Etienne knew he was right.
Jacques de Molay, in the habit of reading his mind, said into his ear, ‘What do you think of it, Etienne?’
Etienne searched for his answer. ‘There is a power in it . . . I have seen it shine and turn men’s hearts from holy things.’
Jacques de Molay closed his eyes as if preparing to pray. ‘Yes . . . it has that power . . . it has that power . . . and the Order has known it, but through the years it has forgotten and now we must face, dear brothers, the position in which we find ourselves, those of us who are loyal to the original intentions of our Order. A question has begun to ask itself in the wind, in the sea, in the sky, in my marrow it speaks. It wakes me from dreams and sweats through the pores of my skin.’ He opened his eyes and what the men saw there was close and somewhat wild. ‘What is the Temple’s function without a Crusade? Without the Holy Land?’
Etienne, whose life in Cyprus had given birth to such questions, looked out through the aperture and opened his mind to the thunder, waiting for the hidden messages that were striving to emerge from the spirit of the storm.
None came.
After a long moment the Grand Master let out a breath. ‘Why should Philip Capet not think the same? Why should he not ask himself this very question? Come now, brothers, like the other princes he is scratching for funds. His constant warring has him ruined. He has tried debasing the currency, but this proved unpopular, so he resorted to borrowing from the Lombards. Having exhausted their generosity he expelled them from France before he had to pay back the loans. He then borrowed to the hilt from the Jews and proceeded to burn so many of the poor wretches upon his little island that it is called the Island of the Jews! Now he is in deep to us, and when I refuse him more money, as I will, subsequent to every means being lost to him, will he not ask himself, What purpose does the Temple serve? Whosoever is Grand Master then, my brothers, shall not be master of his own house.’
Thunder shook the heavens beyond the walls of the old commandery. The brothers waited for the Grand Master to continue, but he did not. The rain stopped, from the window came the smell of wet stone and grass. Then, a sudden flapping of wings disturbed the concentrated waiting. A small bird entered through the aperture and was flying about the room. The mood became confused. The men moved here and there, avoiding the small thing whose panic-driven flutter left feathers floating down over them like snow. The Grand Master told them to stay still, that the bird had run away from the storm and was frightened. A moment later it landed upon the table, upsetting the parchments to the floor. The Grand Master made soothing noises to it and reached out with a hand. The bird pecked his finger and flew out into the storm.
The Grand Master laughed and held his finger to his mouth. ‘See that bird! Remarkable creature! It is able to navigate the world by using only its natural feeling for direction and distance. It soars above all things and seems unassailable, and yet it is not so clever that now and again it does not fly into an open aperture.’
There was a pause. Marcus shifted from one foot to the other and returned his Grand Master to the moment with a clearing of the throat. ‘For what you foretell to come true,’ he said, ‘Philip shall need the Pope’s agreement, and the Pope must defend us since we are his warriors.’
Jacques de Molay cast him an eye. ‘Must he? Popes, Marcus, are consumables for kings. Philip slanders them and denies them taxes. He kidnaps them and pays assassins to put them out of the way. Pope Clement . . . well, he is a Frenchman. That is one thing, but that we have enemies now . . . even in the Temple . . . perhaps in this very house? That is another.’ He fell silent and watchful. ‘In this house, my brothers . . . in our very bosoms.’ His eye passed lightly over Etienne to Ayme, who stared hard ahead, then to Marcus. He seemed to be listening for what lay in the soul of his men. His eyes came to rest then upon Ayme d’Oselier with particular intensity. ‘Thibaud,’ the Grand Master said to him, ‘was murdered because he was too eager for a Crusade . . . what does that tell you?’
Ayme shifted. Etienne and Marcus watched helpless as those words were brought out into the day to be looked at.
No man could think of words to say.
Outside the storm changed direction and a wind blew through the window. The Grand Master walked to the wooden shutter and closed it, casting them into gloom. Ayme went out to the guards and a moment later a sergeant brother, an Egyptian named Iterius, entered holding a torch and lit the lamps that were hung on brackets around the walls.
He turned his eyes to the three men and to the Grand Master he made a deep bow.