The Last Templar (2 page)

He brushed aside another tear and walked listlessly through the crowds, his face set and glowering in his fear and worry. He peered at the stalls of the market for some minutes without really taking in the wares, until he found that his aimless strolling had brought him back to the platform, and he turned to stand more squarely in front of it, standing as if challenging it to allow the charade to go ahead, challenging it to permit the Order to be destroyed.

It loomed like a gallows in front of him, a great wooden construction with fresh timbers that shone as the sun caught it. At one side a series of steps led up to the flooring above. As he gazed at it he suddenly shivered. He could feel the evil almost as a force - not the evil of his Order, it was the evil of this ugly stage upon which he and his friends would be denounced. Somehow he could feel now that it would be pointless even to hope. There could be no reconciliation, no resumption of past glories. The sensation washed over him, as if before he had not truly been aware of the depths to which the Order had fallen, as if he had kept a small glimmer of hope alive through the last hard years that the Order could be saved but now, here, at last even this tiny flickering flame had died, and he could feel the despair like the pain of a sword wound in his belly.

The platform held his horrified attention. It seemed to symbolise the absolute failure of the Temple as it stood stolid and unwavering in front of him, as if it mocked the transient nature of the Order’s honour when compared with its own strength to destroy it. This was no place of confession, it was a place of execution; it was the place where his Order would die. All that he and the thousands of other knights had stood for would die at last - here, today. As the realisation sank in, it seemed physically to hit him, making him suddenly shudder as if from a blow. There was no protection, no defence against the implacable tide of accusations that would destroy them all. It was inevitable; the Temple’s absolute destruction could be the only result.

But even as he realised it, even as he felt the finality of it, the certainty, he felt the hope struggling again within his breast, trying to break free of the shackles of despair that bound him so rigidly.

He was so engrossed in his own misery that he did not notice at first when the noise of the crowd changed. There was shouting, then jeers, from the mob as the convicted men were led forward, but it soon died down to a subdued murmuring, as if the people all around recognised the awesome implications of the occasion. The hush grew until the square was almost silent, the crowds standing and waiting for the men as they were led forward, the leading actors in this sad drama. The men were not in full view of the witness yet, they had not arrived at the stage, but he could tell that they were coming by the way that the people in the crush in front of the platform started to jostle, pushing and shoving to get a clearer view. Meanwhile, more people came into the square and tried to force their way forwards, attracted by the sudden quiet and increased movement. He found himself having to control his fury, smothering his anger that these common men and women should push against
him,
a knight, but soon the sight in front made him forget all about the people around him.

Over the heads of the crowds he could just make out the four figures as they were pushed and manhandled up the small gantry to the floor of the platform. Then, at a sudden almost tangible heightening of tension in the crowd, he stared, feeling a rush of optimism buoy his spirits. They were all wearing their robes! It was the first time in the long years since the thirteenth of October in thirteen hundred and seven that he had seen men wearing their Templar uniforms; could this mean that they were to be reinstated? He leaned forward with a surge of renewed hope, his mouth open as he strained to see their faces, the desperate wish for the Order’s recovery tightening his features, the desire an almost exquisite pain.

But then even that last dream was dashed, leaving him feeling empty and broken in his dejection. The quick lifting of his spirits fell away as soon as he peered over the heads of the people in front, and he had to struggle to control the cry that fought to break from his throat. It was obvious that the four were only wearing their robes so that they could be identified more easily; as they were pushed to the front of the platform and made to stand there, gazing dully at the people all around, he could see the heavy manacles and chains that smothered them. There would be no reprieve.

He felt himself shrinking back, sinking behind the people in front as if he wanted to melt away, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand to prevent the hot tears from springing back with his anguish and desolation, bowing his head as if in prayer as he hid from the stares of the men on the platform, not wanting to catch their gaze in case he could be associated with them and thereby broken as they had been. He did not want to see the despair in their eyes, the fear and the self-loathing. He could remember them - he wanted to remember them - as the strong men he had respected, as warriors; he did not want to remember them as they were now.

