orders, as our brother Andrew has said, for nothing is dearer to Christ than obedience!’

This awareness made a silence.

‘Now, we shall face matters at hand!’ Bartholomew said. ‘In this region we are less than ninety men . . . the bishop sends soldiery to treble our own. They arrive tomorrow, the next day . . .’ He worked his face to counter the emotion that his lips let loose. ‘Who knows? We must, therefore, make a move for the gold, which is held at Atouguia. The commander has communication from the Grand Master to do so. This means also the charters and the archives . . .’ He paused, gathering his thoughts. ‘We shall be given some privileges here. We shall be allowed to answer our case before the bishops. That is what we shall do and then we shall wait and we shall see. The Pope will come to our aid since the arrests were made without legality. In the meantime most of the fleet is gone and heads for Scotland to the bosom of its prince, Robert. The Grand Master has commanded that Marcus take the archives, charters and what is left of the gold used as ballast, on the Eagle of St John, to safety, until this blows over.’

There was a murmur. Marcus looked out of the window. His throat was dry and he made to cough but it came out like a rasp and nothing more.

Bartholomew’s face grew weary, weighed down, as if up till now it had been held up by the sheer effort of a will that was spent.

Peter of Nazare stood. ‘I do not concur! To take the gold and charters to Scotland! This will lose them from the Order forever! Jacques de Molay has forsaken his voice since he was made Grand Master by deceit!’