The Tale of the English Templar

The shouting and clatter that woke him made him start up from his bed in confusion. For a moment he could not remember where he was and then, as he recognised the long dormitory with the two rows of pallets lining the walls, he was even more confused. He could hear raw shouting and a dull, ominous pounding. Around him several of the other monks were starting to stir. Someone cursed under his breath and an elderly voice cried out in fear and then subdued itself.

The crash that came from the courtyard made Percy fling off his blankets and grab his aketon. Now he could hear more shouting, the imperative yelling of men giving orders, the thudding of numerous hooves on frozen ground, the pounding of boots on wooden stairs, the clunk of doors being flung open. He pulled the aketon over his head and tightened the laces at his throat.

Men were bursting into the dormitory. By the light of the two candles, Percy could see that they wore round “kettle” helmets over mail-coifs and that they had naked swords in their hands.

Percy dragged his hauberk and surcoat together over his head as the armed men started roughly kicking the serving brothers awake and herding the startled, bewildered men together.

Sergeant Gautier was on his feet and limping forwards in his underwear, calling out, “What is this? Who are you? What do you want?”

“You are all arrested in the name of His Grace King Philip IV of France!”

While some of the serving brothers broke into a jumble of confused exclamations of disbelief, Brother Gautier protested in a raised, somewhat hysterical voice, “Why? On what charge?”

The notion that these simple brothers could have done anything to offend the crown of France was so absurd that Percy instantly dismissed the claim as either a mistake or a ruse. Philip of France could hardly know that Saint Pierre du Temple existed. The Temple was, in any case, not subject to any king and owed Philip neither taxes nor obedience. Percy knew, however, that he no longer had time for his mail leggings and reached instead for his sword.

A shout rang out, followed by the sound of someone running. Percy was tackled from behind and flung stomach first on to his pallet, pinned down by the weight of his assailant on his back. Even as he rammed his elbows backwards against his attacker, he saw a foot kick out and send his sword skittering across the flagstone floor out of reach. Another man had joined the first on his back, pressing his knee into Percy’s spine. A third took hold of the back of his neck in a powerful, muscular grip and forced his face down into the blankets, nearly suffocating him. Someone was wrenching his arms behind his back and tying his wrists together. Knowing when to stop resisting was something a good soldier learned, and Percy stopped struggling instantly. The pressure on his spine and head eased at once. The men backed off him, pulling him to his feet.

He looked over his shoulder and saw that the men holding him were indeed wearing the livery of the King of France. It was ridiculous! What could he possibly hope to gain by a breach with the Pope? Did Philip of France want to start a feud with Clement V to match the one he had had with Boniface VIII? Weak as Clement was said to be, even he would not tolerate such a flagrant affront to his authority.

The King’s men were already herding the bewildered serving brothers and the priest down the stairs to the courtyard. One old man kept asking his brothers what was happening while Gaston kept looking anxiously over his shoulder to see what had happened to Percy. Serfs by birth, they had been born to docility; as monks they had vowed obedience. Such men, Percy recognised, could not be expected to distinguish between lawful and unlawful authority.

Brother Gautier alone was protesting to the captain in charge. He insisted that he and his brothers were innocent of all wrongdoing. Not one day in their lives had they ever been anything but loyal subjects of the King of France, he assured the King’s representative in a shaky, strained voice. Yet terror was written on the aged sergeant’s face, and Percy felt sorry for him. Evidently, he was so frightened that he had forgotten that the Temple was subordinate to the Pope alone.

“It’s not for me to judge your guilt or innocence,” the royal officer told Brother Gautier matter-of-factly. “I have my orders.”

“But who gave you the orders? What is the cause of all this? I don’t understand,” Brother Gautier insisted.

“Take it up with the Sheriff,” the man advised indifferently, relieved that his mission had gone so well. The orders to attack a house of the Knights Templar and arrest all those within had made him break out in a cold sweat just six hours ago. He had been raised on the legends of Templars defending their castles against tens of thousands of Saracens, their small bands matching great armies, their rescue of King Louis II from destruction, their heroic defence of Acre. The captain knew that they were not allowed to withdraw unless the enemy had more than three-to-one superiority, and he could not know how many men resided in Saint Pierre — which was why he had mustered his entire company of nearly fifty men. In the event, it was almost ludicrous how easy it had been.

