Tales of the Knights Templar (8 page)

“Come walk with us in the cloister garth, Eckhart,” Trevet insisted. “This is Nicholas the Second, who is bachelor this year and your new assistant.”

“The students call me Nicholas Minor.” the young friar laughed. “To distinguish me from our learned friend here.”

“As well as the last pope with that name,” Eckhart said, as the white-robed trio began their circuit of the roofed arcade. “I am pleased to see you again, Nicholas.”

“Then you remember me?”

“Oh, yes. You were pointed out to me by my former student, Tauler. He thought you showed promise.”

Nicholas lowered his eyes modestly. “Father Johannes is a very great preacher.”

“And a good judge of character. I am told he now preaches frequently in the Beguine houses.”

“The whole region is aflame with the Spirit,” Nicholas Minor said, his eyes alight. “Everywhere, people talk of God.”

“Not all the flames are metaphorical,” Trevet added somberly. “A growing number of bishops are less than pleased that these women and their male counterparts—Beghards, they call them—have taken it upon themselves to preach and teach, as well as to pray and perform their good works.”

“There are such controversies in Germany, also,” Eckhart said. “And increasing oppression, I fear. Earlier, Nicholas Major, you mentioned a woman from Hainaut. This is the Beguine who was executed here in Paris last year?”

“Ah, yes. That poor woman, Marguerite Porete. Another of Friar’s Guillaume’s forensic triumphs.”

“It was reported that she was convicted by the theological faculty.”

“And correctly reported, alas. Some of the brethren here concurred in that vote. Berengar of Landorra, for one.”

“He can be severe. But why was there “such a process at all? Surely the bishop of Paris—”

“Ah, but you see, the Beguine had previously submitted her little book to several theologians, Godfrey of Fontaines among them, God rest his mischievous soul. And Master Godfrey had approved it. He said her teaching was difficult, perhaps too rigorous for the simple souls for whom it was written, but without heretical intent or matter. In order for Friar Guillaume to obtain a conviction, Godfrey—who was inconveniently dead by then—would have to be overruled. It took twenty-four masters of theology to do it. But our pious brother and, I am told—” Trevet glanced around again and lowered his voice, “Nogaret himself, were able to convince them.”

“She never spoke,” Nicholas Minor added, “either to admit or to deny.”

“Even in the face of torture?”

“Even at the stake.”

For a moment Eckhart gazed through the drizzling mist into the garth. “She must have been steadied by God.”

“Or by the devil,” Trevet said. “Surely you are not a partisan of the Free Spirit, Eckhart.”

“Of freedom, yes, and of the Spirit—that, too, Master Nicholas. But not of heresy. Was she a heretic?”

“I have not seen the book. All copies were destroyed, it is said. But Berengar and the others who had been shown the extracts were of one mind in believing so.”

“Extracts? Did they not see the whole?”

“It is customary in such matters to prepare only a list of erroneous statements. Theologians are much too preoccupied to sort through hundreds of pages of straw looking for a single turd.” The older man winked. “The inquisitors prefer to use their own noses for that.”

“I would like to see this book, Nicholas.”

“So would I, my friend.”

In the brief lull that followed, Eckhart seemed to disappear into himself. Then the younger Nicholas asked, “Is it true that Nogaret is of Cathar stock?”

Trevet nodded. “Rumor has it that his grand-sire was burned in the Carcassonne. But Nogaret himself was reared in the true faith.”

A half-smile formed at the corners of Eckhart’s wide, generous mouth. “Perhaps. He has not proved himself overly kind to popes.”

“And yet he indulges the Inquisition and raises Guillaume to prominence,” Nicholas Minor objected. “Is this the act of a secret Cathar?”

“Ah, but consider, my young friend,” Trevet said. “How better to exact his revenge? Controlling the Inquisition is far more cunning than destroying such a marvelous weapon.”

“But how?”

The older friar smiled enigmatically. “By driving a wedge between the Inquisition and the pope. That would permit the king to dictate its policies and guide its actions through his good friend and confessor. Thanks to Nogaret, the Grand Inquisitor of France is in fact accountable more to the crown than to the weakling pope in his new palace at Avignon. Twice Clement attempted to censure Imbert over the Templar travesty, and even suspended him and everyone else connected with the original process. Nogaret quickly assured that it all came to nothing.”

