The Seal(74)

His eyes stared into Etienne’s a moment and in that stare Etienne observed the spirit of the blade of grass and the spirit of the tree and the spirit of the sky and cloud and river, and all of it seemed to speak of wide spaces and heavenly distances, as if his life had only been a dream and only now was he awake and flying up to the heights to see it. All things lay spread out before him: the waves of cloud that gathered around the peaks of the high cliffs of the mountains, throwing their long shadows on the world; the river running, foaming and rolling over polished rocks; the meadow, covered in purple flowers that stretched towards the line of fir trees. Scarcely had he time to think on it than he saw himself a youth full of fresh notions and unspent years. In the old man’s eyes he observed it, therefore; the young man and the old man who looked upon him as he, now and again, observed Jourdain.

‘No,’ Etienne said to him and dropped a speck of a glance, a fidget of the eye, towards the seal. ‘The wound shall not be my end after all. I thank you.’

The man got up stiffly, as if his bones were hinged and rusty and creaking. ‘I will go, for nature is old and revelation is young . . .’ He threw the item he had been weaving into Etienne’s lap.

It was a cross.

‘The sword will be forgotten one day,’ the old man said to him, ‘but the memory of the cross will live, not as it does now, the black cross of death, but a living cross entwined with roses.’ He looked at Etienne. ‘Some day!’ Then he took himself to his mule and went on his way and a moment later – it seemed to Etienne as short as a passing thought – the mercenaries returned with fish and Jourdain with wood and the world was restored to what it had been.

In his side the herb worked its potent magic and Etienne, suffering exhaustion of his mind and of his flesh, was lulled into a dream of Puivert, and the rough-hewn cross surrounded by roses outside the old woman’s hut of stone. He became one with it, feeling it the dead wood of his body and the roses of his soul.

After that he fell into a deep sleep.





33


THE TREASURER

To what do you not drive human hearts, cursed craving for gold!

Virgil, AENEID


Paris, December 1308

John of Tours II leant over his books in the pale light of a large horizon of vaulted space dissolving in darkness. The new Temple treasury was vast, labyrinthine, and cold. A fire had been lit in the hearth but it ill warmed the space where sat the treasurer, and every now and then he had to stamp his feet and rub his hands to prevent them from going numb.

It was Sunday, a day of rest for the Dominicans, and so it was possible to work without the repertoire of screams and wails that flowed over the winding stairs, around the vaults of the treasury, and through tunnels filled with strapped oak, beech boxes, barrels and coffers. These sounds swung around corners and made their way to his ears, causing him to mislay his thoughts and stain his ledger with ink blots. Today there was tranquillity and still his hands were shaking. He paused a moment to calm himself. How long before he too would suffer similar horrors? And yet, it seemed to him that this game of show and tell he played with the King’s assessors was possessed of its own peculiar torment, since each day drew him closer and closer to that inevitable and painful end which he could no longer delay. It was the price he would pay for being the only man who understood the complex workings of the Temple ledgers.

Sounds echoed to him from other rooms where worked the King’s notaries. He made a stretch at his back and bent to his work – he must keep himself busy. He must note and categorise and duplicate, add up, subtract and multiply. Today he would face the dragon. He would give a report to the King on all revenues from Templar preceptories and deposits from crowned heads, independent cities and states. There were donations to the Temple to be accounted for, securities against loans to be adjusted, papal taxes to be reckoned, and rents collected from the properties on behalf of rich lords to be reconciled.

The Temple in Paris was the only lending body in France and thereby the only repository for moneys, wills, titles, deeds, treaties, charters, and the safe storage of jewels and other valuables. It proceeded without self-interest and, unlike its predecessors, it was scrupulous, honest and efficient. Most importantly it was impartial and international. Only the Order of Christ could serve the kings of France and England – who warred with one another – simultaneously without conflict or suspicion. Surely it was the greatest bank in the world? Tears came into his eyes and threatened to land on his books.

He wiped them away and dipped his quill in ink and continued to describe perfect numerals in neatly ruled margins. What would Philip say when he found out that the greatest bank in the known world was not rich – not in the usual sense? He cast his gaze into the darkened corners and over the coffers that contained the meticulous records of the Paris Temple.