“You can be sure that we will take this up with the Sheriff — and the Pope! Someone — you, your sheriff or King Philip himself — has overstepped his authority.” Percy’s voice drew the captain’s attention, and he looked over, startled, at the man held by two of his subordinates. He took in the chainmail hauberk, the muscular shoulders and thighs and drew the correct conclusion. This man was a knight. “Are you the commander, sir?”

“No, I am the commander.” Brother Gautier spoke before Percy could get a word out. “Sir Percy just a traveller. Here for a single night. Whatever crimes we have been unjustly accused of, they cannot apply to him.”

The captain looked from Brother Gautier to Percy, somewhat uncertainly, and Percy felt he should make his identity clearer, “I am an Englishman, Sir Percy de Lacy, attached to the Templar commandery at Limassol on Cyprus. I was en route from Poitiers to Limassol and stopped only for the night. But the fact remains you have no business arresting any Templar since we are subject to no one but our own officers and the Pope himself”

The arrogance of Percy’s tone angered the captain, and he took refuge in the certainties of life: “I have my orders, and they were to arrest everyone inside this house. I don’t give a damn if you are a bloody Englishman or the Pope himself.” With this he turned his back on the two remaining Templars and clattered down the stairs into the ward. His men interpreted this to mean they should shove Percy and Brother Gautier before them as they followed him outside.

In the courtyard, the Templars stood huddled together near the shattered gate. The King’s men had evidently forced an entry using battle axes to hack out the lock and weaken the wooden panels before they smashed through them with a wagon. The serving brothers stood around docilely while the King’s men tied their wrists together with a single, long rope. They were just about finished when the captain arrived.

He checked on the work and ordered Brother Gautier bound as well. Addressing his prisoner as the old sergeant stood with his wrists held out in front of him, he asked, “You said you were the commander here. Where do you keep valuables?”

“In the treasury, of course,” Brother Gautier answered tightly, staring at his tied wrists in open disbelief.

“Where is that?”

“Why do you want to know?” Brother Gautier countered.

“Why do you think? My orders are not just to seize your lousy persons but your misbegotten wealth as well!”

Brother Gautier’s face went ashen. He was remembering the way the King had seized the wealth of the Jews just a year earlier. Philip’s ruthlessness had impressed everyone — whether with inner glee or aversion.

Percy’s reaction was to dismiss the possibility that these were the King’s men at all. They were merely common thieves, he thought, disguised as royal troops.

“Well, where is it? Is it in locked chests? Give me the keys!”

Brother Gautier clamped his mouth shut and lifted his chin. The captain reacted automatically, striking the old sergeant with an almost casual, backhanded cuff that smashed the monk’s head to one side. Brother Gautier let out not even a whimper. That angered the captain, and he delivered three more quick blows. Blood started to gush from the sergeant’s nose, but he held his tongue.

“Do you think I can’t make you talk?” the captain shouted. He snapped up his knee and the sergeant crumpled on to the ground, moaning and writhing. The captain delivered one kick to his hip and another to the base of his spine. The cry that the sergeant gave was like a howl.

Percy could stand it no longer. “Brother! I am your witness! You cannot defend yourself! And nor can I,” he added sadly to himself.

The captain looked over, astonished. He had expected this young nobleman to protest at his actions. He had half-wanted him to protest because that would have given him an excuse to deal out similar treatment to the arrogant whelp. But if he were going to be so cooperative, the captain would have to reconsider. He looked back at the man at his feet.

“Did you hear what the knight said? Give me the keys.”

“They, they are... in the dormitory. In the cupboard.” Gautier spoke in gasps.

The captain sent one of his men back into the dormitory and ordered another to get the sergeant back on his feet. It seemed to take a long time, but eventually the man came back with a ring of keys. Satisfied, the captain left just a handful of men to watch the prisoners and set off with the others to open not just the treasury chests but the store­rooms, cupboards, and anything else that was deemed worthy of being locked.

