The Seal(87)
Fool, de Plaisians thought indifferently, you are on my territory now, we shall see if it is not equally arduous. He looked down at the man. What good is your zeal and your arrogance to you now that you are merely a broken body with vacant eyes and benumbed mind, soon to be a carcass on a pyre? Will God save the Grand Master of the Order of the Temple of Jerusalem? Will He draw you from out of the flames to show mankind the injustice of your sentence?
Guillaume de Plaisians did not believe in God, and without Him everything was permissible. He simply obeyed the laws of his Church as an animal obeys an instinct necessary for its survival. He chose what he wanted to believe, and if he believed in anything at all, it was in the rules of efficacy. After all, he was a creature of the court, a man of the real world, and such a man knew that it was necessary to neglect virtues that might lead him to ruin, and practice vices that might bring him security and prosperity – and naturally so. Would Hannibal have amassed so many admirable achievements if not for his inhuman cruelty? Cruelty – alas! – was a necessity to a strong man. How else was one to keep one’s head above the dung heap?
At that moment his attention turned to the Grand Master; the man was complaining that he could not argue a defence because he was a prisoner of both the Pope and the King and had no money to finance his purposes.
‘Not even four denarii,’ he told his judges.
The Bishop of Paris leant forward and replied, ‘I wish you to understand, Monsieur de Molay, that in a case at law concerning heresy and the faith, we are to proceed in a fashion that is straightforward and unceremonious, without the clamour and formality of lawyers and judges.’
The Grand Master became silent; he seemed unable to keep his head still for it moved in a series of jerks that travelled down his shoulders to his hands. He stood with difficulty since his feet were disfigured. ‘I must then, sires,’ he resumed, ‘reconcile myself and my men to a trial where we may present no defence, where only those who accuse us have lawyers at their disposal!’
The archbishop clapped his hands decisively. ‘Strike that out!’ he told his notaries and moved his expressionless face to the Grand Master. ‘Clerk, read this man his confession to the cardinals at Chinon, out loud, so that he might hear how, with his own mouth, he has condemned his Order . . .’
De Plaisians smiled as he heard the articles of confession and watched an astonishment surface over the Grand Master’s face comparable to the surfacing of stars from the depths of an early evening sky.
Suddenly the Templar made the sign of the cross in front of his face, haggard and puckered by torment, and spat a wad of phlegm at the ground. ‘The Devil!’ he roared, shaking his head and jerking his arms. ‘Lies! Lies! Saracens and Tartars cut off the heads of liars and sinners and split them down the middle, and as I have risked my blood in the service of Christ by spilling the blood of the enemy, so will it be my pleasure to bring about such a fate to befall men who lie before God, before king, before all men living!’
De Plaisians narrowed his eyes and raised one brow. The Templar was threatening to follow infidel custom, he was calling cardinals of the Church liars. It was almost too advantageous!
Upon his throne Gilles Aicelin, Archbishop of Narbonne, frowned. Allowing his taciturn, bitter, irascible gaze to fall on the man from his great height he cautioned, ‘Persistent recanting heretics are given up to the secular arm, Monsieur de Molay. I suggest you calm yourself or we shall have no recourse than to cart you off at once to the pyre, for you are at each moment implicating yourself most adequately.’
The Grand Master cast his eye around like a drowning man looking for a saving hand and his gaze fell upon de Plaisians. The lawyer sat forward, experiencing a deep sense of satisfaction that was tempered only by the tense expectation that a hunter feels on sighting his prey; will it remain, grazing on the dewy grass, or will it flee nimbly away from sight? As he watched, the Templar gave a sigh of relief that was mingled with a certain familiarity. Guillaume nodded his head at once, and raised his brows in a friendly gesture.
‘I . . . I . . . s-see a friend is here . . .’ the Grand Master said,
‘if it would please your honours, I might converse with Guillaume de Plaisians, for I fear I am in need of counsel . . .’
De Plaisians stood, happy to display his influence in the presence of the commissioners and his master Nogaret. ‘If we may?’ he asked cordially.
The commissioners looked from one man to the other. They seemed partly annoyed and partly puzzled, taken com¬pletely by surprise by the strange request. In the end, however, they acquiesced. What harm could it do? The Templar was plainly losing his mind.