Eckhart’s voice was low as he said, “This is distressing news, Nicholas.”

“As I said before, things have changed greatly since you were last here, Eckhart. The university has changed. Paris has changed. The world, I fear, has changed. Mostly for the worse.”

“What lives, changes, old friend,” Eckhart replied.

The gate bell sounded in the distance. A moment later, a lay brother approached.

“Pray forgive my intruding, masters,” he said, kissing the hem of his black scapular to ask pardon. “But there is a ragged student at the gate seeking Friar Eckhart. Shall I send him away?”

“No, Brother. Never neglect to show hospitality to strangers—”

“For some have thus entertained angels unawares,” Trevet concluded with a sanctimonious wink.

Robert delivered the message while eyeing the spacious interior of the priory grounds through the wicket gate.

“From Hochheim?” Eckhart repeated. “Are you sure?”

“I am sure. Later, a sergeant of the guard said he was a Templar. Could that be true? He has a scar on his face and only one good eye.”

Eckhart gazed at the boy stolidly for a moment. “Yes, it could be true. Tell him I will be in the church.”

Robert touched his forehead in salute and disappeared into the mist and rain, leaving Eckhart staring after him.

“Graf Friedrich?” he murmured aloud.

The pilgrim was no longer at the Blue Coquille when Robert returned, hurrying so as to reach his lodgings before the Maci bell tolled. The patrons regarded him coolly and the tavern-keeper quickly showed him the door again. He did not linger to inquire further about his benefactor.

3

It took several moments for the shock of recognition to pass.

“We have both grown old,” Eckhart said at last, from the relative seclusion of the arched colonnade in the north aisle.

“The years have been kinder to you since we parted at Erfurt—you for the Preaching Friars, I to win my spurs and make a great name for myself.”

“I received word in Cologne that you had entered the Poor Knights of Christ,” Eckhart said.

“It is a long story.”

Eckhart surveyed the merchant’s simple but finely tailored clothes.

“Your young messenger said you were a pilgrim.”

“The pilgrim went on his way to Compostella. I regret having to shave my beard! But it was no longer safe, thanks to that false Beghard in the tavern. Paris crawls with proponents of the Free Spirit.”

“Some say there are Templars about as well. Come.”

Eckhart led the way through the church to the chapel of the Passion, where they could speak more freely.

“You are at risk, then?” Eckhart asked.

“I signed no confession, nor renounced my vows.” Friedrich gazed up at the outstretched arms of the dying Christ. “In the Rhineland, the Order was declared innocent. But here, my very life is at stake.”

“Why have you jeopardized it to visit me, Friedrich? Not out of old friendship, I trust.”

“I need your help. I must gain entrance to the Temple. I am sure that Jakob von Molay is imprisoned there. I must see him.”

“The Grand Master? He is known to you?”

“We served together in the Holy Land for ten years. But this is not a personal visit, Eckhart.”

Years spent negotiating difficult diplomatic assignments alerted the friar to the nuance of mission.

“I am told it is under royal protection. How could I help?”

“The Inquisitor General, Imbert—is he not known to you?”

“He is a son of this priory. We lived here together when I incepted and during my first regency. He was a lector then. Aymeric, too.”

“I have heard that your Master Aymeric resigned rather than grace the perfidious council with his presence.”

“It was a difficult choice. But the pope had sworn that he would be deposed and penanced if he did not comply.”

“A brave man. We will need such in Vienne!” Friedrich crossed himself emphatically. “But this—this dog-hearted son of perdition, Imbert … could he grant permission to enter the Temple?”

“Perhaps,” Eckhart replied. “If he
would,
which is another matter.”

“Will you ask him?”

Eckhart looked long and soberly at his childhood friend. “Very well. But it will not be easy. I shall have to find a cause.”

“May God assist you! It was criminal, Eckhart. They put them to the test—knights, priests, serving brothers. … Even the pope protested at first—feebly—until his compliance was required by the king. Or should I say ‘purchased’?”

“Strong words, Friedrich.”

“It is true, Eckhart. By my oath!”

“‘To drink and swear like a Templar,’ they say. Very well, come back in two days at this time.”

