Charles of Valois was obviously perplexed. He knitted his brows and gave a slight evasive nod.
‘To that end, Valois,’ added the Pope, ‘I reserve the right to see Jacques de Molay and the chiefs of the Order so that I may, thereby, later find myself in a better position to judge the Order by their conduct. I wish them to come to Chinon.’
‘Chinon?’
It was expected that Clement would ask to see the leaders of the Order. The ordinary knights were one thing, but the chiefs of the Order were another thing entirely. His curia, the Romans and the Spaniards, would not be satisfied to see just the ordinary knights. They suspected torture to be at the back of the confessions and knew that the leaders would be more confident in recanting them into their friendly ears. Philip, on the other hand, was now encouraging it, for two reasons. He knew that if the leaders recanted, his French cardinals could use it against them.
A confession was one thing, it signalled a desire for the soul to be reconciled to God and to the Church. But a retraction of that confession, a recanting, signalled that dissent had taken deeper root and lay unrepentant and stubborn in the soul. Such men were seen as relapsed heretics, men beyond the Church, and were handed over to the King for burning. On the other hand, a confirmation of their confessions could only speed up the condemnation of the entire Order and this would put pressure on Clement to bring forward the general council. Either way Philip would have his blood and Clement could stand to lose his advantage.
But Clement had anticipated it and knew how to circumvent the entire affair. After all, he was an expert at prevarication, his only tool. He would feign illness and instead of going to Chinon himself he would send three cardinals. They would return to him with their opinions as to the innocence or guilt of the Templar leaders, the efficacy of which he would need to deliberate before making his own decision on the matter. And since he would make a decree that no man need be examined again after being examined by a cardinal, he would not be in a position to do so and would be forced, on the pains of his conscience, to withhold his decision until the pontifical commission came to its end . . . years from now . . . Time would bend Philip to his will.
Once again he must dance among thorns.
The pontiff could see that the count sensed something in the air, but his lack of political intelligence prevented him from seeing these evasions. ‘I shall have the leaders of the Order sent to you, your Holiness,’ he said.
‘I will leave it to you, Charles.’ The Pope gave a benevolent smile.
Charles de Valois bowed deeply. ‘There is one more thing, your Holiness,’ he dared to say.
‘One more thing?’ The Pope raised an annoyed brow.
‘There is the matter of Monsieur de Nogaret . . . and his excommunication.’
‘What of it?’
‘The King wishes him absolved, your Holiness.’
‘Well, the King wishes for the impossible!’ Clement said, more flustered than he felt.
‘Your Holiness,’ Valois said softly, ‘it does not fare well for a king to have an excommunicate as Keeper of his Seals.’
Clement shrugged. ‘Philip should mind the company he keeps, then!’ Stifling a belch he said, ‘The man is a devil! For goodness’ sake, Valois! He tried to kidnap a pope! How would it look if I absolved such a thing?’
‘If your Holiness will pardon me . . . but Boniface was a heretic, a whoremonger and a sodomite. And so, your Holiness, the King wishes his bones exhumed and burnt.’
‘The King, my dear Valois, cannot have everything he wants! I shall look at the charges against Boniface . . . etcetera... etcetera . . . but on Nogaret, I will not bend.’
Valois hesitated and then made a deferential bow of the head and a sweep of the hand. ‘Your sublimity.’
‘Now away with you, my dear Count. I expect a swift reply.’
The man kissed his ring, bowed once again and left.
When Clement was alone he could not escape the voice of Pope Boniface in his ear, ‘Vain, deplorable coward! The Devil take your soul!’
32
THE HERBALIST
We have been among the stars and among the Spirits of the stars and have found the old teachers of the occult knowledge.
Rudolf Steiner, THE TIME OF TRANSITION
July 1308
It had taken Etienne and his men seven months to travel along the ancient route that led through the mountains on a slow journey through steep gorges and narrow valleys. Summer had made a pleasant day that hung blue and cool among the clouds and now they were paused south of the river to rest until dark, when they would continue their journey.
Etienne was unwell.
The wound in his side had closed over after they had left that ill-fated house of the Order, but it had opened soon after to reveal a deep, ulcerous, foul-smelling hollow that would not mend. Now struck with fever, it had taken all his strength to come off the horse and lay himself beneath a tree while Jourdain set off to fetch wood and the mercenaries took themselves up the river to catch fish. In the meantime, this outburst of inactivity meant that Etienne’s illness, kept restrained by a concentrated force of will, now began its proper task, so that he lay with his head aching and in his side a pain that travelled to his jaw and to his fingertips, burning blood through his veins.