For they were wrecks; they stood shaking in their fear and dread as they surveyed the crush of people that had come to witness their downfall. Gone was the glory of their past. Jacques de Molay, the Grand Master, stood a little in front, looking small and insignificant somehow in the great white robe which hung from his shoulders formlessly, making him look as if he was wearing a shroud. He was over seventy years old and his age showed as he stood, ashen-faced, bent and swaying under the weight of the chains, mutely watching the people in the square, looking both nervous and frail.

The man in the crowds stared at him, horrified by the difference. When he had last met de Molay, seven years before, he had been a strong and vibrant man, secure in his power and his authority as the leader of one of the strongest armies in Christendom, responsible to no man but the pope. He had spent months producing a report for the pope and was convinced that with another crusade it would be possible to take back the Holy Land. His report showed how it would be possible to reconquer it and then keep it permanently safe. He had been confident of his ability to persuade the pontiff to begin planning for it and was already making his soldiers prepare, organising and training them all, reinforcing the strict Rule of the Order and making them all comply with the original codes of conduct. Now he was completely broken.

He looked like a tired old man, shrunken and withered by the pain of seeing his Order ruined, by his inability to defend it, as if he could feel the failure of all that he had tried to achieve. In thirteen hundred and seven he had been the supreme ruler of the oldest and greatest military order, able to command thousands of knights and foot soldiers and answering to no lord or king, only the pope. Now, stripped of his rank and his authority, he looked merely old and tired, as if he had seen too much and was ready for death. He had given up; there was nothing left for him to live for.

In the crowds, the silent observer pulled the cowl of his hood over his head, blinking and frowning to stop the tears that threatened to streak the dirt on his face. Now he knew it was all over. If they could do that to Jacques de Molay, the Order was ended. He retreated into the seclusion of his cloak as the depression took him over, blocking out all sound of the announcements and hiding from the final humiliation of his Order - and his life.

Unaware, not heeding the ritual going on at the platform, he turned slowly and started to push his way through the crowds. He had seen enough. He could bear no more. He just wanted to get away, to leave this scene of horror, as if he could leave his despair and sadness behind in this accursed square.

It was difficult to move. The crowds were too thick, with people struggling to get in and move forward to see the men on the stage. It was like pushing against the tide, and it took an age to go only a matter of yards. Shoving desperately, he tried to move around the people to escape, barging into men and women as they tried to hold him back until, at last, he found himself in front of a broad, swarthy man who would not move aside to let him pass but stood rooted to the spot and glared at him. Then, as he tried to move around the man, he heard de Molay’s voice. With a shock he suddenly realised that it was not weak and quaking, as he had expected, but powerful and strong, as if the Grand Master had found a hidden reserve of strength. Startled, he stopped and whirled back to the platform to listen.

“… Before God in Heaven, before Jesus his son, and all the earth, I confess that I am guilty. I am guilty of the greatest deception, and that deception has failed the honour and the trust of my knights and my Order. I have confessed to crimes that I know never happened - and all for myself. I confessed to save myself, from fear of torture. My crime is my weakness and it has led to the betrayal of my people. I declare the crimes attributed to the Order to be false. I avow the honesty, the purity and the holy sanctity of the men of the Temple. I deny wholly the crimes ascribed to the Order.

“I will die for this. I will die for confirming the innocence of the men already dead, the men murdered by the inquisitors. But now at least I can die with honour, with…”

Jacques de Molay seemed to have grown. He stood, solid and strong, up at the front of the platform by the railing, his head high as he proudly reviled his accusers and declared both his and the Order’s innocence in a firm voice that carried over the crowd standing in shocked silence. But soon the man in the crowd became aware, as if it was from a great distance, of an angry muttering all around him. This was not what the mob had expected; they had been told that the Templars were here to confess, to admit to the crimes they had been convicted of. If this man denied them all, why had they been so brutally punished? A soldier pushed de Molay away and to the back of the dais and another Templar stepped forward, and to the obvious confusion of the soldiers and monks around him, stated his own denunciation, rejecting the accusations against the Order in proud and ringing tones. . In the crowds, the man stood and listened to the angry roar of the people around, his eyes gleaming in pride at his leaders’ retractions. Even after the years of suffering, his honour, the Order’s honour, was confirmed. The wicked rumours were false, he knew that now. So who could have levelled the accusations? Slowly his feelings gave way to anger, rough and raw, as he thought about the men who could have caused this, who had caused so much pain and anguish, and he squared his shoulders under his cloak with a new resolve.