4

“Not many ask to see Guillaume these days,” the prior said, as he guided Eckhart to the Inquisitor’s apartment. Because of the incessant drizzle, they took the indoor route through the refectory and kitchen. “Nor does he often admit visitors. But he declared interest in seeing you as soon as it was known that you were returning. He seems to set some store by your old friendship.”

“I could not claim that we were friends,” Eckhart said. “He was always a mystery to me.”

“He is a mystery to us all. Without question, his favor with the king has benefited the priory materially. But I fear it has also earned us the fear and enmity of many ordinary people.”

The Inquisitor’s rooms were situated opposite the School of St. Thomas, across the lower courtyard but near enough to the kitchens to provide easy access, as well as to the service gate and, beyond it, the city gate of Saint-Michel.

“‘Tis an embarrassment and an affront to common life to have him thus sequestered,” the prior complained as they entered a short corridor. “But necessary, all things considered. Guillaume’s presence had a chilling effect on the student brothers in particular, when he came to choir or the refectory. Not that we saw much of him in those early years of his appointment. His interrogation of the Templars required extensive travel.”

He rapped sharply on a heavy oaken door at the end of the corridor.

“Entrez!”
cried a thin, metallic voice from within.

“I will leave you now, Eckhart,” the prior whispered. “Surely some business must require my attention … elsewhere.”

Oiled parchment had been placed over the windows as if it were already winter, so that the large anteroom where the aged friar sat hunched over a writing table, wrapped in his cloak and a fur mantle, appeared dark and somber. There was a chill in the close air.

“Salve, Frater,”
Eckhart said.

Guillaume Imbert lifted his hawklike face and squinted against the light that flooded into the room behind the visitor.

“Ach, Bruder Eckhart,”
he said in Thuringian.
“Wilkommen.”

He rose with some difficulty and approached the larger man, with whom he exchanged the ritual
pax
—the embrace of peace. Eckhart noted the deep lines in the old man’s face, the red webbing in his eyes, the scaly flush on his throat and jaw.

“It has been a long time,” the Grand Inquisitor said, waving Eckhart to a chair and resuming his own perch. “We are honored to have you back with us. Greatly honored.”

“It is a pleasure to be relieved of administrative duties even for a while.” Eckhart laughed. “Perhaps now I can return to my
magnum opus.
I have only managed to write three introductory passages in three years.”

“It is a crucifixion, Eckhart. A bleak, endless martyrdom.”

Silence returned to the tomblike chamber. Out of the corner of his eye, Eckhart glimpsed mounds of documents, stacks of books, scrolls, seals, and wax. But no flame.

“Do you lack for fire, Wilhelm?”

“No! No fire!” the old man almost shouted. “I—I dislike fire.”

“Friar Nicholas, the Englishman, expressed some concern that you are becoming unwell.”

Imbert dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand. “Trevet is an old woman. It’s only the ravages of age, Eckhart. And work.”

“It is very taxing, then, this work of yours.”

“I can see that you do not approve. But it was necessary, Eckhart. These are treacherous times. When even the pope …” His voice trailed off.

“There is also some concern, Wilhelm, that the Holy Inquisition is being sundered from the arm of the church. Master Aymeric—”

“Aymeric! Mark me, Eckhart—his desperate flight from responsibility will have no effect whatsoever on the outcome of the council. The fate of the Templars is already decided.”

“Perhaps. But his resignation will nevertheless have a pronounced effect on our own Order.”

“No doubt. But it will not matter much in the end. Nothing, I fear, matters much in the end. And to be honest, I no longer have much to do with the case of the Templars. There have been other … matters to attend to.”

“Such as the Beguine who was burned last year?”

“Beghards and Beguines! We have had too much of these sanctimonious packrats who would teach theology to masters and prelates!” The Inquisitor tilted his head back and peered sharply at Eckhart through narrow, reddened eyes.

“But are not the Beguines of Paris under the protection of our own prior and the king himself?”

“Bah. It is not those behind the walls of the great Beguinage that concern me, but the itinerants. Most are no doubt partisans of the Free Spirit. Heretics all.”

“How can you be sure? In Cologne and Strassburg—”

“Because it is my
duty!
” Imbert shouted.