The Seal(7)

‘I was at chapter, Jourdain, I am aware of the particulars. She may be his mother, but she is also a woman. He has broken the rule twice therefore: to look upon a woman is a dangerous thing, be it widow, young girl, mother, sister, aunt or any other; a knight is to remain eternally before the face of God with a pure conscience and sure life.’ Etienne gave him a significant look. ‘In providing food for the woman from the larder he has transgressed a second rule. Remind him that one-tenth of all food is given each day to the almoner, whose duty it is to see that it reaches the needy. Tell Brother Alphonse to pray and ask our Lord for His forgiveness. The decision of the chapter, however, is accomplished and what is accomplished cannot be revoked. Tomorrow he shall lose his mantle and his privileges and for six months he shall eat his food from the floor. That is the decision.’

The captain made a slight gesture, a glance with the eyes and turned to go.

Etienne sighed. ‘Jourdain?’

The young man turned again and Etienne saw something in his face.

‘Tell him if he endures the punishment with steadfastness he shall soon be wearing his white mantle, for God is merciful. Then go to the almoner, see to it that he finds the woman . . . tell him to give her part of my ration.’

There it was again, just like that! It seemed to Etienne that the moment he was close to understanding the language of Jourdain’s face, the look was flown away.

He narrowed his eyes. ‘You are thinking something, Jourdain?’

The captain looked down. ‘It is only this, Etienne . . . if you will permit me to say . . . Aristotle once said that a virtuous action should bring pleasure to the soul . . . I only ever see it bring you pain.’

Etienne was used to this young man’s strange thoughts and even stranger ways, for his father had been a man of great learning whose donations to the Temple for his immortal soul had not only included all of his estates but also his only child. Etienne sighed, the boy meant well. ‘There is no provision for pleasure in the rule, Jourdain, as you know . . . Now I am in a hurry and you must see to your duties,’ he said, but his voice was not without warmth.

The young captain gave a nod and Etienne continued on his way with disquiet in his heart. Such was the Order of the Temple in Cyprus, he thought, underwarred and unwound, loose in habit and in will, so that each day there was a new thing to think of, a new transgression to punish. Soon those who were penitent would outweigh those who were constant, and he wondered how the Order could battle the numerous outward perils that pressed in upon it from all sides, when its mind was turned inward to lick its own wounds.

He found that he was standing before two sergeant brothers whose task it was to guard the Grand Master’s cell. He held his face together with frown and stern lip and put away these concerns and prepared to enter the room with a calm heart.

He showed the outer guards his ring and they nodded and ushered him in.

The inner guard was released and he entered the room.

Inside stood Marcus, these days made Grand Commander of the Order. Beside him the marshal, Ayme d’Oselier, holding himself in as tight as an overwound lute that at any moment would let loose its strings.

Both men were surrounded by an activity of the soul that burdened the air in the cell. Etienne was given a notion and a thought came to him.

This looks like a council of war.

Jacques de Molay, in contrast, was full of grave serenity. He stood by the window, dressed in white mantle and chain mail with hands crossed behind him, staring outwards to a black sky and beyond with his face into the breeze. Rain fell upon the stone of the floor at his feet and was lit by reflections of gold that, coming from below a cloud, communicated something too important to be interrupted. There was a flash, the room filled with light and died away.

The cell was sparse. A chair, a table crosswise the window, with a rough wooden cross above it were all the adornment.

How the man has changed since Acre!

As Etienne thought this, Jacques half turned to him. He was thin-lipped, his mouth relaxed and brow cut straight across, bridging eyes that were no longer furrowed. Those eyes did not look sharply at the world, but had loosened their hold these last years. They no longer darted here and there; they were unguarded, contemplative, and what was beyond, perfectly revealed and acknowledged. To Etienne he looked like a dying tree, naked in the light that threw his shadow less big and drew his shoulders in.

‘Etienne,’ he said.

‘My Lord,’ Etienne gave a bow.

He turned once more to the window. ‘We have waited. It is beautiful, this storm and that sky!’

Etienne took a glance beside him. Marcus raised a brow as if to say, ‘I know no more than you.’