The crowds were furious - they had been told that the Templars were evil, wicked men who had committed great sins against Christendom, and yet here were the two greatest Templars denying their guilt. These were the statements of men who would die for their evidence, they
must
be believed. But if what they said was true, then the crimes committed against them were of an unimaginable scale. The people pushed and shoved forwards in their anger, shouting and swearing at the soldiers and monks who hurriedly pulled the four men from the stage and led them away, leaving the man on his own like a rock on the beach after the tide has ebbed.

He stood, eyes prickling with unshed tears, feeling the sadness and pain, but also pride and rage. He had no doubts now. No matter what would be said of the Order, he knew that the accusations were false. And if they were false, someone was responsible. His life had a new purpose: to find the men who had caused this injustice and have his revenge. The Order was innocent, there could be no doubting the conviction in those two voices. Slowly, he turned away and walked back to the inn where he had left his horse.

Chapter One

Simon Puttock felt elated, but not without a certain trepidation, as he meandered along the road that led from Tiverton to Crediton, letting his horse take him at a slow walk as he thought about his new position.

He had worked for the de Courtenays for many years now, as had his father before him, and he supposed that he should have expected a promotion - but he had not. It had been completely unexpected, a sudden shock; if they had told him he was to be imprisoned for robbery, it could not have surprised him more. Naturally he hoped that his lords were satisfied with his work over the years, but he had never dreamed of being given his own castle to command, especially one so important as Lydford, and every now and again a quick smile cracked the serious expression on his face as his glee momentarily flared, quenching his nervous contemplation.

The de Courtenays, the lords of Devon and Cornwall, had been able to rely on Simon’s family for decades. Peter, his father, had been the seneschal of their castle at Oakhampton for twenty years before his death two years ago, carefully looking after their estates and keeping the peace during the long, regular absences when the de Courtenay family went to visit their lands farther north. Before that, Peter’s father had been the family’s chamberlain and had fought loyally with his lord in the troubled times before King Edward came to the throne. Simon was immensely proud of his forebears’ association with, and honourable service to, this ancient family.

But even after so long in the de Courtenay family’s service, the honour of being given the castle of Lydford to look after was still an unexpected delight - and a fearsome opportunity. If his tenure was successful and the land was profitable, he could expect to become wealthy, a man of power and influence in his own right. Of course, as the bailiff of the castle, he was also held responsible for any failures: for lower tax revenues, for reduced productivity from the demesne lands - for anything. Now, on his way home to his wife, he was gathering his thoughts, framing the best way of putting to her the possibilities and options that the role presented. Being a realist, he not only felt pride at the recognition he had been offered; he was also aware of the awesome immensity of the job that he had been given.

Ever since the Scots had defeated the English army at Bannock burn two years before, matters had got progressively worse, he knew. It was not just the continual attacks on the northern shires by the Scots or their invasion of Ireland, it sometimes appeared that God himself was angry with the whole of Europe and was punishing it. For two years now the whole country had been blighted, suffering under the worst rainstorms ever known. Last year, thirteen hundred and fifteen, had not been so bad down here in the far west; his people had hardly noticed any lack of essentials. Now, though, in the late autumn of thirteen sixteen, the rain had again been constant, and it had ruined the harvest for a second year. In other counties the people had been reduced to eating their horses and dogs in the vain search for sustenance, although it was not quite so bad yet here in Devon. It did mean that there would be a lot to plan for, though, and in his new job as the bailiff of Lydford castle, Simon intended to do all he could to help the people he was responsible for.