The Templars watched in silence. What started as looting soon turned to vandalism as the royal soldiers, promised hoards of gold and caches of silver, found almost nothing of value. Even the church was not sacrosanct: the King’s men ransacked it more thoroughly than any of the other buildings. When the soldiers showed their meagre haul to the captain, he cursed violently and abusively with a scowl in the direction of the Templars.

Percy glanced at the priest and noted that the young man was trembling from head to foot and his lips were moving, apparently in prayer. He felt a profound contempt for this man who, as a priest, enjoyed the most exalted status of all the men at Saint Pierre. He should have been setting an example for the others. He should at least have made an effort to exude calm. Better still, he should have explained to his bewildered and frightened brothers that they could not be treated like this with impunity. He should have reminded them that they stood under papal protection. He should have at least tried to reduce the impact of this appalling assault on their dignity and livelihood by assuring them that they had powerful friends who would make sure that the damages were repaired and the losses made good.

Percy looked from the priest to the sergeant, and he realised that they were both completely intimidated. Oh, Christ, he thought. Are these the mighty Templars who are supposed to be your fearless champions? But of course, the image of the Templars was forged by knights not sergeants and priests — much less serving brothers. He looked around and saw that many of the brothers were cowering in instinctive terror and others were openly weeping. In none did he see a flicker of defiance or outrage — except the boy. Gaston clenched his fists, and his eyes met Percy’s. “They can’t do this to us, can they, sir?”

“They don’t have the right to do this, and I’m sure someone will pay a heavy price for such lawlessness!” Percy spoke not just for Gaston but to give the others courage as well.

“You mean they’ll be made to give us back what they’ve taken?” one of the serving brothers asked in a tone that was far from convinced.

“I should think more than that! They must pay for the damage that has been done!” Percy indicated the smashed gate and now the blankets, pallets and kitchen utensils which the outraged soldiers were dumping in the centre of the ward.

From the stables came the nickering of disturbed horses and then some shouts. With a tinge of guilt, Percy realised that he had forgotten Ramon. Apparently, the squire had slept through all that had happened up to now — or, having seen armed men, he had tried to hide himself. A few minutes later he was marched out of the stables, straw clinging to his hair and his clothes.

“What is this all about, sir?” Ramon demanded the minute he saw Percy.

Percy shrugged. “You’ll have to ask these men, who claim to be in the service of the King of France.”

“But the Temple isn’t under royal jurisdiction!” the squire protested in a somewhat high-pitched tone.

Percy wondered if the youth was wanted by the crown and that was the reason he’d sought service with the Temple — preferably outside France. If so, he had just had some very bad luck. In answer to his remark, he replied. “No, it isn’t, but as you see they outnumber us, and they are armed.”

Realising that Percy was bound and apparently resigned to his fate, Ramon made one last desperate effort to escape. He flung himself with all his strength to the left and wrenched free of the man on his right. The surprise effect was brief, and he was just a youth confronting two hardened veterans. The man he had evaded was ashamed to have been outmanoeuvred by a mere youth and, with a roar, leapt after him. The other man, who had never lost his hold, lashed out at the squire’s knees with his foot. In an instant they had felled Ramon and, once they had pinned him to the ground, they thrashed him thoroughly. He howled and tried to protect his head with his arms.

“Does it take two grown men to subdue a boy?” Percy asked in raised voice.

The taunt worked. Instantly, the guards ceased beating the youth. While one of them bound his arms behind his back, the other came ominously towards Percy. Percy met the man’s eye and braced himself for the blow. He expected it to come to his belly or groin, but the authority of class still cast a protective shield around him. The soldier narrowed his eyes and ran his tongue over his crooked, discoloured teeth, but he did not yet risk laying hands on a nobleman without orders from his captain. He turned his back on Percy and stomped away.

Eventually even the captain had to admit that the run­down little manor had nothing more to offer. With an obscene curse and a kick to the pile of household goods collected in the centre of the ward, he gave the order to load the prisoners on to a wagon. This startled Percy. He still could not bring himself to believe that these men were acting on higher authority, and he had expected to be locked into some cellar while the thieves took off with their disappointing plunder. If, however, the Templars were to be taken with the robber band, it suggested that the thieves wanted not only to get clean away but to eliminate all witnesses as well. For the first time that night, Percy felt fear in the pit of his stomach.