The Seal(8)

Ayme d’Oselier stared ahead stiffly and would not meet his eye.

The Grand Master turned and stood facing his men fondly and then his expression was once more grave. ‘We have been summoned to Poitiers . . . Raimbaud, Preceptor of Cyprus, has already left and awaits us there . . . It is said the King puts pressure on Pope Clement and once again there is to be a discussion on a union   of the Orders. The Templar Order and the Hospitallers, I have argued, have different tasks, but Clement has asked that I form a defence for my opinions and I have been composing a letter, with great difficulty.’ He smiled. ‘It has been long since I have had to set down my thoughts on parchment. I am afraid that I am not eloquent. I have called you to hear your thoughts . . .’

Marcus made a gesture, a tremble on the left side of the face that pulled it as if by a string – a relic of the knife wound to his face at Acre. He shifted his feet and his voice sounded as though it came through gravel. ‘For my part, Jacques, I hear an old line. King Philip has ever seen himself like his grandfather, leading a Crusade. His vanity tells him that in a united Order he may find a way to make himself Grand Master . . . but what good is a Grand Master who is a coward and will never set foot on a field of battle?’

Jacques de Molay nodded, pensive. After a moment he began. ‘A coward with many friends can be made suddenly brave.’ He looked at them, measuring his next words. ‘This day I have had a terrible revelation.’ He waited to hear their silence, then he stared out to sea again. ‘While prostrate before the sacred space, contemplating our Lord’s sacrifice, I was taken up into a dream. In this dream the banner of the Order is consumed by flames and I see the face of the King, Philip Capet.’ He returned his gaze to them. ‘And I am among that burning banner, I am consumed by fire.’

Silence swept the room and darkness began to settle over the men. Marcus’s teeth worried his lip, Ayme’s head dug into his chest.

Etienne had expected something and now it was clear what he must say. ‘Such a dream counsels you to caution, and you must refrain from going to Poitiers. It is a portent of peril.’

‘From Philip Capet?’ The marshal sniggered next to him, drawing himself upwards. ‘He is a great one for threats and promises, but to prove peril to the Order . . . I’ll not believe it.’

The Grand Master turned a bland eye upon his marshal. ‘Our Lord has revealed it in a dream, would you not believe Him?’

‘But Jacques,’ Marcus began, all polite restraint, ‘I myself have dreamt of a burning fire that was caused by the heat of fever!’

The Grand Master’s eyes grew sharp then, recalling their old way, and his voice was loud. ‘Do not mistake me! There is a burning fire in my heart and in my head, and it lingers still! With these eyes open I see the Beauseant of the Order burning!’ He seemed larger, and the day grew dark around him as if he drew strength from the light itself. He pounded his fist upon the table. ‘I see the flesh melting from my bones!’ He trembled. ‘I am not dreaming now!’

The moment passed and nothing in his face revealed his momentary loss of control. He was once more calm, his face open and contemplative. He searched for the chair and sat down.

Etienne saw the storm light, infused with pink, play softly on the scars, silver-grey over his bearded face. It fell on a heavy oak table and on the parchments scattered there, reflecting on a short knife, a pot of black ink, a quill.

When those eyes touched upon Etienne’s the exchange they provoked was disconcerting and strange. ‘Tell me, Etienne, since I have only just returned from England, how do matters stand at Famagusta?’

Etienne took a moment. ‘Famagusta is undersoldiered and what men we have lack heart.’

‘And the island?’

‘This place is full of spies,’ Marcus broke in. ‘Philip has his men listening at doors. The King of Cyprus does not trust us!’

‘Are these your thoughts, Etienne?’

Etienne made himself calm. ‘That is so.’

Jacques de Molay sighed. ‘Things are no better, then?’

Ayme grunted, clearly dissatisfied.

‘Marshal?’ Jacques de Molay turned to him. ‘You think differently?’

‘This is not my estimation.’

‘Is it not?’ Marcus fired off. ‘Come now, Marshal! You know the merchants have the King’s ear and they bend it to their purpose! It would suit them too well to see us gone so the Syrian trade can be brought here.’

Jacques gave Marcus a look. ‘All is trade, profit and gold these days, and we would be foolish not to look at the realities that face us. Even if the Pope calls for a new Crusade, which could mean the end of this stalemate in which we find ourselves, even then it is my belief that the European princes will not look on it, since they are overspent from warring and it will seem to them foolery to spend money they do not have on a Crusade that will bring disorder to their trade! The bankers of our Order wish to encourage us more and more to behave fittingly . . .’ His eyes fell upon Ayme d’Oselier. ‘They wish us warriors to behave like bankers. I am not a learned man, but I was a man of God long before I was given a bank to run. Now God speaks in my head, in my heart and in my bones, and He tells me that we may not profit from His gold!’ He stood then, straightening his shoulders square, and moved towards Marcus and Etienne until he was standing between them. ‘Too long has our sweet Saviour been from our sight, my brothers, and what is left to our memory lives in the pale image that shines to us from gold.’